She followed him into his study, and as soon as they were alone, without giving her father time to seat himself, Mlle. Blanche entreated him to tell her all that had passed between the Duc de Sairmeuse and himself, and asked if Martial had been informed of the intended alliance, and what he had replied. Her voice was meek, her eyes tearful; her manner indicated the most intense anxiety. The marquis was delighted. “My wilful daughter has been playing with fire,” he thought, stroking his chin caressingly; “and upon my word, she has burned herself.” “Yesterday, my child,” he replied, “the Duc de Sairmeuse formally demanded your hand on behalf of his son; your consent is all that is lacking. So rest easy, my beautiful, lovelorn damsel--you will be a duchess.” She hid her face in her hands to conceal her blushes. “You know my decision, father,” she faltered, in an almost inaudible voice; “we must make haste.” He started back, thinking he had not heard her words aright. “Make haste!” he repeated. “Yes, father. I have fears.” “What fears, in Heaven’s name?” “I will tell you when everything is settled,” she replied, as she made her escape from the room. She did not doubt the reports which had reached her ears, of Martial’s frequent visits to Marie-Anne, but she wished to see for herself. So, as soon as she left her father, she obliged Aunt Medea to dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single word of explanation, took her with her to the Reche, and stationed herself where she could command a view of M. Lacheneur’s house. It chanced to be the very day on which M. d’Escorval came to ask an explanation from his friend. She saw him come; then, after a little, Martial made his appearance. She had not been mistaken--now she could go home satisfied. But no. She resolved to count the seconds which Martial passed with Marie-Anne. M. d’Escorval did not remain long; she saw Martial hasten out after him, and speak to him. She breathed again. His visit had not lasted a half hour, and doubtless he was going away. Not at all. After a moment’s conversation with the baron, he returned to the house. “What are we doing here?” demanded Aunt Medea. “Let me alone!” replied Mlle. Blanche, angrily; “hold your tongue!” She heard the sound of wheels, the tramp of horses’ hoofs, blows of the whip, and oaths. The wagons bearing the furniture and clothing belonging to M. Lacheneur were coming. This noise Martial must have heard within the house, for he came out, and after him came M. Lacheneur, Jean, Chanlouineau, and Marie-Anne. Everyone was soon busy in unloading the wagons, and positively, from the movements of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, one would have sworn that he was giving orders; he came and went, hurrying to and fro, talking to everybody, not even disdaining to lend a hand occasionally.