Part 2

M. d’Escorval could do no more. It was quite impossible for him to speak with Marie-Anne, over whom Chanlouineau and Jean were both jealously mounting guard. Accordingly, he reluctantly took his leave, and oppressed by cruel forebodings, slowly descended the hill which he had climbed an hour before so full of hope.

What should he say to Maurice? He was revolving this query in his mind and had just reached the little pine grove skirting the waste, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind induced him to look back. Perceiving to his great surprise that the young Marquis de Sairmeuse was approaching and motioning him to stop, the baron paused, wondering what Martial could possibly want of him.

The latter’s features wore a most ingenuous air, as he hastily raised his hat and exclaimed: “I hope, sir, that you will excuse me for having followed you when you hear what I have to say. I do not belong to your party and our doctrines and preferences are very different. Still I have none of your enemies’ passion and malice. For this reason I tell you that if I were in your place I would take a journey abroad. The frontier is but a few miles off; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have crossed it. A word to the wise is--salvation!”

Having thus spoken and without waiting for any reply, Martial abruptly turned and retraced his steps.

“One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive me away!” murmured M. d’Escorval in his amazement. “But I have good reason to distrust this young man’s disinterestedness.” The young marquis was already far off. Had he been less preoccupied, he would have perceived two figures in the grove--Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevitable Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.

X.

The Marquis de Courtornieu idolised his daughter. This was alike an incontestable and an uncontested fact. When people spoke to him concerning the young lady they invariably exclaimed: “You who adore your daughter--” And in a like manner whenever the marquis spoke of her himself, he always contrived to say: “I who adore Blanche.” In point of fact, however, he would have given a good deal, even a third of his fortune, to get rid of this smiling, seemingly artless girl, who, despite her apparent simplicity, had proved more than a match for him with all his diplomatic experience. Her fancies were legion, and however capricious they chanced to be it was useless to resist them. At one time he had hoped to ward his daughter off by inviting Aunt Medea to come and live at the chateau, but the weak-minded spinster had proved a most fragile barrier, and soon Blanche had returned to the charge more audacious and capricious than ever. Sometimes the marquis revolted, but nine times out of ten he paid dearly for his attempts at rebellion. When Blanche turned her cold, steel-like eyes upon him with a certain peculiar expression, his courage evaporated. Her weapon was irony; and knowing his weak points she dealt her blows with wonderful precision.

Such being the position of affairs, it is easy to understand how devoutly M. de Courtornieu prayed and hoped that some eligible young aristocrat would ask for his daughter’s hand, and thus free him from bondage. He had announced on every side that he intended to give her a dowry of a million francs, a declaration which had brought a host of eager suitors to Courtornieu. But, unfortunately, though many of these wooers would have suited the marquis well enough, not one had been so fortunate as to please the capricious Blanche. Her father presented a candidate; she received him graciously, lavished all her charms upon him; but as soon as his back was turned, she disappointed all her father’s hopes by rejecting him. “He is too short, or too tall. His rank is not equal to ours. He is a fool--his nose is so ugly.” Such were the reasons she would give for her refusal; and from these summary decisions there was no appeal. Arguments and persuasion were alike useless. The condemned man had only to take himself off and be forgotten.

Still, as this inspection of would-be husbands amused the capricious Blanche, she encouraged her father in his efforts to find a suitor. Despite all his perseverance, however, to please her, the poor marquis was beginning to despair, when fate dropped the Duke de Sairmeuse and his son at his very door. At sight of Martial he had a presentiment that the _rara avis_ he was seeking was found at last; and believing best to strike the iron while it was hot, he broached the subject to the duke on the morrow of their first meeting. M. de Courtornieu’s overtures were favourably received, and the matter was soon decided. Indeed, having the desire to transform Sairmeuse into a principality, the duke could not fail to be delighted with an alliance with one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the neighbourhood. “Martial, my son,” he said, “Possesses in his own right, an income of at least six hundred thousand francs.”

“I shall give my daughter a dowry of at least--yes, at least fifteen hundred thousand,” replied M. de Courtornieu.

“His majesty is favourably disposed towards me,” resumed his grace. “I can obtain any important diplomatic position for Martial.”

“In case of trouble,” was the retort, “I have many friends among the opposition.”

The treaty was thus concluded; but M. de Courtornieu took good care not to speak of it to his daughter. If he told her how much he desired the match, she would be sure to oppose it. Non-intervention accordingly seemed advisable. The correctness of his policy was soon fully demonstrated. One morning Blanche entered her father’s study and peremptorily declared, “Your capricious daughter has decided, papa, that she would like to become the Marchioness de Sairmeuse.”

It cost M. de Courtornieu quite an effort to conceal his delight; but he feared that if Blanche discovered his satisfaction the game would be lost. Accordingly, he presented several objections, which were quickly disposed of; and, at last, he ventured to opine: “Then the marriage is half decided as one of the parties consents. It only remains to ascertain if--”

“The other will consent,” retorted the vain heiress; who, it should be remarked, had for several days previously been assiduously engaged in the agreeable task of fascinating Martial and bringing him to her feet. With a skilful affectation of simplicity and frankness, she had allowed the young marquis to perceive that she enjoyed his society, and without being absolutely forward she had made him evident advances. Now, however, the time had come to beat a retreat--a manœuvre so successfully practised by coquettes, and which usually suffices to enslave even a hesitating suitor. Hitherto, Blanche had been gay, spiritual, and coquettish; now she gradually grew quiet and reserved. The giddy school girl had given place to a shrinking maiden; and it was with rare perfection that she played her part in the divine comedy of “first love.” Martial could not fail to be fascinated by the modest timidity and chaste fears of a virgin heart now awaking under his influence to a consciousness of the tender passion. Whenever he made his appearance Blanche blushed and remained silent. Directly he spoke she grew confused; and he could only occasionally catch a glimpse of her beautiful eyes behind the shelter of their long lashes. Who could have taught her this refinement of coquetry? Strange as it may seem, she had acquired her acquaintance with all the artifices of love during her convent education.

One thing she had not learnt, however, that clever as one may be, one is ofttimes duped by one’s own imagination. Great actresses so enter into the spirit of their part that they frequently end by shedding real tears. This knowledge came to Blanche one evening when a bantering remark from the Duke de Sairmeuse apprised her of the fact that Martial was in the habit of going to Lacheneur’s house every day. She had previously been annoyed at the young marquis’s admiration of Marie-Anne, but now she experienced a feeling of real jealousy; and her sufferings were so intolerable that fearing she might reveal them she hurriedly left the drawing-room and hastened to her own room.

“Can it be that he does not love me?” she murmured. She shivered at the thought; and for the first time in her life 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 her 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 Martial had just sent. She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a vase, bedewed them with the first sincere tears she had shed since she was a child.

She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea felt alarmed. But Blanche had prepared an excuse, which she presented in such sweet tones that the old lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle. M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished, and wondered what new freak it was that his daughter’s doleful face betokened. He was still more alarmed when immediately after breakfast, Blanche asked to speak with him. She followed him into his study, and as soon as they were alone, before he had even had time to sit down she entreated him to tell her what had passed between the Duke de Sairmeuse and himself; she wished to know if Martial had been informed of the intended alliance, and what he had replied. Her voice was meek, her eyes tearful; and 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 scorched herself.” Then with a smile on his face he added aloud. “Yesterday, my child, the Duke de Sairmeuse formally asked for your hand on his son’s behalf; and 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, at the same time making her escape from the room.

She did not doubt the reports which had reached her concerning Martial’s frequent visits to Marie-Anne, still she wished to ascertain the truth for herself. Accordingly, on leaving her father, she told Aunt Medea to dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single word of explanation, took her with her to the Reche and stationed herself in the pine grove so as to command a view of M. Lacheneur’s cottage.

It chanced to be the very day when M. d’Escorval called on Marie-Anne’s father, in hopes of obtaining some definite explanation of his conduct. Blanche saw the baron climb the slope, and shortly afterwards Martial followed the same route. She had been rightly informed; there was no room for further doubt, and her first impulse was to return home. But on reflection she resolved to wait and ascertain how long the Marquis remained with this girl she hated. M. d’Escorval’s visit was a brief one, and scarcely had he left the cottage than she saw Martial hasten out after him, and speak to him. She breathed again.

The marquis had only made a brief call, perhaps, on some matter of business, and no doubt, like M. d’Escorval, he was now going home again. Not at all, however, after a moment’s conversation with the baron, Martial returned to the cottage.

“What are we doing here?” asked Aunt Medea.

“Let me alone! Hold your tongue!” angrily replied Blanche, whose attention had just been attracted by a number of wheels, a tramp of horse’s hoofs, a loud cracking of whips, and a brisk exchange of oaths, such as waggoners in a difficulty usually resort to.

All this racket heralded the approach of the vehicles conveying M. Lacheneur’s furniture and clothes. The noise must have reached the cottage on the slope, for Martial speedily appeared on the threshold, followed by Lacheneur, Jean, Chanlouineau, and Marie-Anne. Every one was soon busy unloading the waggons, and judging from the young marquis’s gestures and manner, it seemed as if he were directing the operation. He was certainly bestirring himself immensely. Hurrying to and fro, talking to everybody, and at times not even disdaining to lend a hand.

“He, a nobleman makes himself at home in that wretched hovel!” quoth Blanche to herself. “How horrible! Ah! I see only too well that this dangerous creature can do what she likes with him.”

All this, however, was nothing compared with what was to come. A third cart drawn by a single horse, and laden with shrubs and pots of flowers soon halted in front of the cottage. At this sight Blanche was positively enraged. “Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. “He sends her flowers, as he does me--only he sends me a bouquet, while for her he pillages the gardens of Sairmeuse.”

“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative.

Blanche curtly rejoined that she had not made the slightest allusion to flowers. She was suffocating; and yet she obstinately refused to leave the grove, and go home as Aunt Medea repeatedly suggested. No; she must see the finish, and although a couple of hours were spent in unloading the furniture, still she lingered with her eyes fixed on the cottage and its surroundings. Some time after the empty waggons had gone off, Martial re-appeared on the threshold, Marie-Anne was with him, and they remained talking in full view of the grove where Blanche and her chaperone were concealed. For a long while it seemed as if the young marquis could not promptly make up his mind to leave, and when he did so, it was with evident reluctance that he slowly walked away. Marie-Anne still standing on the door-step waved her hand after him with a friendly gesture of farewell.

The young marquis was scarcely out of sight when Blanche turned to her aunt and hurriedly exclaimed: “I must speak to that creature; come quick!” Had Marie-Anne been within speaking distance at that moment, she would certainly have learnt the cause of her former friend’s anger and hatred. But fate willed it otherwise. Three hundred yards of rough ground intervened between the two; and in crossing this space Blanche had time enough to reflect.

She soon bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But Marie-Anne, who was still standing on the threshold of the cottage had seen her approaching, and it was consequently quite impossible to retreat. She accordingly utilized the few moments still at her disposal in recovering her self-control, and composing her features; and she had her sweetest smile on her lips when she greeted the girl who she had styled “that creature,” only a few minutes previously. Still she was embarrassed, scarcely knowing what excuse to give for her visit, hence with the view of gaining 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 on the top of a perfect mountain.”

Mademoiselle Lacheneur did not reply. She was greatly surprised, and did not attempt to conceal the fact.

“Aunt Medea pretended to know the road,” continued Blanche; “but she led me astray. Didn’t you aunt?”

As usual the impecunious relative assented, and her niece resumed: “But at last we are here. I couldn’t resign myself to hearing nothing about you, my dear, especially after all your misfortunes. What have you been doing? Did my recommendation procure you the work you wanted?”

Marie-Anne was deeply touched by the kindly interest which her former friend displayed in her welfare, and with perfect frankness, 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.

Blanche was not listening, however. Close by stood the flowers brought from Sairmeuse; and there perfume rekindled her anger. “At all events,” she interrupted, “you have something here which will almost make you forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who sent you those beautiful flowers?”

Marie-Anne turned crimson. For a moment she did not speak, but at last she stammered: “They are a mark of attention from the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

“So she confesses it!” thought Mademoiselle 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 rejoined: “Take care, my dear friend, I am going to call you to account. You are accepting flowers from my _fiance_.”

“What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse!”

“Yes, he has asked for my hand; and my father has promised it to him. It is a secret as yet; but I see no danger in confiding in your friendship.”

Blanche really believed that this information would crush her rival; but though she watched her closely, she failed to detect the slightest trace of emotion in her face. “What dissimulation!” thought the heiress, and then with affected gaiety, she resumed aloud: “And the country folks will see two weddings at about the same time, since you are going to be married as well, my dear.”

“I married?”

“Yes, you--you little deceiver! Everybody knows that you are engaged to a young man in the neighbourhood, named--wait, I know--Chanlouineau.”

Thus the report which annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached her from every side. “Everybody is for once mistaken,” she replied energetically. “I shall never be that young man’s wife.”

“But why? People speak well of him personally, and he is very well off.”

“Because,” faltered Marie-Anne; “because----” Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled on her lips; but unfortunately she did not give it utterance. She was as it were abashed by a strange expression on Blanche’s face. How often one’s destiny depends on such an apparently trivial circumstance as this!

“What an impudent worthless creature!” thought Blanche; and then in cold sneering tones that unmistakably betrayed her hatred, she said: “You are wrong, believe me, to refuse such an offer. This young fellow Chanlouineau will at all events save you from the painful necessity of toiling with your own hands, and of going from door to door in quest of work which is refused you. But no matter; _I_”--she laid great stress upon this word--”_I_ will be more generous than your other old acquaintances. I have a great deal of embroidery to be done. I shall send it to you by my maid, and you two may settle the price together. It’s late now, and we must go. Good-bye, my dear. Come, Aunt Medea.”

So saying, the haughty heiress turned away, leaving Marie-Anne petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation. Although less experienced than Blanche, she understood well enough that this strange visit concealed some mystery--but what? She stood motionless, gazing after her departing visitors, when she felt a hand laid gently on her shoulder. She trembled, and turning quickly found herself face to face with her father.

Lacheneur was intensely pale and agitated, and a sinister light glittered in his eyes. “I was there,” said he pointing to the door, “and I heard everything.”

“Father!”

“What! would you try to defend her after she came here to crush you with her insolent good fortune--after she overwhelmed you with her ironical pity and scorn! I tell you they are all like this--these girls, whose heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that the blood in their veins is different to ours. But patience! The day of reckoning is near at hand!”

He paused. Those whom he threatened would have trembled had they seen him at that moment, so plain it was that he harboured in his mind some terrible design of retributive vengeance.

“And you, my darling, my poor Marie-Anne,” he continued, “you did not understand the insults she heaped upon you. You are wondering why she treated you with such disdain. Ah, well! I will tell you: she imagines that the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.”

Marie-Anne turned as pale as her father, and quivered from head to foot. “Can it be possible?” she exclaimed. “Great God! What shame! What humiliation!”

“Why should it astonish you?” said Lacheneur, coldly. “Haven’t you expected this result ever since the day when, to ensure the success of my plans, you consented to receive the attentions of this marquis, whom you loathe as much as I despise?”

“But Maurice! Maurice will despise me! I can bear anything, yes, everything but that.”

Lacheneur made no reply. Marie-Anne’s despair was heart-rending; he felt that he could not bear to witness it, that it would shake his resolution, and accordingly he re-entered the house.

His penetration was not at fault, in surmising that Blanche’s visit would lead to something new, for biding the time when she might fully revenge herself in a way worthy of her hatred, Mademoiselle de Courtornieu availed herself of a favourite weapon among the jealous--calumny, and two or three abominable stories which she concocted, and which she induced Aunt Medea to circulate in the neighbourhood virtually ruined Marie-Anne’s reputation.

These scandalous reports even came to Martial’s ears, but Blanche was greatly mistaken if she had imagined that they would induce him to cease his visits to Lacheneur’s cottage. He went there more frequently than ever and stayed much longer than he had been in the habit of doing before. Dissatisfied with the progress of his courtship, and fearful that he was being duped, he even watched the house. And then one evening, when the young marquis was quite sure that Lacheneur, his son, and Chanlouineau were absent, it so happened that he perceived a man leave the cottage, descend the slope and hasten across the fields. He followed in pursuit, but the fugitive escaped him. He believed, however, that he had recognized Maurice d’Escorval.

XI.

When Maurice narrated to his father the various incidents which had marked his interview with Marie-Anne in the pine grove near La Reche, M. d’Escorval was prudent enough to make no allusion to the hopes of final victory which he, himself, still entertained. “My poor Maurice,” he thought, “is heart-broken, but resigned. It is better for him to remain without hope than to be exposed to the danger of another possible disappointment.”