She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible. Blanche frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, and endeavoured to arouse her. “To whom have you confided your child?” she repeated; “to whom? Marie-Anne--a word more--a single word--a name, Marie-Anne!” The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death-rattle already sounded in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her frame; she slid down from the chair, and fell full length upon the floor. Marie-Anne was dead--dead, and she had not disclosed the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she had entrusted her child. She was dead, and the terrified murderess stood in the middle of the room as rigid and motionless as a statue. It seemed to her that madness--a madness like that which had stricken her father--was working in her brain. She forgot everything; she forgot that some one was expected at midnight; that time was flying, and that she would surely be discovered if she did not fly. But the man who had entered the house when she cried for help was watching over her. As soon as he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her last, he pushed against the door, and thrust his leering face into the room. “Chupin!” faltered Blanche. “In the flesh,” he responded. “This was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha! The business riled your stomach a little; but nonsense! that will soon pass off. But we must not dawdle here: some one may come in. Let us make haste.” Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring the passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step over her victim’s lifeless form. She had not courage to do so, and recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was intoxicated with joy. He need have no fears for the future now; for Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains--complicity in crime. He saw himself on the threshold of a life of constant revelry. All remorse anent Lacheneur’s betrayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed, lodged, and clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of servants. While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his mind, the cool night air was reviving the terror-stricken Marchioness de Sairmeuse. She intimated that she should prefer to walk, and accordingly Chupin deposited her on her feet some twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea was already with them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its master while the latter goes into a house. She had instinctively followed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying her out of the cottage. “We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I will lead the way.” And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened towards the grove. “Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child,” he remarked, as they hurried on. “She pretended to be such a saint! But where the deuce has she placed it?”