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.” He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant. “My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it in welcome.” Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his wife, he said: “It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not 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.” This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Mme. Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required many repairs. “It will take at least six months to restore it,” said Martial; “perhaps more. It is true that they might in three months, perhaps, render a portion of it very comfortable.” “It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” approved 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 much as possible.” In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that a person is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when he serves himself, so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with architects, interviewed 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 until dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time within 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 distract her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears; a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie; the clamors of conscience sank into faint whispers. The past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant entered, and said: “There is a man below who wishes to speak with Madame.” CHAPTER LII Half reclining upon a sofa, Mme. Blanche was 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 asked, carelessly; “what man?” She was expecting no one; it must be one of the laborers employed by Martial. “I cannot inform Madame,” replied the servant. “He is quite a young man; is dressed like a peasant, and is perhaps, seeking a place.”