This falsehood bore such an appearance of truth that the chevalier was taken in by it.  That “my dear chevalier” was like the revenge taken by Peter the Great on Charles XII. at Pultawa for all his past defeats.  Du Bousquier revenged himself deliciously for the thousand little shafts he had long borne in silence; but in his triumph he made a lively youthful gesture by running his hands through his hair, and in so doing he—­knocked aside his false front.

“I congratulate you both,” said the chevalier, with an agreeable air; “and I wish that the marriage may end like a fairy tale:  They were happy ever after, and had—­many—­children!” So saying, he took a pinch of snuff.  “But, monsieur,” he added satirically, “you forget—­that you are wearing a false front.”

Du Bousquier blushed.  The false front was hanging half a dozen inches from his skull.  Mademoiselle Cormon raised her eyes, saw that skull in all its nudity, and lowered them, abashed.  Du Bousquier cast upon the chevalier the most venomous look that toad ever darted on its prey.

“Dogs of aristocrats who despise me,” thought he, “I’ll crush you some day.”

The chevalier thought he had recovered his advantage.  But Mademoiselle Cormon was not a woman to understand the connection which the chevalier intimated between his congratulatory wish and the false front.  Besides, even if she had comprehended it, her word was passed, her hand given.  Monsieur de Valois saw at once that all was lost.  The innocent woman, with the two now silent men before her, wished, true to her sense of duty, to amuse them.

“Why not play a game of piquet together?” she said artlessly, without the slightest malice.

Du Bousquier smiled, and went, as the future master of the house, to fetch the piquet table.  Whether the Chevalier de Valois lost his head, or whether he wanted to stay and study the causes of his disaster and remedy it, certain it is that he allowed himself to be led like a lamb to the slaughter.  He had received the most violent knock-down blow that ever struck a man; any nobleman would have lost his senses for less.

The Abbe de Sponde and the Vicomte de Troisville soon returned.  Mademoiselle Cormon instantly rose, hurried into the antechamber, and took her uncle apart to tell him her resolution.  Learning that the house in the rue du Cygne exactly suited the viscount, she begged her future husband to do her the kindness to tell him that her uncle knew it was for sale.  She dared not confide that lie to the abbe, fearing his absent-mindedness.  The lie, however, prospered better than if it had been a virtuous action.  In the course of that evening all Alencon heard the news.  For the last four days the town had had as much to think of as during the fatal days of 1814 and 1815.  Some laughed; others admitted the marriage.  These blamed it; those approved it.  The middle classes of Alencon rejoiced; they regarded it as a victory.  The next day, among friends, the Chevalier de Valois said a cruel thing:—­