Monsieur Rapally, who was also paying court to her, and that with a
warmth much greater than had hitherto been displayed by himself. This
fact, in view of the state of the notary's affairs, forced him at last to
display more energy. To make up lost ground and to outdistance his rival
once more, he now began to dazzle the widow with fine phrases and delight
her with compliments; but to tell the truth all this trouble was
superfluous; he was beloved, and with one fond look he might have won
pardon for far greater neglect.

An hour before the treasurer's arrival there had been a knock at the door
of the old house, and Maitre Quennebert, curled, pomaded, and prepared
for conquest, had presented himself at the widow's. She received him
with a more languishing air than usual, and shot such arrows at him froth
her eyes that to escape a fatal wound he pretended to give way by degrees
to deep sadness. The widow, becoming alarmed, asked with tenderness--

"What ails you this evening?"

He rose, feeling he had nothing to fear from his rival, and, being master
of the field, might henceforth advance or recede as seemed best for his
interests.

"What ails me?" he repeated, with a deep sigh. "I might deceive you,
might give you a misleading answer, but to you I cannot lie. I am in
great trouble, and how to get out of it I don't know."

"But tell me what it is," said the widow, standing up in her turn.

Maitre Quennebert took three long strides, which brought him to the far
end of the room, and asked--