“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.”
The worthy valet de chambre was certainly more agitated than the daughter.
“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”
The servant shook his head.
“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man—Chupin.”
“No, it could not have been he.”
“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.”
Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from him.
She was silent. In a few moments the physician arrived.
He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face—he was almost compelled to use force to do it—examined the patient with evident anxiety, 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. All was bustle and confusion.