Love took up the Harp of Life and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
—Tennyson.
The old, majestic Church of St. Gervais had been made quite gay with flowers. Good M. Legros was passing rich, thank God! He could gratify his only child's every whim—however trivial—on this her wedding day.
 
She had expressed a great desire to see the church quite full of flowers—as many flowers as it could hold, and Papa Legros had spent—so the gossips said—enough money in indulging this wish as would have kept a dozen poor families in comfort for a dozen years.
 
'Twas mid April and there were white roses from the King's conservatories in Versailles, white hyacinths from Fontainebleau and white violas from the walled-in gardens at Blois, there were white violets and snowdrops and sweet-scented narcissi. They lay everywhere in heavy fragrant bunches and wreaths fashioned by loving hands, untutored in the art of decoration. The high altar groaned beneath the weight of huge brass pots wherein old-fashioned stocks reared their sweet-scented heads. The Virgin in her niche, the saints upon their altars almost disappeared beneath their monster crowns of violets and of roses.
 
The central nave was filled with a motley crowd, attired in holiday clothes, come to see the tailor's daughter wedded to the English milor. A few simple folk there were—gaffers and cronies who had watched Rose Marie[171] as she grew up in her father's back shop, and who came with shaking heads and ominous murmurs to see the last of the poor child, who of a surety would be drowned when she sailed upon the sea or if she did survive that calamity, would certainly be most unhappy in a land of evil-doers, and of cruel, red-haired, large-toothed men. But there were others, too, mere idlers these, who had never before set eyes on an English milor, and were curious to know if what was said of these English were true, namely that they were big as giants and like them ferocious, with fangs instead of teeth, and fists as heavy as bullocks.
 
Under one of the arches, quite close to the chancel, special places had been reserved and chairs covered with red cloth. Here a small group of gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen had assembled, gilded butterflies flown from out their silken nets over in the St. Germain quarter and even from the Louvre and Versailles; gentlemen of the court and of His Majesty's bedchamber with their ladies in stiff brocaded paniers and silken skirts which made a soft swishing sound as the wearers turned to right or left to lend an ear to the whisperings of a gallant or to murmur a word of scandal in that of a friend.
 
They had crossed the river and wandered into this abandoned quarter of the city from idle curiosity. Rumours had reached the Court that the Earl of Stowmaries, one of the richest young gallants of London, had come to wed the daughter of the Paris breeches-maker, a man well-known to all. His Majesty had deigned to seem interested, Mme. de Montespan expressed a desire to see this milor, whom gossip had reported as handsome and had endowed with the romantic history of early life spent in distant lands, where he was kept in poverty and exiled by a rapacious kinsman, who robbed him of his inheritance.
 
[172] Gossip as a rule had mingled truth with fiction, but the marquise was interested and brought her brilliantly decked-out sycophants in her train—gentlemen and ladies who sunned themselves in the sunshine of her graces,—to witness the ceremony of St. Gervais. From this group beneath the archway came the constant murmur of fluttering fans, the rustle of silks, the creaking of chairs on the flag-stones of the floor—also at times a giggle quickly suppressed, a cry of astonishment or amusement held in check only by the solemnity of the surroundings.
 
The atmosphere was waxing oppressive, despite the cold April breeze which found its way into the edifice through the chinks of many cracked window panes. The scent of the poet's narcissus, heavy and intoxicating, filled nostrils and brain with its overpowering savour; the roses already inclined to droop added their faded fragrance to the air, mingling, too, with the penetrating odour of white Roman hyacinths and the pungent smell of primroses and of violas, whilst through it all the heavy fumes of incense rose upwards to the high-vaulted roof and wrapped the statues of saints, the small side altars and tall embroidered banners in their mystery-creating clouds.
 
Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris had just entered, robed in gorgeous cope and mitre and followed by the clergy of St. Gervais and the band of acolytes clad in scarlet and white. Behind heavy curtains, a band of skilled musicians from His Majesty's own opera house were playing an Introit from one of M. Lulli's most exquisite scores.
 
All necks were craned to catch sight of the man and woman who were kneeling on crimson cushions at the foot of the chancel steps.
 
The bride could scarce be seen though her figure looked[173] dainty in her simple white gown; but her golden head was hidden beneath a filmy veil of delicate Mechlin lace, which fell right over her face and far back to the edge of her gown.
 
But every one could see milor well, for his dark head towered above those of the spectators. And he held his head very erect, some folk thinking that on this occasion a man should look less proud and certainly less defiant. He was gorgeously clad in surcoat and vest of delicate ivory-tinted silk, with exquisite embroideries of gold and silver which the gaffers thought must have cost a mint of money. But then English milors were all so rich, and this one—so 'twas said—was one of the richest amongst all; he certainly was one of the most handsome. Goodly to look at was the verdict of the women, with his dark hair innocent of those monstrous perruques which the jeunesse dorée of Paris and Versailles had lately affected. He wore neither beard nor moustache and every one could see what a firm, strong mouth and jaw he had—an obstinate one murmured some of the ladies, a masterful one, sighed the others.
 
Mme. de Montespan enthroned on a velvet-covered armchair made vain attempts to draw his dark, deep-set eyes to hers.
 
But milor looked straight before him, and his arms were crossed over his broad chest. When Monseigneur kneeled at the foot of the altar and began to recite the first verse of the Introibe, milor knelt too, beside his bride, and buried his face in his hands.
 
M. and Mme. Legros clad in their Sunday best, knelt quite close to the bridal pair. Maman in rich puce-coloured brocade, her scanty locks hidden beneath a remarkable confection of lace was frequently mopping her eyes, the[174] while M. Legros, master tailor to the Court of Paris, tried to conceal the inordinate pride which he felt at seeing his only child wedded to so great a lord.
 
Now Monseigneur bent his broad shoulders and sotto voce murmured the Confiteor. Rose Marie in the innocence of her heart prayed to the Virgin to make her quite, quite perfect, as good as my lord thought her to be, lest he be deceived and disappointed in her. She had not spoken to him alone again after that happy yet sad quarter of an hour when she had seen his proud head bent before her, and felt that unutterable pity for him, which so quickly then became unutterable love.
 
That his self-accusations were only the result of an over-sensitive conscience she firmly believed, and if in his early youth my lord had sinned as other young men sin from thoughtlessness and want of a guiding hand, who was she that she should judge him, now that he had honoured her with his love?
 
And as Monseigneur at the altar read the Holy Gospel wherein the Good God himself enjoins man and woman to cleave to one another, Rose Marie's whole heart went out to the man by her side, and the magnetism of her enthusiastic sacrifice of her whole self to him drew his dark eyes down to hers.
 
Michael, as in a dream, saw the exquisite white-clad figure close to him; never—he thought—had he beheld aught so lovely, so pure, so worthy of lov............