But it was the exhilarating scent of the fresh pink and blue flower arrangements that gave the room a heightened atmosphere of celebration.
Oncle Philippe and Tante Leonora sat across from each other, but not at the far ends of the table. Instead, they were seated right in the center, facing each other. My father used to argue with my mother about this, telling her it was the only civilized way for a host and hostess to preside over dinner. My mother, of course, subscribed to the Anglo- American habit of placing the hosts at hollering distance, on opposite far ends.
I was seated to Oncle Philippe’s right, and Jeremy was seated to Leonora’s right, so that Jeremy and I were not directly across from each other. Still, this put us much closer than the other couples were to their mates. Leonora must have read my thoughts, for she said laughingly, “You see, you and Jeremy have been spared—you sit closer, because you are not yet married, and are still in the lovebirds stage.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts!” cried the retired general, who had a very stiff-necked, military way of holding his head. “While you still adore the sound of each other’s voice.” He patted Jeremy on the shoulder as he passed his chair, en route to his own seat.
“And you?” said the stout mayor to the general. “Is your wife’s voice not music to your ears?”
“But of course!” replied the general, clapping his hands over both ears as if to shut out the sound. “All the more so, as I grow older and harder of hearing!” This was all done in a jocular way, but the general’s petite wife shook her head in resigned tolerance of these dumb I-love-my-wife-but jokes.
The mayor’s wife, who was thin and soft-voiced, retorted, “Yes, a deaf husband is a blessing, but a blind one is even better, so he cannot see the young girls and embarrass them with his flirting!” She nodded toward me, as if to reprimand the general for teasing a woman young enough to be his daughter.
It was good- natured banter, but I suddenly experienced one of those strange involuntary “irks” I’d been having lately, whenever somebody disparaged marriage. In the past, such jokes struck me as silly, but I had supposed it was just a way of letting off steam, although I never found them particularly funny, and I noticed that most wives didn’t, either. Now, however, with these remarks deliberately made for my benefit as a bride, or, even worse, as a warning to Jeremy, the groom, I found myself less inclined to laugh them off. It provoked an image in my mind, of Jeremy and me, years from now, behaving just like these couples, exchanging jokey insults, and feigning a desire to escape each other’s company. Yuckyuck, hoo-hoo. I didn’t think it was so damned funny.
While I silently pondered this, Jeremy deliberately caught my eye and gave me such a smile of comprehension and reassurance that I instantly felt better. Plus, the arrival of the food also helped alter my mood—starting with the appearance of an appetizer of the tiniest, most tender artichokes of the season in a light butter sauce, sprinkled with delicate fresh goat cheese in herbs, accompanied by a lovely white wine the color of pale gold. Glancing around the table, I admired the way everything in the room—flowers, bowls of fruits on the sideboard, plates of perfectly proportioned good food, and the ladies’ dresses—all served to remind us to rejoice in the return of the sun.
Oncle Philippe conversed with me in a quiet, charming voice, like an aristocratic country squire who was perfectly content to while away his retirement in the country; but I soon learned that he was the hardworking steward of a family business that originated centuries ago with gantiers parfumeurs .
“What’s that?” I asked, fascinated.
“Glove-makers,” Oncle Philippe said, raising his hands to mime putting on a pair.
“But I thought your business was perfume,” I said.
“Ah, well, let me explain. You see,
Oncle Philippe and Tante Leonora sat across from each other, but not at the far ends of the table. Instead, they were seated right in the center, facing each other. My father used to argue with my mother about this, telling her it was the only civilized way for a host and hostess to preside over dinner. My mother, of course, subscribed to the Anglo- American habit of placing the hosts at hollering distance, on opposite far ends.
I was seated to Oncle Philippe’s right, and Jeremy was seated to Leonora’s right, so that Jeremy and I were not directly across from each other. Still, this put us much closer than the other couples were to their mates. Leonora must have read my thoughts, for she said laughingly, “You see, you and Jeremy have been spared—you sit closer, because you are not yet married, and are still in the lovebirds stage.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts!” cried the retired general, who had a very stiff-necked, military way of holding his head. “While you still adore the sound of each other’s voice.” He patted Jeremy on the shoulder as he passed his chair, en route to his own seat.
“And you?” said the stout mayor to the general. “Is your wife’s voice not music to your ears?”
“But of course!” replied the general, clapping his hands over both ears as if to shut out the sound. “All the more so, as I grow older and harder of hearing!” This was all done in a jocular way, but the general’s petite wife shook her head in resigned tolerance of these dumb I-love-my-wife-but jokes.
The mayor’s wife, who was thin and soft-voiced, retorted, “Yes, a deaf husband is a blessing, but a blind one is even better, so he cannot see the young girls and embarrass them with his flirting!” She nodded toward me, as if to reprimand the general for teasing a woman young enough to be his daughter.
It was good- natured banter, but I suddenly experienced one of those strange involuntary “irks” I’d been having lately, whenever somebody disparaged marriage. In the past, such jokes struck me as silly, but I had supposed it was just a way of letting off steam, although I never found them particularly funny, and I noticed that most wives didn’t, either. Now, however, with these remarks deliberately made for my benefit as a bride, or, even worse, as a warning to Jeremy, the groom, I found myself less inclined to laugh them off. It provoked an image in my mind, of Jeremy and me, years from now, behaving just like these couples, exchanging jokey insults, and feigning a desire to escape each other’s company. Yuckyuck, hoo-hoo. I didn’t think it was so damned funny.
While I silently pondered this, Jeremy deliberately caught my eye and gave me such a smile of comprehension and reassurance that I instantly felt better. Plus, the arrival of the food also helped alter my mood—starting with the appearance of an appetizer of the tiniest, most tender artichokes of the season in a light butter sauce, sprinkled with delicate fresh goat cheese in herbs, accompanied by a lovely white wine the color of pale gold. Glancing around the table, I admired the way everything in the room—flowers, bowls of fruits on the sideboard, plates of perfectly proportioned good food, and the ladies’ dresses—all served to remind us to rejoice in the return of the sun.
Oncle Philippe conversed with me in a quiet, charming voice, like an aristocratic country squire who was perfectly content to while away his retirement in the country; but I soon learned that he was the hardworking steward of a family business that originated centuries ago with gantiers parfumeurs .
“What’s that?” I asked, fascinated.
“Glove-makers,” Oncle Philippe said, raising his hands to mime putting on a pair.
“But I thought your business was perfume,” I said.
“Ah, well, let me explain. You see,
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