“The matter is that I am going abroad,” said he, with his chin resting moodily in his two palms and his elbows on the table.

“Going abroad!  Where?”

“I don’t know—­

     ‘Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.’

It’s of very little consequence whether I betake myself to the East or to the West; eat rice in the tropics, or drink train-oil at the Pole.”

“But have you no settled projects?”

“None whatever.”

“And don’t care what becomes of you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, what has happened?”

“The very thing that, three weeks ago, would have made me the happiest fellow in Christendom.  What are you going to do to-morrow?”

“Nothing, beyond my ordinary routine of medical study.”

“Humph!  Could you get a whole holiday, for once?”

I remembered how many I had taken of late, and felt ashamed of the readiness with which I replied:—­

“Oh yes! easily.”

“Well, then, I want you to spend the day with me.  It will be, perhaps, my last in Paris for many a month, or even many a year.  I ...  Pshaw!  I may as well say it, and have done with it.  I am going to be married.”

“Married!” I exclaimed, in blank amazement; for it was the last thing I should have guessed.

Dalrymple tugged away at his moustache with both hands, as was his habit when perplexed or troubled, and nodded gloomily.  “To whom?”

“To Madame de Courcelles.”

“And are you not very happy?”

“Happy!  I am the most miserable dog unhanged?”

I was more at fault now than ever.

“I ... judging from trifles which some would perhaps scarcely have observed,” I said, hesitatingly, “I—­I thought you were interested in Madame de Courcelles?”

“Interested!” cried he, pushing back his chair and springing to his feet, as if the word had stung him.  “By heaven!  I love that woman as I never loved in my life.”

“Then why ...”

“I’ll tell you why—­or, at least, I will tell you as much as I may—­as I can; for the affair is hers, and not mine.  She has a cousin—­curse him!—­to whom she was betrothed from childhood.  His estates adjoined hers; family interests were concerned in their union; and the parents on both sides arranged matters.  When, however, Monsieur de Courcelles fell in love with her—­a man much older than herself, but possessed of great wealth and immense political influence—­her father did not hesitate to send the cousin to the deuce and marry his daughter to the Minister of Finance.  The cousin, it seems, was then a wild young fellow; not particularly in love with her himself; and not at all inconsolable for her loss.  When, however, Monsieur de Courcelles was good enough to die (which he had the bad taste to do very hastily, and without making, by any means, the splendid provision for his widow which he had promised),