"Foedora, explain yourself," said her aunt impatiently. "I am quite willing to do so, but I shall surprise you greatly I know," she said, with a confident air; then turning to the duke, she added archly: "It seems to me--" "It seems to you," repeated he, encouragingly. "That--" "Go on." "That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem," she concluded, very low. "Madame!" cried the amazed duke, turning crimson. "Madame!" "What is it, my dear duke?" inquired the princess. "How flushed your face is!" "My dear countess," rejoined the duke, with a forced smile, "the jest is rather--" "Pray, give me your arm," interrupted Foedora carelessly, "we are already very late. But then, it is all your own fault; how is it that you, the personification of exactitude, did not proclaim the hour of eleven long ago?" "Ah! madame, I assure you I am not in a laughing humor. Your cruel jest wounded me to the heart." "I was not aware that you possessed such a vulnerable heart." "Your suspicion is unjust; I would die for you!" "Really?" The duke raised his eyes to heaven and heaved a long sigh. "If I were to ask anything of you," she retorted, "it would not be so heroic a sacrifice, I assure you." The carriage was now announced, and the party left the mansion. Almost at the same instant the old mulatto was also turning away from the place, dazzled and amazed at what he had heard and seen, and still dreaming of the blessings showered on the name of Saint-Ramon by the guests of this peculiar fête. "Half-past eleven," murmured the old man, as the hour struck from a distant steeple. "I shall be there at midnight--and what shall I learn? Ah! what anguish is mine!" And with a deep sigh he slowly began the ascent of the declivity, stretching along the Seine, to the Rue Chaillot. CHAPTER XX. The old mulatto wended his way slowly toward the heights of Chaillot, until he reached the church of that poor, populous _faubourg_. To his astonishment, he found the church in a blaze of lights. Through the wide open door could be seen the sanctuary and altar, brilliantly illuminated with tapers and decorated with flowers, as though in anticipation of some imposing ceremony, while grouped in the street and surrounding windows, a throng of curiosity seekers and belated wayfarers excitedly discussed the approaching event. "They cannot delay much longer," observed one. "No, for it is nearly midnight," rejoined another. "Rather a strange hour for a marriage." "Undoubtedly; but with such a dowry one can afford peculiar things." "Who is to be married at this odd hour?" questioned the old man from the last speaker. "You must be a stranger in this part of the city," replied the man addressed, "or you would know all about the _six marriages_, which for four years have taken place on the night of May 11 and 12." "May 11 and 12," repeated the old man, with a start. "But why do you call it the _six marriages_?"