The old poacher went away, whistling quite reassured; but he was wrong.  The lady’s generosity was only intended to allay his suspicions.

And why should she not suppose he had betrayed her—­this miserable wretch, who made it his business to betray others?  What reason had she for placing any confidence in his reports?  She paid him!  Others, by paying him more, would certainly have the preference!

But how could she ascertain what she wished to know?  Ah! she saw but one way—­a very disagreeable, but a sure way.  She, herself, would play the spy.

This idea took such possession of her mind that, after dinner was concluded, and twilight had enveloped the earth in a mantle of gray, she summoned Aunt Medea.

“Get your cloak, quickly, aunt,” she commanded.  “I am going for a walk, and you must accompany me.”

Aunt Medea extended her hand to the bell-rope, but her niece stopped her.

“You will dispense with the services of your maid,” said she.  “I do not wish anyone in the chateau to know that we have gone out.”

“Are we going alone?”

“Alone.”

“Alone, and on foot, at night——­”

“I am in a hurry, aunt,” interrupted Blanche, “and I am waiting for you.”

In the twinkling of an eye Aunt Medea was ready.

The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at dinner, and Blanche and Aunt Medea reached the little gate leading from the garden into the open fields without being observed.

“Good heavens!  Where are we going?” groaned Aunt Medea.

“What is that to you?  Come!”

Mme. Blanche was going to the Borderie.

She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle, but she preferred to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely to meet someone.

The night was still, but very dark, and the progress of the two women was often retarded by hedges and ditches.  Twice Blanche lost her way.  Again and again, Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough ground, and bruised herself against the stones; she groaned, she almost wept, but her terrible niece was pitiless.

“Come!” she said, “or I will leave you to find your way as best you can.”

And the poor dependent struggled on.

At last, after a tramp of more than an hour, Blanche ventured to breathe.  She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken.

“Are we at our journey’s end?” inquired Aunt Medea, timidly.

“Yes, but be quiet.  Remain where you are, I wish to look about a little.”

“What! you are leaving me alone?  Blanche, I entreat you!  What are you going to do? Mon Dieu! you frighten me.  I am afraid, Blanche!”

But her niece had gone.  She was exploring the grove, seeking Chupin.  She did not find him.

“I knew the wretch was deceiving me,” she muttered through her set teeth.  “Who knows but Martial and Marie-Anne are there in that house now, mocking me, and laughing at my credulity?”