Blanche’s reason had sustained a frightful shock, when Chupin was
obliged to lift and carry her out of Marie-Anne’s room. But she
well-nigh lost consciousness altogether when she saw the old poacher
struck down by her side. However, as will be remembered, Aunt Medea, at
least, had some energy in her fright. She seized her bewildered niece’s
arm, and by dint of dragging and pushing had her back at the chateau in
much less time than it had taken them to reach the Borderie. It was
half-past one in the morning when they reached the little garden-gate,
by which they had left the grounds. No one in the chateau had noticed
their long absence. This was due to several different circumstances.
First of all, to the precautions which Blanche herself had taken in
giving orders, before going out, that no one should come to her room, on
any pretext whatever, unless she rang. Then it also chanced to be the
birthday of the marquis’s valet de chambre, and the servants had dined
more sumptuously than usual. They had toasts and songs over their
dessert; and at the finish of the repast, they amused themselves with an
improvised ball. They were still dancing when Blanche and her aunt
returned. None of the doors had yet been secured for the night, and the
pair succeeded in reaching Blanche’s room without being observed. When
the door had been securely closed, and there was no longer any fear of
listeners, Aunt Medea attacked her niece.
“Now, will you explain what happened at the Borderie; and what you were
doing there?” she inquired, in a tone of unusual authority.
Blanche shuddered. “Why do you wish to know?” she asked.
“Because I suffered agony during the hours I was waiting for you in the
garden. What was the meaning of those dreadful cries I heard? Why did
you call for help? I heard a death-rattle that made my hair stand on end
with terror. Why did Chupin have to bring you out in his arms?” She
paused for a moment, and then finding that Blanche did not reply. “You
don’t answer me!” she exclaimed.
The young marchioness was longing to annihilate her dependent relative,
who might ruin her by a thoughtless word, and whom she would ever have
beside her--a living memento of her crime. However, what should she say?
Would it be better to reveal the truth, horrible as it was, or to invent
some plausible explanation? If she confessed everything she would place
herself at Aunt Medea’s mercy. But, on the other hand, if she deceived
her aunt, it was more than probable that the latter would betray her by
some involuntary remark when she heard of the crime committed at the
Borderie. Hence, under the circumstances, the wisest plan, perhaps,
would be to speak out frankly, to teach her relative her lesson, and try
and imbue her with some firmness. Having come to this conclusion,
Blanche disdained all concealment. “Ah, well!” she said, “I was jealous
of Marie-Anne. I thought she was Martial’s mistress. I was half-crazed,
and I poisoned her.”
She expected a despairing cry, or even a fainting fit, but, to her
surprise, Aunt Medea merely shed a few tears--such as she often wept for
any trifle--and exclaimed: “How terrible. What if it should be
discovered?” In point of fact, stupid as the neglected spinster might
be, she had guessed the truth before she questioned her niece. And not
merely was she prepared for some such answer, but the tyranny she had
endured for years had well-nigh destroyed all the real moral sensibility
she had ever possessed.
On noting her aunt’s comparative composure, Blanche breathed more
freely. She never imagined that her impoverished relative was already
meditating some sort of revenge for all the slights heaped on her in
past years; but felt quite convinced that she could count on Aunt
Medea’s absolute silence and submission. With this idea in her head she
began to relate all the circumstances of the frightful drama enacted at
the Borderie. In so doing she yielded to a desire stronger than her own
will: to the wild longing that often seizes the most hardened criminal,
and forces--irresistibly impels him to talk of his crimes, even when he
distrusts his confidant. But when she came to speak of the proofs which
had convinced her of her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in
dismay.
What had she done with the marriage certificate signed by the cure of
Vigano, and which she remembered holding in her hands? She sprang up,
and felt in the pocket of her dress. Ah, she had it safe. It was there.
Without again unfolding it she threw into a drawer, and turned the key.
Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own room, but Blanche entreated her
to remain. She was unwilling to be left alone--she dared not--she was
afraid. And as if she desired to silence the inward voice tormenting
her, she talked on with extreme volubility, repeating again and again
that she was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and vowing
that she would overcome all impossibilities in her quest for
Marie-Anne’s child. The task was both a difficult and dangerous one, for
an open search for the child would be equivalent to a confession of
guilt. Hence, she must act secretly, and with great caution. “But I
shall succeed,” she said. “I will spare no expense.” And remembering her
vow, and her dying victim’s threats, she added: “I must succeed. I swore
to do so, and I was forgiven under those conditions.”
In the meanwhile, Aunt Medea sat listening in astonishment. It was
incomprehensible to her, that her niece, with her dreadful crime still
fresh in her mind, could coolly reason, deliberate, and make plans for
the future. “What an iron will!” thought the dependent relative; but in
her bewilderment she quite overlooked one or two circumstances that
would have enlightened any ordinary observer.
Blanche was seated on her bed with her hair unbound; her eyes were
glistening with delirium, and her incoherent words and excited gestures
betrayed the frightful anxiety that was torturing her. And she talked
and talked, now narrating, and now questioning Aunt Medea, and forcing
her to reply, only that she might escape from her own thoughts. Morning
had already dawned, and the servants could be heard bustling about the
chateau, while Blanche, oblivious of everything around her, was still
explaining how, in less than a year, she could hope to restore
Marie-Anne’s child to Maurice d’Escorval. She paused abruptly in the
middle of a sentence. Instinct had suddenly warned her of the danger she
incurred in making the slightest change in her habits. Accordingly, she
sent Aunt Medea away, then, at the usual hour, rang for her maid. It was
nearly eleven o’clock, and she was just completing her toilette, when
the ring of the outer bell announced a visitor. Almost immediately her
maid, who had just previously left her, returned, evidently in a state
of great excitement.
“What is the matter?” inquired Blanche, eagerly. “Who has come?”
“Ah, madame--that is, mademoiselle, if you only knew----”
“Will you speak?”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is downstairs in the blue drawing-room; and he
begs mademoiselle to grant him a few minutes’ conversation.”
Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at her feet, the murderess could not
have been more terrified. Her first thought was that everything had been
discovered; for what else could have brought Martial there? She almost
decided to send word that she was not at home, or that she was extremely
ill; when reason told her that she was perhaps alarming herself
needlessly, and that in any case the worst was preferable to suspense.
“Tell the marquis that I will be with him in a moment,” she at last
replied.
She desired a few minutes solitude to compose her features, to regain
her self-possession, if possible, and conquer the nervous trembling
that made her shake like a leaf. But in the midst of her uneasiness a
sudden inspiration brought a malicious smile to her lip. “Ah!” she
thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly natural. It may even be of
service.” And yet as she descended the grand staircase, she could not
help saying to herself: “Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible.”
It was certainly very extraordinary; and he himself had not come to
Courtornieu without considerable hesitation. But it was the only means
he had of procuring several important documents which were indispensable
in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case. These documents, after the
baron’s condemnation, had been left in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s
hands. Now that the latter had gone out of his mind, it was impossible
to ask him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to his wife for
permission to search for them among her father’s papers. He had said to
himself that morning: “I will carry the baron’s letters of licence to
Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to Courtornieu.”
He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full of hope;
and found that Marie-Anne was dead. The discovery had been a terrible
blow for Martial; and his conscience told him that he was not free from
blame; that he had, at least, facilitated the perpetration of the crime.
For it was indeed he who, by an abuse of influence, had caused Maurice’s
arrest at Turin. But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when
his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity.
Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he
had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him.
And when Jean and Maurice upbraided him, his only revenge was to
overwhelm them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a
ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss still printed on the dead
girl’s brow, he said to himself: “For her sake, I will go to
Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron must be saved.”
By the expression of the servants’ faces as he leapt from the saddle in
the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see Madame Blanche, he was
again reminded of the sensation which this unexpected visit would
necessarily cause. However, he cared little for it. He was passing
through a crisis in which the mind can conceive no further misfortune,
and becomes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when
they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room
well, for it was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days
gone by, when his fancy was wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How
many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see
Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and smiling. Her
manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had seemed charming at the
time.
At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked so sad and
careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by
the look of patient sorrow seemingly stamped upon her features. “How
much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing
what he said.
It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once realised
that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his emotion, she perceived
the profit she might derive from it. “I can never cease to regret having
displeased you,” she replied, in a sad humble voice. “I shall never be
consoled.”
She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart. For there is
no man so sceptical, so cold, or so heartless but his vanity is not
flattered with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake. There is
no man who is not moved by such a flattering idea; and who is not ready
and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such
devotion.
“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial. The wily
enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her
eyes a weakness of which she felt ashamed. This simple gesture was the
most eloquent of answers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He
asked for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu’s papers with the view
of finding the documents he required for M. d’Escorval’s case, and
Blanche readily complied with his request. He then turned to take his
leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences of too formal a promise he
merely added: “Since you don’t forbid it, Blanche, I will
return--to-morrow--another day.” However, as he rode back to Montaignac,
his thoughts were busy. “She really loves me,” he mused; “that pallor,
that weariness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after
all. The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father exist
no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be considered as dead.”
All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the market-place
when Martial rode through the village. They have just heard of the
murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the
magistrate, relating as far as he could the circumstances of the crime.
After a prolonged enquiry, it was eventually reported that a man known
as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of
Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle
poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been himself assassinated
soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were
unknown.
However, this affair soon interested the district far less than the
constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. Shortly
afterwards it was rumoured that the Marquis and the Marchioness de
Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a few weeks later, they left for
Paris with an intention of residing there permanently. A day or two
after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins also announced his
determination of taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his
friends endeavoured to dissuade him, assuring him that he would
certainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he replied:
“On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan’t want for anything so long
as I live there.”