“I am tired of starving here; I wish to make my escape. Come to Brest; you can visit the prison, and we will decide upon some plan. If you refuse to do this, I shall apply to the duke, who will obtain my pardon in exchange of what I will tell him.” Mme. Blanche was dumb with horror. It was impossible, she thought, to sink lower than this. “Well!” demanded the man, harshly. “What reply shall I make to my comrade?” “I will go--tell him that I will go!” she said, driven to desperation. She made the journey, visited the prison, but did not find Chupin. The previous week there had been a revolt in the prison, the troops had fired upon the prisoners, and Chupin had been killed instantly. Still the duchess dared not rejoice. She feared that her tormentor had told his wife the secret of his power. “I shall soon know,” she thought. The widow promptly made her appearance; but her manner was humble and supplicating. She had often heard her dear, dead husband say that madame was his benefactress, and now she came to beg a little aid to enable her to open a small drinking saloon. Her son Polyte--ah! such a good son! just eighteen years old, and such a help to his poor mother--had discovered a little house in a good situation for the business, and if they only had three or four hundred francs---- Mme. Blanche gave her five hundred francs. “Either her humility is a mask,” she thought, “or her husband has told her nothing.” Five days later Polyte Chupin presented himself. They needed three hundred francs more before they could commence business, and he came on behalf of his mother to entreat the kind lady to advance them. Determined to discover exactly where she stood, the duchess shortly refused, and the young man departed without a word. Evidently the mother and son were ignorant of the facts. Chupin’s secret had died with him. This happened early in January. Toward the last of February, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an absurd costume, in spite of all the attempts which her niece made to dissuade her. Her passion for dress killed her. Her illness lasted only three days; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were terrible. Constrained by her fear of death to examine her own conscience, she saw plainly that by profiting by the crime of her niece she had been as culpable as if she had aided her in committing it. She had been very devout in former years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and intensified. Her faith returned, accompanied by a _cortege_ of terrors. “I am lost!” she cried; “I am lost!” She tossed to and fro upon her bed; she writhed and shrieked as if she already saw hell opening to engulf her. She called upon the Holy Virgin and upon all the saints to protect her. She entreated God to grant her time for repentance and for expiation. She begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession.