In a quiet village nestled in the hills of Provence, France, there lived two families that were the talk of the region.

The Moreau family had twin daughters, Isabelle and Camille, identical in every way from their faces and body shapes to the sound of their voices. Not far away, the Dubois family also had identical twin sons, Luc and Philippe, so alike that even their own relatives sometimes stumbled to tell them apart.

Fate seemed to twist their lives together. As the children matured, the two pairs of twins fell in love with one another. At first, their parents worried that things could become baffling, but seeing how deep their affection was, they eventually agreed to let them marry.

When the wedding day came, the entire village flowed into the square to celebrate. Wine flowed, music played, and laughter filled the air. But as the guests looked at the two couples side by side, they burst out laughing:

“Mon Dieu! How will they know who belongs to whom tonight? They might end up in the wrong rooms!”

The jokes made everyone laugh, but beneath the joy poked a strange tension.

After a long day of feasting and drinking, the two grooms were so impaired that they could  slightly stand. The sisters had to help them into the bridal chambers, which were set up at opposite ends of their parents’ large farmhouse, divided by a dimly lit corridor. Before shutting the doors, Isabelle muttered nervously to her sister:

“We’re twins, Camille, but for heaven’s sake—let’s not get our husbands confused tonight.”

No one could have thought the disaster about to unfold.

Half an hour later, the Moreau household, which had finally begun to settle down for the night, was shaken by shouts and cries from both bridal rooms. The family rushed down the hallway, throwing open the doors, only to be met with a scene that froze them in place.

Luc and Philippe, their faces flushed from wine, were slumped in confusion, while Isabelle and Camille sat weeping on the floor.

“I… I was with the wrong one!” Camille wailed.

“Me too…” Isabelle sobbed, her voice broken.

The awful truth happended: in their drunken state, with the hallway so dark and their minds clouded, the twin brothers had stumbled into the wrong rooms. Doors were shut, candles were dim, and the warmth of wine blurred the fragile lines of identity. By the time they knew what had happened, it was already too late.

The Moreau family ejected in chaos. Their mother fainted on the spot, and their father slammed his fist on the table, shouting:

“Quelle honte! What disgrace! How will we ever know whose child is whose in the future?”

Across the hall, the Dubois parents stood pale and trembling, unable to decide whether to defend their sons or condemn them. Outside, whispers spread like wildfire. Villagers, roused from their sleep by the noise, collected in the street, murmuring:

We war:ned them, didn’t we? When twins marry, it’s only going to get messy!

“Now, for years to come, the entire village will laugh about this.”

Isabelle and Camille, meanwhile, were still sobbing and hiding their faces in their respective rooms. What had started off as the most joyous evening of their childhood had turned into a tragic event.

Instead of uniting two families in happiness, that wedding night left an enduring scar—a tale of love, fate, and misfortune that the village of Provence would never forget.