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?”