Blanche was reclining on a sofa listening to a new book which Aunt Medea
was reading aloud, and she did not even raise her head as the servant
delivered his message. “A man?” she said, carelessly; “what man?” She
was expecting no one; it must be one of the assistants or overseers
employed by Martial.
“I can’t inform madame who he is,” replied the servant. “He is quite
young; he is dressed like a peasant, and is, perhaps, seeking a place.”
“It is probably the marquis he wishes to see.”
“Madame will excuse me, but he particularly said that he wished to speak
with her.”
“Ask his name and business, then. Go on, aunt,” she added: “we have
been interrupted in the most interesting part.”
But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page before the servant
returned. “The man says madame will understand his business when she
hears his name.”
“And his name?”
“Chupin.”
It seemed as if a bomb-shell had burst into the room. Aunt Medea dropped
her book with a shriek, and sank back, half fainting in her chair.
Blanche sprang up with a face as colourless as her white cashmere
morning dress, her eyes dazed, and her lips trembling. “Chupin,” she
repeated, as if she almost hoped the servant would tell her she had not
understood him correctly; “Chupin!” Then angrily, she added: “Tell this
man I won’t see him, I won’t see him, do you hear?” But before the
servant had time to bow and retire, the young marchioness changed her
mind. “One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him.
Bring him up.”
The servant then withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in
silent consternation. “It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered
Blanche at last.
“No doubt; but what does he desire.”
“Money, probably.”
Aunt Medea raised her eyes to heaven. “God grant that he knows nothing
of your meetings with his father!” said she.
“You are not going to despair in advance, are you, aunt? We shall know
everything in a few minutes. Pray remain calm. Turn your back to us;
look out of the window into the street and don’t let him see your face.”
Blanche was not deceived. This unexpected visitor was indeed Chupin’s
eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret.
Since his arrival in Paris, the young fellow had been running in every
direction, inquiring everywhere and of everybody for the Marquis de
Sairmeuse’s address. At last he obtained it; and he lost no time in
presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice. He was now awaiting the result
of his application at the entrance down-stairs where he stood whistling,
with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, and bade him
follow. Chupin obeyed; but the servant, who was on fire with curiosity,
loitered by the way in hope of obtaining from this country youth some
explanation of the surprise, not to say fright with which Madame de
Sairmeuse had greeted the mention of his name. “I don’t say it to
flatter you, my boy,” he remarked, “but your name produced a great
effect on madame.” The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he
felt on receiving this information. “How does she happen to know you?”
continued the servant. “Are you both from the same place?”
“I am her foster-brother.”
The servant did not believe this reply for a moment, and as they had now
reached the marchioness’s apartment, he opened the door and ushered
Chupin into the room. The latter had prepared a little story beforehand,
but he was so dazzled by the magnificence around him that for a moment
he stood motionless with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His wonder was
increased by a large mirror opposite the door, in which he could survey
himself from head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the carpet,
which he feared to crush with his heavy shoes.
After a moment, Blanche decided to break the silence. “What do you want
of me,” she asked.
In a rambling fashion young Chupin then explained that he had been
obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of the numerous enemies he had
there, that he had been unable to find his father’s hidden treasure, and
that he was consequently without resources.
“That’ll do,” interrupted Blanche, and then in far from a friendly
manner, she remarked: “I don’t at all understand why you should apply to
me. You and all the rest of your family have anything but an enviable
reputation at Sairmeuse; still, as you are from that part of the
country, I am willing to aid you a little on condition you don’t apply
to me again.”
Chupin listened to this homily with a half cringing, half impudent air;
but when Blanche had finished he raised his head, and proudly said: “I
don’t ask for alms.”
“What do you ask for, then?”
“My dues.”
Blanche’s heart sank, and yet she had courage enough to glance
disdainfully at Chupin, and reply: “What! do I owe you anything?”
“You don’t owe me anything personally, madame; but you owe a heavy debt
to my deceased father. Whose service did he perish in? Poor old man! he
loved you devotedly. His last words were about you. ‘A terrible thing
has just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The young
marchioness hated Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. If it hadn’t
been for me she would have been lost. I am about to die, so let the
whole blame rest on me; for it won’t hurt me when I’m under the sod, and
it will save the young lady. And by-and-by she will reward you; so that
as long as you keep the secret you will want for nothing.’” Great as was
young Chupin’s impudence he paused abruptly, amazed by the air of
perfect composure with which Blanche listened to him. In face of such
wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his father’s
story.
The marchioness’s self possession was indeed surprising. She felt that
if she once yielded she would always be at this wretch’s mercy, as she
already was at Aunt Medea’s. “In other words,” said she, calmly, “you
accuse me of having murdered Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to
denounce me if I don’t yield to your demands.” Chupin nodded his head in
acquiescence. “Very well!” added Blanche; “since that’s the case you may
go.”
It seemed, indeed, that by audacity she might win this dangerous game on
which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing
before her undecided what course to pursue, when Aunt Medea, who was
listening by the window, turned in affright, exclaiming, “Blanche! your
husband--Martial! He is coming!”
The game was lost. Blanche fancied her husband entering and finding
Chupin there, conversing with him, and so discovering everything! Her
brain whirled; she yielded. Hastily thrusting her purse into Chupin’s
hand, she dragged him through an inner door 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 returned to the
drawing-room, she found Martial there. He was gazing on the ground, and
held an open letter in his hand. But he raised his head when his wife
entered the room, and she could detect signs of great emotion in his
features. “What has happened?” she faltered.
Martial did not remark her troubled manner. “My father is dead,
Blanche,” he replied.
“The Duke de Sairmeuse! Good heavens! how did it happen?”
“He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.”
“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”
“Yes, the very place.”
There was a moment’s silence. Martial’s affection for his father had not
been very deep, and he was well aware that the duke had but little love
for him. Hence he was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing
of his death. “From this letter, which was forwarded by a messenger from
Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I gather that everybody believes it to have
been an accident; but I--I----”
“Well?”
“I believe he was murdered.”
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.
“Murder!” she whispered.
“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. My
father’s murderer is the same man who tried to kill the Marquis de
Courtornieu----”
“Jean Lacheneur!”
Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.
“And will you not denounce him? Will you not demand justice?”
Martial’s face grew gloomy. “What good would it do?” he replied. “I have
no material proofs to furnish, and justice requires unimpeachable
evidence.” Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than
addressing his wife, he added, despondingly, “The Duke de Sairmeuse and
the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they sowed. The blood of
murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later, the
guilty must expiate their crimes.”
Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had her
husband intended his words for her, he would scarcely have expressed
himself differently. “Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his
gloomy reverie; “Martial!”
But he did not seem to hear her, and it was in the same tone that he
continued; “These Lacheneurs were happy and honoured before our arrival
at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted
to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It
was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. But we did
not understand it; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a
fault for which we must atone. Who knows but what in Jean Lacheneur’s
place I should have done exactly what he has done?” He was again silent
for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes
enable one almost to read the future, he resumed: “I know Jean
Lacheneur. I can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the
hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is very low,
but that matters little. We have everything to fear. Our millions form a
rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach. And no
precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel ourselves
secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt, I don’t know;
but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin
ever overtakes our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.”
Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word,
and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial’s
monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room. At last he paused
before his wife. “I have just ordered post-horses,” he said. “You will
excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once,
but I shall not be absent more than a week.”
He left Paris a few hours later, and Blanche became a prey to the most
intolerable anxiety. She suffered more than she had done during the days
that immediately followed her crime. It was not against phantoms that
she had to shield herself now; Chupin existed, and his voice, even if it
were not as terrible as the voice of conscience, might make itself heard
at any moment. If she had known where to find him, she would have gone
to him, and endeavoured, by the payment of a large sum of money, to
persuade him to leave France. But he had left the hotel without giving
her his address. Then again Martial’s gloomy apprehensions combined to
increase her fears, and the mere thought of Jean Lacheneur made her
shrink with terror. She could not rid herself of the idea that Jean
suspected her guilt, and was watching her, waiting for revenge. Her wish
to find Marie-Anne’s child now became stronger than ever; it seemed to
her that the abandoned infant might be a protection to her some day.
However, where could she find an agent in whom she could confide? At
last she remembered that she had heard her father speak of a detective
named Chefteux as an exceedingly shrewd fellow, capable of anything,
even of honesty if he were well paid. This man was really a perfect
scoundrel, one of Fouche’s vilest instruments, who had served and
betrayed all parties, and who, at last, after the most barefaced
perjury, had been dismissed from the police force. He had then
established a private enquiry office, and after some little search
Blanche ascertained that he lived in the Place Dauphine. One morning,
taking advantage of her husband’s absence, she donned her simplest
dress, and, accompanied by Aunt Medea, repaired to Chefteux’s residence.
He proved to be a middle-aged man of medium height and inoffensive mien,
and he cleverly affected an air of good humour. He ushered his client
into a neatly furnished drawing-room, and Blanche at once told him that
she was a married woman; that she lived with her husband in the Rue St.
Denis; and that one of her sisters who had lately died had been led
astray by a man who had disappeared. A child was living, however, whom
she was very anxious to find. In short, she narrated an elaborate story
which she had prepared in advance, and which, after all, sounded very
plausible. Chefteux, however, did not believe a word of it; for as soon
as it was finished he tapped Blanche familiarly on the shoulder, and
remarked: “In short, my dear, we had our little escapades before our
marriage.”
Blanche shrank back as if some venomous reptile had touched her. To be
treated in this fashion! she--a Courtornieu, now Duchess de Sairmeuse!
“I think you are labouring under a wrong impression,” she haughtily
replied.
He made haste to apologize; but while listening to the further details
he asked for, he could not help remarking to himself; “What eyes! what a
voice!--they can’t belong to a denizen of the Rue Saint-Denis!” His
suspicions were confirmed by the reward of twenty thousand francs, which
Blanche imprudently promised him in case of success, and by the five
hundred francs which she paid in advance. “And where shall I have the
honour of writing to you, madame?” he inquired.
“Nowhere,” replied Blanche. “I shall be passing by here from time to
time, and I will call.”
When the two women left the house, Chefteux followed them. “For once,”
thought he, “I believe that fortune smiles on me.” To discover his new
client’s name and rank was but child’s play for Fouche’s former pupil;
and indeed his task was all the easier since they had no suspicion
whatever of his designs.
Blanche, who had heard his powers of discernment so highly praised, was
confident of success, and all the way back to the hotel she was
congratulating herself on the step she had taken. “In less than a
month,” she said to Aunt Medea, “we shall have the child; and it will be
a protection to us.”
But the following week she realised the extent of her imprudence. On
visiting Chefteux again, she was received with such marks of respect
that she at once saw she was known. Still, she would have made another
attempt to deceive the detective, but he checked her. “First of all,” he
said, with a good-humoured smile, “I ascertain the identity of the
persons who honour me with their confidence. It is a proof of my
ability, which I give gratis. But madame need have no fears. I am
discreet by nature and by profession. Many ladies of the highest rank
are in the position of Madame Duchesse.”
So Chefteux still believed that the Duchess de Sairmeuse was searching
for her own child. She did not try to convince him to the contrary, for
it was better he should believe this than suspect the truth.
Blanche’s position was now truly pitiable. She found herself entangled
in a net, and each movement, far from freeing her, tightened the meshes
round her. Three persons were acquainted with the secret which
threatened her life and honour; and under these circumstances, how could
she hope to prevent it from becoming more widely known? She was,
moreover, at the mercy of three unscrupulous masters; and at a word, a
gesture, or a look from them, her haughty spirit must bow in meek
subservience. And her time, moreover, was no longer at her own disposal,
for Martial had returned, and they had taken up their abode at the
Hotel de Sairmeuse, where the young duchess was compelled to live under
the scrutiny of fifty servants, more or less interested in watching her,
in criticising her acts, and discovering her thoughts. Aunt Medea, it is
true, was of great assistance. Blanche purchased a new dress for her
whenever she bought one for herself, took her about with her on all
occasions, and the dependent relative expressed her satisfaction in the
most enthusiastic terms, declaring her willingness to do anything for
her benefactress. Nor did Chefteux give Blanche much more annoyance.
Every three months he presented a memorandum of investigation expenses,
which usually amounted to some ten thousand francs; and so long as she
paid him it was plain he would be silent. He had given her to
understand, however, that he should expect an annuity of twenty-four
thousand francs; and once, when Blanche remarked that he must abandon
the search if nothing had been discovered at the end of two years.
“Never,” replied he; “I shall continue the search as long as I live.”
In addition to these two there was Chupin, who proved a constant terror.
Blanche had been compelled to give him twenty thousand francs, to begin
with. He declared that his younger brother had come to Paris in pursuit
of him, accusing him of having stolen their father’s hoard, and
demanding his share with his knife in his hand. There had been a battle,
and it was with his head bound up in blood-stained linen, that Chupin
made his appearance before Blanche. “Give me the sum that the old man
buried,” said he, “and I will allow my brother to think I stole it. It
is not very pleasant to be regarded as a thief, when one’s an honest
man, but I will bear it for your sake. If you refuse, however, I shall
be compelled to tell him where I’ve obtained my money, and how.”
Naturally enough Blanche complied with this demand, for how could she do
otherwise?
If her tormentor possessed all his father’s vices, depravity, and
cold-blooded perversity, he had certainly not inherited the parental
intelligence or tact. Instead of taking the precautions which his
interests required, he seemed to find a brutal pleasure in compromising
the duchess. He was a constant visitor at the Hotel de Sairmeuse. He
called at all hours, morning, noon, and night, without in the least
troubling himself about Martial. And the servants were amazed to see
their haughty mistress unhesitatingly leave everything to receive this
suspicious-looking character, who smelt so strongly of tobacco and
alcohol. One evening, while a grand entertainment was progressing at the
Hotel de Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, half drunk, and imperiously
ordered the servants to go and tell Madame Blanche that he was there,
waiting for her. She hastened to him in her magnificent evening dress,
her face white with rage and shame beneath her tiara of diamonds. And
when, in her exasperation, she refused to give the wretch what he
demanded: “So that’s to say I’m to starve while you are revelling here!”
he exclaimed. “I am not such a fool. Give me some money at once, or I
will tell everything I know on the spot!” What could she do? She was
obliged to yield, as she had always done before. And yet he grew more
and more insatiable every day. Money filtered through his fingers as
fast as water filters through a sieve. But he did not think of raising
his vices to the height of the fortune which he squandered. He did not
even provide himself with decent clothing, and from his appearance he
might have been supposed to be a penniless beggar. One night he was
arrested for fomenting a row in a low drinking den, and the police,
surprised at finding so much gold in such a beggarly-looking rascal’s
possession, accused him of being a thief. But he mentioned the name of
the Duchess de Sairmeuse, and on the following morning--Martial
fortunately was in Vienna at the time--an inspector of police presented
himself at the mansion in the Rue de Grenelle, and Blanche had to
undergo the humiliation of confessing that she had given a large sum of
money to this man, whose family she had known, and who, she added, had
once rendered her an important service.
Sometimes her pertinaceous tormentor changed his tactics. For instance,
he declared that he disliked coming to the Hotel de Sairmeuse, as the
servants treated him as if he were a mendicant; so whenever he required
money he would write. And effectively, every week or so, there came a
letter bidding Blanche bring such a sum, to such a place, and at such an
hour. And the proud duchess was always punctual at the rendezvous. Soon
afterwards the rascal met, heaven knows where! a certain Aspasie
Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy, and although she was much
older than himself, he wished to marry her. It was Blanche who paid for
the wedding feast. Then Chupin again announced his desire of
establishing himself in business, having resolved, he said, to live by
his own exertions. So he purchased a wine merchant’s stock, which the
duchess paid for, and which he drank in no time. Next, his wife gave
birth to a child, and Madame de Sairmeuse must pay for the baptism as
she had paid for the wedding, only too happy that Chupin did not require
her to stand as god-mother to little Polyte, which idea he had at first
entertained. On two occasions Blanche accompanied her husband to Vienna
and to London, where he went on important diplomatic missions. She
remained abroad during three years, and during all that time she
received at least one letter every week from Chupin. Ah! many a time she
envied her victim’s lot! What was Marie-Anne’s death compared with the
life she led! Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie-Anne’s by
minutes; and she said to herself, again and again, that the tortures of
poison could not be so intolerable as was her agony.