lf-impudent air;
when it was finished he lifted his head, and said, proudly:

"I do not ask for alms."

"What do you ask then?"

"My dues."

The heart of Mme. Blanche sank, and yet she had courage to cast a glance
of disdain upon the speaker, and said:

"Ah! do I owe you anything?"

"You owe me nothing personally, Madame; but you owe a heavy debt to my
deceased father. In whose service did he perish? Poor old man! he loved
you devotedly. His last words were of you. 'A terrible thing has just
happened at the Borderie, my boy,' said he. 'The young marquise hated
Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. Had it not been for me she would
have been lost. I am about to die; let the whole blame rest upon me;
it will not hurt me, and it will save the young lady. And afterward she
will reward you; and as long as you keep the secret you will want for
nothing.'"

Great as was his impudence, he paused, amazed by the perfectly composed
face of the listener.

In the presence of such wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the
truth of his father's story.

The courage and heroism displayed by the marquise were really wonderful.
She felt if she yielded once, she would forever be at the mercy of this
wretch, as she was already at the mercy of Aunt Medea.

"In other words," said she, calmly, "you accuse me of the murder of
Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you threaten to denounce me if I do not
yield to your demands."

Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence.

"Very well!" said the marquise; "since this is the case--go!"

It seemed, indeed, as if she would, by her audacity, win this dangerous
game upon which her future peace depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was
standing there undecided what course to pursue when Aunt Medea, who was
listening by the window, turned in affright, crying:

"Blanche! your husband--Martial! He is coming!"

The game was lost. Blanche saw her husband entering, finding Chupin,
conversing with him, and discovering all!

Her brain whirled; she yielded.

She hastily thrust her purse in Chupin's hand and dragged him through an
inner door and to the servants' staircase.

"Take this," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "I will see you again. And
not a word--not a word to my husband, remember!"

She had been wise to yield in time. When she re-entered the salon, she
found Martial there.

His head was bowed upon his breast; he held an open letter in his hand.

He looked up when his wife entered the room,