“But at last we are here. I could not, my dearest, resign myself to hearing nothing from you, especially after all your misfortunes. What have you been doing? Did my recommendation procure for you the work you desired?” Marie-Anne could not fail to be deeply touched by this kindly interest on the part of her former friend. So, with perfect frankness, and without any false shame, she confessed that all her efforts had been fruitless. It had even seemed to her that several ladies had taken pleasure in treating her unkindly. But Mlle. Blanche was not listening. A few steps from her stood the flowers brought from Sairmeuse; and their perfume rekindled her anger. “At least,” she interrupted, “you have here what will almost make you forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who sent you these beautiful flowers?” Marie-Anne turned crimson. She did not speak for a moment, but at last she replied, or rather stammered: “It is--an attention from the Marquis de Sairmeuse.” “So she confesses it!” thought Mlle. de Courtornieu, amazed at what she was pleased to consider an outrageous piece of impudence. But she succeeded in concealing her rage beneath a loud burst of laughter; and it was in a tone of raillery that she said: “Take care, my dear friend; I am going to call you to account. It is from my fiance that you are accepting flowers.” “What! the Marquis de Sairmeuse?” “Has demanded the hand of your friend. Yes, my darling; and my father has given it to him. It is a secret as yet; but I see no danger in confiding in your friendship.” She believed that she had inflicted a mortal wound upon Marie-Anne’s heart; but though she watched her closely, she failed to detect the slightest trace of emotion upon her face. “What dissimulation!” she thought. Then aloud, and with affected gayety, she resumed: “And the country folks will see two weddings at about the same time, since you, also, are going to be married, my dear.” “I!” “Yes, you, you little deceiver! Everybody knows that you are engaged to a young man in the neighborhood, named--wait--I know--Chanlouineau.” Thus the report that annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached her from every side. “Everybody is for once mistaken,” said she, energetically. “I shall never be that young man’s wife.” “But why? They speak well of him, personally, and he is quite rich.” “Because,” faltered Marie-Anne, “because----” Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled upon her lips; but unfortunately she did not utter it, prevented by a strange expression on the face of her friend. How often one’s destiny depends upon a circumstance apparently as trivial as this! “Impudent, worthless creature!” thought Mlle. Blanche. Then, in cold and sneering tones, that betrayed her hatred unmistakably, she said: