“Then some one must have tried to murder my father,” murmured Blanche, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?” The valet shook his head. “I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling about here, a man named--Chupin.” “No, it couldn’t have been him.” “Ah! I am almost sure of it. There’s no one else in the neighbourhood capable of such an evil deed.” Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half-an-hour, and only just parted from him. So she remained silent. Soon afterwards the medical man arrived. He removed the coverlet from M. de Courtornieu’s face, being almost compelled to use force in doing so--examined the patient with evident anxiety, and then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. Immediately afterwards all was bustle and confusion in the house. When the physician left the sickroom, Blanche followed him. “Well, doctor?” she said, with a questioning look. The physician hesitated, but at last he replied; “People sometimes recover from such attacks.” It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost influence was now afforded her. If she was to fight successfully against Martial’s desertion, she must improvise a very different reputation to that which she at present enjoyed. Now, if she could only appear to the world in the character of a patient victim, and devoted daughter, public opinion, which, as she had recently discovered, was after all worth having, might yet turn in her favour. Such an occasion offering itself must not be neglected. Accordingly, she lavished the most touching and delicate attentions on her suffering father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty that she would be persuaded to sleep for a couple of hours, in an arm-chair in the sick-room. But while she was playing this self-imposed role of sister of charity with a talent worthy of a healthier mind, her chief thoughts were for Chupin. What was he doing at Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slowly the time passed! Would that Thursday which had been appointed for their meeting never come? It came at last, and momentarily entrusting her father to Aunt Medea’s care, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher was waiting for her at the appointed place near the lake. “Well, what have you got to tell me?” asked Blanche. “Next to nothing, I’m sorry to say.” “What! haven’t you been watching the marquis?”