reamed?
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.'"

The most subtle observer would have supposed that Mlle. Blanche was
experiencing the keenest emotion. One would have sworn that it was only
by intense effort that she succeeded in restraining her tears--that they
were even trembling behind her long lashes.

The truth was, that she was thinking only of discovering, upon Martial's
face, some indication of his feelings. But now that he was on guard, his
features might have been marble for any sign of emotion they betrayed.
So she continued:

"'I should utter an untruth if I said that I have not suffered on
account of this sudden change. But I have courage; I shall learn how to
submit. I shall, I hope, have strength to forget, for I _must_ forget!
The remembrances of past felicity would render my present misery
intolerable.'"

Mlle. de Courtornieu suddenly folded up the letter.

"You have heard it, Monsieur," said she. "Can you understand such pride
as that? And they accuse us, daughters of the nobility, of being proud!"

Martial made no response. He felt that his altered voice would betray
him. How much more would he have been moved, if he had been allowed to
read the concluding lines:

"One must live, my dear Blanche!" added Marie-Anne, "and I feel no false
shame in asking you to aid me. I sew very nicely, as you know, and I
could earn my livelihood by embroidery if I knew more people. I will