“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—­

“I beg your pardon, this news completely changes my opinion.  From the moment Maitre Quennebert becomes your husband I shall not have a word to say against him.  My suspicions were unjust, I confess it frankly, and I hope that in consideration of the motives which prompted me you will forget the warmth of my attacks.  I shall make no protestations, but shall let the future show how sincere is my devotion to your interests.”

Madame Rapally was too happy, too certain of being loved, not to pardon easily.  With the self-complacency and factitious generosity of a woman who feels herself the object of two violent passions, she was so good as to feel pity for the lover who was left out in the cold, and offered him her hand.  Trumeau kissed it with every outward mark of respect, while his lips curled unseen in a smite of mockery.  The cousins parted, apparently the best of friends, and on the understanding that Trumeau would be present at the nuptial benediction, which was to be given in a church beyond the town hall, near the house in which the newly-married couple were to live; the house on the Pont Saint-Michel having lately been sold to great advantage.

“On my word,” said Trumeau, as he went off, “it would have been a great mistake to have spoken.  I have got that wretch of a Quennebert into my clutches at last; and there is nobody but himself to blame.  He is taking the plunge of his own free will, there is no need for me to shove him off the precipice.”