"'I ask your pardon for the trouble I cause you, but I have formed this judgment of you: that you are a man and will keep the promise you made me. Receive my last adieu.
For a few moments after reading this letter, Cherami was speechless with dismay. He even put his hand to his eyes to wipe away a tear; then muttered:
"What! that handsome young dandy who sat there just now! But, sacrebleu! perhaps it's not too late yet!"
Springing to his feet, he seized his hat and cane, put the letters in his pocket, and left the room. Below, he inquired which direction his late companion had taken; they told him, and he hastened away toward the loneliest part of the Bois. But he soon saw a crowd of people, and, marching toward them, some gendarmes who had been sent for, and who plunged at once into the underbrush.
"What has happened?" he inquired of a peasant woman who passed him; "what are those gendarmes here for?"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, because someone has killed himself in the woods--a young man--very well dressed, too, I give you my word. I can't understand why people who are rich enough to dress like that should do such things! That little boy there found him."
"Oh! yes, monsieur.--And his nice new overcoat!"
"In that case," said Cherami to himself, "I have only to execute the commission he intrusted to me."
As he returned to Paris, Cherami's reflections took this turn:
"Well, here's something that changes the state of affairs very materially. That young Fanny's a widow--she's free--her husband is dead. I trust that Gustave won't say now that it was I who killed him! At all events, I have the letter he wrote me, and I will keep it carefully; otherwise, people would be quite capable of believing that I shot him in a duel; but, after all, that young woman, whom Gustave still adores--and who is the cause of his going away from Paris because he's afraid of meeting her--that Fanny for whom he has a passion such as we seldom see nowadays; I might say, such as we never see!--However, since she is a widow now, and since she greeted Gustave so kindly the last time he met her--for I remember that he told me she even urged him to call--now, then, or _ergo_, as we used to say at school, since that young woman did not look upon Gustave with an unfavorable eye when she was married, it seems to me that she should look upon him even more favorably now that she's a widow. She gave poor Monléard the preference, because he offered her everything that attracts a woman. To-day, when she is ruined, it seems to me that she would be very glad to fall in with my young friend, who gives me the impression of occupying a very satisfactory position in life. I really believe that the thing can be arranged--not instantly, because we must give the little woman time to weep over her husband; but I foresee that hereafter Gustave's love and constancy will be rewarded. Ah! I like to think of that; for then Gustave will cease to travel, he will stay in Paris; and a man is very glad to have such friends as he is, always at hand. What a pity that he isn't here now! I would have lost no time in telling him the great news. Oh! but I will find out where he is, I will find him. Meanwhile, I must think about performing my mission to the young wife, with all proper precautions. It isn't precisely an agreeable errand; but if one did only agreeable things, it would become monotonous."
