“I shall find it,” replied Blanche. “Hum! that is easier said than done,” quoth the old poacher, thoughtfully. Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the darkness. In the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his hold on Blanche’s arm, and assumed an attitude of defence. The precaution was fruitless; for at the same moment a man concealed among the trees bounded upon him from behind, and, plunging a knife four times into his writhing body, exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer have to eat with my fingers!” “Balstain! the innkeeper!” groaned the wounded man, sinking to the ground. Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt Medea for once in her life had some energy in her fear. “Come!” she shrieked, dragging her niece away “Come--he is dead!” Not quite, for the old traitor had sufficient strength remaining to crawl home and knock at the door. His wife and youngest boy were sleeping soundly, and it was his eldest son, who had just returned home, who opened the door. Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, the young man thought he was intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house, but the old poacher begged him to desist. “Don’t touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me! but listen: Lacheneur’s daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool!” And then he died without being able to tell his family where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood. XXXIII. It will be recollected that of all those who witnessed the Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall over the precipice below the citadel of Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only one who did not despair. He set about his task with more than courage, with a reverent faith in the protection of providence, remembering Ambroise Pare’s sublime phrase--”I dress the wound--God heals it.” That he was right to hope was conclusively shown by the fact that after six months sojourn in Father Poignot’s house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp about with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of recovery, however, when it was essential he should take some little exercise, he was seriously inconvenienced by the diminutive proportions of Poignot’s loft, so that he welcomed with intense delight the prospect of taking up his abode at the Borderie with Marie-Anne; and when indeed the abbe fixed the day for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive, as a schoolboy is for the holidays. “I am suffocating here,” he said to his wife, “literally suffocating. The time passes so slowly. When will the happy day come!”