“Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned Aunt Medea.
“What is that to you? Come!”
Mme. Blanche 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 someone.
The night was still, but very dark, and the progress of the two women was often retarded by hedges and ditches. Twice Blanche lost her way. Again and again, Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough ground, and bruised herself against the stones; she groaned, she almost wept, but her terrible niece was pitiless.
“Come!” she said, “or I will leave you to find your way as best you can.”
And the poor dependent struggled on.
At last, after a tramp of more than an hour, Blanche ventured to breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken.
“Are we at our journey’s end?” inquired Aunt Medea, timidly.
“Yes, but be quiet. Remain where you are, I wish to look about a little.”