Detected by Mme. Blanche in a palpable falsehood, Chupin was quite
crestfallen for a moment.
He saw the pleasing vision of a retreat at Courtornieu vanish; he saw
himself suddenly deprived of frequent gifts which permitted him to spare
his hoarded treasure, and even to increase it.
But he soon regained his assurance, and with an affectation of frankness
he said:
“I may be stupid, but I could not deceive an infant. Someone must have
told you falsely.”
Mme. Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“I obtained my information from two persons who were ignorant of the
interest it would possess for me.”
“As truly as the sun is in the heavens I swear----”
“Do not swear; simply confess that you have been wanting in zeal.”
The young lady’s manner betrayed such positive certainty that Chupin
ceased his denials and changed his tactics.
With the most abject humility, he admitted that the evening before he
had relaxed his surveillance; he had been very busy; one of his boys had
injured his foot; then he had encountered some friends who persuaded
him to enter a drinking-saloon, where he had taken more than usual, so
that----
He told this story in a whining tone, and every moment he interrupted
himself to affirm his repentance and to cover himself with reproaches.
“Old drunkard!” he said, “this will teach you----”
But these protestations, far from reassuring Mme. Blanche, made her
still more suspicious,
“All this is very well, Father Chupin,” she said, dryly, “but what are
you going to do now to repair your negligence?”
“What do I intend to do?” he exclaimed, feigning the most violent
anger. “Oh! you will see. I will prove that no one can deceive me with
impunity. Near the Borderie is a small grove. I shall station myself
there; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that house unbeknown
to me.”
Mme. Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and taking out three louis,
she gave them to Chupin, saying:
“Take these, and be more careful in future. Another blunder like this,
and I shall be compelled to ask the aid of some other person.”
The old poacher went away, whistling quite reassured; but he was wrong.
The lady’s generosity was only intended to allay his suspicions.
And why should she not suppose he had betrayed her--this miserable
wretch, who made it his business to betray others? What reason had she
for placing any confidence in his reports? She paid him! Others, by
paying him more, would certainly have the preference!
But how could she ascertain what she wished to know? Ah! she saw but one
way--a very disagreeable, but a sure way. She, herself, would play the
spy.
This idea took such possession of her mind that, after dinner was
concluded, and twilight had enveloped the earth in a mantle of gray, she
summoned Aunt Medea.
“Get your cloak, quickly, aunt,” she commanded. “I am going for a walk,
and you must accompany me.”
Aunt Medea extended her hand to the bell-rope, but her niece stopped
her.
“You will dispense with the services of your maid,” said she. “I do not
wish anyone in the chateau to know that we have gone out.”
“Are we going alone?”
“Alone.”
“Alone, and on foot, at night----”
“I am in a hurry, aunt,” interrupted Blanche, “and I am waiting for
you.”
In the twinkling of an eye Aunt Medea was ready.
The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at dinner, and
Blanche and Aunt Medea reached the little gate leading from the garden
into the open fields without being observed.
“Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned Aunt Medea.
“What is that to you? Come!”
Mme. Blanche was going to the Borderie.
She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle, but she preferred
to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely to meet
someone.
The night was still, but very dark, and the progress of the two women
was often retarded by hedges and ditches. Twice Blanche lost her way.
Again and again, Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough ground, and bruised
herself against the stones; she groaned, she almost wept, but her
terrible niece was pitiless.
“Come!” she said, “or I will leave you to find your way as best you
can.”
And the poor dependent struggled on.
At last, after a tramp of more than an hour, Blanche ventured to
breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she paused in the
little grove of which Chupin had spoken.
“Are we at our journey’s end?” inquired Aunt Medea, timidly.
“Yes, but be quiet. Remain where you are, I wish to look about a
little.”
“What! you are leaving me alone? Blanche, I entreat you! What are you
going to do? _Mon Dieu_! you frighten me. I am afraid, Blanche!”
But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, seeking Chupin. She
did not find him.
“I knew the wretch was deceiving me,” she muttered through her set
teeth. “Who knows but Martial and Marie-Anne are there in that house
now, mocking me, and laughing at my credulity?”
She rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead with fright, and both
advanced to the edge of the woods, which commanded a view of the front
of the house.
A flickering, crimson light gleamed through two windows in the second
story. Evidently there was a fire in the room.
“That is right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly; “Martial is such a chilly
person!”
She was about to approach the house, when a peculiar whistle rooted her
to the spot.
She looked about her, and, in spite of the darkness, she discerned in
the footpath leading to the Borderie, a man laden with articles which
she could not distinguish.
Almost immediately a woman, certainly Marie-Anne, left the house and
advanced to meet him.
They exchanged a few words and then walked together to the house. Soon
after the man emerged without his burden and went away.
“What does this mean?” murmured Mme. Blanche.
She waited patiently for more than half an hour, and as nothing stirred:
“Let us go nearer,” she said to Aunt Medea, “I wish to look through the
windows.”
They were approaching the house when, just as they reached the little
garden, the door of the cottage opened so suddenly that they had
scarcely time to conceal themselves in a clump of lilac-bushes.
Marie-Anne came out, imprudently leaving the key in the door, passed
down the narrow path, gained the road, and disappeared.
Blanche pressed Aunt Medea’s arm with a violence that made her cry out.
“Wait for me here,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and
whatever happens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at
Courtornieu, not a word! Do not stir from this spot; I will return.”
And she entered the cottage.
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the table in the
front room.
Blanche seized it and boldly began an exploration of the dwelling.
She had gone over the arrangement of the Borderie so often in her own
mind that the rooms seemed familiar to her, she seemed to recognize
them.
In spite of Chupin’s description the poverty of this humble abode
astonished her. There was no floor save the ground; the walls were
poorly whitewashed; all kinds of grain and bunches of herbs hung
suspended from the ceiling; a few heavy tables, wooden benches, and
clumsy chairs constituted the entire furniture.
Marie-Anne evidently occupied the back room. It was the only apartment
that contained a bed. This was one of those immense country affairs,
very high and broad, with tall fluted posts, draped with green serge
curtains, sliding back and forth on iron rings.
At the head of the bed, fastened to the wall, hung a receptacle for
holy-water. Blanche dipped her finger in the bowl; it was full to the
brim.
Beside the window was a wooden shelf supported by a hook, and on the
shelf stood a basin and bowl of the commonest earthenware.
“It must be confessed that my husband does not provide a very sumptuous
abode for his idol,” said Mme. Blanche, with a sneer.
She was almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led
her astray.
She remembered Martial’s fastidious tastes, and she did not know how
to reconcile them with these meagre surroundings. Then, there was the
holy-water!
But her suspicions became stronger when she entered the kitchen.
Some savory compound was bubbling in a pot over the fire, and several
saucepans, in which fragrant stews were simmering, stood among the warm
ashes.
“All this cannot be for her,” murmured Blanche.
Then she remembered the two windows in the story above which she had
seen illuminated by the trembling glow of the fire-light.
“I must examine the rooms above,” she thought.
The staircase led up from the middle of the room; she knew this. She
quickly ascended the stairs, pushed open a door, and could not repress a
cry of surprise and rage.
She found herself in the sumptuously appointed room which Chanlouineau
had made the sanctuary of his great love, and upon which he had
lavished, with the fanaticism of passion, all that was costly and
luxurious.
“Then it is true!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I thought just now that all
was too meagre and too poor! Miserable dupe that I am! Below, all is
arranged for the eyes of comers and goers. Here, everything is intended
exclusively for themselves. Now, I recognize Martial’s astonishing
talent for dissimulation. He loves this vile creature so much that he
is anxious in regard to her reputation; he keeps his visits to her a
secret, and this is the hidden paradise of their love. Here they laugh
at me, the poor forsaken wife, whose marriage was but a mockery.”
She had desired to know the truth; certainty was less terrible to endure
than this constant suspicion, And, as if she found a little enjoyment
in proving the extent of Martial’s love for a hated rival, she took an
inventory, as it were, of the magnificent appointments of the chamber,
feeling the heavy brocaded silk stuff that formed the curtains, and
testing the thickness of the rich carpet with her foot.
Everything indicated that Marie-Anne was expecting someone; the bright
fire, the large arm-chair placed before the hearth, the embroidered
slippers lying beside the chair.
And whom could she expect save Martial? The person who had been there a
few moments before probably came to announce the arrival of her lover,
and she had gone out to meet him.
For a trifling circumstance would seem to indicate that this messenger
had not been expected.
Upon the mantel stood a bowl of still smoking bouillon.
It was evident that Marie-Anne was on the point of drinking this when
she heard the signal.
Mme. Blanche was wondering how she could profit by her discovery, when
her eyes fell upon a large oaken box standing open upon a table near the
glass door leading into the dressing-room, and filled with tiny boxes
and vials.
Mechanically she approached it, and among the bottles she saw two of
blue glass, upon which the word “poison” was inscribed.
“Poison!” Blanche could not turn her eyes from this word, which seemed
to exert a kind of fascination over her.
A diabolical inspiration associated the contents of these vials with the
bowl standing upon the mantel.
“And why not?” she murmured. “I could escape afterward.”
A terrible thought made her pause. Martial would return with Marie-Anne;
who could say that it would not be he who would drink the contents of
the bowl.
“God shall decide!” she murmured. “It is better one’s husband should be
dead than belong to another!”
And with a firm hand, she took up one of the vials.
Since her entrance into the cottage Blanche had scarcely been conscious
of her acts. Hatred and despair had clouded her brain like fumes of
alcohol.
But when her hand came in contact with the glass containing the deadly
drug, the terrible shock dissipated her bewilderment; she regained
the full possession of her faculties; the power of calm deliberation
returned.
This is proved by the fact that her first thought was this:
“I am ignorant even of the name of the poison which I hold. What dose
must I administer, much or little?”
She opened the vial, not without considerable difficulty, and poured
a few grains of its contents into the palm of her hand. It was a fine,
white powder, glistening like pulverized glass, and looking not unlike
sugar.
“Can it really be sugar?” she thought.
Resolved to ascertain, she moistened the tip of her finger, and
collected upon it a few atoms of the powder which she placed upon her
tongue.
The taste was like that of an extremely acid apple.
Without hesitation, without remorse, without even turning pale, she
poured into the bowl the entire contents of the vial.
Her self-possession was so perfect, she even recollected that the powder
might be slow in dissolving, and she stirred it gently for a moment or
more.
Having done this--she seemed to think of everything--she tasted
the bouillon. She noticed a slightly bitter taste, but it was not
sufficiently perceptible to awaken distrust.
Now Mme. Blanche breathed freely. If she could succeed in making her
escape she was avenged.
She was going toward the door when a sound on the stairs startled her.
Two persons were ascending the staircase.
Where should she go? where could she conceal herself?
She was now so sure she would be detected that she almost decided to
throw the bowl into the fire, and then boldly face the intruders.
But no--a chance remained--she darted into the dressing-room. She dared
not close the door; the least click of the latch would have betrayed
her.
Marie-Anne entered the chamber, followed by a peasant, bearing a large
bundle.
“Ah! here is my candle!” she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold.
“Joy must be making me lose my wits! I could have sworn that I left it
on the table downstairs.” Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this
circumstance.
“Where shall I put this clothing?” asked the young peasant.
“Lay it down here. I will arrange the articles by and by,” replied Marie
Anne.
The boy dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief.
“This is the last,” he exclaimed. “Now, our gentleman can come.”
“At what hour will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne.
“At eleven o’clock. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.”
Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent clock on the mantel.
“I have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I shall
need. Supper is ready; I am going to set the table here, by the fire.
Tell him to bring a good appetite.”
“I will tell him, and many thanks, Mademoiselle, for having come to meet
me and aid me with my second load. It was not so very heavy, but it was
clumsy to handle.”
“Will you not accept a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you. I must hasten back. _Au revoir_, Mademoiselle
Lacheneur.”
“_Au revoir_, Poignot.”
This name Poignot had no significance in the ears of Blanche.
Ah! had she heard Monsieur d’Escorval’s or the abbe’s name mentioned,
she might have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s guilt; her resolution
might have wavered, and--who knows?
But no. Young Poignot, in referring to the baron had said: “our
gentleman,” Marie-Anne said: “he.”
Is not “he” always the person who is uppermost in our minds, the husband
whom one hates or the lover whom one adores?
“Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche translated Martial.
Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse who was to arrive at midnight. She
was sure of it. It was he who had been preceded by a messenger bearing
clothing. This could only mean that he was about to establish himself
at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy and live there
openly, regardless of his rank, of his dignity, and of his duties;
forgetful even of his prejudices.
These conjectures inflamed her fury still more.
Why should she hesitate or tremble after that?
Her only dread now, was lest she should be discovered.
Aunt Medea was, it is true, in the garden; but after the orders she
had received the poor woman would remain motionless as stone behind the
clump of lilacs, the entire night if necessary.
For two hours and a half Marie-Anne would be alone at the Borderie.
Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to watch the
effects of the poison upon her hated rival.
When the crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she
had been absent from Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau;
Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And besides, who would dare
to accuse her, Marquise de Sairmeuse _nee_ Blanche de Courtornieu, of
being the murderer? “But she does not drink it!” Blanche thought.
Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon entirely. She had opened
the bundle of clothing, and was busily arranging the articles in a
wardrobe near the bed.
Who talks of presentiments. She was as gay and vivacious as in her days
of happiness; and as she worked, she hummed an air that Maurice had
often sung.
She felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends would soon be
around her.
When her task of putting away the clothing was completed and the
wardrobe closed, she drew a small table up before the fire.
Not until then did she notice the bowl standing upon the mantel.
“Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl she raised it to
her lips.
From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation; she
saw the movement, and yet not the slightest remorse struck her soul.
Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the
bowl down.
A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still. “Does she notice
a peculiar taste in the bouillon?” she thought.
No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of grease had formed
over the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then
stirred it up for some time, to divide the greasy particles.
After she had done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon the
mantel, and resumed her work.
It was done. The _denouement_ no longer depended upon Blanche de
Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess.
But though she was conscious of her crime, the excess of her hatred
prevented her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that
it was only an act of justice which she had accomplished; that the
vengeance she had taken was not proportionate to the offence, and that
nothing could atone for the torture she had endured.
But in a few moments a sinister apprehension took possession of her
mind.
Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had
expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken down by
a thunder-bolt.
But no. The moments slipped by, and Marie-Anne continued her
preparations for supper as if nothing had occurred.
She spread a white cloth over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and
placed a dish upon it.
“What if she should come in here!” thought Blanche.
The fear of punishment which precedes remorse, made her heart beat with
such violence that she could not understand why its throbbing were
not heard in the adjoining room. Her terror increased when she saw
Marie-Anne take the light and go downstairs. Blanche was left alone. The
thought of making her escape occurred to her; but how, and by what way
could she leave the house without being seen?
“It must be that poison does not work!” she said, in a rage.
Alas! no. She knew better when Marie-Anne reappeared.
In the few moments she had spent below, her features had become
frightfully changed. Her face was livid and mottled with purple spots,
her eyes were distended and glittered with a strange brilliancy. She let
the plates which she held fall upon the table with a crash.
“The poison! it begins!” thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearth, gazing wildly around her, as if seeking
the cause of her incomprehensible suffering. She passed and re-passed
her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration;
she gasped for breath. Then suddenly, overcome with nausea, she
staggered, pressed her hands convulsively upon her breast, and sank into
the armchair, crying:
“Oh, God! how I suffer!”