We walked down the aisle at a timely moment. All faces turned toward us, and only he and I could see the game of musical chairs going on up front. During the time we walked down the aisle, the priest directed the bridesmaids to the wrong side of the church; Claudine got up to move them back to the right side; the groomsmen sat in the front bench reserved for the parents and Mamie; the groomsmen exchanged whispers, got up quickly, and approached the choir for a whispered conversation that managed to get the three ladies to advance their plastic chairs a foot; and I made subtle hand gestures trying to direct things. Everyone noticed the hand gestures, but they assumed I had developed a nervous twitch.

Halfway up the aisle, I realized the words and rhythm of the music bore a strong resemblance to a funeral march. I met Sébastien’s eyes as I reached the altar, and we immediately looked in opposite directions, biting our lips. Behind the ladies, I saw Éric valiantly trying to harmonize their voices with his fine tenor. He met my eyes and ducked his head away quickly, so that the audience couldn’t see his face convulse. After the hysterics this morning, I was pretty sure if I started laughing now, somebody would stick a needle in my arm. I added Éric to my list of people to avoid looking at. Sébastien stared straight ahead, trying to keep a straight face.

Bruno came up to give the first reading, St. Paul’s famous passage on love, which he did quite well, I thought. Grégory got up to follow him. “Well,” said the curé, out loud, standing right by the microphone, “I hope you’ll do a better job than that first guy.”

Sébastien and I closed our eyes briefly, not daring to peek back at Bruno’s face. Eighty-two, I reminded myself. Eighty-two-year-old priests who kindly agreed to carry on pastoral duties for four villages long after retirement age were entitled to a few eccentricities.

“Speak clearly, now,” the curé told Grégory, placing a fatherly hand on Grégory’s—was he touching Grégory’s tush? Nineteen-year-old Grégory kept a rigidly straight face and stepped up to the microphone. The curé, in a white cassock, stayed supportively by his side, patting his waist from time to time.

Grégory read very clearly and escaped back to his seat. The organist and accompanying choir plunged into another dirge. I tried to sink through the floor, but the boned bodice of my wedding gown wouldn’t let me.