While these things were taking place, Madame MonlÉard was in a state of feverish unrest.

Since the Comte de la BÉriniÈre had definitely offered her his hand, which she had not refused, he came every day to pay his respects to her. The ten months of widowhood, which the conventionalities demand, had passed. The count, who was in haste to witness the coronation of his flame, was already arranging the preliminaries of his marriage. Among them were gifts,—jewels and cashmere shawls,—and, on the day preceding that on which he had received Cherami's visit, he had passed the whole day taking Fanny about to see the latest styles in gowns and shawls, so that he might understand her tastes and govern his purchases accordingly. And the pretty widow had shown no embarrassment about riding in the carriage which was soon to belong to her.

During the day following Cherami's challenge, the count, having to seek seconds for his duel, had had no time to call on Fanny. He did not see her until evening, and, like the well-bred man he was, had taken care not to mention the affair which he had on his hands because of her. The next day, his seconds had called on his adversary, and had then reported to Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre that the time and place and all the details of the duel had been agreed upon. That had given the count further food for thought. He was no coward, and yet the duel was exceedingly disagreeable to him; his interviews with the pretty widow had shown the effects of it; he had been less amorous, less affable, and less cheerful in her presence.

When the following day came and went without a call from the count, Fanny was first surprised, then vexed, then alarmed. Twenty times she went to her mirror, which told her that she was as pretty as ever, and that her elderly adorer ought to be only too happy that she condescended to pretend to love him. Meanwhile, the day passed, and the evening, and the count did not appear.

"He means to make me some beautiful present," said Fanny to herself; "and he wants to bring it himself; but all these shopkeepers are so little to be depended on! He probably waited in vain, and didn't want to come without his present. I shall have it to-morrow."

On the morrow, the clock struck twelve, one, two, and no sign of the count.

"This isn't natural," thought Fanny. "Something must certainly have happened. I remember, now, that Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre was distraught, preoccupied, the last two evenings that he was here. I charged him with it, and he said I was mistaken. But I was not mistaken!—Justine, go down and ask the concierge if there isn't a letter for me; if a message hasn't come from the count. Those people often forget to tell you when anyone calls."

Justine soon returned, and informed her mistress that there were no letters and that no one had called. Fanny placed herself at the window, and still there was no arrival.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, unable to remain inactive any longer, she said to her maid:

"Take a cab by the hour; here is Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre's address; go there, and find out from the concierge if anything has happened to him; if he is ill, ask to see him, and tell him how deeply interested I am in his health. Go quickly, so that I may know what to think."

Justine went off in her cab. The pretty widow counted the minutes and kept looking at the clock. At last her servant returned. Her breathless, dismayed air made it evident enough that she had something to tell; and as she entered the room, she cried out, wringing her hands:

"Ah! madame, indeed there is something new. Oh! the poor count! what a calamity!"

"Heavens! Justine, is he dead?"

"No, madame; he isn't dead yet, but very near it!"

"What accident has happened to him, then?"

"No accident, madame; but a fight with swords—a duel, in fact!"

"The count has been fighting a duel?"

"Yes, madame; and yesterday morning they brought him home wounded. A bad sword-wound in the side, which might have been mortal! But it seems he's going to get well; the doctor hopes he will, but doctors are mistaken so often!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! Why, this is horrible! With whom did he fight?"

"His valet doesn't know, madame. The count didn't take him with him."

"Well, I will find out, I will find out. A duel! Who besides Gustave could have had the idea of fighting with Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre? That fellow was born to be the bane of my life.—So you didn't see the count?"

"No, madame; the doctor said that nobody must see him to-day; but to-morrow, perhaps, that order will be changed."

"The poor count! if only he doesn't die! Just think, Justine, what an awful nuisance for me!"

"So it is. But if madame were a countess, it wouldn't be but half bad."

"You say the doctor promises that he will recover?"

"So the valet told me."

"Well, I will go myself to-morrow; but I must see my sister first."

"I thought that madame did not go to her father's now?"

"Oh! because in an outburst of anger he told me not to come again. As if he remembered that! Besides, it isn't my father that I want to see, but Adolphine."

The next morning, at eleven o'clock, Madame MonlÉard was ushered into the presence of her sister, who uttered a cry of surprise when she saw her.

"What! is it you, Fanny?"

"To be sure; Madeleine told me that father had just gone out; I am glad of that."

"Oh! never fear; his anger has passed away. It never lasts long with him, you know."

"But I am the one who is angry now."

"You! with whom?"

"With everybody. You pretend to be surprised; but you must know what has happened?"

"No. What can have happened to irritate you so?"

"I have good reason for it. Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre fought a duel the day before yesterday, and was badly wounded; a little more and they'd have killed him for me!"

"Mon Dieu! with whom did he fight, in heaven's name?"

"Do you ask me that? You know well enough; indeed, it's easy enough to guess."

"I certainly cannot guess."

"Who but Gustave, in his rage, because I preferred the count to him?"

"Gustave? why, that is impossible. He left Paris a week ago; he came to say good-bye to us, and Monsieur de Raincy, who has just come from England, met him there."

"Is it possible that it wasn't Gustave? Then who could it have been—unless it was that tall swashbuckler who fought with Auguste?"

"Yes, it must have been he."

"That's it! that fellow seems to have the very devil in him! As soon as I am married, or when someone thinks of marrying me, he appears with his long sword. Why, it's a perfect outrage! Ah! that Monsieur Cherami! And I have been so polite to him, too—asked him to come to see me!"

"What! you asked him to come to see you? A man who had fought with your husband?"

"Well! what has that to do with it? You know perfectly well that they made it up. But I must go to inquire for the poor count. Perhaps I can see him to-day, and find out how this duel came about. Ah! mon Dieu! if Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre should die, I should be a widow a second time, and without being a countess!"

Fanny left Adolphine much disturbed and agitated by what she had heard. The young widow drove to Monsieur de la BÉriniÈre's house, and found that the doctor had revoked his orders of the day before; she could see the count, on condition that she would not let him talk much.

The young woman entered the sick-room with every manifestation of the keenest interest; she uttered heartfelt exclamations, sighed profoundly, and winked her eyes so often that she succeeded in making them very red. The count smiled at his pretty visitor and held out his hand, which she seized and pressed to her bosom.

"If you had been killed," she cried, "I should not have survived you! But who was the savage? How did this duel come about?"

"I am forbidden to talk," murmured the count, in a weak voice.

"Oh! of course, excuse me. My curiosity is very natural, however. Just a word: was it my old play-fellow with whom you fought?"

"No; it was a friend of his—named Cherami."

"Monsieur Cherami? Oh! the miserable wretch! It was he before—with Auguste. But what, in God's name, have I ever done to that man? or, rather, what have they whom I love done to him? However, my dear count, you will recover, there's no doubt of that; and then, by dint of love and loving attentions, I hope to make you forget an incident of which I was the first cause."

"You think it isn't serious?"

"No, certainly not; it will amount to nothing. God! if the wound had been dangerous—if I had had reason to fear for your life—I don't know what would have become of me! Ah! when anything happens to those who are dear to us, that is the time we feel—how dear they are to us!"

"You are too kind."

"Are you in pain?"

"Only a little; but I am exceedingly weak."

"I will go, for I am capable of talking to you too much, in spite of myself, and that would tire you. Au revoir, my dear count! I will come every day, or send to inquire for you."

"Thanks a thousand times!"

"May the thought of me be some company to you, as the thought of you will be a sweet consolation to me!—Mon Dieu! how hideous he is in bed!" said the little woman to herself as she left the room.