“I!”
“Yes, you, you little deceiver! Everybody knows that you are engaged to a young man in the neighborhood, named—wait—I know—Chanlouineau.”
Thus the report that annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached her from every side.
“Everybody is for once mistaken,” said she, energetically. “I shall never be that young man’s wife.”
“But why? They speak well of him, personally, and he is quite rich.”
“Because,” faltered Marie-Anne, “because——”
Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled upon her lips; but unfortunately she did not utter it, prevented by a strange expression on the face of her friend. How often one’s destiny depends upon a circumstance apparently as trivial as this!
“Impudent, worthless creature!” thought Mlle. Blanche.
Then, in cold and sneering tones, that betrayed her hatred unmistakably, she said:
“You are wrong, believe me, to refuse this offer. This Chanlouineau will, at all events, save you from the painful necessity of laboring 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 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 agree upon the price. We must go. Good-by, my dear. Come, Aunt Medea.”