Part 31 (2/2)
This thought made her cold with terror. For the first time 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 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 rea.s.sure 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 had just been sent by Martial.
She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a large j.a.panese vase, she bedewed them with the first real sincere tears she had shed since her entrance into the world.
She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea was alarmed.
Mlle. Blanche had prepared an excuse, and she uttered it in such sweet tones that the poor lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle.
M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished.
”Of what new freak is this doleful face the preface?” he wondered.
He was still more alarmed when, immediately after breakfast, his daughter asked a moment's conversation with him.
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 pa.s.sed 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 d.u.c.h.ess.”
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.
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