istical, foolish," cried Croustillac,
filled with pity for this victim of calumny. "Men are cowards and fools
who believe all the gossip which is told them."

"What you say is very true. You are not so, my friend?"

"She calls me her friend," cried Croustillac, in a transport; and he
answered, "No, certainly not, and I am not so."

"Doubtless," said the widow, "you are very different; you spoil me by
accepting my proposition so quickly."

"Say, rather, that I am beyond bounds overjoyed at it, madame."

"You spoil me," continued the widow, with an enchanting smile, and
throwing a tender glance at the chevalier. "I assure you you spoil me;
you are so easy, so accommodating. Ah! how shall I replace you?"

"Replace me?"

"Yes, after you, friend."

"After me?"

"Yes, certainly, after you."

"Madame, I do not understand you. I do not wish to understand."

"It is very simple; how can I hope to find another like you, who will
marry me so willingly? Ah, no, such men are rare!"

"How, madame, after me?" cried Croustillac, overcome by this idea. "You
dream, then, of a successor to me?"

"Yes, friend," replied the widow, with the most touchingly sentimental
air imaginable; "yes, for when you are no more I must renew my quest,
seek, ask, and find a fifth husband. Think, then, of the difficulties
and obstacles to overcome. Perhaps I shall not succeed. Think, then, a
widow for the fourth time. You forget that; it is a fact, however; my
friend, after you, I shall be a widow for the fourth time."

"I do not forget it at all, madame," said Croustillac, whose ardor
became somewhat chilled, and began to ask himself if this affair was not
madness. "I shall not forget, certainly, in case I have the honor of
marrying you, that you will be for the fourth time a widow if you lose
me; but it appears you place a rather short period to my love."

"Alas! yes, my friend," said the widow, in a tender voice, "one year,
and a year is very short. A year! it passes so quickly when one loves,"
continued she, casting the glance of a perfect assassin at him.

"A year, madame," cried the chevalier. But then, believing that the
words of Blue Beard hid perhaps a test, that she wished possibly to
judge of his courage, he added in a chivalrous tone, "Ah, well, so be
it, madame; whether my happiness last but a year, a day, an hour, a
minute--it matters not; I will brave all, if only I can say that I have
been fortunate enough to obtain your han