“Can it be that he does not love me?” she murmured.
This thought made her cold with terror. For the first time this haughty heiress distrusted her own power.
She reflected that Martial’s position was so exalted that he could afford to despise rank; that he was so rich that wealth had no attractions for him; and that she herself might not be so pretty and so charming as flatterers had led her to suppose.
Still Martial’s conduct during the past week—and Heaven knows with what fidelity her memory recalled each incident—was well calculated to reassure her.
He had not, it is true, formally declared himself, but it was evident that he was paying his addresses to her. His manner was that of the most respectful, but the most infatuated of lovers.
Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid, bringing a large bouquet of roses which had just been sent by Martial.
She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a large Japanese vase, she bedewed them with the first real sincere tears she had shed since her entrance into the world.
She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea was alarmed.
Mlle. Blanche had prepared an excuse, and she uttered it in such sweet tones that the poor lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle.
M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished.