he.

Chupin placed her on the ground about twenty paces from the house.

"And Aunt Medea!" she exclaimed.

Her relative was beside her; like one of those dogs who are left at the
door when their master enters a house, she had, instinctively followed
her niece on seeing her borne from the cottage by the old poacher.

"We must not stop to talk," said Chupin. "Come, I will lead the way."

And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened toward the grove.

"Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child," he said, as they hurried on. "She was
pretending to be such a saint! But where the devil has she put it?"

"I shall find it."

"Hum! That is easier said than done."

A shrill laugh, resounding in the darkness, interrupted him. He released
his hold on the arm of Blanche and assumed an attitude of defence.

Vain precaution! A man concealed behind a tree bounded upon him, and,
plunging his knife four times into the old poacher's writhing body,
cried:

"Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer be obliged to
eat with my fingers!"

"The innkeeper!" groaned the wounded man, sinking to the earth.

For once in her life, Aunt Medea manifested some energy.

"Come!" she shrieked, wild with fear, dragging her niece away. "Come--he
is dead!"

Not quite. The traitor had strength to crawl home and knock at the door.

His wife and youngest son were sleeping soundly. His eldest son, who had
just returned home, opened the door.

Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, he thought he was
intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house, but the
old poacher begged him to desist.

"Do not touch me," said he. "It is all over with me; but listen;
Lacheneur's daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was
to tell you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a
fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool!"

And he died, without being able to tell his family where he had
concealed the price of Lacheneur's blood.

CHAPTER XLVII

Of all the persons who witnessed Baron d'Escorval's terrible fall, the
abbe was the only one who did not despair.

What a learned doctor would not have dared to do, he did.

He was a priest; he had faith. He remembered the sublime saying of
Ambroise Pare: "I dress the wound: God heals it."

After a six months' sojourn in Father Poignot's secluded farm-house, M.
d'Escorval was able to sit up and to walk about a little, with the aid
of crutches.

Then he began to