“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the marquis, with a discordant laugh. “I met him! what, you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; haven’t I seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month--for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees. I was slowly walking home thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, holding out his arms as if to bar my passage. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired--” The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned up sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she looked at him attentively, with a cold magnetic glance, such as often exercises great influence over those who have lost their reason, then shaking him roughly by the arm, she exclaimed: “Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you can have seen the man you speak of.” Blanche knew only too well who was the man that M. de Courtornieu alluded to; but she dared not, could not, utter his name. However, the marquis had resumed his scarcely coherent narrative. “Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was Lacheneur, Lacheneur and none other who stood in front of me. I am sure of it, and the proof is that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with the _emigres_. My property had been confiscated; and I was every moment expecting to feel the executioner’s hand on my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me to his house. He concealed me; furnished me with a passport; saved my money, and saved my life as well; and yet--and yet I sentenced him to death. That’s the reason why I’ve seen him again. I must join him; he told me so--I’m a dying man!” With these words the marquis fell back on his pillows, pulled the bed clothes over his face, and lied there so rigid and motionless that one might readily have supposed the counterpane covered some inanimate corpse. Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances. Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. They could not understand why, under such circumstances, the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said: “Hasn’t some one tried to injure my father?” “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, some one most certainly has: a little more and Monsieur le Marquis would have been killed.” “How do you know that?” “In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and I found three holes in it, which could only have been made by bullets.”