In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change in the dependent relative’s tone and manner had, it is true, been a gradual one; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and now it showed itself continually. For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over chaperone no longer trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had been her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of independence in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been used to remain modestly in the background, but now she drew her chair forward, and unhesitatingly took part in the conversation. At table, she gave free expression to her preferences and dislikes; and on two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders. One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home. And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intentions of going; and as it rained she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done. All these little incidents could have been nothing separately, but taken together they plainly showed that the once humble chaperone’s character had changed. When her niece announced that she and Martial were about to leave the neighbourhood, Aunt Medea was greatly surprised, for the project had never been discussed in her presence. “What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?” “And without regret.” “And where are you going to, pray?” “To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that’s decided. The capital’s the proper place for my husband, and, with his name, fortune, talents and the king’s favour, he will secure a high position there. He will re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently, so that we shall have a princely establishment.” Aunt Medea’s expression plainly indicated that she was suffering all the torments of envy. “And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones. “You--aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.” But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. “I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined. “You foolish woman! won’t you have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?” “That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.” Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “What _do_ you wish, then?” she asked, sarcastically. “I thought--I wondered--if you wouldn’t take me with you.”