now gave their assent to the match,—­at least, prospectively,—­a circumstance which furnished such an additional incentive to his exertions, that in about two years from the date of his first brilliant speech, he was in a sufficiently flourishing condition to offer the young lady a suitable home.  In anticipation of the happy event, he engaged and furnished a suit of apartments in the Rue du Helder; and as it was necessary that the bride should come to Paris to provide her trousseau, it was agreed that the wedding should take place there, instead of at Bellefonds, as had been first projected—­an arrangement the more desirable, that a press of business rendered M. de Chaulieu’s absence from Paris inconvenient.

Brides and bridegrooms in France, except of the very high classes, are not much in the habit of making those honeymoon excursions so universal in this country.  A day spent in visiting Versailles, or St. Cloud, or even the public places of the city, is generally all that precedes the settling down into the habits of daily life.  In the present instance, St. Denis was selected, from the circumstance of Natalie having a younger sister at school there, and also because she had a particular desire to see the abbey.

The wedding was to take place on a Thursday; and on the Wednesday evening, having spent some hours most agreeably with Natalie, Antoine de Chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor apartments.  His wardrobe and other small possessions had already been packed up and sent to his future home; and there was nothing left in his room now but his new wedding suit, which he inspected with considerable satisfaction before he undressed and lay down to sleep.  Sleep, however, was somewhat slow to visit him; and the clock had struck one before he closed his eyes.  When he opened them again, it was broad daylight; and his first thought was, had he overslept himself?  He sat up in bed to look at the clock, which was exactly opposite; and as he did so, in the large mirror over the fireplace he perceived a figure standing behind him.  As the dilated eyes met his own, he saw it was the face of Jacques Rollet.  Overcome with horror, he sank back on his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ventured to look again in that direction; when he did so, the figure had disappeared.

The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to occasion in a man elate with joy, may be conceived.  For some time after the death of his former foe, he had been visited by not unfrequent twinges of conscience; but of late, borne along by success, and the hurry of Parisian life, these unpleasant remembrances had grown rarer, till at length they had faded away altogether.  Nothing had been further from his thoughts than Jacques Rollet, when he closed his eyes on the preceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun which was to shine on what he expected to be the happiest day of his life.  Where were the high-strung nerves now? the elastic frame? the bounding heart?