“Yes, you will tell M. de Cholcourt,” she said. “We had better go at once, mamma, as you are not well.”
“What an angel she is!” said the enraged mother, swallowing her vexation under the fondest smile.
The drive home was performed almost in silence. Mme. Léopold lay back with a pretence of utter exhaustion, and never said a word. Blanche and Polly sat opposite, and had a little confidential talk to themselves.
“Is he nice, that marquis who was dancing with you?” inquired Polly.
“Nice! He is the greatest parti in all France. He is heir to the dukedom, and he has a fortune now of two hundred and fifty thousand francs a year; besides that he is heir to his aunt, who has enormous property in the south; and I believe, only I am not sure, that the Comtesse de V—— has left all the family diamonds to him—just think!”
Blanche summed up all this in a voluble whisper to her friend.
“What a catch he will be!” said Polly. “I hope he may fall in love with you, Blanche.”
“Pas tant de chance, ma chère; my dot will be a drop compared to M. de Cholcourt’s. I have not the ghost of a chance of making a marriage like that.” And the young French girl sighed.
“He might fall in love with you,” suggested Polly.
“His family would never allow him.”