“It was she who poisoned Marie-Anne,” he said to himself. “It was through my sister that she became aware of the existence of the child. She loaded Chupin with favors because he knew the crime she had committed—that crime in which his father had been only an accomplice.”
He remembered Martial’s oath at the bedside of the murdered girl, and his heart overflowed with savage exultation. He saw his two enemies, the last of the Sairmeuse and the last of the Courtornieu take in their own hands his work of vengeance.
But this was mere conjecture; he desired to be assured of the correctness of his suppositions.
He drew from his pocket a handful of gold, and, throwing it upon the table, he said:
“I am very rich; if you will obey me and keep my secret, your fortune is made.”
A shrill cry of delight from mother and son outweighed any protestations of obedience.
The Widow Chupin knew how to write, and Lacheneur dictated this letter:
“Madame la Duchesse—I shall expect you at my establishment to-morrow between twelve and four o’clock. It is on business connected with the Borderie. If at five o’clock I have not seen you, I shall carry to the post a letter for the duke.”
“And if she comes what am I to say to her?” asked the astonished widow.
“Nothing; you will merely ask her for money.”