A month had passed since the Comte de la BÉriniÈre's death. Was it from grief? was it from anger? Madame MonlÉard had shut herself up in her apartment ever since, and had been to see no one, not even her father or her sister. She must have known, however, that Adolphine would be the first to sympathize with her woes; but unfeeling persons never believe in the keen sensibility of others; and if anybody seems to pity them, they are always convinced that, in reality, that person rejoices in their misfortune. The proverb rightly says that we judge others by ourselves.

Monsieur Batonnin, who was always the first to be informed of anything that happened to disturb his friends or acquaintances, learned of the count's death very soon after it occurred, and went at once to Monsieur Gerbault's.

"Have you heard of the cruel accident, the misfortune that has befallen your elder daughter?" he said. "The Comte de la BÉriniÈre is dead, and before he had married her."

"I should say," rejoined Monsieur Gerbault, "that the misfortune was the count's, not my daughter's."

"Oh! of course; but, after all, the count was no longer a young man; while your daughter was going to be a countess and have forty thousand francs a year; and I believe that the count agreed to make a will when he married her, making her his heir. A woman doesn't find such a husband every day."

"Monsieur Batonnin, it's a sad business to speculate on the death of the person one marries!"

"That is true, it's very sad; but still it's done."

"You may say what you please; I do not pity my daughter."

"You astonish me!"

Adolphine, finding that her sister did not come, went to see her; but the concierge always said to her: "Madame MonlÉard has gone out;" and the girl understood at last that her sister did not choose to see her.

One morning, Cherami was preparing to go out, when Madame Louchard came up to his room, and said, with an air of mystery:

"There's a person below who wants to know if you are visible; and I came up to make sure that you were dressed from top to toe."

"Who is this person, pray, who makes so much fuss about coming to my room?"

"A pretty young woman."

"A pretty young woman coming to call on me! Ah! my excellent hostess, methinks I have returned to the days of my early prowess!"

"I'll go and tell her to come up."

"One moment! Let me brush my hair a little, straighten the parting, and see if my whiskers are well combed."

"Look at the flirt!"

"It is never wrong to beautify one's self. Go, show this lady up. I have my cue!"

A lady of small stature, very well dressed, and of distinguished bearing, soon entered Cherami's room; when she was sure that he was alone, she raised her veil, saying:

"Good-morning, monsieur! do you recognize me?"

"God bless my soul! it's Madame MonlÉard, the fascinating widow. Pray be seated, fair lady; excuse me if I do not receive you in a palace, but for the moment I have only this hovel at my disposal. To what am I indebted for the honor of your visit?"

"I desired to have a little conversation with you. Such a melancholy thing has happened since we last met."

"Don't speak of it! The poor count's death upset me completely; I couldn't believe it."

"Especially as he seemed to be entirely restored to health. What was it that you gave him to take, in heaven's name?"

"Mon Dieu! just plain chartreuse—an excellent, strengthening liqueur. But it seems that he dined with two friends, that he did not spare himself, that the champagne made him ill, and——"

"Well, he's dead; we must make the best of it. But it is doubly unfortunate for me. I lose a great fortune, a title, which I had in my grasp."

"True; you lose all that!"

"And then I—I also lose—I lose—the husband with whom I broke off relations—in order to become a countess."

"True—you lose both. You are almost thrice a widow."

"And yet, it seems to me that I was excusable for being blinded for a moment by ambition. Mon Dieu! who in this world has not been? We all want to raise ourselves."

"That is the first thing to which we aspire when we are born."

"Monsieur Cherami, are you still on friendly terms with Gustave?"

"With Gustave? Oh! ours is a friendship for life and death; there will never be any break in our friendship. He's a man for whom I would throw myself into the fire."

"Ah! that is very fine. And tell me, do you know whether he will return to Paris soon?"

"Hum! I see what you are driving at!" thought Cherami, stroking his whiskers.

"Why, no, I don't," he replied. "According to what I learned at his uncle's house, it seems that Gustave, instead of returning to France, is going to Russia, where he will probably stay a long time—perhaps a year or two—or four."

Fanny made a gesture of disgust.

"What an idea! To go to Russia, where you freeze all the time! When one can be so comfortable in France—especially in Paris!"

"Oh! I beg your pardon; the women in Russia aren't frozen. It seems that there are some very pretty ones there, and some immensely rich! Gustave is a good-looking fellow, he'll turn some high-born damsel's head there, and make a marriage set in diamonds."

The little widow rose abruptly, lowered her veil, and said:

"Adieu, Monsieur Cherami! I must leave you."

"What! already? Had madame nothing else to say to me?"

"No. Frankly, I came because I wanted to learn something about Gustave; but what you have told me—— However, perhaps he will change his mind; he won't stay in Russia, he'll be bored to death there. In any event, if you learn anything about him, if you find out just where he is, it will be very good of you to let me know."

"Madame, I shall always be delighted to be able to gratify you."

"Adieu, Monsieur Cherami!"

Cherami looked after Fanny as she went away, saying to himself:

"I think I see myself telling her where Gustave is, even if I knew! I believe, God bless me! that she is inclined to go after him, that she hopes to catch him in her net again! Gad! he must either be stupid or bewitched. But there are some men, men of intelligence, too, whom love makes as stupid as earthen pots. I lied to the little widow when I told her that Gustave was going to Russia. On the contrary, when I went to ask about him, the day before yesterday, the concierge, who knows me now, told me that he expected him in a few days. Par la sambleu! I guess I'll go again; he may have come."

Cherami lost no time in making his way to the banker's house, where the concierge said to him:

"Monsieur Gustave Darlemont returned yesterday; he's at home."

Thereupon our friend scaled the stairs; in a few seconds he was at his young friend's door, and began by throwing himself into his arms. That first outburst of emotion passed, Cherami looked at Gustave and suddenly ejaculated:

"Ten thousand devils! What does that mean?"

That exclamation was drawn from him by the sight of a great scar, which started from the young man's forehead, crossed his left eyebrow, and came to an end at the lower part of the cheek.

"That?" replied Gustave, with a smile. "That is the result of a duel with swords with an Irish officer. You fought my battles here, my dear Cherami; the least I could do was to look after my own affairs across the channel."

"What! have you heard? But let me embrace you again! That scar is tremendously becoming to you, and I am delighted that you have had this duel, in which your adversary evidently didn't fight with a dead arm. Damnation! what a slash!—Ah! people won't say now that I fight instead of you; this will put a stopper on all the sneering tongues. But what did you fight about?"

"It was the sequel of a breakfast party of artists, business men, and this one Irish officer. We had plenty to eat and drink. The conversation fell on women, that inexhaustible subject of conversation among young men; I said that the French women, even those who were least pretty, always outdid the women of other countries in dress and carriage; thereupon the Irishman lost his temper, and called me a greenhorn. I threw my napkin in his face; after that, a duel with swords—that was the weapon chosen by my adversary; and this wound healed very slowly and kept me in bed six weeks; otherwise, I should have come home long ago."

"Dear Gustave! Ah! what a noble scar! It is very becoming, and I congratulate you again."

"But I have no congratulations for you, but reproaches! Pray tell me why you challenged that poor Comte de la BÉriniÈre? what had he done to you?"

"Nothing, to me; but he had done something to you, having stolen your promised bride from you."

"Oh! my friend, if you reflect a moment, you certainly must feel that, on the contrary, he did me a very great service. But for him, I should have married a woman who never had the slightest affection for me, and who did not hesitate to toss me aside like a coat which you discard when you see an opportunity to get a handsomer one at the same price. That woman, who, as a reward of my constancy and the suffering she had caused me, did not hesitate to be a traitor to me a second time! Ah! my friend, I know her now, and I appreciate her at her real worth. A hard, selfish heart, overflowing with vanity, caring for nothing but money, recognizing no merit except that of wealth, incapable of the slightest sacrifice for others, and considering that everything is rightfully due to her. That's the kind of wife I should have had! Should I not be profoundly grateful to the man who was the cause of my rupture with her?"

"Is it really you that I am listening to, Gustave? You, talking in this strain of Fanny? Why, then you must be cured at last of your passion for her?"

"Oh, yes! radically cured; indeed, Cherami, what would you think of me if I still loved her after her last outrage?"

"I should think that she had cast a spell on you, although I haven't much belief in magic. But you have ceased to love her, that's the main point. You know that the poor count died before he had married her? but not of his wound; he had an attack of indigestion."

"It is very unfortunate for her; but I confess that I don't pity her."

"There is one thing that you don't suspect—that she is now contemplating running after you."

"Let her run, my dear fellow; I promise you that she will never catch me."

"You are quite sure of yourself?"

"Oh, yes! perfectly sure."

"You see, she is a damnably shrewd little wheedler, is the widow! I should feel surer of you if you loved somebody else."

"Somebody else! You must admit, Cherami, that my love for Fanny hasn't resulted in a way to encourage me."

"All women are not Fannys; there are some who are tender-hearted, sweet, affectionate; who would be so happy to be loved by you."

"Happy to be loved by me! What, in heaven's name, makes you think so?"

"I think so—because I am sure of it."

"You are sure that there is someone who would love me?"

"Oh! better than that; I am sure that someone does love you—cherishes a secret passion for you—a sentiment which she has always hidden, kept locked up in the depths of her heart; because it was hopeless, because she was simply the confidante of your love for another."

"Mon Dieu! what do you mean?" cried Gustave, as if his eyes were suddenly opened; "you think that Adolphine——"

"Ah! you have guessed—so much the better; that proves that you had thought of the thing before."

"No, indeed. What makes you think that Adolphine ever gives me a thought?"

"If you hadn't been in love with another woman, you would have discovered it yourself long ago. I had already guessed it from a multitude of little things: the way she looked at you—for a woman doesn't look at the man that she loves in the same way as at other men; I have studied that subject; but what proved conclusively to me that she loved you was what happened when I went to Monsieur Gerbault's to tell him of poor Auguste's unhappy end. I was embarrassed about telling the story, and I didn't make my meaning clear; Mademoiselle Adolphine thought that it was your death I was trying to tell them of. Instantly she gave a shriek of despair, and fainted; we had a great deal of difficulty in reviving her, and I had to keep saying again and again: 'It isn't Gustave who is dead!' before she recovered her senses. So that I whispered to myself: 'It's this one, and not the other, who cares for my young friend;' and I have a shrewd idea that Papa Gerbault reasoned just as I did."

"Why did you never tell me all this, Cherami?"

"Because it wasn't worth while to sing a pretty tune to a deaf man; you were daft then over your Fanny, you wouldn't have listened to me."

"Thanks, my friend, thank you for having observed it all. You cannot conceive the emotion it causes me."

"Why, yes, it's always pleasant to know that one has turned the head of a pretty young girl."

"Poor Adolphine! If it were true! If she really does love me!"

"Why, think of all the offers she has refused! I think I have heard that the count himself wanted to marry her; and a Monsieur de Raincy, and many more. What reason had she for refusing everybody who came forward, if she hadn't love for somebody in her heart? and that somebody was you—and yet she had no hope of marrying you. Oh! what a difference between her and her sister! Well, I've told you what I had to tell you; now, you may act as you please.—But, at all events, you are back again. I trust that you're not going to start off to-morrow?"

"Oh! I shall not go away again; I've had enough of travelling; I am going to settle down in Paris now."

"Good! vive la joie! But do you know that your uncle is still unrelenting to me? He received me very coldly when I asked him for employment."

"Never fear, my friend; I am here now, I will look about for you, and we will arrange all that."

"Very good; I will go, for you must have much to do; when shall I see you again?"

"Come in a few days, and I will tell you—yes, I will tell you what I have done."

"Agreed. Au revoir! My friend has returned; I have my cue!"