Blanche blushed and was silent.

At a word from him she became confused.

He could only occasionally catch a glimpse of her beautiful eyes through the shelter of their long lashes.
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 charming as flatterers had led her to suppose.
Still Martial's conduct during the past week--and Heaven knows with what fidelity her memory recalled each incident--was well calculated to reassure her.
He had not, it is true, formally declared himself, but it was evident that he was paying his addresses to her.