But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin.  What was he doing in Montaignac?  Was he watching Martial as he had promised?  How slow the day appointed for the meeting was in coming!

It came at last, however, and after intrusting her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape.

The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place.

“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche.

“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.”

“What! you have not watched the marquis?”

“Your husband?  Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow.  But what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything.  Ah! you would not recognize him!  He is always busy now.  He is up at cock-crow and he goes to bed with the chickens.  He writes letters all the morning.  In the afternoon he receives all who call upon him.  The retired officers are hand and glove in with him.  He has reinstated five or six of them, and he has granted pensions to two others.  He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”

He paused and for more than a minute Blanche was silent.  She was confused and agitated by the question that rose to her lips.  What humiliation!  But she conquered her embarrassment, and turning away her head to hide her crimson face, she said: 

“But he certainly has a mistress!”

Chupin burst into a noisy laugh.

“Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an audacious familiarity that made Blanche shudder.  “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie-Anne?”

Blanche felt that denial was useless.

“Yes,” she answered; “it is Marie-Anne that I mean.”

“Ah, well! she has been neither seen nor heard from.  She must have fled with another of her lovers, Maurice d’Escorval.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Oh, not at all!  Of all the Lacheneurs only Jean remains, and he lives like the vagabond that he is, by poaching and stealing.  Day and night he rambles through the woods with his gun on his shoulder.  He is frightful to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes glitter like live coals.  If he ever meets me, my account will be settled then and there.”

Blanche turned pale.  It was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis then.  She did not doubt it in the least.

“Very well!” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, probably.  I must know.  Endeavor to discover her retreat before Monday, when I will meet you here again.”

“I will try,” Chupin answered.

He did indeed try; he exerted all his energy and cunning, but in vain.  He was fettered by the precautions which he took against Balstain and against Jean Lacheneur.  On the other hand, no one in the neighborhood would have consented to give him the least information.