“Yes, you—you little deceiver! Everybody knows that you are engaged to a young man in the neighbourhood, named—wait, I know—Chanlouineau.”
Thus the report which annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached her from every side. “Everybody is for once mistaken,” she replied energetically. “I shall never be that young man’s wife.”
“But why? People speak well of him personally, and he is very well off.”
“Because,” faltered Marie-Anne; “because——” Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled on her lips; but unfortunately she did not give it utterance. She was as it were abashed by a strange expression on Blanche’s face. How often one’s destiny depends on such an apparently trivial circumstance as this!
“What an impudent worthless creature!” thought Blanche; and then in cold sneering tones that unmistakably betrayed her hatred, she said: “You are wrong, believe me, to refuse such an offer. This young fellow Chanlouineau will at all events save you from the painful necessity of toiling with your own hands, and of going from door to door in quest of work which is refused you. But no matter; I”—she laid great stress upon this word—”I will be more generous than your other old acquaintances. I have a great deal of embroidery to be done. I shall send it to you by my maid, and you two may settle the price together. It’s late now, and we must go. Good-bye, my dear. Come, Aunt Medea.”
So saying, the haughty heiress turned away, leaving Marie-Anne petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation. Although less experienced than Blanche, she understood well enough that this strange visit concealed some mystery—but what? She stood motionless, gazing after her departing visitors, when she felt a hand laid gently on her shoulder. She trembled, and turning quickly found herself face to face with her father.
Lacheneur was intensely pale and agitated, and a sinister light glittered in his eyes. “I was there,” said he pointing to the door, “and I heard everything.”
“Father!”
“What! would you try to defend her after she came here to crush you with her insolent good fortune—after she overwhelmed you with her ironical pity and scorn! I tell you they are all like this—these girls, whose heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that the blood in their veins is different to ours. But patience! The day of reckoning is near at hand!”
He paused. Those whom he threatened would have trembled had they seen him at that moment, so plain it was that he harboured in his mind some terrible design of retributive vengeance.