CHAPTER VIII

With the reader's permission, we must now jump over an interval of rather
more than a year, and bring upon the stage a person who, though only of
secondary importance, can no longer be left behind the scenes.

We have already said that the loves of Quennebert and Madame Rapally were
regarded with a jealous eye by a distant cousin of the lady's late
husband. The love of this rejected suitor, whose name was Trumeau, was
no more sincere than the notary's, nor were his motives more honourable.
Although his personal appearance was not such as to lead him to expect
that his path would be strewn with conquests, he considered that his
charms at least equalled those of his defunct relative; and it may be
said that in thus estimating them he did not lay himself--open to the
charge of overweening vanity. But however persistently he preened him
self before the widow, she vouchsafed him not one glance. Her heart was
filled with the love of his rival, and it is no easy thing to tear a
rooted passion out of a widow's heart when that widow's age is forty-six,
and she is silly enough to believe that the admiration she feels is
equalled by the admiration she inspires, as the unfortunate Trumeau found
to his cost. All his carefully prepared declarations of love, all his
skilful insinuations against Quennebert, brought him nothing but scornful
rebuffs. But Trumeau was nothing if not persevering, and he could not
habituate himself to the idea of seeing the widow's fortune pass into
other hands than his own, so that every baffled move only increased his
determination to spoil his competitor's game. He was always on the watch
for a chance to carry tales to the widow, and so absorbed did he become
in this fruitless pursuit, that he grew yellower and more dried up from