the drawing-room for him—but it was empty.
“Very well,” said he; “I know my way to the garden.”
But he explored it in vain; no one was to be found.
He decided to return to the house and march bravely into the presence of the dreaded enemy. He had turned to retrace his steps when, through the foliage of a bower of jasmine, he thought he could distinguish a white dress.
He advanced softly, and his heart quickened its throbbing when he saw that he was right.
Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu was seated on a bench beside an old lady, and was engaged in reading a letter in a low voice.
She must have been greatly preoccupied, since she had not heard Martial’s footsteps approaching.
He was only ten paces from her, so near that he could distinguish the shadow of her long eyelashes. He paused, holding his breath, in a delicious ecstasy.
“Ah! how beautiful she is!” he thought. Beautiful? no. But pretty, yes; as pretty as heart could desire, with her great velvety blue eyes and her pouting lips. She was a blonde, but one of those dazzling and radiant blondes found only in the countries of the sun; and from her hair, drawn high upon the top of her head, escaped a profusion of ravishing, glittering ringlets, which seemed almost to sparkle in the play of the light breeze.
One might, perhaps, have wished her a trifle larger. But she had the winning charm of all delicate and mignonnes women; and her figure was of exquisite roundness, and her dimpled hands were those of an infant.
Alas! these attractive exteriors are often deceitful, as much and even more so, than the appearances of a man like the Marquis de Courtornieu.
The apparently innocent and artless young girl possessed the parched, hollow soul of an experienced woman of the world, or of an old courtier. She had been so petted at the convent, in the capacity of only daughter of a grand seigneur and millionnaire; she had been surrounded by so much adulation, that all her good qualities had been blighted in the bud by the poisonous breath of flattery.
She was only nineteen; and still it was impossible for any person to have been more susceptible to the charms of wealth and of satisfied ambition. She dreamed of a position at court as a school-girl dreams of a lover.
If she had deigned to notice Martial—for she had remarked him—it was only because her father had told her that this young man would lift his wife to the highest sphere of power. Thereupon she had uttered a “very well, we will see!” that would have changed an enamoured suitor’s love into disgust.
Martial advanced a few steps, and Mlle. Blanche, on seeing him, sprang up with a pretty affectation of intense timidity.
Bowing low before her, he said, gently, and with profound deference:
“Monsieur de Courtornieu, Mademoiselle, was so kind as to tell me where I might have the honor of finding you. I had not courage to brave those formidable discussions inside; but——”
He pointed to the letter the young girl held in her hand, and added:
“But I fear that I am de trop.”
“Oh! not in the least, Monsieur le Marquis, although this letter which I have just been reading has, I confess, interested me deeply. It was written by a poor child in whom I have taken a great interest—whom I have sent for sometimes when I was lonely—Marie-Anne Lacheneur.”
Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of drawing-rooms, the young marquis had taught his face not to betray his feelings.
He could have laughed gayly with anguish at his heart; he could have preserved the sternest gravity when inwardly convulsed with merriment.
And yet, this name of Marie-Anne upon the lips of Mlle. de Courtornieu, caused his glance to waver.
“They know each other!” he thought.
In an instant he was himself again; but Mlle. Blanche had perceived his momentary agitation.
“What can it mean?” she wondered, much disturbed.
Still, it was with the perfect assumption of innocence that she continued:
“In fact, you must have seen her, this poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, since her father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?”
“Yes, I have seen her, Mademoiselle,” replied Martial, quietly.
“Is she not remarkably beautiful? Her beauty is of an unusual type, it quite takes one by surprise.”
A fool would have protested. The marquis was not guilty of this folly.
“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he.
This apparent frankness disconcerted Mlle. Blanche a trifle; and it was with an air of hypocritical compassion that she murmured:
“Poor girl! What will become of her? Here is her father, reduced to delving in the ground.”
“Oh! you exaggerate, Mademoiselle; my father will always preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.”
“Of course—I might have known that—but where will he find a husband for Marie-Anne?”
“One has been found already. I understand that she is to marry a youth in the neighborhood, who has some property—a certain Chanlouineau.”
The artless school-girl was more cunning than the marquis. She had satisfied herself that she had just grounds for her suspicions; and she experienced a certain anger on finding him so well informed in regard to everything that concerned Mlle. Lacheneur.
“And do you believe that this is the husband of whom she had dreamed? Ah, well! God grant that she may be happy; for we were very fond of her, very—were we not, Aunt Medea?”
Aunt Medea was the old lady seated beside Mlle. Blanche.
“Yes, very,” she replied.
This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor relation whom M. de Courtornieu had sheltered, and who was forced to pay dearly for her bread; since Mlle. Blanche compelled her to play the part of echo.
“It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which were so dear to me, broken,” resumed Mlle. de Courtornieu. “But listen to what Marie-Anne has written.”
She drew from her belt where she had placed it, Mlle. Lacheneur’s letter and read:
“‘My dear blanche—You know that the Duc de Sairmeuse has returned. The news fell upon us like a thunder-bolt. My father and I had become too much accustomed to regard as our own the deposit which had been intrusted to our fidelity; we have been punished for it. At least, we have done our duty, and now all is ended. She whom you have called your friend, will be, hereafter, only a poor peasant girl, as her mother was before her.’”
The most subtle observer would have supposed that Mlle. Blanche was experiencing the keenest emotion. One would have sworn that it was only by intense effort that she succeeded in restraining her tears—that
