“My turn will come!” she thought.
The Baron and the Baroness d’Escorval, and old Corporal Bavois had departed this life within a month of each other, the previous year, mourned by all.
So that of all the people of diverse condition who had been connected with the troubles at Montaignac, Blanche knew only four who were still alive.
Maurice d’Escorval, who had entered the magistracy, and was now a judge in the tribunal of the Seine; Abbe Midon, who had come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself.
There was another person, the bare recollection of whom made her tremble, and whose name she dared not utter.
Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne’s brother.
An inward voice, more powerful than reason, told her that this implacable enemy was still alive, watching for his hour of vengeance.
More troubled by her presentiments now, than she had been by Chupin’s persecutions in days gone by, Mme. de Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chelteux in order to ascertain, if possible, what she had to expect.
Fouche’s former agent had not wavered in his devotion to the duchess. Every three months he presented his bill, which was paid without discussion; and to ease his conscience, he sent one of his men to prowl around Sairmeuse for a while, at least once a year.
Animated by the hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised his client, and—what was more to the purpose—promised himself, that he would discover this dreaded enemy.