Soon afterwards the medical man arrived. He removed the coverlet from M. de Courtornieu’s face, being almost compelled to use force in doing so—examined the patient with evident anxiety, and then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. Immediately afterwards all was bustle and confusion in the house. When the physician left the sickroom, Blanche followed him. “Well, doctor?” she said, with a questioning look.
The physician hesitated, but at last he replied; “People sometimes recover from such attacks.”
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost influence was now afforded her. If she was to fight successfully against Martial’s desertion, she must improvise a very different reputation to that which she at present enjoyed. Now, if she could only appear to the world in the character of a patient victim, and devoted daughter, public opinion, which, as she had recently discovered, was after all worth having, might yet turn in her favour. Such an occasion offering itself must not be neglected. Accordingly, she lavished the most touching and delicate attentions on her suffering father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty that she would be persuaded to sleep for a couple of hours, in an arm-chair in the sick-room. But while she was playing this self-imposed role of sister of charity with a talent worthy of a healthier mind, her chief thoughts were for Chupin. What was he doing at Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slowly the time passed! Would that Thursday which had been appointed for their meeting never come?
It came at last, and momentarily entrusting her father to Aunt Medea’s care, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher was waiting for her at the appointed place near the lake. “Well, what have you got to tell me?” asked Blanche.
“Next to nothing, I’m sorry to say.”
“What! haven’t you been watching the marquis?”
“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him like his own shadow. But I’m afraid the news I have of him won’t interest you very much. Since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you wouldn’t recognize him! He’s always busy now. He’s up at cock-crow; and goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he receives every one who calls upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove with him. He has re-instated five or six of them, and has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”
He paused, and for a moment Blanche remained silent. A question rose to her lips, and yet she scarcely dared to propound it. She blushed with shame, and it was only after a supreme effort that she managed to articulate, “But he must surely have a mistress?”
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. “Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an air of audacious familiarity that made Blanche positively shudder. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, don’t you? that stuck-up minx Marie-Anne?”
Blanche felt that denial was useless. “Yes,” she answered; “I do mean Marie-Anne.”