“He, a nobleman, makes himself at home in that wretched hovel!” Mlle. Blanche said to herself. “How horrible! Ah! this dangerous creature will do with him whatever she desires.” All this was nothing compared with what was to come. A third wagon appeared, drawn by a single horse, and laden with pots of flowers and shrubs. This sight drew a cry of rage from Mlle. de Courtornieu which must have carried terror to Aunt Medea’s heart. “Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. “He sends flowers to her as he does to me--only he sends me a bouquet, while for her he despoils the gardens of Sairmeuse.” “What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative. Mlle. Blanche replied that she had not made the slightest allusion to flowers. She was suffocating--and yet she compelled herself to remain there three mortal hours--all the time that was required to unload the furniture. The wagons had been gone some time, when Martial again appeared upon the threshold. Marie-Anne had accompanied him to the door, and they were talking together. It seemed impossible for him to make up his mind to depart. He did so, at last, however; but he left slowly and with evident reluctance. Marie-Anne, remaining in the door, gave him a friendly gesture of farewell. “I wish to speak to this creature!” exclaimed Mlle. Blanche. “Come, aunt, at once!” Had Marie-Anne, at that moment, been within the reach of Mlle. de Courtornieu’s voice, she would certainly have learned the secret of her former friend’s anger and hatred. But fate willed it otherwise. At least three hundred yards of rough ground separated the place where Mlle. Blanche had stationed herself, from the Lacheneur cottage. It required a moment to cross this space; and that was time enough to change all the girl’s intentions. She had not traversed a quarter of the distance before she bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But to retrace her steps now was impossible, for Marie-Anne, who was still standing upon the threshold, had seen her approaching. There remained barely time to regain her self-control, and to compose her features. She profited by it. She had her sweetest smile upon her lips as she greeted Marie-Anne. Still she was embarrassed; she did not know what excuse to give for her visit, and to gain time she pretended to be quite out of breath. “Ah! it is not very easy to reach you, dear Marie-Anne,” she said, at last; “you live _upon_ the summit of a veritable mountain.” Mlle. Lacheneur said not a word. She was greatly surprised, and she did not attempt to conceal the fact. “Aunt Medea pretended to know the road,” continued Mlle. Blanche, “but she led me astray; did you not, aunt?” As usual, the impecunious relative assented, and her niece resumed: