After these incidents there was a constant exchange of delicate attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had often commented on the haughty disdain with which Blanche treated her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that during the journey to Paris, Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marchioness’s own, and that instead of travelling in the cumbersome berline with the servants, she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and his wife. Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change which had come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions which his wife lavished on her, and one day when he was alone with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone of good-natured raillery: “What’s the meaning of all this attachment? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan’t we?” Blanche trembled, and flushed. “I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished on me when I was so unhappy.” It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind was fully occupied. The agent he had despatched to Paris in advance, to purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, if it were possible, had written asking the marquis to hasten his journey, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. “Plague take the fellow!” angrily said Martial, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we’ve been waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his fingers. I shan’t find any pleasure in Paris, if I can’t own our old residence.” He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second day of their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would travel all night. “Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I don’t feel the least tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me.” So they journeyed on without stopping, and the next morning at about nine o’clock they alighted at the Hotel Meurice. Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. “I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.” Two hours afterwards he re-appeared with a radiant face. “My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me word that a man, on whom the conclusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it and welcome.” Then, in a tone of gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he added: “It only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won’t do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”