My faithful agents are ever watchful.  I have just received their despatches, and they inspire me with the hope that at last the thick mist is about to be dispersed.  I will spare you all the minute details written by faithful servants, who have more sagacity than epistolary style, and give you a synopsis:—­Mlle. de Chateaudun left for Rouen a month ago.  She engaged two seats in the car.  She was seen at the depot—­her maid was with her.  There is no longer any doubt—­Irene is at Rouen; I have proofs of it in my hand.

An old family servant, devoted to me, is living at Rouen.  I will make his house the centre of my observations, and will not compromise the result by any negligence or recklessness on part.

The inexorable logic of victorious combinations will be revealed to me on the first night of my solitude.  I am about to start; address me no longer at Paris.  Railways were invented for the benefit of love affairs.  A lover laid the first rail, and a speculator laid the last.  Happily Rouen is a faubourg of Paris!  This advantage of rapid locomotion will permit me to pass two hours at Richeport with you, and have the delight of pressing Raymond’s hand.  Two hours of my life gained by losing them with my oldest and best friend.  I will be overjoyed to once more see the noble Raymond, the last of knight-errants, doubtless occupied in painting in stone-color some old manor where Queen Blanche has left traditions of the course of true love.

How dreadful it is, dear Edgar, to endeavor to unravel a mystery when a woman is at the bottom of it!  Yes, Irene is at Rouen, I am convinced of that fact.  Rouen is a large city, full of large houses, small houses, hotels and churches; but love is a grand inquisitor, capable of searching the city in twenty-four hours, and making the receiver of stolen property surrender Mlle. de Chateaudun.  Then what will happen?  Have I the right to institute a scheme of this strange nature about a young woman?  Is she alone at Rouen?  And if misfortune does not mislead me by these certain traces, is there anything in reserve for me worse than losing her?

Oh! if such be the case, then is the time to pray God for strength to repeat the other two verses of the poet:—­

  “Col mio rival istesso,
  Posso di te parlar!”

Farewell, for a short time, dear Edgar.  I fly to fathom this mystery.

ROGER DE MONBERT.

XXI.

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS to MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere).

RICHEPORT, July 6th, 18—.