“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?” The servant shook his head. “I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man--Chupin.” “No, it could not have been he.” “Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.” Mme. 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 just parted from him. She was silent. In a few moments the physician arrived. He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face--he was almost compelled to use force to do it--examined the patient with evident anxiety, 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. All was bustle and confusion. When the physician left the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him. “Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look. With considerable hesitation, 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 _prestige_ was now afforded her. If she desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must improvise for herself an entirely different reputation. If she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once. Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching and delicate attentions upon a sick father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment. It was only with great difficulty that they could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the sick-room. But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slow the day appointed for the meeting was in coming! It came at last, however, and after intrusting her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place. “Speak!” said Mme. Blanche. “I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.” “What! you have not watched the marquis?”