“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; have I not 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 returning slowly, thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to bar my passage. “‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired----” The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and persistent look that is said to exercise such power over those who have lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said, almost roughly: “Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.” Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name. But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative. “Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who confronted 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 every moment I was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house. He concealed me; he furnished me with a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head--I sentenced him to death. That is the reason why I have seen him again. I must rejoin him; he told me so--I am a dying man!” He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and, lying there, rigid and motionless, one might readily have supposed it was a corpse, whose outlines could be vaguely discerned through the bed-coverings. Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances. Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur. Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said: “It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?” “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been killed.” “How do you know this?” “In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.” The worthy _valet de chambre_ was certainly more agitated than the daughter.