My reflections had led me thus far, when Mademoiselle d'Ermay returned from church. She came and took her accustomed place at my bedside. "Eugenie," said I, "I have much to tell you." "Do not talk, chevalier; you are still too weak for conversation." "No, Eugenie, I am better. My head is clear, and my delirium past; so listen. In the first place, my brother is dead." "Accept my condolences, and allow me to congratulate you on your accession to wealth and a higher title." "My dear friend," said I again, "my mother has written to me. She requires me to do two things; one is to go for a time to my estate in Dauphiné, and the other to get married. Surely, then, this is the auspicious moment to obtain the sanction of the Church to our union?" "You are right, marquis," she answered, quietly, "for the king and queen" (Louis XV. was dead), "and especially the Princess Elizabeth, his majesty's sister, are very strait in their notions, and might otherwise possibly look coldly upon you when you are presented." Within a week we were married. "She became your wife?" exclaimed I. "Yes, and I am still in mourning for her, and shall continue to wear it to the end of my life." There was no change in our domestic arrangements; all went on as usual, except that my friends and acquaintance, and my people, instead of calling Eugenie Mademoiselle, addressed her as Madame la Marquise. In the world my marriage was not blamed; on the contrary, it was approved. It was an event which every body seemed to have expected, and, taking place, as it did as soon as I became rich, was voted to be alike honorable to Mademoiselle d'Ermay and myself. I must tell you a trait which will enable you to judge how my wife--for so I must now call her--interested herself in the events of my former life. A few days after our marriage she said to me, "My dear marquis, I used formerly to go sometimes to the theatre of Audinet--did you?" "Yes, marquise, often." "There was at that time a young _danseuse_ on those boards who attracted my attention: she was called, I believe, Zephirine; do you remember her?" "I had forgotten her, marquise, and but for your recalling her to my mind I should never have thought of her again." "She was a giddy girl, I understand," continued she, "and from mere love of change left Paris and France some years ago with a wealthy Englishman, through whose indulgence and her own indolence she neglected her dancing--a talent soon lost without constant practice--and she has grown fat and lost her agility. The Englishman has become tired of her and turned her off, and she cannot get an engagement even in London; would you now be so kind as to make her some small allowance?"