For the officials were at Sairmeuse then, and she trembled. A mere nothing might divert suspicion from Chupin and direct it toward her. What if some peasant had seen her with Chupin? What if some trifling circumstance should furnish a clew which would lead straight to Courtornieu? “When the investigation is over, I shall forget,” she thought. It ended, but she did not forget. Darwin has said: “It is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse.” Mme. Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this assertion, made by the most profound thinker and closest observer of the age. And yet, the agony she was enduring did not make her abandon, for a single moment, the plan she had conceived on the day of Martial’s visit. She played her part so well, that, deeply moved, almost repentant, he returned five or six times, and at last, one day, he besought her to allow him to remain. But even the joy of this triumph did not restore her peace of mind. Between her and her husband rose that dread apparition; and Marie-Anne’s distorted features were ever before her. She knew only too well that this heart-broken man had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown all, to her already intolerable sufferings was added another, more poignant than all the rest. Speaking one evening of Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he remarked, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered her _die_ a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures. He spoke with extreme violence and in a voice vibrant with his still powerful passion. And Blanche, in terror, asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit--and he might discover it. She now began to regret that she had not kept the promise she had made to her victim; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child. To do this effectually it was necessary for her to be in a large city--Paris, for example--where she could procure discreet and skilful agents. It was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. Aided by the Duc de Sairmeuse, she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, Mme. Blanche, with a radiant face, announced to Aunt Medea: “Aunt, we leave just one week from to-day.” CHAPTER LI Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and it betrayed itself in numberless trifles.