“What are we doing here?” asked Aunt Medea.
“Let me alone! Hold your tongue!” angrily replied Blanche, whose attention had just been attracted by a number of wheels, a tramp of horse’s hoofs, a loud cracking of whips, and a brisk exchange of oaths, such as waggoners in a difficulty usually resort to.
All this racket heralded the approach of the vehicles conveying M. Lacheneur’s furniture and clothes. The noise must have reached the cottage on the slope, for Martial speedily appeared on the threshold, followed by Lacheneur, Jean, Chanlouineau, and Marie-Anne. Every one was soon busy unloading the waggons, and judging from the young marquis’s gestures and manner, it seemed as if he were directing the operation. He was certainly bestirring himself immensely. Hurrying to and fro, talking to everybody, and at times not even disdaining to lend a hand.
“He, a nobleman makes himself at home in that wretched hovel!” quoth Blanche to herself. “How horrible! Ah! I see only too well that this dangerous creature can do what she likes with him.”
All this, however, was nothing compared with what was to come. A third cart drawn by a single horse, and laden with shrubs and pots of flowers soon halted in front of the cottage. At this sight Blanche was positively enraged. “Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. “He sends her flowers, as he does me—only he sends me a bouquet, while for her he pillages the gardens of Sairmeuse.”
“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative.
Blanche curtly rejoined that she had not made the slightest allusion to flowers. She was suffocating; and yet she obstinately refused to leave the grove, and go home as Aunt Medea repeatedly suggested. No; she must see the finish, and although a couple of hours were spent in unloading the furniture, still she lingered with her eyes fixed on the cottage and its surroundings. Some time after the empty waggons had gone off, Martial re-appeared on the threshold, Marie-Anne was with him, and they remained talking in full view of the grove where Blanche and her chaperone were concealed. For a long while it seemed as if the young marquis could not promptly make up his mind to leave, and when he did so, it was with evident reluctance that he slowly walked away. Marie-Anne still standing on the door-step waved her hand after him with a friendly gesture of farewell.
The young marquis was scarcely out of sight when Blanche turned to her aunt and hurriedly exclaimed: “I must speak to that creature; come quick!” Had Marie-Anne been within speaking distance at that moment, she would certainly have learnt the cause of her former friend’s anger and hatred. But fate willed it otherwise. Three hundred yards of rough ground intervened between the two; and in crossing this space Blanche had time enough to reflect.
She soon bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But Marie-Anne, who was still standing on the threshold of the cottage had seen her approaching, and it was consequently quite impossible to retreat. She accordingly utilized the few moments still at her disposal in recovering her self-control, and composing her features; and she had her sweetest smile on her lips when she greeted the girl who she had styled “that creature,” only a few minutes previously. Still she was embarrassed, scarcely knowing what excuse to give for her visit, hence with the view of gaining time she pretended to be quite out of breath. “Ah! It is not very easy to reach you, dear Marie-Anne,” she said at last; “you live on the top of a perfect mountain.”
Mademoiselle Lacheneur did not reply. She was greatly surprised, and did not attempt to conceal the fact.