“It was too good of you, Madame Plumet; but it was useless, alas! she is to marry another.”

“Marry another?  Impossible!”

I thought Madame Plumet was about to faint.  Had she heard that her son Pierre had the croup, she could not have been more upset.  Her bosom heaved, she clasped her hands, and gazed at me with sorrowful compassion.

“Poor Monsieur Mouillard!”

And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet’s cheeks.  I should have liked to catch them.  They were the only tears that had been shed for me by a living soul since my mother died.

I had to tell her all, every word, down to my rival’s name.  When she heard that it was Baron Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds.  She exclaimed that the Baron was an awful man; that she knew all sorts of things about him!  Know him? she should think so!  That such a union was impossible, that it could never take place, that Plumet, she knew, would agree with her: 

“Madame Plumet,” I said, “we have strayed some distance from the business which brought you here.  Let us return to your affairs; mine are hopeless, and you can not remedy them.”

She got up trembling, her eyes red and her feelings a little hurt.

“My action?  Oh, no!  I can’t attend to it to-day.  I’ve no heart to talk about my business.  What you’ve told me has made me too unhappy.  Another day, Monsieur Mouillard, another day.”

She left me with a look of mystery, and a pressure of the hand which seemed to say:  “Rely on me!”

Poor woman!

CHAPTER XII

I GO TO ITALY

June 10th.

In the train.  We have passed the fortifications.  The stuccoed houses of the suburbs, the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in the debatable land round Paris are so many points of sunshine in the far distance.  The train is going at full speed.  The fields of green or gold are being unrolled like ribbons before my eyes.  Now and again a metallic sound and a glimpse of columns and advertisements show that we are rushing through a station in a whirlwind of dust.  A flash of light across our path is a tributary of the river.  I am off, well on my way, and no one can stop me—­not Lampron, nor Counsellor Boule, nor yet Plum et.  The dream of years is about to be realized.  I am going to see Italy—­merely a corner of it; but what a pleasure even that is, and what unlooked-for luck!

A few days ago, Counsellor Boule called me into his office.

“Monsieur Mouillard, you speak Italian fluently, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”  “Would you like a trip at a client’s expense?”

“With pleasure, wherever you like.”

“To Italy?”

“With very great pleasure.”

“I thought so, and gave your name to the court without asking your consent.  It’s a commission to examine documents at Milan, to prove some copies of deeds and other papers, put in by a supposititious Italian heir to establish his rights to a rather large property.  You remember the case of Zampini against Veldon and others?”