“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest was now only striving to gain time, which as he knew full well is the sovereign balm for sorrow. His confidence had been very great at first, but it had sensibly diminished since he had questioned an old woman, who had the reputation of being one of the greatest gossips of the community. On being skilfully catechised by the abbe, this worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there must be one in the neighbourhood, as this was the third time she had been questioned on the subject. Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in concealing it. He set the old gossip talking, and after two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two persons in addition to Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child. Who these persons were and what their aim was, were points which the abbe failed to elucidate. “Ah” thought he, “after all, rascals have their use on earth. If we only had a man like Chupin to set on the trail!”
The old poacher was dead, however, and his eldest son—the one who knew Blanche’s secret—was in Paris. Only the widow and the second son remained at Sairmeuse. They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was still burning in their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morn till night the mother and son toiled on, until the earth round their hut had been fully explored to the depth of six feet. However, a peasant passed by one day and made a remark which suddenly caused them to abandon their search. “Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I didn’t think you were such a fool as to persist in bird’s nesting after the chick was hatched and had flown. Your brother in Paris can no doubt tell you where the treasure was concealed.”
“Holy Virgin! you’re right!” cried the younger Chupin. “Wait till I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we’ll see.”
XXXVI.
MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE’S unexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than it had alarmed Blanche. In five minutes, more ideas passed through the dependent relative’s mind than during the last five years. In fancy she already saw the gendarmes at the chateau; her niece arrested, confined in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Assize Court. She might herself remain quiet if that were all there was to fear! But suppose she were compromised, suspected of complicity as well, dragged before the judges, and even accused of being the only culprit! At this thought her anxiety reached a climax, and finding the suspense intolerable, she ventured downstairs. She stole on tiptoe into the great ball room, and applying her ear to the keyhole of the door leading into the blue salon, she listened attentively to Blanche and Martial’s conversation. What she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her mind. When Martial left the room, she at once opened the door by which she had been standing, and entered the blue reception room, thus admitting as it were that she had been a listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not even have dreamed of committing such an audacious act. “Well,” she exclaimed, “Blanche, we were frightened for nothing.”
Blanche did not reply. The young marchioness was weighing in her mind the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity. “Perhaps the hour of my revenge is nigh,” she murmured, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be the Marchioness de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then—oh! then.”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In her secret heart she had but scant faith in this prediction, and cared very little whether it was realized or not. However, in that low tone which accomplices habitually employ, she ventured to add: “If what you say proves true, it will only be another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that—that what you did at the Borderie was a perfectly unnecessary act.”