Going home at night， Charles went over herwords one by one， trying to recall them， to fill out their sense， that he mightpiece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her inhis thoughts other than he had seen her the first time， or as he had just lefther. Then he asked himself what would become of her-if she would be married，and to whom！ Alas！ Old Rouault was rich， and she！-so beautiful！ But Emma's face always rose before his eyes， and a monotone， like the hummingof a top， sounded in his ears， “If you should marryafter all！ If you should marry！” At night he could notsleep； his throat was parched； he was athirst. He got up to drink from thewater-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars， a warmwind blowing in the distance； the dogs were barking. He turned his head towardsthe Bertaux.
Thinking that， after all， he should losenothing， Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasionoffered， but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding theright words sealed his lips.
Old Rouault would not have been sorry to berid of his daughter， who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart heexcused her， thinking her too clever for farming， a calling under the ban ofHeaven， since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortuneby it， the good man was losing every year； for if he was good in bargaining， inwhich he enjoyed the dodges of the trade， on the other hand， agricultureproperly so called， and the intemal management of the farm， suited him lessthan most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets， anddid not spare expense in all that concerned himself， liking to eat well， tohave good fires， and to sleep well. He liked old cider， underdone legs ofmutton， glorias well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone，opposite the fire， on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on thestage.
When， therefore， he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter， which meant that he wouldpropose for her one of these days， he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand.He certainly thought him a little meagre， and not quite the son-in-law he wouldhave liked， but he was said to be well brought-up， economical， very learned，and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now， as oldRouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of “his property，” as he owed a good deal to themason， to the harness-maker， and as the shaft of the cider-press wantedrenewing， “If he asks for her，”he said to himself， “I'll giveher to him.”
At Michaelmas Charles went to spend threedays at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinatingfrom hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off； they were walking along theroad full of ruts； they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gavehimself as far as to the corner of the hedge， and at last， when past it： “Monsieur Rouault，” he murmured， “I should like to say something to you.”
They stopped. Charles was silent.
“Well， tell me your story. Don't I know all about it？” said old Rouault，laughing softly.
“Monsieur Rouault-Monsieur Rouault，” stammered Charles.
“I ask nothing better”， the farmer went on. “Although， no doubt，the little one is of my mind， still we must ask her opinion. So you get off-I'll go back home. If it is 'yes'， you needn't return because of all thepeople about， and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart， I'll open wide theouter shutter of the window against the wall； you can see it from the back byleaning over the hedge.”
And he went off.
Charles fastened his horse to a tree； he raninto the road and waited. Half an hour passed， then he counted nineteen minutesby his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall； the shutter had beenthrown back； the hook was still swinging.
The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered， and she gave alittle forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced hisfuture son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off； moreover， therewas plenty of time before them， as the marriage could not decently take placetill Charles was out of mourning， that is to say， about the spring of the nextyear.
The winter passed waiting for this.Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen，and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that sheborrowed. When Charles visited the farmer， the preparations for the weddingwere talked over； they wondered in what room they should have dinner； theydreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted， and what should be entrées.
Emma would， on the contrary， have preferredto have a midnight wedding with torches， but old Rouault could not understandsuch an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present，at which they remained sixteen hours at table， began again the next day， and tosome extent on the days following.
Chapter 4
The guests arrived early in carriages， inone-horse chaises，two-wheeled cars， old open gigs， waggonettes with leatherhoods， and the young people from the nearer villages in carts， in which theystood up in rows， holding on to the sides so as not to fall， going at a trotand well shaken up. Some came from a distance of thirty miles， from Goderville，from Normanville， and from Cany. All the relatives of both families had beeninvited， quarrels between friends arranged， acquaintances long since lost sightof written to.
From time to time one heard the crack of awhip behind the hedge； then the gates opened， a chaise entered. Galloping up tothe foot of the steps， it stopped short and emptied its load. They got down fromall sides， rubbing knees and stretching arms. The ladies， wearing bonnets， hadon dresses in the town fashion， gold watch chains， pelerines with the endstucked into belts， or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin，and that left the back of the neck bare. The lads， dressed like their papas，seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their firstpair of boots)， and by their sides， speaking never a work， wearing the whitedress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girlsof fourteen or sixteen， cousins or elder sisters no doubt， rubicund，bewildered， their hair greasy with rose pomade， and very much afraid ofdirtying their gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all thecarriages， the gentlemen turned up their sleeves and set about it themselves.According to their different social positions they wore tail-coats， overcoats，shooting jackets， cutaway-coats； fine tail-coats， redolent of familyrespectability， that only came out of the wardrobe on state occasions；overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind and round capes and pockets likesacks； shooting jackets of coarse cloth， generally worn with a cap with abrass-bound peak； very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back，close together like a pair of eyes， and the tails of which seemed cut out ofone piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some， too (butthese， you may be sure， would sit at the bottom of the table)， wore their bestblouses-that is to say， with collars turned down to the shoulders， the backgathered into small plaits and the waist fastened very low down with a workedbelt.