nited tomorrow. And for the
future I must beg of you to regard Quennebert no longer as a rival but as
my husband, whom to offend will be to offend me."

The tone in which these words were spoken no longer left room for doubt
as to the truth of the news. Trumeau looked down for a few moments, as
if reflecting deeply before definitely making up his mind. He twisted
the little roll of papers between his fingers, and seemed to be in doubt
whether to open it and give it to Madame Rapally to read or not. In the
end, however, he put it in his pocket, rose, and approaching his cousin,
said--

"I beg your pardon, this news completely changes my opinion. From the
moment Maitre Quennebert becomes your husband I shall not have a word to
say against him. My suspicions were unjust, I confess it frankly, and I
hope that in consideration of the motives which prompted me you will
forget the warmth of my attacks. I shall make no protestations, but
shall let the future show how sincere is my devotion to your interests."

Madame Rapally was too happy, too certain of being loved, not to pardon
easily. With the self-complacency and factitious generosity of a woman
who feels herself the object of two violent passions, she was so good as
to feel pity for the lover who was left out in the cold, and offered him
her hand. Trumeau kissed it with every outward mark of respect, while
his lips curled unseen in a smite of mockery. The cousins parted,
apparently the best of friends, and on the understanding that Trumeau
would be present at the nuptial benediction, which was to be given in a
church beyond the town hall, near the house in which the newly-married
couple were to live; the house on the Pont Saint-Michel having lately
been sold to great advantage.

"On my word," said Trumeau, as he went off, "it would have been a great
mistake to have spoken. I have got that wretch of a Quennebert into my
clutches at last; and there is nobody but himself to blame. He is taking
the plunge of his own free will, there is no need for me to shove him off
the precipice."

The ceremony took place next day. Quennebert conducted his interesting
bride to the altar, she hung with ornaments like the shrine of a saint,
and, beaming all over with smiles, looked so ridiculous that the handsome
bridegroom reddened to the roots of his hair with shame. Just as they
entered the church, a coffin, on which lay a sword, and which was
followed by a single mourner,