Perhaps a similar thought flitted through Blanche’s mind. “I’m bound to this dangerous, perfidious creature for ever now,” she reflected. “I’m no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands me, I must obey, no matter what may be her fancy—and she has forty years’ humiliation and servitude to avenge.” The prospect of such a life made the young marchioness tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some way of freeing herself from such intolerable thraldom. Would it be possible to induce Aunt Medea to live independently in her own house, served by her own servants? Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed for finery, to marry? A handsome marriage portion will always attract a husband. However, in either case, Blanche would require money—a large sum of money, which no one must be in a position to claim an account of. With this idea she took possession of over two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank notes and coin, belonging to her father, and put away in one of his private drawers. This sum represented the Marquis de Courtornieu’s savings during the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche could take it for her own use, without the slightest danger. “With this,” thought she, “I can enrich Aunt Medea whenever I please without having recourse to Martial.”
After these incidents there was a constant exchange of delicate attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had often commented on the haughty disdain with which Blanche treated her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that during the journey to Paris, Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marchioness’s own, and that instead of travelling in the cumbersome berline with the servants, she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and his wife.
Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change which had come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions which his wife lavished on her, and one day when he was alone with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone of good-natured raillery: “What’s the meaning of all this attachment? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan’t we?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed. “I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished on me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind was fully occupied. The agent he had despatched to Paris in advance, to purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, if it were possible, had written asking the marquis to hasten his journey, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. “Plague take the fellow!” angrily said Martial, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we’ve been waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his fingers. I shan’t find any pleasure in Paris, if I can’t own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second day of their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would travel all night. “Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I don’t feel the least tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me.” So they journeyed on without stopping, and the next morning at about nine o’clock they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. “I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.” Two hours afterwards he re-appeared with a radiant face. “My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me word that a man, on whom the conclusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it and welcome.” Then, in a tone of gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he added: “It only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won’t do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, then one of the most magnificent in Paris, with a monumental entrance facing the Rue de Grenelle St. Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required considerable repair. “It will take at least six months to restore everything,” said Martial, “perhaps more; though in three months, possibly, a portion of it might be arranged very comfortably.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” observed Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as swiftly as possible.”