The train started—­4.11.  Raoul had not thought to get down to see if under the railing there was not a despatch addressed to him.  There was one, which was to remain eternally at Macon.  The telegram contained these words:  “Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.”

The train ran on and on, and now there was question of another dress—­a silk dress, light pink, with a large jabot of lace down the front.  Raoul literally dazzled Martha by his inexhaustible fertility of wise expressions and technical terms.

* * * * *

While the express passed the Romaneche station (4.32) father Chamblard came into the Old Club, went into the card-room, and met father Derame.  Piquet?  With pleasure.  So there they sat, face to face.  There were there eight or ten card-tables—­piquet, bezique, whist, etc.  The works were in full blast.  First game, and papa Derame is rubiconed; the second game was going to begin when a footman arrives with a despatch for M. Chamblard.

“Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

He reads, he becomes red; he rereads, and he gets scarlet.

It was Raoul’s brilliant telegram from Dijon: 

“Dear father, I shall not go.  Most extraordinary meeting.  Your Number Three—­yes, your Number Three—­in the train with her mother, and I wouldn’t see her.  Ah! if I had known.  Strike while the iron’s hot; I’m striking it, strike it too.  M. D. must be at the club, speak to him at once; tell him that I left to avoid marrying an ugly woman; that I only wish to make a love-match; that I am head-over-heels in love with his daughter.  We shall all be to-night at Marseilles, Hotel de Noailles.  Get M. D. to back me up by telegraph to Mme. D. I will talk with you to-morrow over the telephone.  I am writing my telegram in the dining-car.  At this moment she is nibbling nuts—­charming, she is charming!  She fell into my arms on the platform.  Till to-morrow at the telephone, nine o’clock.”

M. Chamblard’s agitation did not escape M. Derame.

“Is it a serious matter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We can stop if you wish.”

“Yes; but first of all, did Mme. and Mlle. Derame leave here this morning on the express for Marseilles?”

“Yes, at 9.55.  Why do you ask that?  Has there been any accident?”

“No, no accident; it can’t be called that; on the contrary.  Come, come into the little parlor.”

He told him everything, showed him the despatch, gave him certain necessary explanations about the words, such as Number Three.  And there they were, choking, delighted—­both the father of the young man and the father of the young girl.  What luck, what a providential meeting!

“But you told me that your son didn’t wish to marry.”

“He didn’t wish to, but he has seen your daughter, and now he wishes to.  Come, hurry up and send a telegram to Marseilles to Mme. Derame.”