antages she was so anxious to bestow. The goal, he
knew, was within his reach, but the problem he had to solve was how to
linger on the way thither, how to defer the triumphal moment, how to keep
hope alive in the fair one's breast and yet delay its fruition. His
affairs were in a bad way. Day by day full possession of the fortune
thus dangled before his eyes, and fragments of which came to him
occasionally by way of loan, was becoming more and more indispensable,
and tantalising though it was, yet he dared not put out his hand to seize
it. His creditors dunned him relentlessly: one final reprieve had been
granted him, but that at an end, if he could not meet their demands, it
was all up with his career and reputation.

One morning in the beginning of February 1660, Trumeau called to see his
cousin. He had not been there for nearly a month, and Quennebert and the
widow had begun to think that, hopeless of success, he had retired from
the contest. But, far from that, his hatred had grown more intense than
ever, and having come upon the traces of an event in the past life of his
rival which if proved would be the ruin of that rival's hopes, he set
himself to gather evidence. He now made his appearance with beaming
looks, which expressed a joy too great for words. He held in one hand a
small scroll tied with a ribbon. He found the widow alone, sitting in a
large easy-chair before the fire. She was reading for the twentieth time
a letter which Quenriebert had written her the evening before. To judge
by the happy and contented expression of the widow's face, it must have
been couched in glowing terms. Trumeau guessed at once from whom the
missive came, but the sight of it, instead of irritating him, called
forth a smile.

"Ah! so it's you, cousin?" said the widow, folding the precious paper
and slipping it into the bosom of her dress. "How do you do? It's a long
time since I saw you, more than a fortnight, I think. Have you been ill?"

"So you remarked my absence! That is very flattering, my dear cousin;
you do not often spoil me by such attentions. No, I have not been ill,
thank God, but I thought it better not to intrude upon you so often. A
friendly call now and then such as to-day's is what you like, is it not?
By the way, tell me about your handsome suitor, Maitre Quennebert; how is
he getting along?"

"You look very knowing, Trumeau: have you heard of anything happening to
him?"

"No, and I should