As he spoke the servant tapped his forehead with the end of his forefinger.

“You understand me, Mademoiselle—­when he returned, reason had fled!”

Without waiting for her terrified aunt, Blanche darted in the direction of the chateau.

“How is the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant whom she met.

“He is in his room on the bed; he is more quiet now.”

She had already reached his room.  He was seated upon the bed, and two servants were watching his every movement.  His face was livid, and a white foam had gathered upon his lips.  Still, he recognized his daughter.

“Here you are,” said he.  “I was waiting for you.”

She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, although she was neither tender-hearted nor impressionable.

“My father!” she faltered.  “Good heavens! what has happened?”

He uttered a discordant laugh.

“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him.  Do you doubt me?  I tell you that I saw the wretch.  I know him well; have I not seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month—­for it never leaves me.  I saw him.  It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.  You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees.  I was returning slowly, thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to bar my passage.

“‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’  He was armed with a gun; he fired——­”

The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach him.  For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and persistent look that is said to exercise such power over those who have lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said, almost roughly: 

“Control yourself, father.  You are the victim of an hallucination.  It is impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.”

Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name.

But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative.

“Was I dreaming?” he continued.  “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who confronted me.  I am sure of it, and the proof is, that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me.  It happened during the Reign of Terror.  He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with the emigres.  My property had been confiscated; and every moment I was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house.  He concealed me; he furnished me with a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head—­I sentenced him to death.  That is the reason why I have seen him again.  I must rejoin him; he told me so—­I am a dying man!”

He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and, lying there, rigid and motionless, one might readily have supposed it was a corpse, whose outlines could be vaguely discerned through the bed-coverings.