“That is true.  I remember now.  Were you ever in the house?”

“More than a hundred times while Chanlouineau was living.”

“Explain the topography of the dwelling!”

Chupin’s eyes dilated to their widest extent.

“What do you wish?” he asked, not understanding in the least what was required of him.

“I mean, explain how the house is constructed.”

“Ah! now I understand.  The house is built upon an open space a little distance from the road.  Before it is a small garden, and behind it an orchard enclosed by a hedge.  Back of the orchard, to the right, are the vineyards; but on the left side is a small grove that shades a spring.”

He paused suddenly, and with a knowing wink, inquired: 

“But what use do you expect to make of all this information?”

“What does that matter to you?  How is the interior arranged?”

“There are three large square rooms on the ground floor, besides the kitchen and a small dark room.”

“Now, what is on the floor above?”

“I have never been up there.”

“How are the rooms furnished which you have visited?”

“Like those in any peasant’s house.”

Certainly no one was aware of the existence of the luxurious apartment which Chanlouineau had intended for Marie-Anne.  He had never spoken of it, and had even taken the greatest precautions to prevent anyone from seeing him transport the furniture.

“How many doors are there?” inquired Blanche.

“Three; one opening into the garden, another into the orchard, another communicating with the stables.  The staircase leading to the floor above is in the middle room.”

“And is Marie-Anne alone at the Borderie?”

“Entirely alone at present; but I suppose it will not be long before her brigand of a brother joins her.”

Mme. Blanche fell into a revery so deep and so prolonged that Chupin at last became impatient.

He ventured to touch her upon the arm, and, in a wily voice, he said:  “Well, what shall we decide?”

Blanche shuddered like a wounded man on hearing the terrible click of the surgeon’s instruments.

“My mind is not yet made up,” she replied.  “I must reflect—­I will see.”

And remarking the old poacher’s discontented face, she said, vehemently: 

“I will do nothing lightly.  Do not lose sight of Martial.  If he goes to the Borderie, and he will go there, I must be informed of it.  If he writes, and he will write, try to procure one of his letters.  I must see you every other day.  Do not rest!  Strive to deserve the good place I am reserving for you at Courtornieu.  Go!”

He departed without a word, but also without attempting to conceal his disappointment and chagrin.

“It serves you right for listening to a silly, affected woman,” he growled.  “She fills the air with her ravings; she wishes to kill everybody, to burn and destroy everything.  She only asks for an opportunity.  The occasion presents itself, and her heart fails her.  She draws back—­she is afraid!”