“I had sworn that the vile wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now my vengeance has escaped me. Someone has robbed me of it.”
Then he asked himself who the murderer could be.
“Is it possible that Martial assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? To kill an accomplice is an effectual way of assuring one’s self of his silence.”
He had reached the Borderie, and was about going upstairs, when he thought he heard the sound of voices in the back room.
“That is strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?”
And impelled by curiosity, he went and tapped upon the communicating door.
The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale, and visibly agitated.
“Who is it?” inquired Jean, eagerly.
“It is—it is. Guess who it is.”
“How can I guess?”