Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances.

Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them.  It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur.

Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind.  Turning to her father’s valet, she said: 

“It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been killed.”

“How do you know this?”

“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head.  I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.”

The worthy valet de chambre was certainly more agitated than the daughter.

“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright.  How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”

The servant shook his head.

“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man—­Chupin.”

“No, it could not have been he.”

“Ah!  I am almost sure of it.  There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.”

Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent.  Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from him.

She was silent.  In a few moments the physician arrived.

He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face—­he was almost compelled to use force to do it—­examined the patient with evident anxiety, then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once.  All was bustle and confusion.

When the physician left the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him.

“Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look.

With considerable hesitation, he replied: 

“People sometimes recover from such attacks.”

It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost prestige was now afforded her.  If she desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must improvise for herself an entirely different reputation.  If she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense.  Such an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once.

Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching and delicate attentions upon a sick father.  It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment.  It was only with great difficulty that they could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the sick-room.