All the people in the neighborhood were aware of this state of affairs,
and regarded it as a just punishment for the traitor. Mme. Blanche
overheard one of the gardeners telling the story to two of his
assistants:
"Ah, the man is an old scoundrel!" he said, his face crimson with
indignation. "He should be in the galleys, and not at large among
respectable people."
"He is a man who would serve your purpose," the voice of hatred
whispered in Blanche's ear.
"But how can I find an opportunity to confer with him?" she wondered.
Mme. Blanche was too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his house,
but she remembered that he hunted occasionally in the Courtornieu woods,
and that it might be possible for her to meet him there.
"It will only require a little perseverance and a few long walks," she
said to herself.
But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperon, two long weeks of
almost continued walking.
"Another freak!" groaned the poor relative, overcome with fatigue; "my
niece is certainly crazy!"
But one lovely afternoon in May Blanche discovered what she sought.
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