“It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche, at last.
“Undoubtedly; but what does he desire?”
“Money, probably.” Aunt Medea lifted her eyes to heaven.
“God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings with his father! Blessed Jesus! what if he should know.”
“You are not going to despair in advance! We shall know all in a few moments. Pray be calm. Turn your back to us; look out into the street; do not let him see your face. But why is he so long in coming?”
Blanche was not deceived. It was Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret.
Since his arrival in Paris he had been running the streets from morning until evening, inquiring everywhere and of everybody the address of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. At last he discovered it; and he lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice.
He was now awaiting the result of his application at the entrance of the hotel, where he stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, saying:
“She consents to see you; follow me.”
Chupin obeyed; but the servant, greatly astonished, and on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in the hope of obtaining some explanation from this country youth.