This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, then one of the most magnificent in Paris, with a monumental entrance facing the Rue de Grenelle St. Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required considerable repair. “It will take at least six months to restore everything,” said Martial, “perhaps more; though in three months, possibly, a portion of it might be arranged very comfortably.” “It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” observed Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes. “Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as swiftly as possible.” In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that one is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when one serves one’s self, and so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with the architect, interviewed the contractors, and hurried on the workmen. As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned before dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time in doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to divert her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears, a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie, and the clamours of conscience were sinking into faint whispers. Indeed, the past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant knocked at the door, and said: “There is a man downstairs who wishes to speak with madame.” XXXVII. Blanche was reclining on a sofa listening to a new book which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, and she did not even raise her head as the servant delivered his message. “A man?” she said, carelessly; “what man?” She was expecting no one; it must be one of the assistants or overseers employed by Martial. “I can’t inform madame who he is,” replied the servant. “He is quite young; he is dressed like a peasant, and is, perhaps, seeking a place.” “It is probably the marquis he wishes to see.” “Madame will excuse me, but he particularly said that he wished to speak with her.” “Ask his name and business, then. Go on, aunt,” she added: “we have been interrupted in the most interesting part.” But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page before the servant returned. “The man says madame will understand his business when she hears his name.” “And his name?” “Chupin.”