The apparently innocent and artless young girl possessed the parched, hollow soul of an experienced woman of the world, or of an old courtier. She had been so petted at the convent, in the capacity of only daughter of a _grand seigneur_ and millionnaire; she had been surrounded by so much adulation, that all her good qualities had been blighted in the bud by the poisonous breath of flattery. She was only nineteen; and still it was impossible for any person to have been more susceptible to the charms of wealth and of satisfied ambition. She dreamed of a position at court as a school-girl dreams of a lover. If she had deigned to notice Martial--for she had remarked him--it was only because her father had told her that this young man would lift his wife to the highest sphere of power. Thereupon she had uttered a “very well, we will see!” that would have changed an enamoured suitor’s love into disgust. Martial advanced a few steps, and Mlle. Blanche, on seeing him, sprang up with a pretty affectation of intense timidity. Bowing low before her, he said, gently, and with profound deference: “Monsieur de Courtornieu, Mademoiselle, was so kind as to tell me where I might have the honor of finding you. I had not courage to brave those formidable discussions inside; but----” He pointed to the letter the young girl held in her hand, and added: “But I fear that I am _de trop_.” “Oh! not in the least, Monsieur le Marquis, although this letter which I have just been reading has, I confess, interested me deeply. It was written by a poor child in whom I have taken a great interest--whom I have sent for sometimes when I was lonely--Marie-Anne Lacheneur.” Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of drawing-rooms, the young marquis had taught his face not to betray his feelings. He could have laughed gayly with anguish at his heart; he could have preserved the sternest gravity when inwardly convulsed with merriment. And yet, this name of Marie-Anne upon the lips of Mlle. de Courtornieu, caused his glance to waver. “They know each other!” he thought. In an instant he was himself again; but Mlle. Blanche had perceived his momentary agitation. “What can it mean?” she wondered, much disturbed. Still, it was with the perfect assumption of innocence that she continued: “In fact, you must have seen her, this poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, since her father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?” “Yes, I have seen her, Mademoiselle,” replied Martial, quietly. “Is she not remarkably beautiful? Her beauty is of an unusual type, it quite takes one by surprise.” A fool would have protested. The marquis was not guilty of this folly. “Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he. This apparent frankness disconcerted Mlle. Blanche a trifle; and it was with an air of hypocritical compassion that she murmured: “Poor girl! What will become of her? Here is her father, reduced to delving in the ground.”