“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel fatigued in the least, and a night of travel does not appall me.”
They did travel all night, and the next day, 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.”
He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant.
“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it in welcome.”
Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his wife, he said:
“It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not 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 Mme. Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to the Rue de Varennes.
Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required many repairs.