It was six days since Martial had presented himself at Courtornieu; and Blanche was half crazed with grief and rage.
What Aunt Medea was forced to endure during this interval, only poor dependents in rich families can understand.
For the first three days Mlle. Blanche succeeded in preserving a semblance of self-control; on the fourth she could endure it no longer, and in spite of the breach of “les convenances” which it involved, she sent a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire for Martial. Was he ill—had he gone away?
The messenger was informed that the marquis was perfectly well, but, as he spent the entire day, from early morn to dewy eve, in hunting, he went to bed every evening as soon as supper was over.
What a horrible insult! Still, she was certain that Martial, on hearing what she had done, would hasten to her to make his excuses. Vain hope! He did not come; he did not even condescend to give one sign of life.
“Ah! doubtless he is with her,” she said to Aunt Medea. “He is on his knees before that miserable Marie-Anne—his mistress.”
For she had finished by believing—as is not unfrequently the case—the very calumnies which she herself had invented.
In this extremity she decided to make her father her confidant; and she wrote him a note announcing her coming.
She wished her father to compel Lacheneur to leave the country. This would be an easy matter for him, since he was armed with discretionary authority at an epoch when lukewarm devotion afforded an abundant excuse for sending a man into exile.
Fully decided upon this plan, Blanche became calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes overflowed in incoherent phrases, to which poor Aunt Medea listened with her accustomed resignation.