Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

This sight drew a cry of rage from Mlle. de Courtornieu which must have carried terror to Aunt Medea’s heart.

“Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. “He sends flowers to her as he does to me⁠—only he sends me a bouquet, while for her he despoils the gardens of Sairmeuse.”

“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative.

Mlle. Blanche replied that she had not made the slightest allusion to flowers. She was suffocating⁠—and yet she compelled herself to remain there three mortal hours⁠—all the time that was required to unload the furniture.

The wagons had been gone some time, when Martial again appeared upon the threshold.

Marie-Anne had accompanied him to the door, and they were talking together. It seemed impossible for him to make up his mind to depart.

He did so, at last, however; but he left slowly and with evident reluctance. Marie-Anne, remaining in the door, gave him a friendly gesture of farewell.

“I wish to speak to this creature!” exclaimed Mlle. Blanche. “Come, aunt, at once!”

Had Marie-Anne, at that moment, been within the reach of Mlle. de Courtornieu’s voice, she would certainly have learned the secret of her former friend’s anger and hatred.

But fate willed it otherwise. At least three hundred yards of rough ground separated the place where Mlle. Blanche had stationed herself, from the Lacheneur cottage.

It required a moment to cross this space; and that was time enough to change all the girl’s intentions.

She had not traversed a quarter of the distance before she bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But to retrace her steps now was impossible, for Marie-Anne, who was still standing upon the threshold, had seen her approaching.

There remained barely time to regain her self-control, and to compose her features. She profited by it.

She had her sweetest smile upon her lips as she greeted Marie-Anne. Still she was embarrassed; she did not know what excuse to give for her visit, and to gain time she pretended to be quite out of breath.

“Ah! it is not very easy to reach you, dear Marie-Anne,” she said, at last; “you live upon the summit of a veritable mountain.”

Mlle. Lacheneur said not a word. She was greatly surprised, and she did not attempt to conceal the fact.

“Aunt Medea pretended to know the road,” continued Mlle. Blanche, “but she led me astray; did you not, aunt?”

As usual, the impecunious relative assented, and her niece resumed:

“But at last we are here. I could not, my dearest, resign myself to hearing nothing from you, especially after all your misfortunes. What have you been doing? Did my recommendation procure for you the work you desired?”

Marie-Anne could not fail to be deeply touched by this kindly interest on the part of her former friend. So, with perfect frankness, and without any false shame, she confessed that all her efforts had been fruitless. It had even seemed to her that several ladies had taken pleasure in treating her unkindly.

But Mlle. Blanche was not listening. A few steps from her stood the flowers brought from Sairmeuse; and their perfume rekindled her anger.

“At least,” she interrupted, “you have here what will almost make you forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who sent you these beautiful flowers?”

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 fiancé 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.”

“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. Goodbye, my dear. Come, Aunt Medea.”

She departed, leaving Marie-Anne petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation.

Although less experienced than Mlle. Blanche, she comprehended that this strange visit concealed some mystery⁠—but what?

For more than a minute she stood motionless, gazing after her departing guests; then she started suddenly as a hand was laid gently upon her shoulder.

She trembled, and, turning quickly, found herself face to face with her father.

Lacheneur’s face was whiter than his linen, and a sinister light glittered in