“Well, to speak the truth, I have no great reason to like him.  If it were not for him, I should perhaps have been happy to-day; my love might have moved your heart.  However, I have become resigned to my loss, and since your choice has fallen on him,”—­and here he. sighed,—­“well, all I can say is, I hope you may never regret it.”

“Many thanks for your goodwill, cousin; I am delighted to find you in such a benevolent mood.  You must not be vexed because I could not give you the kind of love you wanted; the heart, you know, is not amenable to reason.”

“There is only one thing I should like to ask.”

“What is it?”

“I mention it for your good more than for my own.  If you want to be happy, don’t let this handsome quill-driver get you entirely into his hands.  You are saying to yourself that because of my ill-success with you I am trying to injure him; but what if I could prove that he does not love you as much as he pretends—?”

“Come, come, control your naughty tongue!  Are you going to begin backbiting again?  You are playing a mean part, Trumeau.  I have never hinted to Maitre Quennebert all the nasty little ways in which you have tried to put a spoke in his wheel, for if he knew he would ask you to prove your words, and then you would look very foolish.”.

“Not at all, I swear to you.  On the contrary, if I were to tell all I know in his presence, it is not I who would be disconcerted.  Oh!  I am weary of meeting with nothing from you but snubs, scorn, and abuse.  You think me a slanderer when I say, ’This gallant wooer of widows does not love you for yourself but for your money-bags.  He fools you by fine promises, but as to marrying you—­never, never!’”

“May I ask you to repeat that?” broke in Madame Rapally,

“Oh!  I know what I am saying.  You will never be Madame Quennebert.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Jealousy has eaten away whatever brains you used to possess, Trumeau.  Since I saw you last, cousin, important changes have taken place:  I was just going to send you to-day an invitation to my wedding.”

“To your wedding?”

“Yes; I am to be married to-morrow.”

“To-morrow?  To Quennebert?” stammered Trumeau.

“To Quennebert,” repeated the widow in a tone of triumph.

“It’s not possible!” exclaimed Trumeau.

“It is so possible that you will see us united tomorrow.  And for the future I must beg of you to regard Quennebert no longer as a rival but as my husband, whom to offend will be to offend me.”

The tone in which these words were spoken no longer left room for doubt as to the truth of the news.  Trumeau looked down for a few moments, as if reflecting deeply before definitely making up his mind.  He twisted the little roll of papers between his fingers, and seemed to be in doubt whether to open it and give it to Madame Rapally to read or not.  In the end, however, he put it in his pocket, rose, and approaching his cousin, said—­