“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow. But what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize him! He is always busy now. He is up at cock-crow and he goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he receives all who call upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove in with him. He has reinstated five or six of them, and he has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.” He paused and for more than a minute Blanche was silent. She was confused and agitated by the question that rose to her lips. What humiliation! But she conquered her embarrassment, and turning away her head to hide her crimson face, she said: “But he certainly has a mistress!” Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. “Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an audacious familiarity that made Blanche shudder. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie-Anne?” Blanche felt that denial was useless. “Yes,” she answered; “it is Marie-Anne that I mean.” “Ah, well! she has been neither seen nor heard from. She must have fled with another of her lovers, Maurice d’Escorval.” “You are mistaken.” “Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs only Jean remains, and he lives like the vagabond that he is, by poaching and stealing. Day and night he rambles through the woods with his gun on his shoulder. He is frightful to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me, my account will be settled then and there.” Blanche turned pale. It was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis then. She did not doubt it in the least. “Very well!” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, probably. I must know. Endeavor to discover her retreat before Monday, when I will meet you here again.” “I will try,” Chupin answered. He did indeed try; he exerted all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was fettered by the precautions which he took against Balstain and against Jean Lacheneur. On the other hand, no one in the neighborhood would have consented to give him the least information. “Still no news!” he said to Mme. Blanche at each interview. But she would not yield. Jealousy will not yield even to evidence. Blanche had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, hence it must be so, all proofs to the contrary notwithstanding. But one morning she found her spy jubilant. “Good news!” he cried, as soon as he saw her; “we have caught the minx at last.” CHAPTER XLIII It was the second day after Marie-Anne’s installation at the Borderie. That event was the general topic of conversation; and Chanlouineau’s will was the subject of countless comments.