call to-day at Courtornieu to ask you to give me a list of ladies to
whom I can present myself on your recommendation."

But Mlle. de Courtornieu had taken good care not to allude to the
touching request. She had read the letter to Martial as a test. She
had not succeeded; so much the worse. She rose and accepted his arm to
return to the house.

She seemed to have forgotten her friend, and she was chatting gayly.
When they approached the chateau, she was interrupted by a sound of
voices raised to the highest pitch.

It was the address to the King which was agitating the council convened
in M. de Courtornieu's cabinet.

Mlle. Blanche paused.

"I am trespassing upon your kindness, Monsieur. I am boring you with my
silly chat when you should undoubtedly be up there."

"Certainly not," he replied, laughing. "What should I do there? The role
of men of action does not begin until the orators have concluded."

He spoke so energetically, in spite of his jesting tone, that Mlle. de
Courtornieu was fascinated. She saw before her, she believed, a man
who, as her father had said, would rise to the highest position in the
political world.

Unfortunately, her admiration was disturbed by a ring of the great bell
that always announces visitors.

She trembled, let go her hold on Martial's arm, and said, very
earnestly:

"Ah, no matter. I wish very much to know what is going on up there. If
I ask my father, he will laugh at my curiosity, while you, Monsieur, if
you are present at the conference, you will tell me all."

A wish thus expressed was a command. The marquis bowed and obeyed.

"She dismisses me," he said to himself as he ascended the staircase,
"nothing could be more evident; and that without much ceremony. Why the
devil does she wish to get rid of me?"

Why? Because a single peal of the bell announced a visitor for Mlle.
Blanche; because she was expecting a visit from her friend; and
because she wished at any cost to prevent a meeting between Martial and
Marie-Anne.

She did not love him, and yet an agony of jealousy was torturing her.
Such was her nature.

Her presentiments were realized. It was, indeed, Mlle. Lacheneur who was
awaiting her in the drawing-room.

The poor girl was paler than usual; but nothing in her manner betrayed
the frightful anguish she had suffered during the past two or three
days.

And her voice, in asking from her former friend a list of "customers,"
was as calm and as natura