One morning, a man whose desperate appearance and manner frightened her, brought the duchess this laconic epistle:
“I am tired of starving here; I wish to make my escape. Come to Brest; you can visit the prison, and we will decide upon some plan. If you refuse to do this, I shall apply to the duke, who will obtain my pardon in exchange of what I will tell him.”
Mme. Blanche was dumb with horror. It was impossible, she thought, to sink lower than this.
“Well!” demanded the man, harshly. “What reply shall I make to my comrade?”
“I will go—tell him that I will go!” she said, driven to desperation.
She made the journey, visited the prison, but did not find Chupin.
The previous week there had been a revolt in the prison, the troops had fired upon the prisoners, and Chupin had been killed instantly.
Still the duchess dared not rejoice.
She feared that her tormentor had told his wife the secret of his power.
“I shall soon know,” she thought.