The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖

“Can it be that he does not love me?” she murmured.

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 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 had just been sent by Martial.

She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a large Japanese 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 passed 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 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, 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.

So, as soon as she left her father, she obliged Aunt Medea to dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single word of explanation, took her with her to the Reche, and stationed herself where she could command a view of M. Lacheneur’s house.

It chanced to be the very day on which M. d’Escorval came to ask an explanation from his friend. She saw him come; then, after a little, Martial made his appearance.

She had not been mistaken—now she could go home satisfied.

But no. She resolved to count the seconds which Martial passed with Marie-Anne.

M. d’Escorval did not remain long; she saw Martial hasten out after him, and speak to him.

She breathed again. His visit had not lasted a half hour, and doubtless he was going away. Not at all. After a moment’s conversation with the baron, he returned to the house.

“What are we doing here?” demanded Aunt Medea.

“Let me alone!” replied Mlle. Blanche, angrily; “hold your tongue!”

She heard the sound of wheels, the tramp of horses’ hoofs, blows of the whip, and oaths.

The wagons bearing the furniture and clothing belonging to M. Lacheneur were coming. This noise Martial must have heard within the house, for he came out, and after him came M. Lacheneur, Jean, Chanlouineau, and Marie-Anne.

Everyone was soon busy in unloading the wagons, and positively, from the movements of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, one would have sworn that he was giving orders; he came and went, hurrying to and fro, talking to everybody, not even disdaining to lend a hand occasionally.

“He, a nobleman, makes himself at home in that wretched hovel!” Mlle. Blanche said to herself. “How horrible! Ah! this dangerous creature will do with him whatever she desires.”

All this was nothing compared with what was to come. A third wagon appeared, drawn by a single horse, and laden with pots of flowers and shrubs.

This sight drew a cry of rage from Mlle. de Courtornieu which must have carried terror to Aunt Medea’s heart.

“Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. “He sends flowers to her as he does to me—only he sends me a bouquet, while for her he despoils the gardens of Sairmeuse.”

“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative.

Mlle. Blanche replied that she had not made the slightest allusion to flowers. She was suffocating—and yet she compelled herself to remain there three mortal hours—all the time that was required to unload the furniture.

The wagons had been gone some time, when Martial again appeared upon the threshold.

Marie-Anne had accompanied him to the door, and they were talking together. It seemed impossible for him to make up his mind to depart.

He did so, at last, however; but he left slowly and with evident reluctance. Marie-Anne, remaining in the door, gave him a friendly gesture of farewell.

“I wish to speak to this creature!” exclaimed Mlle. Blanche. “Come, aunt, at once!”

Had Marie-Anne, at that moment, been within the reach of Mlle. de Courtornieu’s voice, she would certainly have learned the secret of her former friend’s anger and hatred.

But fate willed it otherwise. At least three hundred yards of rough ground separated the place where Mlle. Blanche had stationed herself, from the Lacheneur cottage.