"I don't know."

"It's because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman is a skater of the first rank. She had a tremendous success on the ice at the Bois de Boulogne. In the society columns of all the papers there was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal Mme. Robineau. She was in the swim at one stroke. And Robineau, he too was in the swim. He was a member of the little club six weeks later! Papa, he doesn't understand the importance of these things; one can't reason with him about it; it's all Greek to him. However, as he had absolutely cut off my supplies, I had to submit, and consent to an interview with Number Two."

"And what was Number Two like?"

"Ah, my dear fellow, what was she like! She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Antwerp. A Belgian article! First a provincial, and then a foreigner! Papa doesn't like Parisians. Mamma was from Chatellerault, and she was indeed a saint. Number Two happened to be in Paris; so last night, at the Opera Comique, they showed me a Fleming, who was very blond, very insipid, very masculine—a Rubens, a true Rubens; a giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than I, which is to say that materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are the only boxes I like. On leaving the theatre I told papa that I wouldn't have Number Two any more than Number One, and that I had had enough, and that I wouldn't see Number Three. The discussion was heated. Papa went off banging doors and repeating, 'No more money!' I saw that it was serious. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep—I thought; but I could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the Antwerp girl. Suddenly, towards three in the morning, I had an inspiration—I had an idea that I can call, if you'll permit it, a stroke of genius."

"I'll permit it."

"Yes, genius. I knew that you left to-day for Marseilles, and this morning I departed, English fashion, without explanation, and in a little while, at the first stop, at Laroche—I have looked at the time-table, I have thought of everything—I shall send the following despatch to my father," and Raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his pocket. "It's all ready. Listen. 'M. Chamblard, 8 Rue Rougemont, Paris, Laroche station. I left on the express for Marseilles with Maurice. I am going to make a voyage around the world. I sha'n't be more than six months. I have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the Traonaddy which leaves to-morrow for Singapore. Anything rather than a Flemish alliance! Farewell. With regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son, Raoul Chamblard.' My telegram's all right, isn't it?"

"It isn't bad, but do you seriously mean—"

"Yes, I shall go if, before I reach Marseilles, I haven't an answer from papa; but I shall have one, for two reasons. In the first place, Papa Chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'What shall I gain by it? Instead of fooling round with little white women in Paris, he will fool round with little yellow ones at Singapore.' And then another reason, the best one, is that Papa Chamblard adores me, and he can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my despatch will appeal to his heart. You'll see how it will turn out. At 11.20 my telegram will leave Laroche; papa will receive it at half-past twelve. And I'll bet you ten louis that at Dijon or Macon I'll find in the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded thus: 'Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.' Papa's telegram will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words. Will you take the bet?"

"No, I should lose."

"I think so. Have you the papers?"

"Yes."

They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette Guilbert—particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain:

"Un fiacre allait trottinant Cahin-caha Hu dia! Hop la! Un fiacre allait trottinant Jaune avec un cocher blanc."

And as the light cavalryman had never heard Yvette Guilbert sing the "Fiacre," young Chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "You never heard the 'Fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! What did you do in Paris? I know the 'Fiacre' by heart."

Upon which Raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big baby that he was.

All at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train, and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "Ouah! Ouah! Ouah!" The cry is the same for all stations. This time it was meant for Laroche. And now for the telegram. Young Chamblard ran to the telegraph-office. The immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer despatch. "All aboard, all aboard!"

Young Chamblard had scarcely time to jump on the step of his car.

"Ouf! that's done," he said to the cavalryman. "Suppose we lunch."

So they both started on their way to the dining-car. It was quite a journey, for two parlor-cars separated them from the restaurant-car, and those two cars were crowded. It was the season for the great pilgrimage of a few Parisians and a good many English towards Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo. The express was running very fast, and was pitching violently. One needed sea-legs. Then a furious wind beat against the train, and wrapped it in clouds of dust, making the crossing of the platforms particularly disagreeable.

They advanced, walking with difficulty through the first car, over the first crossing, and encountering the first squall, then through the second car; but Chamblard, who went ahead, had difficulty in opening the door to the second platform. It resisted on account of the force of the wind; finally it yielded, and Raoul received at the same time in his eyes a cloud of dust, and in his arms a young blonde, who exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" while he, too, exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" and at the same time he received the cavalryman on his back, who, also blinded by the dust, was saying, "Go on, Raoul, go on."

The two doors of the cars had shut, and they were all three crowded in the little passage in the wind—young Raoul, young Maurice, and the young blonde.

The "Oh, excuse me" was immediately followed by a "M. Maurice!" which was replied to by a "Mlle. Martha!" The little blonde knew the cavalryman, and perceiving that she was almost in the arms of a stranger, Mlle. Martha disengaged herself, and backed cleverly towards the platform of the car, saying to Maurice, "You're on the train, and you're going?"

"To Algeria."

"We to Marseilles. I am getting a shawl for mamma, who is cold. Mamma will be delighted to see you. You will find her in the dining-car. I'll see you later."

"But I will accompany you?"

"If you like."

She walked on, but not without first having slightly bowed to young Chamblard, who had remained there astounded, contemplating Mlle. Martha with eyes filled with admiration.

She had time before going to notice that he was a good-looking young fellow, that he wore a neat little suit, and that he looked at her with staring eyes; but in those staring eyes a thought could be clearly read that could not displease her: "Oh, how pretty you are!"

Raoul was, in fact, saying to himself: "My type, exactly my type! And what style—what style in the simplicity of that costume! And the little toque, a little on one side over the ear—it's a masterpiece! How well she knows how to dress! What an effect she would make in an audience! And that little English accent!"

For she had a little English accent; she had even taken a good deal of trouble for several years to acquire that little accent. She used to say to her governess, Miss Butler:

"Yes, of course I want to know English, but I wish especially to speak French with an English accent." She had worked for nothing else. She had been, fortunately, rewarded for her perseverance; her little Anglo-Parisian gibberish was at times quite original.

While Maurice was retracing his steps with Mlle. Martha, Raoul placed himself at a table in the dining-car. He soon saw them come back with mamma's shawl. Maurice lingered for a few minutes at the table where the mother and the young brother of the little blonde were lunching. Then he came back to Raoul, who said as soon as he approached:

"Who is she—quick, tell me, who is she? Whenever one pleases I will marry her—now, on getting down from the train. In my arms! I held her in my arms! Such a waist! A dream! There are, as you must know, slim waists and slim waists. There are waists which are slim, hard, harsh, stiff, bony, or mechanically made by odious artifices in the corsets. I have thoroughly studied the corset question. It's so important! And then there's the true slim waist, which is easy, natural, supple. Supple isn't sufficient for what just slid through my hands a short time ago. Slippery—yes, that's the word. Slippery just expresses my thought—a slippery waist!"

Raoul was quite charmed with what he said.

"Yes," he continued, "slippery; and that little pug-nose! and her little eyes have quite a—a Chinese air! But who is she, who is she?"

"The daughter of one of my mother's friends."

"Is she rich?"

"Very rich."

"It's on account of papa that I asked you that, because I would marry her without a dowry. It's the first time I've ever said such a thing on meeting a young girl. And now the name."

"Mlle. Martha Derame."

"Derame, did you say?"

"Yes."

"Isn't the father a wealthy merchant who has business in Japan and China?"

"The same."

"Ah, my dear fellow—no; one only sees such things in the comic plays of the minor theatres, at Cluny or Dejazet."

"What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me? She's papa's Number Three—yes, Number Three. The father of that little marvel is one of papa's piquet players at the club. And I wouldn't see Number Three, and she falls into my arms on the platform between Paris and Lyons. You will present me after lunch, and I shall speak to the mother and tell her all."

"How, all?"

"Yes, all; that her daughter is papa's Number Three, and that I didn't want Number One or Two, but that I should like Number Three. Ah, dear boy, how pretty she is—especially her nose, so charmingly turned up. She has just looked at me, and in a certain way; I am sure I don't displease her. Did you mention me, did you tell my name?"

"No."

"You were wrong. At any rate, right after lunch—Do you know what I think? That this affair will go through on wheels. I shall first telegraph papa, and then to-morrow—Oh, heavens! I hope there's a telephone between Paris and Marseilles—"

He interrupted himself and called:

"Porter! Porter!"

"Sir."

"Is there a telephone between Paris and Marseilles?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah! That's all Thanks. The telephone, Maurice, there's the telephone! Papa can speak for me to-morrow by telephone. It will be charming! Marriage by express. Express, electric, telephonic, and romantic marriage, all at the same time. You understand that between a little phiz like that and a voyage around the world I don't hesitate. But why haven't you thought of marrying her?"

"Oh, too wealthy—too wealthy a match for me; and then she is not the kind of little person to go and bury in a garrison town in Algeria. She is a Parisian, a true Parisian, who wants to amuse herself, and who will amuse herself."

"Just what I want, absolutely just what I want. I too wish to amuse myself. She will amuse herself, I shall amuse myself, we will amuse ourselves."

Young Raoul was in a frenzy, and as soon as he had finished his luncheon he scrawled a new despatch on the restaurant table to his father, and, while writing, talked very excitedly.

"I'll send my despatch from Dijon, and I'll address it to the club; papa will be there about five o'clock, and also the father of this little marvel. They can immediately discuss the affair. Shall I ask for an answer at Lyons? The time-table, pass me the time-table. Lyons, 5.25. No, that would be too short. Answer at Marseilles. They stop at Marseilles? Yes? For twenty-four hours? All right, so do I. At what hotel? Hotel de Noailles? All right, so do I. So answer Hotel de Noailles. My despatch is very good. You will see. As good as the other—better, even. I've the knack of telegrams to-day. Yes, it's very good."

He wrote and wrote; he was inspired, he was animated; he made a few more mistakes than usual in spelling, that was all—it was emotion. He reread his despatch with complaisance, he made Maurice read it, who could not help thinking the incident funny. Raoul counted the words of his despatch—there were about a hundred and fifty—and calling the waiter of the dining-car, he said, "Send this telegram off for me at Dijon. Here are ten francs; there will be two or three over for you."

Then turning at once to Maurice he asked, "Is that enough?"

"Why certainly."

"Well, for such a marriage—ah, my dear fellow, you sail to-morrow at what time?"

"At two o'clock."

"Oh, we have plenty of time, then; all will be settled by two o'clock."

"Oh, settled; you're crazy!"

"Not at all; it's already very far advanced, since it's papa's Number Three. I only ask one thing of you: present me to the mother shortly. After that let me alone. I'll manage everything; only, at any cost, we must leave our car and find two arm-chairs in the same car, and near my mother-in-law."

"Your mother-in-law!"

"That's what I said; my mother-in-law. Once the two arm-chairs are procured, I am master of the situation. You don't know me. I already know what I shall say to the mother, what I shall say to my young brother-in-law (he is very nice), and what I shall say to my future bride. I shall have made a conquest of all of them before we reach Lyons. Lyons? No; that's going a little fast—say Valence or Montelimar. Pass me the time-table again. Let us settle everything, and leave nothing to chance. Oh, look at her! She has nibbled nuts for the last fifteen minutes, and how she cracks them—crack! one little bite—and what pretty little teeth! She is very pretty even while eating—an important thing. It's very rare to find women who remain pretty while eating and sleeping, very rare. Little Adelaide, the red-headed one, you remember, ate stupidly. And this one over there eats brightly; she eats—crack! another nut—and she looks at me on the sly. I can see that she looks at me. All goes well, all goes well!"

In truth, all did go well. At Montbard, 12.32, Raoul was presented to Mme. Derame, who, on hearing the name of Chamblard, had a little shiver—the shiver of a mother who has a young daughter to marry, and who says to herself, "Oh, what a splendid match!" Her husband had often spoken to her of young Chamblard.

"Ah," he used to say to her, "what a marriage for Martha! We speak of it sometimes before and after our piquet, Chamblard and I; but the young man is restive—doesn't yet wish to settle down. It would be such a good thing—he is richer than we. Chamblard is once, twice, three times richer! And Martha isn't easy to marry; she has already refused five or six desirable matches on all sorts of pretexts. They didn't please her: they were too old, they had no style, they didn't live in fashionable neighborhoods, she didn't wish to go into sugar, or cotton, or wine—or anything, in short. She would accept none other than a young husband, and not too serious. She must have a very rich man who did nothing and loved pleasure."

How well young Chamblard answered to that description! When there was question of doing nothing, Raoul showed real talent. As soon as one talked horses, dogs, carriages, hats, dresses, jewelry, races, fencing, skating, cooking, etc., he showed signs of the rarest and highest competence.

So, as there was general conversation, Raoul was very brilliant. In the neighborhood of Chalons-sur-Saone (3.10), while relating how he, Chamblard, had invented a marvellous little coupe, he did not say that: that coupe had been offered by him to Mlle. Juliette Lorphelin, of the ballet corps at the Folies-Bergere. This coupe was a marvel; besides, it was very well known; it was called the Chamblard coupe.

"Small," he said, "very small. A coupe ought always to be small." But what a lot of things in such a small space: a drawer for toilet necessaries, a secret box for money and jewelry, a clock, a thermometer, a barometer, a writing-shelf—and that was not all!

He became animated, and grew excited in speaking of his invention. Martha listened to him eagerly.

"When you pull up the four wooden shutters you naturally find yourself in the dark; but the four shutters are mirrors, and as soon as one has placed a finger on a little button hidden under the right-hand cushion, six little crystal balls, ingeniously scattered in the tufting of the blue satin of the coupe, become electric lights. The coupe is turned into a little lighted boudoir; and not only for five minutes—no, but for an hour, two hours, if one wishes it; there is a storage-battery under the seat. When I submitted this idea to my carriage-maker he was smitten with envy and admiration."

Martha, too, was smitten.

"What a charming man!" she said to herself. "Oh, to have such a coupe! But pearl-gray—I should want it pearl-gray."

Then they discussed jewelry, dresses, hats, stuffs. And Raoul proved on all those questions, if possible, more remarkable than ever. He had paid so many bills to great dress-makers, great milliners, and great jewellers! He had been present at so many conferences on the cut of such a dress or the arrangement of such a costume, at so many scenes of trying on and draping! And as he drew easily, he willingly threw his ideas on paper, as he said, neatly. He had even designed the costumes of a little piece—played in I do not know what little theatre—which was revolutionary, anarchistic, symbolistic, decadent, end of the century, end of the world.

He took his little note-book and began to outline with a light hand, in spite of the movement of the train, several of his creations. He had tact, and thought of everything. "It was," he said, "for charades played in society at my friend's, the baron so and so." He invented the baron, and gave him a resonant name.

Martha was delighted. Never had a man, since she had been allowed to chat a little with young men, seemed to her to have such an original and interesting conversation.

"Lately," said Raoul, "one of my cousins—she often applies to me—consulted me about a dress for a ball at Nice, during the carnival. This is what I advised her. See, I draw at the same time—look."

Oh, how she did look!

"I am going to try to make myself well understood. A foundation of smooth white satin, clinging, very clinging—blue, I adore blue."

That pained her; she disliked blue.

"Yes, very clinging; my cousin has a delightful figure, and can stand it."

He took Martha's figure in with a hasty glance, and the glance seemed to say, "You could, too." She understood and blushed, charmed with that delicate flattery. Raoul continued:

"Pale, very pale blue satin. Then on my foundation I threw an over-dress of pompadour lace of very soft tones: greens, pinks, mauves, cream, and azure. Very large sleeves with a double puff of blue velvet, wristlets of Venetian point. Am I clear?"

"Oh, very clear, very clear."

And in an excited voice she repeated:

"A double puff of blue velvet, with wristlets of Venetian point."

All of a sudden the brakes scraped, and the train came sharply to a stop. One heard the cry of "Macon! Macon!"

"Macon already!" said Martha.

That "already" rang delightfully in Raoul's ears. There was much in that already. Raoul profited by the five minutes' stop to complete and fix his little sketch, which was slightly jolted; and he did not notice that his young brother-in-law had been sent out with a despatch to the telegraph-office. The despatch had been secretly written by Mme. Derame, and had, too, been directed to the Old Club.

The train started—4.11. Raoul had not thought to get down to see if under the railing there was not a despatch addressed to him. There was one, which was to remain eternally at Macon. The telegram contained these words: "Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage."

The train ran on and on, and now there was question of another dress—a silk dress, light pink, with a large jabot of lace down the front. Raoul literally dazzled Martha by his inexhaustible fertility of wise expressions and technical terms.

* * * * *

While the express passed the Romaneche station (4.32) father Chamblard came into the Old Club, went into the card-room, and met father Derame. Piquet? With pleasure. So there they sat, face to face. There were there eight or ten card-tables—piquet, bezique, whist, etc. The works were in full blast. First game, and papa Derame is rubiconed; the second game was going to begin when a footman arrives with a despatch for M. Chamblard.

"Will you excuse me?"

"Certainly."

He reads, he becomes red; he rereads, and he gets scarlet.

It was Raoul's brilliant telegram from Dijon:

"Dear father, I shall not go. Most extraordinary meeting. Your Number Three—yes, your Number Three—in the train with her mother, and I wouldn't see her. Ah! if I had known. Strike while the iron's hot; I'm striking it, strike it too. M. D. must be at the club, speak to him at once; tell him that I left to avoid marrying an ugly woman; that I only wish to make a love-match; that I am head-over-heels in love with his daughter. We shall all be to-night at Marseilles, Hotel de Noailles. Get M. D. to back me up by telegraph to Mme. D. I will talk with you to-morrow over the telephone. I am writing my telegram in the dining-car. At this moment she is nibbling nuts—charming, she is charming! She fell into my arms on the platform. Till to-morrow at the telephone, nine o'clock."

M. Chamblard's agitation did not escape M. Derame.

"Is it a serious matter?" he asked.

"Yes."

"We can stop if you wish."

"Yes; but first of all, did Mme. and Mlle. Derame leave here this morning on the express for Marseilles?"

"Yes, at 9.55. Why do you ask that? Has there been any accident?"

"No, no accident; it can't be called that; on the contrary. Come, come into the little parlor."

He told him everything, showed him the despatch, gave him certain necessary explanations about the words, such as Number Three. And there they were, choking, delighted—both the father of the young man and the father of the young girl. What luck, what a providential meeting!

"But you told me that your son didn't wish to marry."

"He didn't wish to, but he has seen your daughter, and now he wishes to. Come, hurry up and send a telegram to Marseilles to Mme. Derame."

"But she will be thunderstruck when I present to her a son-in-law by telegraph."

Return of the footman. It was a despatch for M. Derame. He opens it.

"It's from my wife, from Macon, 2.15."

"Good," says M. Chamblard; "all goes well, very well."

"Very disturbed. Met in the train the son of M. C., of Rue Rougemont, your club friend. He was presented by Maurice. You often spoke to me of a possible alliance there. Evidently he thinks her charming. Just at present he is talking to her, and looks at her, looks at her. What shall I do? Shall I put a stop to it or allow it to continue? Large fortune, isn't there?"

M. Derame in his turn showed his despatch to M. Chamblard. They continued to talk, in high good-humor and in excellent accord, and went on with their game of piquet only after having sent the following two telegrams to the Hotel de Noailles:

First despatch to Mme. Derame: "If it pleases you, if it pleases her, yes. Enormous fortune."

Second despatch to Raoul: "Have spoken to D. He is telegraphing to Mme. D. He approves, so do I."

A footman carried the two despatches at the same time to the telegraph-office in the Place de la Bourse, and during the time that, running over the wires along the railroad, they passed the express towards half-past six in the neighborhood of Saint-Rambert, the Derames, Raoul, and Maurice, in the best possible spirits and in most perfect harmony, dined at the same table, and Martha looked at Raoul, and Raoul looked at Martha, and Mme. Derame said to herself: "Martha's falling in love; I know her, she is falling in love. She fell in love just so last year at a ball with a little youth who was very dandified, but without fortune. This time, luckily, yes—Edward told me so—there is plenty of money; so, naturally, if Martha is willing we are."

The train ran on, and on, and on; and Raoul talked, and talked, and talked. He even let slip practical thoughts, raised himself up to general ideas, and developed with force the theory that the first duty of a woman was to be, in all things, refined elegance. He explained, with endless detail, what the life of an absolutely correct fashionable woman was, what it was to be an absolutely fashionable woman. He triumphantly took his fashionable woman from Paris to Trouville, from Trouville to Lake Como, from Lake Como to Monte-Carlo. He drew the trunks of the fashionable woman, marvellous trunks, which were heaped up in the vestibules of first-class hotels. Besides, he had also invented a trunk.

Then, very tactfully, he put Martha through a little examination, which had nothing in common with the examinations of the Sorbonne or the Hotel de Ville.

"Did she skate?" That's what he wanted to know first! He was himself a very distinguished skater. He needed a sport-loving wife. He had but just pronounced the word skating when suddenly the young brother (how precious little brothers sometimes are) exclaimed: "Ah, it's sister who skates well! She makes figures-of-eight. And who swims well, too—like a fish!"

She skated, she swam, she was sport-loving. Raoul said to the young girl, with deep enthusiasm: "I congratulate you. A woman who can't swim isn't a woman."

And he added, with increasing energy:

"A woman who can't skate isn't a woman."

When he had a strong thought, he willingly used it again in a brief but striking form.

Martha's face beamed with joy. She was really a woman. Never had a sweeter word been said to her.

Night had come; it was necessary, therefore, to tear one's self away from that exquisite conversation, and return to the parlor-car. Young Derame was going to sleep; so they began to prepare for the trip through the train.

Here is the platform, the platform of the morning, the platform of the first meeting. She walks ahead of him, and in a whisper he says to her, "It's here that this morning—"

She turns round, and smiling repeats, "Yes, it's here that this morning—"

Always with that little English accent which never leaves her, even when she is most agitated.

It is here that this morning—That was all, and it said all. A delightful evening. No more rain, no more dust. Already there was the soft, balmy air of the South. The moon lit that idyl at full speed. Spring-time everywhere, in the sky and in the hearts.

"She loves me," he said to himself.

"He adores me," she said to herself.

How right they were to give themselves up thus, without a struggle, without resistance, to the inclination which carried them, quite naturally, towards each other. There had been between them, from the first word, so perfect, so complete a community of tastes, ideas, and sentiments. They were so well made, this little puppet and this little doll, to roll off, both together, gloriously in the "Chamblard coupe," so well matched to walk in the world, accomplishing mechanically, automatically, at the right hour, in the prescribed costume, everywhere where it was correct to take pleasure, all the functions of fashionable life, and all the rituals of worldly worship.

They arrive in the parlor-car. The shades are drawn over the lamps; travellers are stiff, drowsy, and asleep in the big red arm-chairs.

"Change places," Raoul whispers to Maurice; "sit beside her. I am going to sit by the mother; I must speak to her."

Maurice lent himself to this manoeuvre with perfect docility, Martha did not understand it. Why did he abandon her? Why was he talking to her mother, and so low, so low that she couldn't hear? What was he saying? What was he saying?

This is what he said between Montelimar, 8.35, and Pierrelatte, 8.55:

"Listen to me, madam, listen to me. I am an honest man; I wish, I ought, to let you know the situation, the entire situation. Let us first settle an important point. My father knows M. Derame."

"Yes, yes, I know."

"Another more important point. Let us mention the essential things first. My father is very rich."

"I know, I know that too."

"Good, then, very good. I continue. I left Paris this morning, and I have here in my pocket a ticket for cabin No. 27 on the Traonaddy, which leaves to-morrow at four o'clock from the Bay of Joliette for Suez, Aden, Colombo, and Singapore, and I shall go on board to-morrow at four o'clock if you don't let me hope to become your son-in-law."

"Sir!"

"Don't move, madam, don't move. Mlle. Martha is pretending to sleep, but she isn't sleeping; she is watching us, and I haven't said all yet. I am but just beginning. You are going to answer me—oh, I know it—that you don't know me, that Mlle. Martha doesn't know me. Allow me to tell you that Mlle. Martha and myself know each other better than three-fourths of engaged couples on the day of their marriage. You know how it is usually done. A rapid glance from afar in a theatre—one brings good lorgnettes, one examines. 'How do you like him?' 'Fairly, fairly.' Then, several days later, at a ball, in the midst of the figures of the quadrille, several gasping, breathless phrases are exchanged. Then a meeting in a picture-gallery. There, there is more intimacy, because it takes place in a small room. It happened to me with a young provincial. I had pegged away that morning at the Joanne guide, so as to be able to find something to say about the Raphaels and the Murillos. And at the end of several interviews of that sort it is over, one has made acquaintance, one suits the other, and the marriage is decided. Mlle. Martha and I are already old comrades. In the first place, to begin with, this morning at half-past eleven she fell into my arms."

"My daughter in your arms!"

"Don't jump, madam; Mlle. Martha will see you jump."

Martha had, in fact, closely followed the scene with half-shut eyes, and said to herself, "Good gracious! what is he telling mamma? She is obliged to hold on to the arms of her seat to keep herself from jumping up."

"Yes, madam, in my arms; by the greatest, by the most fortunate of accidents, we stumbled over each other on one of the platforms of the train. And since I have seen her, not in the false light of a theatre or a gallery, but in the full glare of sunlight. I have seen her at lunch, munching nuts with the prettiest teeth there are in the world; I have seen her, just now, in the moonlight; and I know that she skates, and I know that she swims, and I know she would like to have a pearl-gray coupe, and she ought to have it. And now I admire her in the semi-obscurity. Ravishing! isn't she ravishing?"

"Sir, never has a mother found herself—"

"In such a situation? I acknowledge it, madam, and for that very reason you must get out of the situation quickly; it's evident that it can't be prolonged."

"That's true—"

"Here is what I propose to you. You go to the Hotel de Noailles; I, too, naturally. You have all the morning to-morrow to talk to Mlle. Martha, and the telephone to talk through to M. Derame. You know who I am. You have seen me, too, in the daylight. I have talked—talked a great deal. You could, you and Mlle. Martha, find out what I am, what I think. Well, to-morrow—what time do you expect to breakfast to-morrow?"

"But I don't know. I assure you that I am choking, upset, overcome."

"Let us settle on an hour all the same; eleven o'clock—will you, at eleven?"

"If you wish."

"Well, to-morrow at eleven o'clock I shall be in the dining-room of the hotel. If you say 'Go' I shall go; if you say 'Stay' I shall stay. Don't answer me; take time to reflect; it's worth while. Till to-morrow, madam, till to-morrow at eleven."

* * * * *

In the morning very interesting communications passed between Paris and Marseilles.

When Mme. Derame entered the dining-room of the hotel at eleven o'clock, Raoul went straight to her, and the cavalryman, always adroit in his manoeuvres, had taken possession of Mlle. Martha. A short dialogue ensued between Raoul and Mme. Derame, who was much agitated.

"They tell me there are boats every fortnight between Indo-China and Marseilles—you could put off your departure—merely taking another boat—"

"Ah, thanks, madam, thanks!"

* * * * *

At two o'clock the Derames and young Chamblard accompanied Maurice to the boat for Africa. On the deck of the steamer Raoul said to his friend:

"It's understood that you are to be best man. On arriving, ask your colonel for leave at once. It will take place, I think, in six weeks."

Raoul was mistaken. It was decidedly an express marriage; five weeks were sufficient.

When they were mounting the steps of the Madeleine, Raoul said to Martha:

"Twelve o'clock."

"What are you thinking of?"

"Ah, you too."

"Twelve, the hour of the platform, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it."

They began to laugh, but quickly became serious, and made an irreproachable entry into church.

They were looked at eagerly, and on all sides the following remarks were exchanged:

"You know it's a love-match." "Yes, it appears it was a meeting on the train." "A lightning-stroke!" "What a charming affair!" "And so rare!" "Oh yes, so rare! A love-match! A true love-match!"



THE END