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Updated: June 6, 2025
She recognized Chanlouineau's house, and she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken. "Are we at our journey's end?" inquired Aunt Medea, timidly. "Yes, but be quiet. Remain where you are, I wish to look about a little." "What! you are leaving me alone? Blanche, I entreat you! What are you going to do? Mon Dieu! you frighten me. I am afraid, Blanche!" But her niece had gone.
By way of response, Chupin handed the duke a copy of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau's dictation. M. de Sairmeuse read: "My dear friend We are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided. We are now busy in preparing for the wedding, which will take place on the 4th of March." The date was no longer blank; but still the duke did not comprehend. "Well, what of it?" he demanded.
She knew that she was lying upon her bed, at Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she was there in Chanlouineau's house, pouring out poison, then watching its effects, concealed in the dressing-room. She was struggling against these thoughts; she was exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible memories, when she thought she heard the key turn in the lock.
Remaining near the entrance of the dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau's cell, he watched Marie-Anne depart; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt of Chanlouineau's sincerity. "Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?" he thought.
But jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to understand that he, being a man of experience, had divined that love alone had dictated Chanlouineau's last will and testament. Marie-Anne's composure and resignation made him really angry. "You forget what brings me here," she said; "you do not tell me what I have to do!"
"Good news!" he cried, as soon as he saw her; "we have caught the minx at last." 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.
He had, it is true, seen this rival rudely dismissed by M. Lacheneur; and yet the anger of the latter had seemed to him too great to be absolutely real. He suspected a comedy, but for whose benefit? For his, or for Chanlouineau's? And yet, what could possibly be the motive? "And yet," he reflected, "my hands are tied; and I cannot call this little d'Escorval to account for his insolence.
Save all your strength for to-night." Chanlouineau's words and burning glance surprised M. d'Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw himself upon his pallet, and before him rose that vision of the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair of those who are about to die. He knew the terrible laws that govern a court-martial.
"Restore to me, now, this instant, the letter which was obtained from me by Chanlouineau's ruse, and I swear to you, by the honor of my name, that all which it is possible for any human being to do to save the baron, I will do. If you distrust my word, good-evening." The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited; Martial's tone betrayed an inflexible determination.
If Marie-Anne had heard his covert insinuations with evident horror, M. Lacheneur had received, with even more than coldness, his advances and his offers of actual wealth. Moreover, he remembered Chanlouineau's terrible eyes. "How he measured me, that magnificent rustic!" he growled. "At a sign from Marie-Anne he would have crushed me like an eggshell, without a thought of my ancestors.
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