“In other words,” said she, calmly, “you accuse me of the murder of Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to denounce me if I do not yield to your demands.”
Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence.
“Very well!” said the marquise; “since this is the case—go!”
It seemed, indeed, as if she would, by her audacity, win this dangerous game upon which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing there undecided what course to pursue when Aunt Medea, who was listening by the window, turned in affright, crying:
“Blanche! your husband—Martial! He is coming!”
The game was lost. Blanche saw her husband entering, finding Chupin, conversing with him, and discovering all!
Her brain whirled; she yielded.
She hastily thrust her purse in Chupin’s hand and dragged him through an inner door and to the servants’ staircase.
“Take this,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will see you again. And not a word—not a word to my husband, remember!”
She had been wise to yield in time. When she re-entered the salon, she found Martial there.