cious flattery,
and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in
exchange for such devotion.

"Is it possible that you could forgive me?" stammered Martial.

The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading
in her eyes a weakness of which she was ashamed. It was the most
eloquent of replies.

But Martial said no more on this subject. He made known his petition,
which was granted, then fearing, perhaps, to promise too much, he said:

"Since you do not forbid it, Blanche, I will return--to-morrow--another
day."

As he rode back to Montaignac, Martial's thoughts were busy.

"She really loves me," he thought; "that pallor, that weakness could
not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that
influenced me in my rupture with her father exist no longer, and the
Marquis de Courtornieu may be regarded as dead."

All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the public square
when Martial passed through the village. They had just heard of the
murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the justice
of the peace, relating the circumstances of the poisoning.

After a prolonged inquest the following verdict was rendered: "That a
man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house
of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle
poison with her food."

The report added that: "Said Chupin had been himself assassinated, soon
after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown."

But this affair interested the community much less than the visits which
Martial was paying to Mme. Blanche.

It was soon rumored that the Marquis and the Marquise de Sairmeuse were
reconciled, and in a few weeks they left for Paris with the intention of
residing there permanently. A few days after their departure, the eldest
of the Chupins announced his determination of taking up his abode in the
same great city.

Some of his friends endeavored to dissuade him, assuring him that he
would certainly die of starvation.

"Nonsense!" he replied, with singular assurance; "I, on the contrary,
have an idea that I shall not want for anything there."

CHAPTER XLIX

Time gradually heals all wounds, and in less than a year it was
difficult to discern any trace of the fierce whirlwind of passion which
had devastated the peaceful valley of the Oiselle.

What remained to attest the reality of all these event