Who had taught her this refinement of coquetry? They say that the
convent is an excellent teacher.

But what she had not learned was that the most clever often become the
dupes of their own imagination; and that great _comediennes_ generally
conclude by shedding real tears.

She learned this one evening, when a laughing remark made by the Duc de
Sairmeuse revealed the fact that Martial was in the habit of going to
Lacheneur's house every day.

What she experienced now could not be compared with the jealousy, or
rather anger, which had previously agitated her.

This was an acute, bitter, and intolerable sorrow. Before, she had been
able to retain her composure; now, it was impossible.

That she might not betray herself, she left the drawing-room
precipitately and hastened to her own room, where she burst into a fit
of passionate sobbing.

"Can it be that he does not love me?" she murmured.

This thought made her cold with terror. For the first time this haughty
heiress distrusted her own power.

She reflected that Martial's position was so exalted that he could
afford to despise rank; that he was so rich that wealth had no
attractions for him; and that she herself might not be so pretty and so