“Come,” said the marchioness, taking hold of Claire’s hands—­“come, why do you always think about that, and torture your mind so?”

“What can I think of,” answered Claire bitterly, “but of my betrothed?  And how can I avoid torturing my mind as you say, in trying to divine the reason of his silence?”

“I own it is difficult to explain,” rejoined the marchioness.  “After spending a week with us last year, my nephew, the Duc de Bligny, started off promising to return to Paris during the winter.  He next began by writing that political complications detained him at his post.  Summer came, but not the duke.  Here now is autumn, and Gaston no longer even favours us with pretences.  He does not even trouble to write.”

“But supposing he were ill?” Claire ventured to say.

“That is out of the question,” replied the marchioness pitilessly.  “The embassy would have informed us.  You may be sure he is in perfect health, and that he led the cotillon all last winter in the ball-rooms of St. Petersburg.”

Claire, forcing herself to smile, said, “It must be confessed, mother, he is not jealous, and yet I have been courted wherever I have gone, and am scarcely allowed to remain in peace, even in this desert of Beaulieu.  It would seem I have attracted the attention of our neighbour the ironmaster.”

“Monsieur Derblay?”

“Yes, mother; but his homage is respectful, and I have no cause to complain of him.  I only mentioned him as an example—­as one of many.  The duke stays away, and I remain here alone, patient and—­”

“And you act very wrongly!” exclaimed the marchioness.

The opportunity of easing her mind was not to be lost, and she told Claire that if the marriage ever did take place she feared there would be cause for regret.  But her daughter’s violent emotion made her realise more forcibly than ever how deeply and firmly Claire was attached to the Due de Bligny.  So she assured her she had heard nothing fresh about him, and hoped they might have news from the De Prefonts, who were to arrive that day from Paris.

“Ah!” interrupted Mdlle. de Beaulieu, “here is Octave coming with Monsieur Bachelin, the notary.”  And she went to meet them, looking the living incarnation of youth in all its grace and vigour.

“You have had good sport, it seems,” she said, waylaying her brother, and feeling the weight of his game-bag.

“Oh, I’ll be modest.  This game was not killed by me,” answered the marquis; and explained that he had lost his way on the Pont Avesnes land, and had been rather haughtily accosted by another sportsman, who, however, as soon as he heard his name, became very polite, and forced him to accept the contents of his own bag.

Maitre Bachelin immediately informed them that this must have been the ironmaster himself, whom he had been to see that morning, and all questions at issue about the boundaries of the estates were as good as settled.