One morning in the beginning of February 1660, Trumeau called to see his cousin.  He had not been there for nearly a month, and Quennebert and the widow had begun to think that, hopeless of success, he had retired from the contest.  But, far from that, his hatred had grown more intense than ever, and having come upon the traces of an event in the past life of his rival which if proved would be the ruin of that rival’s hopes, he set himself to gather evidence.  He now made his appearance with beaming looks, which expressed a joy too great for words.  He held in one hand a small scroll tied with a ribbon.  He found the widow alone, sitting in a large easy-chair before the fire.  She was reading for the twentieth time a letter which Quenriebert had written her the evening before.  To judge by the happy and contented expression of the widow’s face, it must have been couched in glowing terms.  Trumeau guessed at once from whom the missive came, but the sight of it, instead of irritating him, called forth a smile.

“Ah! so it’s you, cousin?” said the widow, folding the precious paper and slipping it into the bosom of her dress.  “How do you do?  It’s a long time since I saw you, more than a fortnight, I think.  Have you been ill?”

“So you remarked my absence!  That is very flattering, my dear cousin; you do not often spoil me by such attentions.  No, I have not been ill, thank God, but I thought it better not to intrude upon you so often.  A friendly call now and then such as to-day’s is what you like, is it not?  By the way, tell me about your handsome suitor, Maitre Quennebert; how is he getting along?”

“You look very knowing, Trumeau:  have you heard of anything happening to him?”

“No, and I should be exceedingly sorry to hear that anything unpleasant had happened to him.”

Now you are not saying what you think, you know you can’t bear him.”

“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.”.