“Oh! you exaggerate, Mademoiselle; my father will always preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.” “Of course--I might have known that--but where will he find a husband for Marie-Anne?” “One has been found already. I understand that she is to marry a youth in the neighborhood, who has some property--a certain Chanlouineau.” The artless school-girl was more cunning than the marquis. She had satisfied herself that she had just grounds for her suspicions; and she experienced a certain anger on finding him so well informed in regard to everything that concerned Mlle. Lacheneur. “And do you believe that this is the husband of whom she had dreamed? Ah, well! God grant that she may be happy; for we were very fond of her, very--were we not, Aunt Medea?” Aunt Medea was the old lady seated beside Mlle. Blanche. “Yes, very,” she replied. This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor relation whom M. de Courtornieu had sheltered, and who was forced to pay dearly for her bread; since Mlle. Blanche compelled her to play the part of echo. “It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which were so dear to me, broken,” resumed Mlle. de Courtornieu. “But listen to what Marie-Anne has written.” She drew from her belt where she had placed it, Mlle. Lacheneur’s letter and read: “‘My dear blanche--You know that the Duc de Sairmeuse has returned. The news fell upon us like a thunder-bolt. My father and I had become too much accustomed to regard as our own the deposit which had been intrusted to our fidelity; we have been punished for it. At least, we have done our duty, and now all is ended. She whom you have called your friend, will be, hereafter, only a poor peasant girl, as her mother was before her.’” The most subtle observer would have supposed that Mlle. Blanche was experiencing the keenest emotion. One would have sworn that it was only by intense effort that she succeeded in restraining her tears--that they were even trembling behind her long lashes. The truth was, that she was thinking only of discovering, upon Martial’s face, some indication of his feelings. But now that he was on guard, his features might have been marble for any sign of emotion they betrayed. So she continued: “‘I should utter an untruth if I said that I have not suffered on account of this sudden change. But I have courage; I shall learn how to submit. I shall, I hope, have strength to forget, for I _must_ forget! The remembrances of past felicity would render my present misery intolerable.’” Mlle. de Courtornieu suddenly folded up the letter. “You have heard it, Monsieur,” said she. “Can you understand such pride as that? And they accuse us, daughters of the nobility, of being proud!” Martial made no response. He felt that his altered voice would betray him. How much more would he have been moved, if he had been allowed to read the concluding lines: