is far more terrible than if his bullet had pierced my father’s heart. It is a similar revenge that I must have, and I will have it!” She saw Chupin every two or three days; sometimes going alone to the meeting-place, and at others in Aunt Medea’s company. The old poacher came punctually enough although he was beginning to tire of his task. “I am risking a great deal,” he growled. “I fancied that Jean Lacheneur would go and live at the Borderie with his sister. Then, I should have been safe. But no; the brigand continues to prowl about with his gun under his arm: and sleeps in the woods at night time. What game is he after? Why, Father Chupin, of course. On the other hand, I know that my rascally innkeeper over there has abandoned his inn and disappeared. Where is he? Hidden behind one of these trees, perhaps, in settling what part of my body he shall plunge his knife into.” What irritated the old poacher most of all was, that after two months watching he had come to the conclusion that whatever might have been Martial’s connection with Marie-Anne in former times, everything was now all over between them. But Blanche would not admit this. “Own that they are more cunning than you are, Father Chupin, but don’t tell me they don’t see each other,” she observed one day. “Cunning--and how?” was the retort. “Since I have been watching the marquis, he hasn’t once passed outside the fortifications of Montaignac, while, on the other hand, the postman at Sairmeuse, whom my wife cleverly questioned, declares that he hasn’t taken a single letter to the Borderie.” After this, if it had not been for the hope of a safe and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned his task altogether; as it was, he relaxed his surveillance considerably; coming to the rendezvous with Blanche, chiefly because he had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his expenses, on each occasion. And when Blanche asked him for an account of everything that Martial had done since their previous meeting, he generally told her anything that came into his head. However, one day, early in September, she interrupted him as he began the same old story, and, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, exclaimed: “Either you are betraying me, Father Chupin, or else you are a fool. Yesterday Martial and Marie-Anne spent a quarter of an hour together at the Croix d’Arcy.” XXXI.