With what perfection she played her part in the divine comedy of first love! Martial could not fail to be fascinated by the modest artlessness and chaste fears of the heart which seemed to be waking for him. When he appeared, Mlle. Blanche blushed and was silent. At a word from him she became confused. He could only occasionally catch a glimpse of her beautiful eyes through the shelter of their long lashes. Who had taught her this refinement of coquetry? They say that the convent is an excellent teacher. But what she had not learned was that the most clever often become the dupes of their own imagination; and that great _comediennes_ generally conclude by shedding real tears. She learned this one evening, when a laughing remark made by the Duc de Sairmeuse revealed the fact that Martial was in the habit of going to Lacheneur’s house every day. What she experienced now could not be compared with the jealousy, or rather anger, which had previously agitated her. This was an acute, bitter, and intolerable sorrow. Before, she had been able to retain her composure; now, it was impossible. That she might not betray herself, she left the drawing-room precipitately and hastened to her own room, where she burst into a fit of passionate sobbing. “Can it be that he does not love me?” she murmured. This thought made her cold with terror. For the first time this haughty heiress distrusted her own power. She reflected that Martial’s position was so exalted that he could afford to despise rank; that he was so rich that wealth had no attractions for him; and that she herself might not be so pretty and so charming as flatterers had led her to suppose. Still Martial’s conduct during the past week--and Heaven knows with what fidelity her memory recalled each incident--was well calculated to reassure her. He had not, it is true, formally declared himself, but it was evident that he was paying his addresses to her. His manner was that of the most respectful, but the most infatuated of lovers. Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid, bringing a large bouquet of roses which had just been sent by Martial. She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a large Japanese vase, she bedewed them with the first real sincere tears she had shed since her entrance into the world. She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea was alarmed. Mlle. Blanche had prepared an excuse, and she uttered it in such sweet tones that the poor lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle. M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished. “Of what new freak is this doleful face the preface?” he wondered. He was still more alarmed when, immediately after breakfast, his daughter asked a moment’s conversation with him.