Faces were turned toward one another, black sleeves stole behind waists adorned with bunches of asclepias, a childish face laughed over a fruit ice, and the dessert at the level of the guests' lips encompassed the cloth with animation, bright colors, and light.
Ah, yes! Risler was very happy.
Except his brother Frantz, everybody he loved was there.

First of all, sitting opposite him, was Sidonie--yesterday little Sidonie, to-day his wife.

For the ceremony of dinner she had laid aside her veil; she had emerged from her cloud.

Now, above the smooth, white silk gown, appeared a pretty face of a less lustrous and softer white, and the crown of hair-beneath that other crown so carefully bestowed--would have told you of a tendency to rebel against life, of little feathers fluttering for an opportunity to fly away.

But husbands do not see such things as those.
Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whom Risler loved best in the world was Madame Georges Fromont, whom he called "Madame Chorche," the wife of his partner and the daughter of the late Fromont, his former employer and his god.