“Chupin!” faltered Blanche.
“In the flesh,” he responded. “This was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha! The business riled your stomach a little; but nonsense! that will soon pass off. But we must not dawdle here: some one may come in. Let us make haste.”
Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring the passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step over her victim’s lifeless form. She had not courage to do so, and recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was intoxicated with joy. He need have no fears for the future now; for Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains—complicity in crime. He saw himself on the threshold of a life of constant revelry. All remorse anent Lacheneur’s betrayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed, lodged, and clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of servants.
While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his mind, the cool night air was reviving the terror-stricken Marchioness de Sairmeuse. She intimated that she should prefer to walk, and accordingly Chupin deposited her on her feet some twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea was already with them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its master while the latter goes into a house. She had instinctively followed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying her out of the cottage.
“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I will lead the way.” And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened towards the grove. “Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child,” he remarked, as they hurried on. “She pretended to be such a saint! But where the deuce has she placed it?”
“I shall find it,” replied Blanche.
“Hum! that is easier said than done,” quoth the old poacher, thoughtfully.
Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the darkness. In the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his hold on Blanche’s arm, and assumed an attitude of defence. The precaution was fruitless; for at the same moment a man concealed among the trees bounded upon him from behind, and, plunging a knife four times into his writhing body, exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer have to eat with my fingers!”
“Balstain! the innkeeper!” groaned the wounded man, sinking to the ground.
Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt Medea for once in her life had some energy in her fear. “Come!” she shrieked, dragging her niece away “Come—he is dead!”