In two months more Frances had fulfilled the time of mourning for her aunt.One January morning—the first of the new year holidays—I went in a fiacre， accompanied only byM.Vandenhuten， to the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges， and havingalighted alone and walked upstairs， I found Frances apparently waiting for me， dressed in a style scarcely appropriate to that cold， bright， frosty day.Never till now had I seen her attired in any other than black or sad-coloured stuff； and there she stood by the window， clad all in white， and white of a most diaphanous texture； her array was very simple， to be sure， but it looked imposing and festal because it was so clear， full， and floating； a veil shadowed her head， and hung below her knee； a little wreath of pink flowers fastened it to her thickly tressed Grecian plait， and thence it fell softly on each side of her face.Singular to state， she was， or had been crying； when I asked her if she were ready， she said “Yes， monsieur，” with something very like a checked sob； and when I took a shawl， which lay on the table， and folded it round her， not only did tear after tear course unbidden down her cheek， but she shook to my ministration like a reed.I said I was sorry to see her in such low spirits， and requested to be allowed an insight into the origin thereof.She only said， “It was impossible to help it，” and then voluntarily， though hurriedly， putting her hand into mine， accompanied me out of the room， and ran downstairs with a quick， uncertain step， like one who was eager to get some formidable piece of business over.I put her into the fiacre.M.Vandenhuten received her， and seated her beside himself； we drove all togetherto the Protestant chapel， went through a certain service in the Common Prayer Book， and she and I came out married.M.Vandenhuten had given the bride away.
We took no bridal trip； our modesty， screened by the peacefulobscurity of our station， and the pleasant isolation of our circumstances， did not exact that additional precaution.We repaired at once to a small house I had taken in the faubourg nearest to that part of the city where the scene of our avocations lay.
Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony， Frances，divested of her bridal snow， and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer materials， a piquant black silk apron， and a lace collar with some finishing decoration of lilac ribbon， was kneeling on the carpet of a neatly furnished though not spacious parlour， arranging on the shelves of a chiffonière some books， which I handed to her from the table.It was snowing fast out of doors； the afternoon had turned out wild and cold； the leaden sky seemed full of drifts， and the street was already ankle-deep in the white downfall.Our fire burned bright， our new habitation looked brilliantly clean and fresh， the furniture was all arranged， and there were but some articles of glass， china， books， &c.， to put in order.Frances found in this business occupation till tea-time， and then， after I had distinctly instructed her how to make a cup of tea in rational English style， and after she had got over the dismay occasioned by seeing such an extravagant amount of material put into the pot， she administered to me a proper British repast， at which there wanted neither candies nor urn， fire-light nor comfort.
Our week’s holiday glided by， and we re-addressed ourselves tolabour.Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion that we were working people， destined to earn our bread by exertion， and that of the most assiduous kind.Our days were thoroughly occupied； me used to part every morning at eight o’clock， and not meet again till five p.m.； but into what sweet rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline！ Looking down the vista， of memory， I see the evenings passed in that little parlour like a long string of rubies circling the dusk brow of the past.Unvaried were they as each cut gem， and like each gem brilliant and burning.
A year and a half passed.One morning (it was a fête， and we had the day to ourselves) Frances said to me， with a suddenness peculiar to her when she had been thinking long on a subject， and at last， having come to a conclusion， wished to test its soundness by the touchstone of my judgment：—“I don’t work enough.”
“What now ？” demanded I， looking up from my coffee， which I had been deliberately stirring while enjoying， in anticipation， a walk I proposed to take with Frances， that fine summer day (it was June)， to a certain farmhouse in the country， where we were to dine.“What now？” and I saw at once， in the serious ardour of her face， a project of vital importance.
“I am not satisfied” returned she： “you are now earning eight thousand francs a year” (it was true； my efforts， punctuality， the fame of my pupils’ progress， the publicity of my station， had so far helped me on)， “while I am still at my miserable twelve hundred francs.I can do better， and I will.”
“You work as long and as diligently as I do， Frances.”
“Yes， monsieur， but I am not working in the right way， and I amconvinced of it.”
“You wish to change—you have a plan for progress in your mind； go and put on your bonnet； and， while we take our walk， you shall tell me of it.”
“Yes， monsieur.”
She went—as docile as a well-trained child； she was a curious mixture of tractability and firmness： I sat thinking about her， and wondering what her plan could be， when she re-entered.
“Monsieur， I have given Minnie” (our bonne) “leave to go out too， as it is so very fine； so will you be kind enough to lock the door， and take the key with you？”
“Kiss me， Mrs.Crimsworth，” was my not very apposite reply； but she looked so engaging in her light summer dress and little cottage bonnet， and her manner in speaking to me was then， as always， so unaffectedly and suavely respectful， that my heart expanded at the sight of her， and a kiss seemed necessary to content its importunity.
“There， monsieur.”
“Why do you always call me ‘Monsieur？’ Say， ‘William.’”
“I cannot pronounce your W； besides， ‘Monsieur’ belongs to you； I like it best.”
