Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years. There was
bustle and business and running up and down stairs. The _poste_, usually
clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled
with polite conversation and courtly greetings. The bride appeared. The
bridegroom's face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected
happiness at seeing her. Photographs were taken; she, gracious and
bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly upright but smiling resolutely.
They were off in a string of carriages--sagging old carriages
resurrected from the dust--while a few of us hastened to the cathedral
by a short cut to take more pictures as they entered.
The vast nave engulfed us in its desolation. The mutilated apse seemed
to be far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully. High above through
the broken vaulting shone the indestructible blue, and through the
hollow windows the breath of Heaven wandered free. The little bride
stepped bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily gathering her
dress about her. A dirty sheet on the wall flapped without warning, and
we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid crucifix, instantly shrouded
again in a spasm of wind. Passing under an arch we entered a less
demolished chapel. Here all Noyon was waiting.
Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a
harmonium. Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as
the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight.
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