Roger, something incredible has happened, overturning every calculation, every prevision.  I am stupefied, benumbed—­I was at the Marquise’s, where it was darker than usual.  One solitary lamp flickered in a corner, dozing under a huge shade.  A fat gentleman, buried in an easy-chair, drowsily retailed the news of the day.

I was not listening to him; I was thinking of Louise’s little white couch, from which I had once lifted the snowy curtain; with that sorrowful intensity, those poignant regrets which torture rejected lovers.  Suddenly a familiar name struck my ear—­the name of Irene de Chateaudun.  I became attentive—­“She is to be married to-morrow,” continued the well-posted gentleman, “to—­wait a minute, I get confused about names and dates; with that exception, my memory is excellent—­a young man, Gaston, Raymond, I am not certain which, but his first name ends in on I am sure.”

I eagerly questioned the fat man; he knew nothing more; hastily returning to my rooms I sent Joseph out to obtain further information.

My servant, who is quick and intelligent, and merits a master more given to intrigue and gallantry than I, went to the twelve mayors’ offices.  He brought me a list of all the banns that had been published.

The news was true; Irene de Chateaudun marries Raymond.  What does that signify?  Irene your fiancee, Raymond our friend!  What comedy of errors is being played here?  This, then, was the motive of these flights, these disappearances.  They were laughing at you.  It seems to me rather an audacious proceeding.  How does it happen that Raymond, who knew of your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Chateaudun, should have stepped in your shoes?  This comes of deeds of prowess a la Don Quixote, and rescues of old Englishwomen.

Hasten, my friend, by railroad, post-horses, in the stirrup, on hippogriff’s wing; what am I talking about?  You will scarcely receive my letter ere the marriage has taken place.  But I will keep watch for you.  I will acquit myself of your revenge, and Mademoiselle Irene de Chateaudun shall not become Madame Raymond de Villiers until I have whispered that in her ear which will make her paler than her marriage veil.  As to Raymond, I am not astonished at what he has done; I felt towards him at Richeport a hate which never deceives me and which I always feel towards cowards and hypocrites; he talked too much of virtue not to be a scoundrel.  I would I had the power to raze out from my life the time that I loved him.  It is impossible to oppose this revolting marriage.  How is it possible that Irene de Chateaudun, who was to enjoy the honor of being your wife, whom you had represented to me as a woman of high intelligence and lofty culture, could have allowed herself to be impressed, after having known you, by the jeremiads of this sentimental sniveller?  Since Eve, women have disliked all that is noble, frank and loyal; to fall is an unconquerable necessity of their nature; they have always preferred, to the voice of an honorable man, the perfidious whisper of the evil spirit, which shows its painted face among the leaves and wraps its slimy coils around the fatal tree.