Thus all things conspired on this fateful day to produce the great scenic effect which decided the future life of Mademoiselle Cormon.  The town was already topsy-turvy in mind, as a consequence of the five extraordinary circumstances which accompanied Mademoiselle Cormon’s return; to wit, the pouring rain; Penelope at a gallop, in a lather, and blown; the early hour; the parcels half-packed; and the singular air of the excited old maid.  But when Mariette made an invasion of the market, and bought all the best things; when Jacquelin went to the principal upholsterer in Alencon, two doors from the church, in search of a bed,—­there was matter for the gravest conjectures.  These extraordinary events were discussed on all sides; they occupied the minds of every one, even Mademoiselle Armande herself, with whom was Monsieur de Valois.  Within two days the town of Alencon had been agitated by such startling events that certain good women were heard to remark that the world was coming to an end.  This last news, however, resolved itself into a single question, “What is happening at the Cormons?”

The Abbe de Sponde, adroitly questioned when he left Saint-Leonard’s to take his daily walk with the Abbe Couturier, replied with his usual kindliness that he expected the Vicomte de Troisville, a nobleman in the service of Russia during the Emigration, who was returning to Alencon to settle there.  From two to five o’clock a species of labial telegraphy went on throughout the town; and all the inhabitants learned that Mademoiselle Cormon had at last found a husband by letter, and was about to marry the Vicomte de Troisville.  Some said, “Moreau has sold them a bed.”  The bed was six feet wide in that quarter; it was four feet wide at Madame Granson’s, in the rue du Bercail; but it was reduced to a simple couch at Monsieur du Ronceret’s, where du Bousquier was dining.  The lesser bourgeoisie declared that the cost was eleven hundred francs.  But generally it was thought that, as to this, rumor was counting the chickens before they were hatched.  In other quarters it was said that Mariette had made such a raid on the market that the price of carp had risen.  At the end of the rue Saint-Blaise, Penelope had dropped dead.  This decease was doubted in the house of the receiver-general; but at the Prefecture it was authenticated that the poor beast had expired as she turned into the courtyard of the hotel Cormon, with such velocity had the old maid flown to meet her husband.  The harness-maker, who lived at the corner of the rue de Seez, was bold enough to call at the house and ask if anything had happened to Mademoiselle Cormon’s carriage, in order to discover whether Penelope was really dead.  From the end of the rue Saint-Blaise to the end of the rue du Bercail, it was then made known that, thanks to Jacquelin’s devotion, Penelope, that silent victim of her mistress’s impetuosity, still lived, though she seemed to be suffering.