But far from reassuring Blanche, his protestations only made her more suspicious. “All this is very good, Father Chupin,” she said, dryly, “but what are you going to do now to repair your negligence?”
“What do I intend to do?” he exclaimed, feigning the most violent anger. “Oh! you shall see. I will prove that no one can deceive me with impunity. There is a small grove near the Borderie, and I shall station myself there; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that house without my knowing it.”
Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and handed three louis to Chupin, saying as she did so, “Take these, and be more careful in future. Another blunder of the kind, and I shall have to obtain some other person’s assistance.”
The old poacher went away whistling contentedly. He felt quite reassured. In this, however, he was wrong, for Blanche’s generosity was only intended to prevent him fancying that she doubted his veracity. In point of fact, she did doubt it. She believed his promises to be on a par with his past conduct, which, as events had shown, had at the very best been negligent in the extreme. This miserable wretch made it his business to betray others—so why shouldn’t he have betrayed her as well? What confidence could she place in his reports. She certainly paid him, but the person who paid him more would unquestionably have the preference. Still, she must know the truth, the whole truth, and how was she to ascertain it? There was but one method—a certain, though a very disagreeable one—she must play the spy herself.
With this idea in her head, she waited impatiently for evening to arrive, and then, directly dinner was over, she summoned Aunt Medea, and requested her company as she was going out for a walk. The impoverished chaperone made a feeble protest concerning the lateness of the hour. But Blanche speedily silenced her, and bade her get ready at once, adding that she did not wish any one in the chateau to know that they had gone out. Aunt Medea had no other resource than to obey, and in the twinkling of an eye she was ready. The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at dinner, and Blanche and her companion reached a little gate leading from the grounds into the open fields without being observed. “Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned the astonished chaperone.
“What does that matter to you? Come along!” replied Blanche, who, as it may have been guessed, was going to the Borderie. She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle, but she preferred to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely to meet any one. The night was very dark, and the hedges and ditches often impeded their progress. On two occasions Blanche lost her way, while Aunt Medea stumbled again and again over the rough ground, bruising herself against the stones. She groaned; she almost wept; but her terrible niece was pitiless. “Come along!” she cried, “or else I shall leave you to find your way as best you can.” And so the poor dependent struggled on.
At last, after more than an hour’s tramp, Blanche ventured to breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, a short distance off, and soon afterwards she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken. Aunt Medea now timidly inquired if they were at their journey’s end—a question which Blanche answered affirmatively. “But be quiet,” she added, “and remain where you are. I wish to look about a little.”
“What! you are leaving me alone?” ejaculated the frightened chaperone. “Blanche, I entreat you! What are you going to do? Good heavens! you frighten me. You do indeed, Blanche!”
But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, looking for Chupin, whom she did not find. This convinced her that the old poacher was deceiving her, and she angrily asked herself if Martial and Marie-Anne were not in the house hard by at that very hour, laughing at her credulity. She then rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead with fright, and they both advanced to the edge of the copse, where they could view the front of the house. A flickering, ruddy light illuminated two windows on the upper floor. There was evidently a fire in the room upstairs. “That’s right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly; “Martial is such a chilly personage.” She was about to approach the house, when a peculiar whistle made her pause. She looked about her, and, through the darkness, she managed to distinguish a man walking towards the Borderie, and carrying a weighty burden. Almost immediately afterwards, a woman, certainly Marie-Anne, opened the door of the house, and the stranger was admitted. Ten minutes later he re-appeared, this time without his burden, and walked briskly away. Blanche was wondering what all this meant, but for the time being she did not venture to approach, and nearly an hour elapsed before she decided to try and satisfy her curiosity by peering through the windows. Accompanied by Aunt Medea, she had just reached the little garden, when the door of the cottage opened so suddenly that Blanche and her relative had scarcely time to conceal themselves behind a clump of lilac-bushes. At the same moment, Marie-Anne crossed the threshold, and walked down the narrow garden path, gained the road, and disappeared. “Wait for me here,” said Blanche to her aunt, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever happens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a word! Don’t stir from this spot; I will come back again.” Then pressing the frightened spinster’s arm she left her alone and went into the cottage.
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the table in the front room. Blanche seized it and boldly began an exploration of the dwelling. Owing to Chupin’s description, she was tolerably familiar with the arrangements on the ground floor, and yet the aspect of the rooms surprised her. They were roughly floored with tiles, and the walls were poorly whitewashed. A massive linen press, a couple of heavy tables, and a few clumsy chairs, constituted the only furniture in the front apartment, while from the beams above hung numerous bags of grain and bunches of dried herbs. Marie-Anne evidently slept in the back room, which contained an old-fashioned country bedstead very high and broad, and the tall fluted posts of which were draped with green serge curtains, sliding on iron rings. Fastened to the wall at the head of the bed was a receptacle for holy water. Blanche dipped her finger in the bowl, and found it full to the brim. Then beside the window on a wooden shelf she espied a jug and basin of common earthenware. “It must be confessed that my husband doesn’t provide his idol with a very sumptuous abode,” she muttered with a sneer. And for a moment, indeed, she was almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led her astray. Remembering Martial’s fastidious tastes, she failed to reconcile them with these meager surroundings. The presence of the holy water, moreover, seemed incompatible with her suspicions. But the latter revived again when she entered the kitchen. A savoury soup was bubbling in a pot over the fire, and fragrant stews were simmering in two or three saucepans. Such preparations could not be made for Marie-Anne alone. Who then were they for? At this moment Blanche remembered the ruddy glow which she had noticed through the windows on the floor above. Hastily leaving the kitchen she climbed the stairs and opened a door she found in front of her. A cry of mingled anger and surprise escaped her lips. She stood on the threshold of the room which Chanlouineau in the boldness of his passion had designed to be the sanctuary of his love. Here every thing was beautiful and luxurious: “Ah, so after all it’s true,” exclaimed Blanche in a paroxysm of jealousy. “And I was fancying that everything was too meager and too poor. Down stairs everything is so arranged that visitors may not suspect the truth! Ah, now I recognise Martial’s astonishing talent for dissimulation, he is so infatuated with this creature that he is even anxious to shield her reputation. He keeps his visits secret and hides himself up here. Yes, here it is that they laugh at me the deluded forsaken wife whose marriage was but a mockery!”