Paris, France
I can’t imagine why I bothered to go all the way to Paris for Emmaline’s wedding. It was a most irregular affair—such a peculiar collection of women as bridesmaids, all dressed in those hideous gray uniforms instead of proper dresses. I know one can’t expect much of these college women, but you’d think they might have made an effort for the occasion. When I asked, they told me they’d done it on purpose! Emmaline had requested it! I can only imagine Emmaline thought it would make her look better by contrast, choosing a bunch of dowds as bridesmaids and putting them in gray wool.
I could have wept to see Julia there in that dingy gray. She ought to have been maid of honor—anyone would agree it was her right—but that honor went to that horrible little charity girl Emmaline dragged home with her from Smith instead of her very own cousin. When I pointed out to Julia what an insult it was, she only looked at me and said I knew nothing about it. I don’t know why anyone even bothers to have children when they behave like this.
In any event, you would think Cora would be delighted that she finally found someone to take Emmaline off her hands. There’s a title there, even if it is a new one, but with those feet, it’s a miracle that Emmaline found anyone. I suppose nearly dying does lower a man’s standards. Instead, Cora seemed positively disappointed that Emmaline had chosen to marry instead of demanding the leadership of that poky old Unit of theirs. I don’t understand it. There’s Emmaline, as plain as shoe leather, married to DeWitt’s Biscuits, while my Julia is off poking the tonsils of French peasants. There’s no justice in the world.
The only consolation is that the groom’s family seems quite as mad as Emmaline. There must be insanity in the family; it’s the only explanation. The father—Lord DeWitt—only wanted to talk about model villages, whatever that means. The sister, who was one of the bridesmaids, was the most militant sort of New Woman—all she could talk about was her college at Oxford and the vote for women and other perfectly boring things. She and Cora took to one another immediately. It gave me a crushing headache. Or maybe that was the champagne. I had to drink a great deal of it to alleviate the boredom.
There was no call at all for Cora to tell them to stop filling my glass.
There were a number of men at the wedding, including one of the Nelson boys （mother a Stuyvesant, father in railroads）， who would do very nicely for Julia. Not as much money as the DeWitt boy but a far better pedigree. Union Club, Knickerbocker, etc. Yale ’08. Did something with airplanes during the war, but of course that’s all over now. I might have pointed Julia in his direction once or twice, but—just to spite me, I’m sure—she practically shoved him at that horrible little mouse of a Moran girl.
What’s the use of even trying? Julia’s complexion is quite ruined from tramping about the French countryside. When I gently suggested to her that some face cream might be in order, she only laughed at me and told me that her patients didn’t care what she looked like.
It has been a most trying day.
There’s no point in staying in Paris. There isn’t a person I know here anymore—at least, no one anyone would want to know. Besides, I can’t afford it. Cora refuses to pay my bill at the Ritz. She had the gall to suggest I stay somewhere within my means.
At least Emmaline has some family feeling. She’s booked me a first-class cabin back to New York and I mean to take it. Julia will just have to manage without me. . . .
—From the diary of Mme la Comtesse de Talleygord （née May Van Alden）
June 1919
Paris, France
That was a three-handkerchief wedding—the right sort of crying, not the wrong sort. Miss Van Alden floated down the aisle （yes, Lawrence, I know that’s not physically possible, but allow me some license）。 Her groom stared at her like he couldn’t believe his luck. Some might call it shell shock, but I’m pretty sure it’s love. Yes, I know, I’m just an old romantic. I married you, didn’t I? Betsy, being Betsy, claims full credit for the match, on the grounds that if she hadn’t formed the Unit they would never have met, and spent the whole time beaming maternally at them when she wasn’t using up my handkerchiefs because she’d forgotten to bring her own.
I’ll admit, it made me a little weepy to see the old crew again, from our new director all the way down to little Zélie, who served as flower girl and took her petal-tossing very seriously. They made her a junior version of the uniform to wear and you’ve never seen anyone look more pleased. With a bit of cutting of red tape in the right places, she is now officially the ward of our director, Miss Moran, although she’s really been adopted by the whole Unit. She has a bit of a limp from her experience during the retreat, but Dr. Pruyn did an excellent job of patching her up. （I may have taken a look during the reception.） I’ve told Julia that there’s a job waiting for her in Philadelphia at College Hospital whenever she’s done at Grécourt. She pretended not to be interested, but I think she’ll take it. Eventually.