Chupin was at first quite crestfallen when Blanche told him of Martial’s
meeting with Marie-Anne at the Croix d’Arcy. He was detected with a
falsehood on his lips, and feared that the discovery of his duplicity
would for ever wreck his prospects. He must say good-bye to a safe and
pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, and good-bye also to frequent gifts
which had enabled him to spare his hoarded treasure, and even to
increase it. However, his discomfiture only lasted for a moment. It
seemed best to put a bold face on the matter, and accordingly raising
his head, he remarked with an affection of frankness, “I may be stupid
no doubt, but I wouldn’t deceive a child. I scarcely fancy your
information can be correct. Some one must have told you falsely.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “I obtained my information from two
persons, who were ignorant of the interest it possessed for me.”
“As truly as the sun is in the heavens I swear----”
“Don’t swear; simply confess that you have been very negligent.”
Blanche spoke so authoritatively that Chupin considered it best to
change his tactics. With an air of abject humility, he admitted that he
had relaxed his surveillance on the previous day; he had been very busy
in the morning; then one of his boys had injured his foot; and finally,
he had met some friends who persuaded him to go with them to a
wine-shop, where he had taken more than usual, so that----. He told his
story in a whining tone, frequently interrupting himself to affirm his
repentance and cover himself with reproaches. “Old drunkard!” he said,
“this will teach you not to neglect your duties.”
But far from reassuring Blanche, his protestations only made her more
suspicious. “All this is very good, 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 shall see. I will prove that no one can deceive me with
impunity. There is a small grove near the Borderie, and I shall station
myself there; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that house
without my knowing it.”
Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and handed three louis to
Chupin, saying as she did so, “Take these, and be more careful in
future. Another blunder of the kind, and I shall have to obtain some
other person’s assistance.”
The old poacher went away whistling contentedly. He felt quite
reassured. In this, however, he was wrong, for Blanche’s generosity was
only intended to prevent him fancying that she doubted his veracity. In
point of fact, she did doubt it. She believed his promises to be on a
par with his past conduct, which, as events had shown, had at the very
best been negligent in the extreme. This miserable wretch made it his
business to betray others--so why shouldn’t he have betrayed her as
well? What confidence could she place in his reports. She certainly paid
him, but the person who paid him more would unquestionably have the
preference. Still, she must know the truth, the whole truth, and how was
she to ascertain it? There was but one method--a certain, though a very
disagreeable one--she must play the spy herself.
With this idea in her head, she waited impatiently for evening to
arrive, and then, directly dinner was over, she summoned Aunt Medea, and
requested her company as she was going out for a walk. The impoverished
chaperone made a feeble protest concerning the lateness of the hour. But
Blanche speedily silenced her, and bade her get ready at once, adding
that she did not wish any one in the chateau to know that they had gone
out. Aunt Medea had no other resource than to obey, and in the twinkling
of an eye she was ready. The marquis had just been put to bed, the
servants were at dinner, and Blanche and her companion reached a little
gate leading from the grounds into the open fields without being
observed. “Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned the astonished
chaperone.
“What does that matter to you? Come along!” replied Blanche, who, as it
may have been guessed, 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 any one. The night was
very dark, and the hedges and ditches often impeded their progress. On
two occasions Blanche lost her way, while Aunt Medea stumbled again and
again over the rough ground, bruising herself against the stones. She
groaned; she almost wept; but her terrible niece was pitiless. “Come
along!” she cried, “or else I shall leave you to find your way as best
you can.” And so the poor dependent struggled on.
At last, after more than an hour’s tramp, Blanche ventured to breathe.
She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, a short distance off, and soon
afterwards she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken.
Aunt Medea now timidly inquired if they were at their journey’s end--a
question which Blanche answered affirmatively. “But be quiet,” she
added, “and remain where you are. I wish to look about a little.”
“What! you are leaving me alone?” ejaculated the frightened chaperone.
“Blanche, I entreat you! What are you going to do? Good heavens! you
frighten me. You do indeed, Blanche!”
But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, looking for Chupin,
whom she did not find. This convinced her that the old poacher was
deceiving her, and she angrily asked herself if Martial and Marie-Anne
were not in the house hard by at that very hour, laughing at her
credulity. She then rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead with
fright, and they both advanced to the edge of the copse, where they
could view the front of the house. A flickering, ruddy light illuminated
two windows on the upper floor. There was evidently a fire in the room
upstairs. “That’s right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly; “Martial is such a
chilly personage.” She was about to approach the house, when a peculiar
whistle made her pause. She looked about her, and, through the darkness,
she managed to distinguish a man walking towards the Borderie, and
carrying a weighty burden. Almost immediately afterwards, a woman,
certainly Marie-Anne, opened the door of the house, and the stranger was
admitted. Ten minutes later he re-appeared, this time without his
burden, and walked briskly away. Blanche was wondering what all this
meant, but for the time being she did not venture to approach, and
nearly an hour elapsed before she decided to try and satisfy her
curiosity by peering through the windows. Accompanied by Aunt Medea, she
had just reached the little garden, when the door of the cottage opened
so suddenly that Blanche and her relative had scarcely time to conceal
themselves behind a clump of lilac-bushes. At the same moment,
Marie-Anne crossed the threshold, and walked down the narrow garden
path, gained the road, and disappeared. “Wait for me here,” said Blanche
to her aunt, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever happens,
whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a
word! Don’t stir from this spot; I will come back again.” Then pressing
the frightened spinster’s arm she left her alone and went into 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. Owing to Chupin’s description, she was tolerably familiar with
the arrangements on the ground floor, and yet the aspect of the rooms
surprised her. They were roughly floored with tiles, and the walls were
poorly whitewashed. A massive linen press, a couple of heavy tables, and
a few clumsy chairs, constituted the only furniture in the front
apartment, while from the beams above hung numerous bags of grain and
bunches of dried herbs. Marie-Anne evidently slept in the back room,
which contained an old-fashioned country bedstead very high and broad,
and the tall fluted posts of which were draped with green serge
curtains, sliding on iron rings. Fastened to the wall at the head of the
bed was a receptacle for holy water. Blanche dipped her finger in the
bowl, and found it full to the brim. Then beside the window on a wooden
shelf she espied a jug and basin of common earthenware. “It must be
confessed that my husband doesn’t provide his idol with a very sumptuous
abode,” she muttered with a sneer. And for a moment, indeed, she was
almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led her
astray. Remembering Martial’s fastidious tastes, she failed to reconcile
them with these meager surroundings. The presence of the holy water,
moreover, seemed incompatible with her suspicions. But the latter
revived again when she entered the kitchen. A savoury soup was bubbling
in a pot over the fire, and fragrant stews were simmering in two or
three saucepans. Such preparations could not be made for Marie-Anne
alone. Who then were they for? At this moment Blanche remembered the
ruddy glow which she had noticed through the windows on the floor above.
Hastily leaving the kitchen she climbed the stairs and opened a door she
found in front of her. A cry of mingled anger and surprise escaped her
lips. She stood on the threshold of the room which Chanlouineau in the
boldness of his passion had designed to be the sanctuary of his love.
Here every thing was beautiful and luxurious: “Ah, so after all it’s
true,” exclaimed Blanche in a paroxysm of jealousy. “And I was fancying
that everything was too meager and too poor. Down stairs everything is
so arranged that visitors may not suspect the truth! Ah, now I recognise
Martial’s astonishing talent for dissimulation, he is so infatuated with
this creature that he is even anxious to shield her reputation. He keeps
his visits secret and hides himself up here. Yes, here it is that they
laugh at me the deluded forsaken wife whose marriage was but a
mockery!”
She had wished to know the truth, and now she felt she knew it.
Certainty was less cruel than everlasting suspicion, and she even took a
bitter delight in examining the appointments of the apartment, which to
her mind proved how deeply Martial must be infatuated. She felt the
heavy curtains of brocaded silken stuff with trembling hands; she tested
the thickness of the rich carpet with her feet; the embroidered coverlid
on the palissandre bedstead, the mirrors, the hundred knicknacks on the
tables and the mantleshelf--all in turn met with her attentive scrutiny.
Everything indicated that some one was expected--the bright fire--the
cosy arm-chair beside it, the slippers on the rug. And who would
Marie-Anne expect but Martial? No doubt the man whom Blanche had seen
arriving had come to announce the marquis’s approach, and Marie-Anne had
gone to meet him.
Curiously enough, on the hearth stood a bowl of soup, still warm, and
which Marie-Anne had evidently been about to drink when she heard the
messenger’s signal. Blanche was still wondering how she could profit of
her discoveries, when she espied a chest of polished oak standing open
on a table near a glass door leading into an adjoining dressing room.
She walked towards it and perceived that it contained a number of tiny
vials and boxes. It was indeed the Abbe Midon’s medicine chest, which
Marie-Anne had placed here in readiness, should it be needed when the
baron arrived, weak from his nocturnal journey. Blanche was examining
the contents when suddenly she noticed two bottles of blue glass, on
which “poison” was inscribed. “Poison!”--the word seemed to fascinate
her, and by a diabolical inspiration she associated these vials with the
bowl of soup standing on the hearth. “And why not?” she muttered. “I
could escape afterwards.” Another thought made her pause, however.
Martial would no doubt return with Marie-Anne, and perhaps he would
drink this broth. She hesitated for a moment, and then took one of the
vials in her hand, murmuring as she did so, “God will decide; it is
better he should die than belong to another.” She had hitherto acted
like one bewildered, but this act, simple in its performance, but
terrible in its import, seemed to restore all her presence of mind.
“What poison is it,” thought she, “ought I to administer a large or a
small dose?” With some little difficulty she opened the bottle and
poured a small portion of its contents into the palm of her hand. The
poison was a fine, white powder, glistening like pulverized glass. “Can
it really be sugar?” thought Blanche; and with the view of making sure
she moistened a finger tip, and gathered on it a few atoms of the
powder, which she applied to her tongue. Its taste was not unlike that
of an apple. She wiped her tongue with her handkerchief, and then
without hesitation or remorse, without even turning pale, she poured the
entire contents of the bottle into the bowl. Her self-possession was so
perfect that she even stirred the broth, so that the powder might more
rapidly dissolve. She next tasted it, and found that it had a slightly
bitter flavour--not sufficiently perceptible, however, to awaken
distrust. All that now remained was to escape, and she was already
walking towards the door when, to her horror, she heard some one coming
up the stairs. What should she do? where could she conceal herself? She
now felt so sure that she would be detected that she almost decided to
throw the contents of the bowl into the fire, and then face the
intruders. But no--a chance remained--the dressing-room! She darted into
it, without daring, however, to close the door, for the least click of
the lock might betray her.
Immediately afterwards Marie-Anne entered the apartment, followed by a
peasant carrying 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 down-stairs.”
Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this circumstance before.
“Where shall I put these clothes?” asked the peasant.
“Lay them down here. I will arrange them by and by,” replied Marie-Anne.
The youth dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief. “That’s the
last,” he exclaimed. “Now our gentleman can come.”
“At what o’clock will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne.
“At eleven. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.”
Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent timepiece on the mantelshelf. “I
have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I need.
Supper is ready, I am going to set the table here by the fire. Tell him
to bring a good appetite with him.”
“I won’t forget, mademoiselle; thank you for having come to meet me. The
load wasn’t so very heavy, but it was awkward to handle.”
“Won’t you take a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. I must make haste back, Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Good night, Poignot.”
Blanche had never heard this name of Poignot before; it had no meaning
for her. Ah, if she had heard M. d’Escorval or the abbe mentioned, she
might perhaps have doubted the truth; her resolution might have wavered
and--who knows? But unfortunately, young Poignot, in referring to the
baron, had spoken of him as “our gentleman,” while Marie-Anne said,
“he.” And to Blanche’s mind they both of them referred to Martial. Yes,
unquestionably it must be the Marquis de Sairmeuse, who would arrive at
midnight. She was sure of it. It was he who had sent this messenger with
a parcel of clothes--a proceeding which could only mean that he was
going to establish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside
all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, his dignity,
and duties; forgetful even of his prejudices as well. These conjectures
could only fire Blanche’s jealous fury. Why should she hesitate or
tremble after that? The only thing she had to fear now was that
Marie-Anne might enter the dressing-room and find her there. She had but
little anxiety concerning Aunt Medea, who, it is true, was still in the
garden; but after the orders she had received the poor dependent would
remain as still as a stone behind the lilac bushes, and, if needs be,
during the whole night. On the other hand, Marie-Anne would remain alone
in the house during another two hours and a half, and Blanche reflected
that this would give her ample time to watch the effects of the poison
on her hated rival. When the crime was discovered she would be far away.
No one knew she was not at 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 the Marchioness de Sairmeuse, _nee_ Blanche de
Courtornieu, of murder? One thing that worried Blanche was that
Marie-Anne seemed to pay no attention to the broth. She had, in fact,
forgotten it. She had opened the bundle of clothes, and was now busily
arranging them in a wardrobe near the bed. Who talks of presentiments!
She was as gay and vivacious as in her happiest days; and while she
folded the clothes hummed an air that Maurice had often sung. She felt
that her troubles were nearly over, for her friends would soon be round
her, and a brighter time seemed near at hand. When she had put all the
clothes away, she shut the wardrobe and drew a small table up before the
fire. It was not till then that she noticed the bowl standing on the
hearth. “How stupid I am!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl
in her hands, she raised it to her lips.
Blanche heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation plainly enough; she saw what she
was doing; and yet she never felt the slightest remorse. However,
Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, and then, in evident disgust, she set
the bowl down. A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still,
and she wondered whether her victim had detected any peculiar taste in
the soup. No, she had not; but, owing to the fire having fallen low, it
had grown nearly cold, and a slight coating of grease floated on its
surface. Taking a spoon Marie-Anne skimmed the broth carefully, and
stirred it up. Then, being thirsty, she drank the liquid almost at one
draught, laid the bowl on the mantelpiece, and resumed her work.
The crime was perpetrated. The future no longer depended on Blanche de
Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess. But though she
was conscious of her crime, the excess of her jealous hatred prevented
her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that she had only
accomplished an act of justice, that in reality her vengeance was
scarcely cruel enough for the wrongs she had suffered, and that nothing
could indeed fully atone for the tortures inflicted on her. But in a few
moments grievous misgivings 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 thunderbolt.
But no, several minutes passed, 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
cruet-stand and salt-cellar on it. Blanche’s heart was beating so
violently that she could scarcely realise why its throbbings were not
heard in the adjoining room. Her assurance had been great, but now the
fear of punishment which usually precedes remorse crept over her mind;
and the idea that her victim might enter the dressing-room made her turn
pale with fear. At last she saw Marie-Anne take the light and go
down-stairs. Blanche was left alone, and the thought of escaping again
occurred to her; but how could she possibly leave the house without
being seen? Must she wait there, hidden in that nook for ever? “That
couldn’t have been poison. It doesn’t act,” she muttered in a rage.
Alas! it did act as she herself perceived when Marie-Anne re-entered the
room. The latter had changed frightfully during the brief interval she
had spent on the ground floor. Her face was livid and mottled with
purple spots, her distended eyes glittered with a strange brilliancy,
and she let a pile of plates she carried fall on the table with a crash.
“The poison! it begins to act at last!” thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearth-rug, gazing wildly round her, as if
seeking for the cause of her incomprehensible sufferings. She passed and
repassed her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in cold sweat;
she gasped for breath, and then suddenly overcome with nausea, she
staggered, pressed her hands convulsively to her breast, and sank into
the arm-chair, crying: “Oh, God! how I suffer!”
Kneeling by the door of the dressing-room which was only partly closed,
Blanche eagerly watched the workings of the poison she had administered.
She was so near her victim that she could distinguish the throbbing of
her temples, and sometimes she fancied she could feel on her own cheek
her rival’s breath, scorching her like flame. An utter prostration
followed Marie-Anne’s paroxysm of agony; and if it had not been for the
convulsive working of her mouth and laboured breathing, it might have
been supposed that she was dead. But soon the nausea returned, and she
was seized with vomiting. Each effort seemed to contract her body; and
gradually a ghastly tint crept over her face, the spots on her cheeks
became of a deeper tint, her eyes seemed as if they were about to burst
from their sockets, and great drops of perspiration rolled down her
cheeks. Her sufferings must have been intolerable. She moaned feebly at
times, and at intervals gave vent to truly heart-rending shrieks. Then
she faltered fragmentary sentences; she begged piteously for water, or
entreated heaven to shorten her tortures. “Ah, it is horrible! I suffer
too much! My God! grant me death!” She invoked all the friends she had
ever known, calling for aid in a despairing voice. She called on Madame
d’Escorval, the abbe, Maurice, her brother, Chanlouineau, and Martial!
Martial!--that name more than sufficed to chase all pity from Blanche’s
heart. “Go on! call your lover, call!” she said to herself, bitterly.
“He will come too late.” And as Marie-Anne repeated the name, in a tone
of agonized entreaty: “Suffer!” continued Blanche, “suffer, you deserve
it! You imparted to Martial the courage to forsake me, his wife, like a
drunken lacquey would abandon the lowest of degraded creatures! Die, and
my husband will return to me repentant.” No, she had no pity. She felt a
difficulty in breathing, but that merely resulted from the instinctive
horror which the sufferings of others inspire--a purely physical
impression, which is adorned with the fine name of sensibility, but
which is, in reality, the grossest selfishness.
And yet, Marie-Anne was sinking perceptibly. She had fallen on to the
floor, during one of her attacks of sickness, and now she even seemed
unable to moan; her eyes closed, and after a spasm which brought a
bloody foam to her lips, her head sank back, and she lay motionless on
the hearth-rug.
“It is over,” murmured Blanche, rising to her feet. To her surprise her
own limbs trembled so acutely, that she could scarcely stand. Her will
was still firm and implacable; but her flesh failed her. She had never
even imagined a scene like that she had just witnessed. She knew that
poison caused death; but she had not suspected the agony of such a
death. She no longer thought of increasing her victim’s sufferings by
upbraiding her. Her only desire now was to leave the house, the very
floor of which seemed to scorch her feet. A strange, inexplicable
sensation was creeping over her; it was not yet fright, but rather the
stupor that follows the perpetration of a terrible crime. Still, she
compelled herself to wait a few moments longer; then seeing that
Marie-Anne still remained motionless, with closed eyes, she ventured to
open the door softly, and enter the room in which her victim was lying.
But she had not taken three steps forward before Marie-Anne, as if she
had been galvanized by an electric battery, suddenly rose and extended
her arms to bar her enemy’s passage. This movement was so unexpected and
so appalling that Blanche recoiled. “The Marchioness de Sairmeuse,”
faltered Marie-Anne. “You, Blanche--here!” And finding an explanation of
her sufferings in the presence of this young woman, who once had been
her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed: “It is
you who have murdered me!”
Blanche de Courtornieu’s nature was one of those that break, but never
bend. Since she had been detected, nothing in the world would induce her
to deny her guilt. She advanced boldly, and in a firm voice replied:
“Yes, I have taken my revenge. Do you think I didn’t suffer that evening
when you sent your brother to take my newly-wedded husband away, so that
I have never since gazed upon his face?”
“Your husband! I sent my brother to take him away! I do not understand
you.”
“Do you dare deny, then, that you are not Martial’s mistress!”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse’s mistress! why I saw him yesterday for the
first time since the Baron d’Escorval’s escape.” The effort which
Marie-Anne had made to rise and speak had exhausted her strength. She
fell back in the arm-chair.
But Blanche was pitiless. “You only saw Martial then,” she said. “Pray,
tell me, who gave you this costly furniture, these silk hangings, all
the luxury that surrounds you?”
“Chanlouineau.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “So be it,” she said, with an ironical
smile. “But you are not waiting for Chanlouineau this evening? Have you
warmed these slippers and laid this table for Chanlouineau? Was it
Chanlouineau who sent his clothes by a peasant named Poignot? You see
that I know everything?” She paused for some reply; but her victim was
silent. “Who are you waiting for?” insisted Blanche. “Answer me!”
“I cannot!”
“Ah, of course not, because you know that it is your lover who is
coming, you wretched woman--my husband, Martial!”
Marie-Anne was considering the situation as well as her intolerable
sufferings and troubled mind would permit. Could she name the persons
she was expecting? Would not any mention of the Baron d’Escorval to
Blanche ruin and betray him? They were hoping for a letter of licence
for a revision of judgment, but he was none the less under sentence of
death, and liable to be executed in twenty-four hours.
“So you refuse to tell me whom you expect here--at midnight,” repeated
the marchioness.
“I refuse,” gasped Marie-Anne; but at the same time she was seized with
a sudden impulse. Although the slightest movement caused her intolerable
agony, she tore her dress open, and drew a folded paper from her bosom.
“I am not the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s mistress,” she said, in an almost
inaudible voice. “I am Maurice d’Escorval’s wife. Here is the
proof--read.”
Blanche had scarcely glanced at the paper than she turned as pale as her
victim. Her sight failed her; there was a strange ringing in her ears,
and a cold sweat started from every pore in her skin. This paper was the
marriage certificate of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur,
drawn up by the cure of Vigano, witnessed by the old physician and
Bavois, and sealed with the parish seal. The proof was indisputable. She
had committed a useless crime; she had murdered an innocent woman. The
first good impulse of her life made her heart beat more quickly. She did
not stop to consider; she forgot the danger to which she exposed
herself, and in a ringing voice she cried; “Help! help!”
Eleven o’clock was just striking in the country; every one was naturally
abed, and, moreover, the nearest farm-house was half a league away.
Blanche’s shout was apparently lost in the stillness of the night. In
the garden below Aunt Medea perhaps heard it; but she would have allowed
herself to be cut to pieces rather than stir from her place. And yet
there was one other who heard that cry of distress. Had Blanche and her
victim been less overwhelmed with despair, they would have heard a noise
on the stairs, which at that very moment were creaking under the tread
of a man, who was cautiously climbing them. But he was not a saviour,
for he did not answer the appeal. However, even if there had been help
at hand, it would now have come too late.
Marie-Anne felt that there was no longer any hope for her, and that it
was the chill of death which was creeping towards her heart. She felt
that her life was fast ebbing away. So, when Blanche turned as if to
rush out in search of assistance, she detained her with a gesture, and
gently called her by her name. The murderess paused. “Do not summon any
one,” murmured Marie-Anne; “It would do no good. Let me at least die in
peace. It will not be long now.”
“Hush! do not speak so. You must not--you shall not die! If you should
die--great God! what would my life be afterwards!”
Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was rapidly completing its work.
The sufferer’s breath literally whistled as it forced its way through
her inflamed throat. When she moved her tongue, it scorched her palate
as if it had been a piece of hot iron; her lips were parched and
swollen; and her hands, inert and paralysed, would no longer obey her
will.
But the horror of the situation restored Blanche’s calmness. “All is not
yet lost,” she exclaimed. “It was in that great box there on the table
that I found the white powder I poured into the bowl. You must know what
it is; you must know the antidote.”
Marie-Anne sadly shook her head. “Nothing can save me now,” she
murmured, in an almost inaudible voice; “but I don’t complain. Who knows
the misery from which death may preserve me? I don’t crave life; I have
suffered so much during the past year; I have endured such humiliation;
I have wept so much! A curse was on me!” She was suddenly endowed with
that clearness of mental vision so often granted to the dying. She saw
how she had wrought her own undoing by consenting to play the perfidious
part her father had assigned her, and how she herself had paved the way
for the slander, crimes, and misfortunes of which she had been the
victim.
Her voice grew fainter and fainter. Worn out with suffering, a sensation
of drowsiness stole over her. She was falling asleep in the arms of
death. But suddenly such a terrible thought found its way into her
failing mind that she gasped with agony, “My child!” And then,
regaining, by a superhuman effort as much will, energy, and strength, as
the poison would allow her, she straitened herself in the arm-chair, and
though her features were contracted by mortal anguish, yet with an
energy of which no one would have supposed her capable, she exclaimed,
“Blanche, listen to me. It is the secret of my life which I am going to
reveal to you; no one suspects it. I have a son by Maurice. Alas! many
months have elapsed since my husband disappeared. If he is dead, what
will become of my child? Blanche, you, who have killed me, swear to me
that you will be a mother to my child!”
Blanche was utterly overcome. “I swear!” she sobbed; “I swear!”
“On that condition, but on that condition alone, I pardon you. But take
care! Do not forget your oath! Blanche, heaven sometimes allows the dead
to avenge themselves. You have sworn, remember. My spirit will allow you
no rest if you do not fulfil your vow!”
“I will remember,” sobbed Blanche; “I will remember. But the child----”
“Ah! I was afraid--cowardly creature that I was! I dreaded the
shame--then Maurice insisted--I sent my child away--your jealousy and my
death are the punishment of my weakness. Poor child! abandoned to
strangers! Wretched woman that I am! Ah! this suffering is too horrible.
Blanche, remember----”
She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible. Blanche
frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, and endeavoured to arouse her.
“To whom have you confided your child?” she repeated; “to whom?
Marie-Anne--a word more--a single word--a name, Marie-Anne!”
The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death-rattle already sounded
in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her frame; she slid down from
the chair, and fell full length upon the floor. Marie-Anne was
dead--dead, and she had not disclosed the name of the old physician at
Vigano to whom she had entrusted her child. She was dead, and the
terrified murderess stood in the middle of the room as rigid and
motionless as a statue. It seemed to her that madness--a madness like
that which had stricken her father--was working in her brain. She forgot
everything; she forgot that some one was expected at midnight; that time
was flying, and that she would surely be discovered if she did not fly.
But the man who had entered the house when she cried for help was
watching over her. As soon as he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her
last, he pushed against the door, and thrust his leering face into the
room.
“Chupin!” faltered Blanche.
“In the flesh,” he responded. “This was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha!
The business riled your stomach a little; but nonsense! that will soon
pass off. But we must not dawdle here: some one may come in. Let us make
haste.”
Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-Anne’s dead body
lay between her and the door, barring the passage. To leave the room it
was necessary to step over her victim’s lifeless form. She had not
courage to do so, and recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled
by no such scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she
had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was intoxicated
with joy. He need have no fears for the future now; for Blanche was
bound to him by the strongest of chains--complicity in crime. He saw
himself on the threshold of a life of constant revelry. All remorse
anent Lacheneur’s betrayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed,
lodged, and clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of
servants.
While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his mind, the cool
night air was reviving the terror-stricken Marchioness de Sairmeuse. She
intimated that she should prefer to walk, and accordingly Chupin
deposited her on her feet some twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea
was already with them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its
master while the latter goes into a house. She had instinctively
followed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying her out
of the cottage.
“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I will lead the way.”
And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened towards the grove. “Ah! so
Marie-Anne had a child,” he remarked, as they hurried on. “She pretended
to be such a saint! But where the deuce has she placed it?”
“I shall find it,” replied Blanche.
“Hum! that is easier said than done,” quoth the old poacher,
thoughtfully.
Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the darkness. In
the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his hold on Blanche’s arm,
and assumed an attitude of defence. The precaution was fruitless; for at
the same moment a man concealed among the trees bounded upon him from
behind, and, plunging a knife four times into his writhing body,
exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer have
to eat with my fingers!”
“Balstain! the innkeeper!” groaned the wounded man, sinking to the
ground.
Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt Medea for once
in her life had some energy in her fear. “Come!” she shrieked, dragging
her niece away “Come--he is dead!”
Not quite, for the old traitor had sufficient strength remaining to
crawl home and knock at the door. His wife and youngest boy were
sleeping soundly, and it was his eldest son, who had just returned home,
who opened the door. Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, the
young man thought he was intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry
him into the house, but the old poacher begged him to desist. “Don’t
touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me! but listen: Lacheneur’s
daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you
this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a fortune, my
boy, if you are not a fool!” And then he died without being able to tell
his family where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood.