ed.

The bride, enveloped in her veil, prostrated before the altar, seemed to
be praying fervently; the husband, as if he were not the most
contemptible of men, stood erect and proud, his face beaming with joy.
The ceremony drew to a close, Irene raised her head, but I was so placed
as not to be able to distinguish her features.

I leaned against a column in order to whisper in Irene's ear, as she
passed, a word as cutting as the crystal poniards of the bravos of
Venice, which break in the wound and slay without a drop of blood. Irene
advanced buoyantly along, leaning on Raymond's arm, with an undulating,
rhythmical grace, as if her feet trod the yielding clouds, instead of
the cold stones of the aisle. She no longer walked the earth, her
happiness lifted her up; the ardor of her delight made me comprehend
those assumptions of the Saints, who soared in their ecstasy above the
floors of their narrow cells and caverns; she felt the deep delight of a
woman who sacrifices herself.

When she reached the column that concealed me, an electrical current
doubtless warned her of my presence, for she shuddered as if struck by
an unseen arrow, and quickly turned her head; a stray sunbeam lit up her
face, and I recognised in Irene de Chateaudun, Louise Guerin; in the
rich heiress, the screen-painter of Pont de l'Arche!

Irene and Louise were the same person!

We have been treated as Cassandras of comedy; we have played in all
seriousness the scene between Horace and Arnolphe. We have confided to
each other our individual loves, hopes and sorrows. It is very amusing;
but, contrary to custom, the tragedy will come after the farce, and we
will play it so well that no one will be tempted to laugh at our
expense; we will convert ridicule into terror. Ah! Mademoiselle Irene de
Chateaudun, you imagined that you could amuse yourself with two such men
as the Prince de Moubert and Edgar de Meilhan! that there it would end,
and you had only to say to them: "I love another better!" And you,
Master Raymond, thought that your virtuous reputation would make your
perfidy appear like an act of devotion! No, no, in the drama where the
great lady was an adventuress, the artless girl a fast woman, the hero
a traitor, the lover a fool, and the betrothed husband a Geronte, the
roles are to be changed.

A hoarse cry escaped me, Irene clung convulsively to Raymond's arm, and
precipitately left the church. Raymond, without understanding this
sudden f