CHAPTER LI
Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same.
The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and it betrayed itself in numberless trifles.
For example, though the poor dependent still retained her humble, resigned manner; she had lost, little by little, the servile fear that had showed itself in her every movement. She no longer trembled when anyone addressed her, and there was occasionally a ring of independence in her voice.
If visitors were present, she no longer kept herself modestly in the background, but drew forward her chair and took part in the conversation. At table, she allowed her preferences and her dislikes to appear. On two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders.
Once Mme. Blanche, on going out, asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home.
And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intention of going; and as it rained, she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done.
All this was nothing, in appearance; in reality, it was monstrous, amazing. It was quite plain that the humble relative was becoming bold, even audacious, in her demands.
As this departure, which her niece had just announced so gayly, had never been discussed before her, she was greatly surprised.
“What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“To go where, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there; that is decided. That is the place for my husband. His name, his fortune, his talents, the favor of the King, assure him a high position there. He will repurchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently. We shall have a princely establishment.”
All the torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Medea’s countenance.
“‘And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You, aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied.
“I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“What do you wish, then?” she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.
“I thought—I wondered—if you would not take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt; impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.
“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”
A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.
“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely.
And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added:
“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.
“That is to say,” she said, at last, “you permit me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less of you. Thanks!”
She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. There was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued:
“Very well! this decides me. I entreated you, and you brutally refused to heed my prayer, now I command and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris—and I shall go. Ah! it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way. I have endured in silence for a long time, but I have rebelled at last. My life in this house has been a hell. It is true that you have given me shelter—that you have fed and lodged me; but you have taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I have endured? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me, your own flesh and blood? And I have had no wages; on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah! you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me—humiliated me—trampled me under foot!”
She paused.
The bitter rancor which had been accumulating for years fairly choked her; but after a moment she resumed, in a tone of intense irony:
“You ask me what would I do in Paris? I, too, would enjoy myself. What will you do, yourself? You will go to Court, to balls, and to the play, will you not? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilets, I—poor Aunt Medea—who have never seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Yes, twice a year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your own sake; and in order that your poor relation should do honor to your generosity. You dressed me in it, as you sew gold lace upon the clothing of your lackeys, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; buffeted upon one cheek, I offered the other. I must live—I must have food. And you, Blanche, how often, to make me subservient to your will, have you said to me: ‘You will do thus-and-so, if you desire to remain at Courtornieu?’ And I obeyed—I was forced to obey, since I knew not where to go. Ah! you have abused me in every way; but now my turn has come!”
Blanche was so amazed that she could not articulate a syllable. At last, in a scarcely audible voice, she faltered:
“I do not understand you, aunt; I do not understand you.”
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few moments before.
“In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you that since you have, against my will, made me your accomplice, we must share everything in common. I share the danger; I will share the pleasure. What if all should be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes; and that is why you are seeking diversion. Very well! I also desire diversion. I shall go to Paris with you.”
By a terrible effort Blanche had succeeded in regaining her self-possession, in some measure at least.
“And if I should say no?” she responded, coldly.
“But you will not say no.”
“And why, if you please?”
“Because——”
“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head.
“I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself. No, I shall not do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No threat was capable of moving her like that.
“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she; “I promise it.”
Then she added, gently:
“But it is unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time, unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you alone are to blame. Why have you said nothing? I attributed your complaisance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman as quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine apparel. Confess that it was impossible. Had I known—But rest easy, aunt; I will atone for my neglect.”
And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse:
“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me, do you not?”
And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like two friends united after a misunderstanding. But Aunt Medea was as far from being deceived by this mock reconciliation as the clearsighted Blanche.
“It will be best for me to keep on the qui vive,” thought the humble relative. “God only knows with what intense joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie-Anne.”
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through the mind of Mme. Blanche.
She felt as a convict might feel on seeing his most execrated enemy, perhaps the man who had betrayed him, fastened to the other end of his chain.
“I am bound now and forever to this dangerous and perfidious creature,” she thought. “I am no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands, I must obey. I must be the slave of her every caprice—and she has forty years of humiliation and servitude to avenge.”
The prospect of such a life made her tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some way of freeing herself from her detested companion.
Would it be possible to inspire Aunt Medea with a desire to live independently in her own house, served by her own servants?
Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed for finery and ball-dresses, to marry? A handsome marriage-portion will always attract a husband.
But, in either case, Blanche would require money—a large sum of money, for whose use she would be accountable to no one.
This conviction made her resolve to take possession of about two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank-notes and coin, belonging to her father.
This sum represented the savings of the Marquis de Courtornieu during the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche, who knew where the hoard was concealed, could take it for her own use without the slightest danger.
“With this,” she thought, “I can at any moment enrich Aunt Medea without having recourse to Martial.”
After this little scene there was a constant interchange of delicate attentions and touching devotion between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighborhood, who had often commented upon the haughty disdain which Mme. Blanche displayed in her treatment of her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marquise’s own, and that she made the journey, not in the large Berlin, with the servants, but in the post-chaise with the Marquis and Marquise de Sairmeuse.
The change was so marked that even Martial remarked it, and as soon as he found himself alone with his wife, he exclaimed, in a tone of good-natured raillery:
“What is the meaning of all this devotion? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shall we not?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed a little.
“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished upon me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter, for his mind just then was fully occupied.
The agent, whom he had sent to Paris in advance, to purchase, if possible, the Hotel de Sairmeuse, had written him to make all possible haste, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain.
“Plague take the fellow!” said the marquis, angrily, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, for which we have been waiting ten years, slip through his fingers. I shall find no pleasure in Paris if I cannot own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach Paris that, on the second day of their journey, he declared if he were alone he would travel all night.
“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel fatigued in the least, and a night of travel does not appall me.”
They did travel all night, and the next day, about nine o’clock, they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast.
“I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.”
He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant.
“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it in welcome.”
Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his wife, he said:
“It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Mme. Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to the Rue de Varennes.
Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required many repairs.
“It will take at least six months to restore it,” said Martial; “perhaps more. It is true that they might in three months, perhaps, render a portion of it very comfortable.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” approved Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as much as possible.”
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that a person is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when he serves himself, so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with architects, interviewed contractors, and hurried on the workmen.
As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned until dinner.
Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time within doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to distract her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears; a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie; the clamors of conscience sank into faint whispers.
The past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant entered, and said:
“There is a man below who wishes to speak with Madame.”
CHAPTER LII
Half reclining upon a sofa, Mme. Blanche was listening to a new book which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, and she did not even raise her head as the servant delivered his message.
“A man?” she asked, carelessly; “what man?”
She was expecting no one; it must be one of the laborers employed by Martial.
“I cannot inform Madame,” replied the servant. “He is quite a young man; is dressed like a peasant, and is perhaps, seeking a place.”
“It is probably the marquis whom he desires to see.”
“Madame will excuse me, but he said particularly that he desired to speak to her.”
“Ask his name and his business, then. Go on, aunt,” she added; “we have been interrupted in the most interesting portion.”
But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page when the servant reappeared.
“The man says Madame will understand his business when she hears his name.”
“And his name?”
“Chupin.”
It was as if a bomb-shell had exploded in the room.
Aunt Medea, with a shriek, dropped her book, and sank back, half fainting, in her chair.
Blanche sprang up with a face as colorless as her white cashmere peignoir, her eyes troubled, her lips trembling.
“Chupin!” she repeated, as if she hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him correctly; “Chupin!”
Then angrily:
“Tell this man that I will not see him, I will not see him, do you hear?”
But before the servant had time to bow respectfully and retire, the young marquise changed her mind.
“One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him. Bring him up.”
The servant withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in silent consternation.
“It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche, at last.
“Undoubtedly; but what does he desire?”
“Money, probably.” Aunt Medea lifted her eyes to heaven.
“God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings with his father! Blessed Jesus! what if he should know.”
“You are not going to despair in advance! We shall know all in a few moments. Pray be calm. Turn your back to us; look out into the street; do not let him see your face. But why is he so long in coming?”
Blanche was not deceived. It was Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret.
Since his arrival in Paris he had been running the streets from morning until evening, inquiring everywhere and of everybody the address of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. At last he discovered it; and he lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice.
He was now awaiting the result of his application at the entrance of the hotel, where he stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, saying:
“She consents to see you; follow me.”
Chupin obeyed; but the servant, greatly astonished, and on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in the hope of obtaining some explanation from this country youth.
“I do not say it to flatter you, my boy,” he remarked, “but your name produced a great effect upon madame.”
The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he felt on receiving this information.
“How does it happen that she knows you?” pursued the servant. “Are you both from the same place?”
“I am her foster-brother.”
The servant did not believe a word of this response; but they had reached the apartment of the marquise, he opened the door and ushered Chupin into the room.
The peasant had prepared a little story in advance, but he was so dazzled by the magnificence around him that he stood motionless with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His wonder was increased by a large mirror opposite the door, in which he could survey himself from head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the carpet, which he feared to crush beneath his heavy shoes.
After a moment, Mme. Blanche decided to break the silence.
“What do you wish?” she demanded.
With many circumlocutions Chupin explained that he had been obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of the numerous enemies he had there, that he had been unable to find his father’s hidden treasure, and that he was consequently without resources.
“Enough!” interrupted Mme. Blanche. Then in a manner not in the least friendly, she continued: “I do not understand why you should apply to me. You and all the rest of your family have anything but an enviable reputation in Sairmeuse; still, as you are from that part of the country, I am willing to aid you a little on condition that you do not apply to me again.”
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.
“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.
His head was bowed upon his breast; he held an open letter in his hand.
He looked up when his wife entered the room, and she saw a tear in his eye.
“What has happened?” she faltered.
Martial did not remark her emotion.
“My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied.
“The Duc de Sairmeuse! My God! how did it happen?”
“He was thrown from his horse, in the forest, near the Sanguille rocks.”
“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”
“Yes, it is the very place.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that his father had but little love for him. He was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death.
“From this letter which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I judge that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I—I——”
“Well?”
“I believe he was murdered.”
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.
“Murdered!” she whispered.
“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. The murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de Courtornieu——”
“Jean Lacheneur!”
Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.
“And you will not denounce him? You will not demand justice?”
Martial’s face grew more and more gloomy.
“What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no material proofs to give, and justice demands incontestable evidence.”
Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he said, despondently:
“The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they have sown. The blood of murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes.”
Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had he intended his words for her, he would not have expressed himself differently.
“Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy revery, “Martial.”
He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, he continued:
“These Lacheneurs were happy and honored before our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. We did not understand this; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a fault for which we must atone. Who knows but, in Jean Lacheneur’s place, I should have done what he has done?”
He was silent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed:
“I know Jean Lacheneur. I alone can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach. And no precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt, I know not; but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever threatens our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.”
Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room.
At last he paused before his wife.
“I have just ordered post-horses. You will excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once. I shall not be absent more than a week.”
He departed from Paris a few hours later, and Blanche was left a prey to the most intolerable anxiety. She suffered more now than during the days that immediately followed her crime. It was not against phantoms she was obliged to protect herself now; Chupin existed, and his voice, even if it were not as terrible as the voice of conscience, might make itself heard at any moment.
If she had known where to find him, she would have gone to him, and endeavored, by the payment of a large sum of money, to persuade him to leave France.
But Chupin had left the hotel without giving her his address.
The gloomy apprehension expressed by Martial increased the fears of the young marquise. The mere sound of the name Lacheneur made her shrink with terror. She could not rid herself of the idea that Jean Lacheneur suspected her guilt, and that he was watching her.
Her wish to find Marie-Anne’s infant was stronger than ever.
It seemed to her that the child might be a protection to her some day. But where could she find an agent in whom she could confide?
At last she remembered that she had heard her father speak of a detective by the name of Chelteux, an exceedingly shrewd fellow, capable of anything, even honesty if he were well paid.
The man was really a miserable wretch, one of Fouche’s vilest instruments, who had served and betrayed all parties, and who, at last, had been convicted of perjury, but had somehow managed to escape punishment.
After his dismissal from the police-force, Chelteux founded a bureau of private information.
After several inquiries, Mme. Blanche discovered that he lived in the Place Dauphine; and she determined to take advantage of her husband’s absence to pay the detective a visit.
One morning she donned her simplest dress, and, accompanied by Aunt Medea, repaired to the house of Chelteux.
He was then, about thirty-four years of age, a man of medium height, of inoffensive mien, and who affected an unvarying good-humor.
He invited his clients into a nicely furnished drawing-room, and Mme. Blanche at once began telling him that she was married, and living in the Rue Saint-Denis, that one of her sisters, who had lately died, had been guilty of an indiscretion, and that she was ready to make any sacrifice to find this sister’s child, etc., etc. A long story, which she had prepared in advance, and which sounded very plausible.
Chelteux did not believe a word of it, however; for, as soon as it was ended, he tapped her familiarly on the shoulder, and said:
“In short, my dear, we have had our little escapades before our marriage.”
She shrank back as if from some venomous reptile.
To be treated thus! she—a Courtornieu—Duchesse de Sairmeuse!
“I think you are laboring under a wrong impression,” she said, haughtily.
He made haste to apologize; but while listening to further details given him by the young lady, he thought:
“What an eye! what a voice!—they are not suited to a denizen of the Saint-Denis!”
His suspicions were confirmed by the reward of twenty thousand francs, which Mme. Blanche imprudently promised him in case of success, and by the five hundred francs which she paid in advance.
“And where shall I have the honor of addressing my communications to you, Madame?” he inquired.
“Nowhere,” replied the young lady. “I shall be passing here from time to time, and I will call.”
When they left the house, Chelteux followed them.
“For once,” he thought, “I believe that fortune smiles upon me.”
To discover the name and rank of his new clients was but child’s play to Fouche’s former pupil.
His task was all the easier since they had no suspicion whatever of his designs. Mme. Blanche, who had heard his powers of discernment so highly praised, was confident of success.
All the way back to the hotel she was congratulating herself upon the step she had taken.
“In less than a month,” she said to Aunt Medea, “we shall have the child; and it will be a protection to us.”
But the following week she realized the extent of her imprudence. On visiting Chelteux again, she was received with such marks of respect that she saw at once she was known.
She made an attempt to deceive him, but the detective checked her.
“First of all,” he said, with a good-humored smile, “I ascertain the identity of the persons who honor me with their confidence. It is a proof of my ability, which I give, gratis. But Madame need have no fears. I am discreet by nature and by profession. Many ladies of the highest ranks are in the position of Madame la Duchesse!”
So Chelteux still believed that the Duchesse de Sairmeuse was searching for her own child.
She did not try to convince him to the contrary. It was better that he should believe this than suspect the truth.
The condition of Mme. Blanche was now truly pitiable. She found herself entangled in a net, and each movement far from freeing her, tightened the meshes around her.
Three persons knew the secret that threatened her life and honor. Under these circumstances, how could she hope to keep that secret inviolate? She was, moreover, at the mercy of three unscrupulous masters; and before a word, or a gesture, or a look from them, her haughty spirit was compelled to bow in meek subservience.
And her time was no longer at her own disposal. Martial had returned; and they had taken up their abode at the Hotel de Sairmeuse.
The young duchess was now compelled to live under the scrutiny of fifty servants—of fifty enemies, more or less, interested in watching her, in criticising her every act, and in discovering her inmost thoughts.
Aunt Medea, it is true, was of great assistance to her. Blanche purchased a dress for her, whenever she purchased one for herself, took her about with her on all occasions, and the humble relative expressed her satisfaction in the most enthusiastic terms, and declared her willingness to do anything for her benefactress.
Nor did Chelteux give Mme. Blanche much more annoyance. Every three months he presented a memorandum of the expenses of investigations, which usually amounted to about ten thousand francs; and so long as she paid him it was plain that he would be silent.
He had given her to understand, however, that he should expect an annuity of twenty-four thousand francs; and once, when Mme. Blanche remarked that he must abandon the search, if nothing had been discovered at the end of two years:
“Never,” he replied: “I shall continue the search as long as I live.” But Chupin, unfortunately, remained; and he was a constant terror.
She had been compelled to give him twenty thousand francs, to begin with.
He declared that his younger brother had come to Paris in pursuit of him, accusing him of having stolen their father’s hoard, and demanding his share with his dagger in his hand.
There had been a battle, and it was with a head bound up in a blood-stained linen, that Chupin made his appearance before Mme. Blanche.
“Give me the sum that the old man buried, and I will allow my brother to think that I had stolen it. It is not very pleasant to be regarded as a thief, when one is an honest man, but I will bear it for your sake. If you refuse, I shall be compelled to tell him where I have obtained my money and how.”
If he possessed all the vices, depravity, and coldblooded perversity of his father, this wretch had inherited neither his intelligence nor his finesse.
Instead of taking the precautions which his interest required, he seemed to find a brutal pleasure in compromising the duchess.
He was a constant visitor at the Hotel de Sairmeuse. He came and went at all hours, morning, noon, and night, without troubling himself in the least about Martial.
And the servants were amazed to see their haughty mistress unhesitatingly leave everything at the call of this suspicious-looking character, who smelled so strongly of tobacco and vile brandy.
One evening, while a grand entertainment was in progress at the Hotel de Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, half drunk, and imperiously ordered the servants to go and tell Mme. Blanche that he was there, and that he was waiting for her.
She hastened to him in her magnificent evening-dress, her face white with rage and shame beneath her tiara of diamonds. And when, in her exasperation, she refused to give the wretch what he demanded:
“That is to say, I am to starve while you are revelling here!” he exclaimed. “I am not such a fool. Give me money, and instantly, or I will tell all I know here and now!”
What could she do? She was obliged to yield, as she had always done before.
And yet he grew more and more insatiable every day. Money remained in his pockets no longer than water remains in a sieve. But he did not think of elevating his vices to the proportions of the fortune which he squandered. He did not even provide himself with decent clothing; from his appearance one would have supposed him a beggar, and his companions were the vilest and most degraded of beings.
One night he was arrested in a low den, and the police, surprised at seeing so much gold in the possession of such a beggarly looking wretch, accused him of being a thief. He mentioned the name of the Duchesse de Sairmeuse.
An inspector of the police presented himself at the Hotel de Sairmeuse the following morning. Martial, fortunately, was in Vienna at the time.
And Mme. Blanche was forced to undergo the terrible humiliation of confessing that she had given a large sum of money to this man, whose family she had known, and who, she added, had once rendered her an important service.
Sometimes her tormentor changed his tactics.
For example, he declared that he disliked to come to the Hotel de Sairmeuse, that the servants treated him as if he were a mendicant, that after this he would write.
And in a day or two there would come a letter bidding her bring such a sum, to such a place, at such an hour.
And the proud duchess was always punctual at the rendezvous.
There was constantly some new invention, as if he found an intense delight in proving his power and in abusing it.
He had met, Heaven knows where! a certain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy, and although she was much older than himself, he wished to marry her. Mme. Blanche paid for the wedding-feast.
Again he announced his desire of establishing himself in business, having resolved, he said, to live by his own exertions. He purchased the stock of a wine merchant, which the duchess paid for, and which he drank in no time.
His wife gave birth to a child, and Mme. de Sairmeuse must pay for the baptism as she had paid for the wedding, only too happy that Chupin did not require her to stand as godmother to little Polyte. He had entertained this idea at first.
On two occasions Mme. Blanche accompanied her husband to Vienna and to London, whither he went charged with important diplomatic missions. She remained three years in foreign lands.
Each week during all that time she received one letter, at least, from Chupin.
Ah! many a time she envied the lot of her victim! What was Marie-Anne’s death compared with the life she led?
Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie-Anne’s by minutes; and she said to herself, again and again, that the torture of poison could not be as intolerable as her agony.