Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of drawing-rooms, the young marquis had taught his face not to betray his feelings.

He could have laughed gayly with anguish at his heart; he could have preserved the sternest gravity when inwardly convulsed with merriment.

And yet, this name of Marie-Anne upon the lips of Mlle. de Courtornieu, caused his glance to waver.

“They know each other!” he thought.

In an instant he was himself again; but Mlle. Blanche had perceived his momentary agitation.

“What can it mean?” she wondered, much disturbed.

Still, it was with the perfect assumption of innocence that she continued: 

“In fact, you must have seen her, this poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, since her father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?”

“Yes, I have seen her, Mademoiselle,” replied Martial, quietly.

“Is she not remarkably beautiful?  Her beauty is of an unusual type, it quite takes one by surprise.”

A fool would have protested.  The marquis was not guilty of this folly.

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he.

This apparent frankness disconcerted Mlle. Blanche a trifle; and it was with an air of hypocritical compassion that she murmured: 

“Poor girl!  What will become of her?  Here is her father, reduced to delving in the ground.”

“Oh! you exaggerate, Mademoiselle; my father will always preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.”

“Of course—­I might have known that—­but where will he find a husband for Marie-Anne?”

“One has been found already.  I understand that she is to marry a youth in the neighborhood, who has some property—­a certain Chanlouineau.”

The artless school-girl was more cunning than the marquis.  She had satisfied herself that she had just grounds for her suspicions; and she experienced a certain anger on finding him so well informed in regard to everything that concerned Mlle. Lacheneur.

“And do you believe that this is the husband of whom she had dreamed?  Ah, well!  God grant that she may be happy; for we were very fond of her, very—­were we not, Aunt Medea?”

Aunt Medea was the old lady seated beside Mlle. Blanche.

“Yes, very,” she replied.

This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor relation whom M. de Courtornieu had sheltered, and who was forced to pay dearly for her bread; since Mlle. Blanche compelled her to play the part of echo.

“It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which were so dear to me, broken,” resumed Mlle. de Courtornieu.  “But listen to what Marie-Anne has written.”

She drew from her belt where she had placed it, Mlle. Lacheneur’s letter and read: 

“’My dear blanche—­You know that the Duc de Sairmeuse has returned.  The news fell upon us like a thunder-bolt.  My father and I had become too much accustomed to regard as our own the deposit which had been intrusted to our fidelity; we have been punished for it.  At least, we have done our duty, and now all is ended.  She whom you have called your friend, will be, hereafter, only a poor peasant girl, as her mother was before her.’”