Don't let the name of the picture at the Trans-Lux fool you; it's called Virgin Bride, and it means just that. If you go with the intention of seeing a first rate, slightly risque comedy you won't be disappointed. But if you leave the Square with your tongue hanging out and a white foam drooling from your lips, you'll probably tear the seats out of the theatre before you've sat through half of the show. Because the sad truth is, Walter Winchell to the contrary notwithstanding, Virgin Bride is not the kind of show that will take much of the Old Howard's business away after the first few days. It is the French counterpart of what Ernst Lubitsch has been turning out for the last five years right here in our own Hollywood; just as clever, but not quite so insinuating; just as lavish in its sets, but definitely not so well supplied with feminine appeal. It's about a young girl who marries a French George Jessel, and the plot deals with his futile attempts to do what in legal terms is known as consummating the marriage. This sounds intriguing, but the trouble is he never succeeds; and the picture ends just as his son is about to succeed for him. Danielle Darrieux may be the Frenchman's conception of what it's worth flunking out of college to see, but in America she doesn't justify a D in History I.