I leaned against a column in order to whisper in Irene’s ear, as she passed, a word as cutting as the crystal poniards of the bravos of Venice, which break in the wound and slay without a drop of blood.  Irene advanced buoyantly along, leaning on Raymond’s arm, with an undulating, rhythmical grace, as if her feet trod the yielding clouds, instead of the cold stones of the aisle.  She no longer walked the earth, her happiness lifted her up; the ardor of her delight made me comprehend those assumptions of the Saints, who soared in their ecstasy above the floors of their narrow cells and caverns; she felt the deep delight of a woman who sacrifices herself.

When she reached the column that concealed me, an electrical current doubtless warned her of my presence, for she shuddered as if struck by an unseen arrow, and quickly turned her head; a stray sunbeam lit up her face, and I recognised in Irene de Chateaudun, Louise Guerin; in the rich heiress, the screen-painter of Pont de l’Arche!

Irene and Louise were the same person!

We have been treated as Cassandras of comedy; we have played in all seriousness the scene between Horace and Arnolphe.  We have confided to each other our individual loves, hopes and sorrows.  It is very amusing; but, contrary to custom, the tragedy will come after the farce, and we will play it so well that no one will be tempted to laugh at our expense; we will convert ridicule into terror.  Ah!  Mademoiselle Irene de Chateaudun, you imagined that you could amuse yourself with two such men as the Prince de Moubert and Edgar de Meilhan! that there it would end, and you had only to say to them:  “I love another better!” And you, Master Raymond, thought that your virtuous reputation would make your perfidy appear like an act of devotion!  No, no, in the drama where the great lady was an adventuress, the artless girl a fast woman, the hero a traitor, the lover a fool, and the betrothed husband a Geronte, the roles are to be changed.

A hoarse cry escaped me, Irene clung convulsively to Raymond’s arm, and precipitately left the church.  Raymond, without understanding this sudden flight, yielded to it and rapidly descended the steps.  The carriage was in waiting; they got into it; the coachman whipped up his horses and soon they were out of sight.

Irene, Louise, whatever may be your name or your mask, you shall not long remain Madame de Villiers; a speedy widowhood will enable you to begin your coquetries again.  I regret to be compelled to strike you through another, for you merit death.

EDGAR BE MEILHAN.

XXXVI.

ROGER DE MONBERT to MONSIEUR LE COMTE DE VILLIERS,
Au Chateau de Villiers (Creuse).

August 16th 18—.

MONSIEUR,—­

I take pleasure in sending you, by way of apologue, an anecdote, which you may read with profit.

During my travels I met with an estimable man, a Creole of the colony of
Port Natal, by the name of Smollet.