The change was so marked that even Martial remarked it, and as soon as he found himself alone with his wife, he exclaimed, in a tone of good-natured raillery: 

“What is the meaning of all this devotion?  We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shall we not?”

Blanche trembled, and flushed a little.

“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she.  “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished upon me when I was so unhappy.”

It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter, for his mind just then was fully occupied.

The agent, whom he had sent to Paris in advance, to purchase, if possible, the Hotel de Sairmeuse, had written him to make all possible haste, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain.

“Plague take the fellow!” said the marquis, angrily, on receiving this news.  “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, for which we have been waiting ten years, slip through his fingers.  I shall find no pleasure in Paris if I cannot own our old residence.”

He was so impatient to reach Paris that, on the second day of their journey, he declared if he were alone he would travel all night.

“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel fatigued in the least, and a night of travel does not appall me.”

They did travel all night, and the next day, about nine o’clock, they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.

Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast.

“I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off.  “I will soon be back.”

He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant.

“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed.  “He was afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand francs.  He shall have it in welcome.”

Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his wife, he said: 

“It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not do so unless the house suits you.  If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once.  Time presses, and we have many competitors.”

This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Mme. Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de Crenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to the Rue de Varennes.

Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required many repairs.

“It will take at least six months to restore it,” said Martial; “perhaps more.  It is true that they might in three months, perhaps, render a portion of it very comfortable.”

“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” approved Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.