least Martial understood it in that way; and when they entered the hall,
he allowed his father and the marquis to go upstairs without him.

A servant opened the door of the drawing-room for him--but it was empty.

"Very well," said he; "I know my way to the garden."

But he explored it in vain; no one was to be found.

He decided to return to the house and march bravely into the presence of
the dreaded enemy. He had turned to retrace his steps when, through the
foliage of a bower of jasmine, he thought he could distinguish a white
dress.

He advanced softly, and his heart quickened its throbbing when he saw
that he was right.

Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu was seated on a bench beside an old lady,
and was engaged in reading a letter in a low voice.

She must have been greatly preoccupied, since she had not heard
Martial's footsteps approaching.

He was only ten paces from her, so near that he could distinguish
the shadow of her long eyelashes. He paused, holding his breath, in a
delicious ecstasy.

"Ah! how beautiful she is!" he thought. Beautiful? no. But pretty, yes;
as pretty as heart could desire, with her great velvety blue eyes
and her pouting lips. She was a blonde, but one of those dazzling and