ilent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations
that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed:

"I know Jean Lacheneur. I alone can fathom his hatred, and I know that
he lives only in the hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high
and he is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to fear.
Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a
breach. And no precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel
ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt,
I know not; but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words,
Blanche, if ruin ever threatens our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur's
work."

Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a
word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial's
monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room.

At last he paused before his wife.

"I have just ordered post-horses. You will excuse me for leaving you
here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once. I shall not be absent more
than a week."

He departed from Paris a few hours later, and Blanche was left a prey to
the most intolerable anxiety. She suffered more now than during the days
that immediately followed her crime. It was not against phantoms she was
obliged to protect herself now; Chupin existed, and his voice, even if
it were not as terrible as the voice of conscience, might make itself
heard at any moment.

If she had known where to find him, she would have gone to him, and
endeavored, by the payment of a large sum of money, to persuade him to
leave France.

But Chupin had left the hotel without giving her his address.

The gloomy apprehension expressed by Martial increased the fears of the
young marquise. The mere sound of the name Lacheneur made her shrink
with terror. She could not rid herself of the idea that Jean Lacheneur
suspected her guilt, and that he was watching her.

Her wish to find Marie-Anne's infant was stronger than ever.

It seemed to her that the child might be a protection to her some day.
But where could she find an agent in whom she could confide?

At last she remembered that she had heard her father speak of a
detective by the name of Chelteux, an exceedingly shrewd fellow, capable
of anything, even honesty if he were well paid.

The man was really a miserable wretch, one of Fouche's vilest
instruments, who had served and betrayed all parties, and