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.