had done with the great bulk of the 20,000 francs in gold paid to him by the Duke de Sairmeuse. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but they tried in vain to wrest his secret from him. All the people in the neighbourhood were aware of this state of affairs, and one day when the head gardener at Courtornieu was telling the story to two of his assistants, Blanche, seated on a bench near by, chanced to overhear him. “Ah, he’s an old scoundrel!” said the gardener indignantly. “And he ought to be at the galleys, instead of at large among respectable people.” At that same moment the voice of hatred was whispering to Blanche, “That’s the man to serve your purpose.” But how an opportunity was to be found to confer with him? she wondered, being too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his house. However, she remembered that he occasionally went shooting in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might be possible for her to meet him there. “It will only require,” thought she, “a little perseverance and a few long walks.” But, in point of fact, it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperone, two long weeks of almost constant perambulation. “Another freak!” groaned the impoverished relative, overcome with fatigue; “my niece is certainly crazy!” However, at last, one lovely afternoon in May, Blanche came across the object of her quest. She chanced to be standing in a sequestered nook nigh the mere, situated in the depths of the forest of Courtornieu, when she perceived Chupin, tramping sullenly along with his gun in his hand, and glancing suspiciously on either side. Not that he feared either game-keeper or judicial proceedings, but go wherever he would, still and ever he fancied he could see Balstain the Piedmontese innkeeper, walking in his shadow and brandishing the terrible knife, which, by St. Jean-de-Coche, he had consecrated to his vengeance. Seeing Blanche in turn, the old rascal would have fled into the cover, but before he could do so she had called to him: “Eh, Father Chupin!” He hesitated for a moment, then paused, dropped his gun, and waited. Aunt Medea was pale with fright. “Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “what are you calling that terrible man for?” “I want to speak to him.” “What Blanche, do you dare----” “I must!” “No, I can’t allow it. I must not----” “There, that’s enough!” said Blanche, with one of those imperious glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite enough.” Then, in gentler tones: “I _must_ talk with this man,” she added. “And you, Aunt Medea, must remain some little distance off. Keep a close watch on every side, and if you see any one approaching, call me at once.” Aunt Medea, submissive as was her wont, immediately obeyed; and Blanche walked straight towards the old poacher. “Well, my good Father Chupin, and what sort of sport have you had to-day?” she began, directly she was a few steps from him.