Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid, bringing a large bouquet of roses which Martial had just sent. She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a vase, bedewed them with the first sincere tears she had shed since she was a child. She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea felt alarmed. But Blanche had prepared an excuse, which she presented in such sweet tones that the old lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle. M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished, and wondered what new freak it was that his daughter’s doleful face betokened. He was still more alarmed when immediately after breakfast, Blanche asked to speak with him. She followed him into his study, and as soon as they were alone, before he had even had time to sit down she entreated him to tell her what had passed between the Duke de Sairmeuse and himself; she wished to know if Martial had been informed of the intended alliance, and what he had replied. Her voice was meek, her eyes tearful; and her manner indicated the most intense anxiety. The marquis was delighted. “My wilful daughter has been playing with fire,” he thought, stroking his chin caressingly; “and upon my word she has scorched herself.” Then with a smile on his face he added aloud. “Yesterday, my child, the Duke de Sairmeuse formally asked for your hand on his son’s behalf; and your consent is all that is lacking. So rest easy, my beautiful lovelorn damsel--you will be a duchess.” She hid her face in her hands to conceal her blushes. “You know my decision, father,” she faltered in an almost inaudible voice; “we must make haste.” He started back thinking he had not heard her words aright. “Make haste!” he repeated. “Yes, father. I have fears.” “What fears, in heaven’s name?” “I will tell you when everything is settled,” she replied, at the same time making her escape from the room. She did not doubt the reports which had reached her concerning Martial’s frequent visits to Marie-Anne, still she wished to ascertain the truth for herself. Accordingly, on leaving her father, she told Aunt Medea to dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single word of explanation, took her with her to the Reche and stationed herself in the pine grove so as to command a view of M. Lacheneur’s cottage. It chanced to be the very day when M. d’Escorval called on Marie-Anne’s father, in hopes of obtaining some definite explanation of his conduct. Blanche saw the baron climb the slope, and shortly afterwards Martial followed the same route. She had been rightly informed; there was no room for further doubt, and her first impulse was to return home. But on reflection she resolved to wait and ascertain how long the Marquis remained with this girl she hated. M. d’Escorval’s visit was a brief one, and scarcely had he left the cottage than she saw Martial hasten out after him, and speak to him. She breathed again.