Chupin listened to this homily with a half-cringing, half-impudent air; when it was finished he lifted his head, and said, proudly:
“I do not ask for alms.”
“What do you ask then?”
“My dues.”
The heart of Mme. Blanche sank, and yet she had courage to cast a glance of disdain upon the speaker, and said:
“Ah! do I owe you anything?”
“You owe me nothing personally, Madame; but you owe a heavy debt to my deceased father. In whose service did he perish? Poor old man! he loved you devotedly. His last words were of you. ‘A terrible thing has just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The young marquise hated Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. Had it not been for me she would have been lost. I am about to die; let the whole blame rest upon me; it will not hurt me, and it will save the young lady. And afterward she will reward you; and as long as you keep the secret you will want for nothing.’”
Great as was his impudence, he paused, amazed by the perfectly composed face of the listener.
In the presence of such wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his father’s story.
The courage and heroism displayed by the marquise were really wonderful. She felt if she yielded once, she would forever be at the mercy of this wretch, as she was already at the mercy of Aunt Medea.