After she had delivered to her father her written statement of what occurred on the highroad on the night of the revolt, the heiress assumed an attitude of seeming indifference, and when any of her friends chanced to speak of the rising, she alluded to the plebian conspirators in tones of proud disdain. In her heart, however, she blessed this timely outbreak, which had removed her rival from her path. “For now,” thought she, “the marquis will return to me, and I will make him forget the bold creature who bewitched him!” In this she was somewhat mistaken. True, Martial returned and paid his court, but he no longer loved her. He had detected the calculating ambition she had sought to hide under a mask of seeming simplicity. He had realised how vain and selfish she was, and his former admiration was now well nigh transformed into repugnance; for he could but contrast her character with the noble nature of Marie-Anne, now lost to him for ever. It was mainly the knowledge that Lacheneur’s daughter could never be his which prompted him to a seeming reconciliation with Blanche. He said to himself that the duke, his father, and the Marquis de Courtornieu had exchanged a solemn pledge, that he, too, had given his word, and that after all Blanche was his promised wife. Was it worth while to break off the engagement? Would he not be compelled to marry some day or another? His rank and name required him to do so, and such being the case what did it matter who he married, since the only woman he had ever truly loved--the only woman he ever could love--was never to be his? To a man of Martial’s education it was no very difficult task to pay proper court to the jealous Blanche, to surround her with every attention, and to affect a love he did not really feel; and, indeed, so perfectly did he play his part, that Mademoiselle de Courtornieu might well flatter herself with the thought that she reigned supreme in his affections.