I was supremely happy and slept the sleep of the just.  I was up betimes and started on my round of business at eight o’clock the next morning.  I was a little troubled about money, because when I had paid for the licence and given to the cure the required fee for the religious service and ceremony, I had only five francs left out of the hundred which the adored one had given me.  However, I booked the seats on the stage-coach and determined to trust to luck.  Once Estelle was my wife, all money care would be at an end, since no power on earth could stand between me and the hundred thousand francs, the happy goal for which I had so ably striven.

The marriage ceremony was fixed for eleven o’clock, and it was just upon ten when, at last, with a light heart and springy step, I ran up the dingy staircase which led to the adored one’s apartments.  I knocked at the door.  It was opened by a young man, who with a smile courteously bade me enter.  I felt a little bewildered—­and slightly annoyed.  My Estelle should not receive visits from young men at this hour.  I pushed past the intruder in the passage and walked boldly into the room beyond.

Estelle was sitting upon the sofa, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling, a dimple in each cheek.  I approached her with outstretched arms, but she paid no heed to me, and turned to the young man, who had followed me into the room.

“Adrien,” she said, “this is kind M. Ratichon, who at risk of his life obtained for us all my papers of identification and also the valuable name and address of the English lawyers.”

“Monsieur,” added the young man as he extended his hand to me, “Estelle and I will remain eternally your debtors.”

I struck at the hand which he had so impudently held out to me and turned to Estelle with my usual dignified calm, but with wrath expressed in every line of my face.

“Estelle,” I said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Oh,” she retorted with one of her provoking smiles, “you must not call me Estelle, you know, or Adrien will smack your face.  We are indeed grateful to you, my good M. Ratichon,” she continued more seriously, “and though I only promised you another hundred francs when your work for me was completed, my husband and I have decided to give you a thousand francs in view of the risks which you ran on our behalf.”

“Your husband!” I stammered.

“I was married to M. Adrien Cazales a month ago,” she said, “but we had perforce to keep our marriage a secret, because Mr. Farewell once vowed to me that unless I became his wife he would destroy all my papers of identification, and then—­even if I ever succeeded in discovering who were the English lawyers who had charge of my father’s money—­I could never prove it to them that I and no one else was entitled to it.  But for you, dear M. Ratichon,” added the cruel and shameless one, “I should indeed never have succeeded.”

In the midst of this overwhelming cataclysm I am proud to say that I retained mastery over my rage and contrived to say with perfect calm: