As he returned to Paris, Cherami's reflections took this turn:

"Well, here's something that changes the state of affairs very materially. That young Fanny's a widow—she's free—her husband is dead. I trust that Gustave won't say now that it was I who killed him! At all events, I have the letter he wrote me, and I will keep it carefully; otherwise, people would be quite capable of believing that I shot him in a duel; but, after all, that young woman, whom Gustave still adores—and who is the cause of his going away from Paris because he's afraid of meeting her—that Fanny for whom he has a passion such as we seldom see nowadays; I might say, such as we never see!—However, since she is a widow now, and since she greeted Gustave so kindly the last time he met her—for I remember that he told me she even urged him to call—now, then, or ergo, as we used to say at school, since that young woman did not look upon Gustave with an unfavorable eye when she was married, it seems to me that she should look upon him even more favorably now that she's a widow. She gave poor MonlÉard the preference, because he offered her everything that attracts a woman. To-day, when she is ruined, it seems to me that she would be very glad to fall in with my young friend, who gives me the impression of occupying a very satisfactory position in life. I really believe that the thing can be arranged—not instantly, because we must give the little woman time to weep over her husband; but I foresee that hereafter Gustave's love and constancy will be rewarded. Ah! I like to think of that; for then Gustave will cease to travel, he will stay in Paris; and a man is very glad to have such friends as he is, always at hand. What a pity that he isn't here now! I would have lost no time in telling him the great news. Oh! but I will find out where he is, I will find him. Meanwhile, I must think about performing my mission to the young wife, with all proper precautions. It isn't precisely an agreeable errand; but if one did only agreeable things, it would become monotonous."

Fanny was in her boudoir, trying on some morning caps, and leaving her mirror from time to time to go to look at the last bulletin from the Bourse, which was on her toilet table, when her maid appeared and told her that a gentleman desired to speak to her.

"A gentleman! What gentleman? Do you know him? Did he give his name?"

"No, madame; I have never seen him here."

"Are you sure that he wants to see me, not Monsieur MonlÉard?"

"It is certainly you, madame; and he says that it's on very important business."

"Is the man respectable? Does he look like a gentleman?"

"Why, yes, madame."

"Then show him into the salon; I will go down."

She hastily finished her toilet, saying to herself:

"Monsieur Vauflers has probably sent some friend of his to tell me what he has done on the Bourse. It's after four o'clock; yes, it must be that."

Cherami, being ushered into the salon, scrutinized the furniture, muttering:

"It's not bad, it's very chic! I used to have such quarters myself. It's more comfortable than the Widow Louchard's lodgings. But one has his ups and downs all the same, even in such surroundings."

Fanny appeared at last; she bowed to her visitor, who seemed to her to have "a funny look"; for such is the fashionable method of describing what one does not know how to describe; then she pointed to a chair, and said:

"You wish to speak to me, monsieur? about some business at the Bourse, I presume?"

Cherami was embarrassed at the sight of the young woman. He realized that his mission was more difficult to execute than he had thought; however, he sat down, stammering:

"Madame—it is—it is on the subject——"

"Of to-day's market, is it not?"

"No, not to-day's, madame; but it was the Bourse which caused—which brought about the event—the calamity——"

"Be kind enough, monsieur, to explain yourself more clearly, for I do not understand you at all."

Cherami bit his lips, seeking the best method of preparing the young woman for what he had to tell her; and after reflecting for a considerable time, he cried:

"Madame, I came to tell you that your husband is dead!"

Fanny started from her seat, gazed at the man before her, and rejoined, with a shrug of her shoulders:

"If this is a joke, monsieur, allow me to inform you that it is in execrable taste."

"Therefore I should not have the hardihood to indulge in it, madame. I did not come here with any purpose of joking; what I say to you, I say in all seriousness."

"But I saw my husband at breakfast this forenoon, monsieur. He was not ill, not even indisposed. What, in heaven's name, can have happened to him?"

"Nothing has happened to him; he himself thought it best to put an end to his own life; and he blew out his brains in the Bois de Boulogne, about half-past two o'clock."

Fanny changed color, but did not lose courage.

"No, monsieur; it's not possible," she rejoined; "there is some mistake, it cannot be my husband. Why should Auguste kill himself—young, rich, and happy as he was?"

"It would seem, madame, that he was much less happy than you like to think. And as to being rich, he was so no longer, for he had ruined himself utterly on the Bourse; he was penniless, and he lacked the courage to endure these hard blows of fortune."

"Ruined!" cried the young woman, springing to her feet. "What do you say, monsieur? Ruined! why, then I am ruined, too! Then I have nothing! Why, that would be too terrible; it would be ghastly!"

"Poor Auguste was right," thought Cherami, observing Fanny's despair; "it isn't his death that grieves his wife most."

"But, monsieur, how do you know—how did you learn of this event? And even if my husband is dead, how do you know that he was ruined?"

"Be good enough to listen a moment, madame. This noon, after breakfasting at Passy with some worthy people,—who must be expecting me to dinner at this moment, by the way, but I shall not go,—I had gone to smoke a cigar in the Bois de Boulogne, where there were very few people, the cold being so intense. There I met your husband; we were acquainted, he had seen me on a certain occasion—in short, he knew what sort of man I am. He came to me and asked me if I would do him an important service; as you may imagine, madame, I placed myself at his disposal. We went to a cafÉ, where he wrote two letters. One was for me, which he made me promise not to open until half an hour after he had left me; then he went away. I waited the half-hour, then opened the letter. He told me therein of his deplorable determination, and of the reasons which had led him to it; then he requested me to take the other letter—to its address."

"For whom was that other letter?"

"For you, madame. Here it is."

Fanny took in a trembling hand the letter which Cherami handed her, and read in an altered voice:

"'I thought, madame, that by marrying you I ensured the happiness of both; I was mistaken; I needed a loving wife to calm and allay the vivacity of my passions; I found in you simply a woman who adored money and pleasure above all else.'"

At that, Fanny paused, and read the remainder of the letter to herself:

"I make no reproaches, madame; a woman cannot recast her nature, especially at your age. Feeling is a gift of nature, as selfishness is a vice of the heart; I judged you ill; it was my fault, not yours. Being unable to enjoy the domestic happiness of which I had dreamed, I tried to replace it by all the enjoyments arising from vanity; I have failed, and I have lost all that I possessed. You, too, are interested in the Bourse; take my advice, madame, and do not speculate."

Again Fanny paused, to heave a tremendous sigh, then read on:

"But, madame, do not fear that I leave you burdened with debts; I have met all my obligations; I have paid everything, and my name will remain without blemish, at all events. You can bear it without a blush."

The young woman made a slight movement of the shoulders, which seemed to indicate that she was not overjoyed because her husband had paid all his debts; she even muttered between her teeth:

"That's a valuable thing for him to leave me—his name! and nothing with it! Ah! there's something more written here."

"I have not touched your dot; you will find it intact in the notary's hands. With what you obtain from the sale of our furniture, which is very handsome, and our horses and carriages, you will have enough to live in a modest way. Adieu, Fanny; be happy! I cannot be happy again in this world, and that is why I leave it; adieu!"

The last paragraph seemed to have soothed Fanny's despair in some measure; however, she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and held it so for some time. Cherami, who had watched her closely while she read her husband's letter, said to himself at that proceeding:

"Oh! it's of no use for you to put your handkerchief to your eyes; I'll bet that you're not crying; and yet—a young husband—to lose him like that, and after hardly six months of married life! There are some women who would have fainted; but she's a strong one!"

Thereupon he rose and took up his hat, saying:

"Madame, I have carried out the melancholy commission which your husband intrusted to me. As I imagine that my presence is no longer necessary, I will retire."