But it did not last long. The patient’s delirium was followed by such utter prostration that it seemed as if each moment would be her last. But towards midnight she revived a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she faltered, “You have had no pity on me, Blanche. You have deprived me of all hope in the life to come. Heaven will punish you. You will die like a dog yourself, and alone without a word of Christian counsel or encouragement. I curse you!” And she expired, just as the clock was striking two.
The time when Blanche would have given almost anything to know that Aunt Medea was under the ground had long since passed away. Now the poor old woman’s death deeply affected her. She had lost an accomplice who had often consoled her, and she had gained nothing in return. Every one who was intimately acquainted with the Duchesse de Sairmeuse noticed her dejection, and was astonished by it. “Is it not strange,” remarked her friends, “that the duchess—such a very superior woman—should grieve so much for that absurd relative of hers.” But Blanche’s dejection was due in great measure to the sinister prophecies faltered by her dying aunt, to whom for self-protection she had denied the last consolations of religion. And as her mind reviewed the past she shuddered as the Sairmeuse peasants had done, when thinking of the fatality which pursued those who had shed, or helped to shed so much innocent blood. What misfortunes had overtaken them all—from Chupin’s sons to her father, the Marquis de Courtornieu, in whose mind not one spark of reason had gleamed for ten long years before his death. The Baron and the Baroness d’Escorval, and old Corporal Bavois had departed this life within a month of each other the previous year, mourned by every one, so that of all the people of diverse condition who had been connected with the troubles of Montaignac, Blanche knew of only four who were still alive. Maurice d’Escorval, who having studied the law was now an investigating magistrate attached to the tribunal of the Seine; the Abbe Midon, who had come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself.
There was another person at the recollection of whom she trembled, and whose name she dared not utter. This was Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne’s brother. He had disappeared, and so completely that it might have been fancied he was dead, but an inward voice, more powerful than reason, told Blanche that this enemy was still alive, watching for his hour of vengeance. More troubled by her presentiments now, than she had been by Chupin’s persecutions in days gone by, Madame de Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chefteux in order to ascertain, if possible, what she had to expect. Fouche’s former agent had not wavered in his devotion to the duchess. Every three months he presented his bill, which was paid without discussion; and to ease his conscience, he sent one of his men two or three times a year to prowl round Sairmeuse for awhile. Animated by the hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised his client, and—what was more to the purpose—promised himself, that he would discover this dreaded enemy. He started in quest of him, and had already begun to collect proofs of Jean’s existence, when his investigations abruptly came to a close. One morning a man’s body, literally hacked to pieces, was found in an old well not far from Sairmeuse. It was Chefteux who had been murdered by some one who remained unknown. When Blanche read this news in a local journal she felt as a culprit might feel on hearing his death-warrant read. “The end is near,” she murmured. “Lacheneur is coming.”
The duchess was not mistaken. Jean had told the truth when he declared that he was not disposing of his sister’s estate for his own benefit. In his opinion, Marie-Anne’s fortune must be consecrated to one sacred purpose; and he would not divert the slightest portion of it to his personal requirements. He was absolutely penniless when the manager of a travelling theatrical company sojourning at Montaignac engaged him for a consideration of forty-five francs a month. From that day he lived the precarious life of a strolling player. He was poorly paid, and often reduced to abject poverty by lack of engagements, or the impecuniosity of managers. His hatred had lost none of its virulence; but to wreak the vengeance he wished to wreak, he must have time and money at his disposal. But how could he accumulate money when he was often too poor even to appease his hunger. Still he did not renounce his hopes. His was a rancour which was only intensified by years. He was biding his time while he watched from the depths of his misery the brilliant fortunes of the house of Sairmeuse. He had waited sixteen years, when one of his friends procured him an engagement in Russia. The engagement was nothing; but during his stay at St. Petersburg the poor comedian was fortunate enough to obtain an interest in a theatrical enterprise, from which he realized a clear profit of a hundred thousand francs in less than six years. “Now,” said he, “I can give up this life, for I have money enough to begin the struggle.” And six weeks later he arrived at his native village.
Before carrying any of his designs into execution, he went to Sairmeuse to visit Marie-Anne’s grave, the sight of which he felt would fan his smouldering animosity, and give him all the determination he needed as the cold stern avenger of crime. This was his only motive in going, but, on the very evening of his arrival, he learnt through a garrulous old peasant woman that ever since his departure—that is to say, for a period of twenty years—two parties had been making persistent inquiries for a child which had been placed somewhere in the neighbourhood. Jean knew that it was Marie-Anne’s child they were seeking, and why they had not succeeded in finding it. But why were there two persons prosecuting these investigations? One was Maurice d’Escorval, of course, but who was the other? This information induced Jean to prolong his stay at Sairmeuse, where he tarried a whole month. By the expiration of that time he had traced the inquiries, which he could not at first comprehend, to one of Chefteux’s agents. Through the latter, he reached Fouche’s former spy himself; and finally succeeded in discovering that the second search had been instituted by no less a person than the Duchess de Sairmeuse. This discovery bewildered him. How could Blanche have known that Marie-Anne had given birth to a child; and, knowing it, what possible interest could she have had in finding this abandoned babe, now grown to manhood. These two questions puzzled Jean considerably, and he could give them no satisfactory answer. “Chupin’s son could tell me perhaps,” he thought, “but to obtain information from that quarter, I must pretend to be reconciled to the sons of the wretch who betrayed my father.”
However, the traitor’s children had been dead for several years, and after a long search, Jean only found the Widow Chupin, nee Aspasie Clapard, and her son Polyte. They were keeping a drinking-den not far from the Rue des Chateau-des-Rentiers; and their establishment, known as the Poivriere, enjoyed anything but an enviable reputation. Lacheneur cautiously questioned the widow and her son. He asked them if they knew of the crime at the Borderie—if they had heard that grandfather Chupin had committed murder and had been assassinated in his turn—if they had ever been told of an abandoned child, and of searches prosecuted to find it. But neither of these two had ever been at Sairmeuse in their lives, and when Lacheneur mentioned his name in hopes it might recall some recollection, they declared they had never heard it before. Jean was about to take his departure, despondently enough, when Mother Chupin, probably in the hope of pocketing a few pence, began to deplore her present misery, which was, she declared, all the harder to bear as she had wanted for nothing during her poor husband’s lifetime, for he had always obtained as much money as he wanted from a lady of high degree, called the Duchess de Sairmeuse.
Lacheneur uttered such a frightful oath that the old woman and her son started back in astonishment. He saw at once the close connection between Blanche’s search for the child and her generosity to Chupin. “It was she who poisoned Marie-Anne,” he said to himself. “It must have been through my sister herself that she became aware of the child’s existence. She loaded the younger Chupin with favours because he knew the crime she had committed—that crime in which his father had been only an accomplice.”
He remembered Martial’s oath at the murdered girl’s bedside, and his heart overflowed with savage exultation. For he could already see his two enemies, the last of the Sairmeuses and the last of the Courtornieus consummating his work of vengeance themselves. However, after all, this was mere conjecture: he must at any price ascertain whether his suppositions were correct. Drawing from his pocket several pieces of gold, and, throwing them on the table, he said: “I am rich; if you will obey me and keep my secret, your fortune is made.”
A shrill cry of delight from mother and son outweighed any protestations of obedience. The Widow Chupin knew how to write, and Lacheneur then dictated this letter to her: “Madame la Duchesse—I shall expect you at my establishment to-morrow between twelve and four o’clock. It is on business connected with the Borderie. If at five o’clock I have not seen you, I shall carry to the post a letter for the duke.”
“And if she comes, what am I to say to her?” asked the astonished widow.