Marie-Anne turned crimson. She did not speak for a moment, but at last she replied, or rather stammered:
“It is—an attention from the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
“So she confesses it!” thought Mlle. de Courtornieu, amazed at what she was pleased to consider an outrageous piece of impudence.
But she succeeded in concealing her rage beneath a loud burst of laughter; and it was in a tone of raillery that she said:
“Take care, my dear friend; I am going to call you to account. It is from my fiance that you are accepting flowers.”
“What! the Marquis de Sairmeuse?”
“Has demanded the hand of your friend. Yes, my darling; and my father has given it to him. It is a secret as yet; but I see no danger in confiding in your friendship.”
She believed that she had inflicted a mortal wound upon Marie-Anne’s heart; but though she watched her closely, she failed to detect the slightest trace of emotion upon her face.
“What dissimulation!” she thought. Then aloud, and with affected gayety, she resumed:
“And the country folks will see two weddings at about the same time, since you, also, are going to be married, my dear.”