It was Raoul's brilliant telegram from Dijon:
"Dear father, I shall not go. Most extraordinary meeting. Your Number Three—yes, your Number Three—in the train with her mother, and I wouldn't see her. Ah! if I had known. Strike while the iron's hot; I'm striking it, strike it too. M. D. must be at the club, speak to him at once; tell him that I left to avoid marrying an ugly woman; that I only wish to make a love-match; that I am head-over-heels in love with his daughter. We shall all be to-night at Marseilles, Hôtel de Noailles. Get M. D. to back me up by telegraph to Mme. D. I will talk with you to-morrow over the telephone. I am writing my telegram in the dining-car. At this moment she is nibbling nuts—charming, she is charming! She fell into my arms on the platform. Till to-morrow at the telephone, nine o'clock."
M. Chamblard's agitation did not escape M. Derame.
"Is it a serious matter?" he asked.
"Yes."
"We can stop if you wish."
"Yes; but first of all, did Mme. and Mlle. Derame leave here this morning on the express for Marseilles?"
"Yes, at 9.55. Why do you ask that? Has there been any accident?"
"No, no accident; it can't be called that; on the contrary. Come, come into the little parlor."
He told him everything, showed him the despatch, gave him certain necessary explanations about the words, such as Number Three. And there they were, choking, delighted—both the father of the young man and the father of the young girl. What luck, what a providential meeting!