“It is probably the marquis whom he desires to see.” “Madame will excuse me, but he said particularly that he desired to speak to her.” “Ask his name and his business, then. Go on, aunt,” she added; “we have been interrupted in the most interesting portion.” But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page when the servant reappeared. “The man says Madame will understand his business when she hears his name.” “And his name?” “Chupin.” It was as if a bomb-shell had exploded in the room. Aunt Medea, with a shriek, dropped her book, and sank back, half fainting, in her chair. Blanche sprang up with a face as colorless as her white cashmere _peignoir_, her eyes troubled, her lips trembling. “Chupin!” she repeated, as if she hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him correctly; “Chupin!” Then angrily: “Tell this man that I will not see him, I will not see him, do you hear?” But before the servant had time to bow respectfully and retire, the young marquise changed her mind. “One moment,” said she; “on reflection I think I will see him. Bring him up.” The servant withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each other in silent consternation. “It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche, at last. “Undoubtedly; but what does he desire?” “Money, probably.” Aunt Medea lifted her eyes to heaven. “God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings with his father! Blessed Jesus! what if he should know.” “You are not going to despair in advance! We shall know all in a few moments. Pray be calm. Turn your back to us; look out into the street; do not let him see your face. But why is he so long in coming?” Blanche was not deceived. It was Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided his secret. Since his arrival in Paris he had been running the streets from morning until evening, inquiring everywhere and of everybody the address of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. At last he discovered it; and he lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice. He was now awaiting the result of his application at the entrance of the hotel, where he stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, saying: “She consents to see you; follow me.” Chupin obeyed; but the servant, greatly astonished, and on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in the hope of obtaining some explanation from this country youth. “I do not say it to flatter you, my boy,” he remarked, “but your name produced a great effect upon madame.” The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he felt on receiving this information. “How does it happen that she knows you?” pursued the servant. “Are you both from the same place?” “I am her foster-brother.” The servant did not believe a word of this response; but they had reached the apartment of the marquise, he opened the door and ushered Chupin into the room.