“What does this mean?” murmured Mme. Blanche.
She waited patiently for more than half an hour, and as nothing stirred:
“Let us go nearer,” she said to Aunt Medea, “I wish to look through the windows.”
They were approaching the house when, just as they reached the little garden, the door of the cottage opened so suddenly that they had scarcely time to conceal themselves in a clump of lilac-bushes.
Marie-Anne came out, imprudently leaving the key in the door, passed down the narrow path, gained the road, and disappeared.
Blanche pressed Aunt Medea’s arm with a violence that made her cry out.
“Wait for me here,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever happens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a word! Do not stir from this spot; I will return.”
And she entered the cottage.
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the table in the front room.
Blanche seized it and boldly began an exploration of the dwelling.