Chapter X: Part 10

The voice of conscience was unheard, unheeded, in this tumult of passion. Her sufferings, and Jean Lacheneur’s attempt upon her father’s life, seemed to justify the most terrible reprisals. She had plenty of time now to brood over her wrongs, and to concoct schemes of vengeance; for her father no longer required her care. He had passed from the frenzied ravings of delirium to the stupor of idiocy. And yet the physician had confidently declared his patient to be cured. Cured! The body was cured, perhaps, but reason had utterly fled. All traces of intelligence had left the marquis’s once mobile face, so ready in former times to assume the precise expression which his hypocrisy and duplicity required. His eyes, which had gleamed with cunning, wore a dull, vacant stare, and his under lip hung low, as is customary with idiots. Worst of all, no hope of any improvement was to be entertained. A single passion--indulgence at table--had taken the place of all those which in former times had swayed the life of this ambitious man. The marquis, in previous years most temperate in his habits, now ate and drank with disgusting voracity, and was rapidly becoming extremely corpulent. Between his meals he would wander about the Chateau and its surrounding in a listless fashion, scarcely knowing what he did. His memory had gone, and he had lost all sense of dignity, all knowledge of good and evil. Even the instinct of self-preservation, the last which dies within us, had departed, and he had to be watched like a child. Often, as he roamed about the grounds, his daughter would gaze at him from her window with a strange terror in her heart. But after all, this warning of providence only increased her desire for revenge. “Who would not prefer death to such a misfortune?” she murmured. “Ah! Jean Lacheneur’s revenge is far more terrible than if his bullet had pierced my father’s heart. It is a similar revenge that I must have, and I will have it!”

She saw Chupin every two or three days; sometimes going alone to the meeting-place, and at others in Aunt Medea’s company. The old poacher came punctually enough although he was beginning to tire of his task. “I am risking a great deal,” he growled. “I fancied that Jean Lacheneur would go and live at the Borderie with his sister. Then, I should have been safe. But no; the brigand continues to prowl about with his gun under his arm: and sleeps in the woods at night time. What game is he after? Why, Father Chupin, of course. On the other hand, I know that my rascally innkeeper over there has abandoned his inn and disappeared. Where is he? Hidden behind one of these trees, perhaps, in settling what part of my body he shall plunge his knife into.” What irritated the old poacher most of all was, that after two months watching he had come to the conclusion that whatever might have been Martial’s connection with Marie-Anne in former times, everything was now all over between them.

But Blanche would not admit this. “Own that they are more cunning than you are, Father Chupin, but don’t tell me they don’t see each other,” she observed one day.

“Cunning--and how?” was the retort. “Since I have been watching the marquis, he hasn’t once passed outside the fortifications of Montaignac, while, on the other hand, the postman at Sairmeuse, whom my wife cleverly questioned, declares that he hasn’t taken a single letter to the Borderie.”

After this, if it had not been for the hope of a safe and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned his task altogether; as it was, he relaxed his surveillance considerably; coming to the rendezvous with Blanche, chiefly because he had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his expenses, on each occasion. And when Blanche asked him for an account of everything that Martial had done since their previous meeting, he generally told her anything that came into his head. However, one day, early in September, she interrupted him as he began the same old story, and, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, exclaimed: “Either you are betraying me, Father Chupin, or else you are a fool. Yesterday Martial and Marie-Anne spent a quarter of an hour together at the Croix d’Arcy.”

XXXI.

After the old physician of Vigano had left the Borderie with his precious burden, Marie-Anne fell into a state of bitter despondency. Many in her situation would perhaps have experienced a feeling of relief, for had she not succeeded in concealing the outcome of her frailty, which none, save perhaps the Abbe Midon, so much as suspected? Hence, her despondency may at first sight seem to have been uncalled for. But then, let it be remembered that the sublime instinct of maternity had been awakened in her breast; and when she saw the physician leave her, carrying away her child she felt as if her soul and body were being rent asunder. When might she hope to set her eyes again on this poor babe who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her? Ah, if it had not been for her promise to Maurice, she would have braved public opinion and kept her infant son at the Borderie. Had she not braved calumny already? She had been accused of having three lovers. Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice. The comments of the villagers had not affected her; but she had been tortured, and was still tortured by the thought that these people didn’t know the truth. Maurice was her husband, and yet she dare not proclaim the fact; she was “Mademoiselle Lacheneur” to all around--a maiden--a living lie. Surely such a situation accounted only too completely for her despondency and distress. And when she thought of her brother she positively shuddered with dismal apprehensions.

Having learnt that Jean was roving about the country she sent for him; but it was not without considerable persuasion that he consented to come and see her at the Borderie. A glance at his appearance sufficed to explain all Chupin’s terror. The young fellow’s clothes were in tatters, and the expression of his weather-stained, unshaven, unkempt face was ferocious in the extreme. When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled with fear. She did not recognize him until he spoke. “It is I, sister,” he said gloomily.

“What, you--my poor Jean! you!”

He surveyed himself from head to foot, and with a sneering laugh retorted, “Well, really, I shouldn’t like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”

Marie-Anne fancied she could detect a threat behind this ironical remark, and her apprehensions were painful in the extreme. “What a life you must be leading, my poor brother!” she said after a brief pause. “Why didn’t you come here sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go. You will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You will remain with me?”

“That’s impossible, Marie-Anne.”

“And why?”

Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied--”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.”

“What, you said that--you, Jean--you, my brother?”

“Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”

Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured, and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do? Tell me; I must know.”

“Nothing! leave me to myself.”

“Jean!”

“Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly.

Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s justice will punish those who have wronged us.”

But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and retorted, “That’s my justice!”

Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father on to destruction--the idea for which he had sacrificed everything--family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour, the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself. “Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”

The young fellow’s face turned livid; and instinctively he clenched his fists. But the words he uttered were the more impressive as his voice was calm and low. “It is just because I do remember my father that I am determined justice shall be done. Ah! these wretched nobles wouldn’t display such audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A scoundrel like the Duke de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he attacked an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself: ‘If I wrong this man, and even should I kill him, I cannot escape retributive justice, for his children will surely call me to account. Their vengeance will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us by day and night, at all hours and in all seasons. We must ever fear their hatred for they will be implacable and merciless. I shall never leave my house without fear of a bullet; never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl round about our home threatening us at every moment with death, dishonour, ruin, infamy, and misery!’” The young fellow paused, laughed nervously, and then, in a still slower voice, he added: “That is what the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus have to expect from me.” It was impossible to mistake the import of these words. Jean Lacheneur’s threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set premeditated desire for vengeance which would last as long as he lived--and he took good care that his sister should understand him, for between his teeth he added: “Undoubtedly these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny insect pierces the root of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”

Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn her brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him to leave, without making one more effort it was with clasped hands and in a supplicating voice that she begged him to renounce his projects, but he still remained obdurate, and when changing her tactics she asked him to remain with her, at least that evening and share her frugal supper, adding in trembling tones that it might be the last time they would see each other for long years, he again repeated, “You ask me an impossibility!” And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was stern, a tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him imploringly, when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister--poor Marie-Anne,” he said, “you will never know what it costs me to refuse your supplications. But I cannot yield to them. I have been most imprudent in coming here at all. You don’t realize the danger to which you may be exposed if folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I trust that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but don’t try to see me, or even to find out what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, and freed himself from her detaining hands. “Farewell!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”

Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out after him, meaning to call him back, but he had already disappeared. “It is all over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.” And a vague, inexplicable, dread invaded her heart. She felt as if she were being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancour, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.

Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one evening, while she was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling sound outside. She turned and looked: some one had slipped a letter under the front door. Without a moments hesitation, she raised the latch and courageously sprang out on to the threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well nigh impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the stillness. With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked towards the lamp burning on her supper table, and looked at the address. “From the Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement, as she recognized Martial’s hand-writing. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already holding it over the stove, when she suddenly thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger.”

Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before acting. MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”

Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero.

The result of her suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the meeting place where Father Poignot usually awaited her. When she did go, in lieu of the worthy farmer she found the Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night time, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded, he remarked: “This young man no doubt has the prejudices of his rank and his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” he added, “the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow you shall know our decision.”

Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met again at the same spot. “M. d’Escorval,” said the priest, “agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him--in one word, a new trial.”

Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she could not help exclaiming: “What! M. d’Escorval means to give himself up to his enemies! To risk his life on the chance of acquittal?” The priest nodded assent, and then knowing that it was quite useless to attempt arguing the point Marie-Anne submissively remarked: “In this case, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis.”

For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he answered. “It would be better not to write.”

“But----”

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it doesn’t always reach the person it’s addressed to. You must see M. de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne recoiled. “Never! never!” she exclaimed.

The abbe did not seem surprised. “I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the marquis’s attentions. But duty calls, and this is not the time to hesitate. You know that the baron is innocent, and you know, alas, that your father’s mad enterprise has ruined him. You must, at least, make this atoning sacrifice.” He then explained to her everything she would have to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person.

It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne’s aversion to this interview was due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her reputation! Alas, she knew that it was lost for ever. A fortnight before the prospect of such a meeting would have in no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas now---- Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the rendezvous, she hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore aversion to her heart. As she walked along towards the meeting place, she said to herself that no doubt Martial would wound her feelings by his usual tone of careless gallantry. But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was over, and he had consented to all the conditions suggested by the abbe, that he sadly remarked: “We are friends, are we not?”

And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, “Yes.”

And that was all. He remounted his horse, which had been held by a servant, and galloped off in the direction of Montaignac. Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as bending low in the saddle he urged his horse onward over the dusty highway, until at last a bend and some projecting trees finally hid him from view. Then, all of a sudden, she became as it were conscious of her thoughts. “Ah, wretched woman that I am,” she exclaimed, “is it possible I could ever love any other man than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”

Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she related the particulars of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive her trouble, his thoughts being busy with the baron’s interests. “I felt sure,” said he, “that Martial would agree to our conditions. I was, indeed, so certain that I even made every arrangement for the baron to leave the farm. He will leave it to-morrow night and wait at your house till we receive the letters of licence from the king. The heat and bad ventilation of Poignot’s loft are certainly retarding his recovery. One of Poignot’s boys will bring our baggage to-morrow evening, and at eleven o’clock or so we will place M. d’Escorval in a vehicle and all sup together at the Borderie.”

“Heaven comes to my aid!” murmured Marie-Anne as she walked home, reflecting that now she would no longer be alone. With Madame d’Escorval at her side to talk to her of Maurice, and the cheerful presence of her other friends, she would soon be able to chase away those thoughts of Martial, now haunting her.

When she awoke the next morning she was in better spirits than she had been for months, and once, while putting her little house in order, she was surprised to find herself singing at her work. Just as eight o’clock in the evening was striking she heard a peculiar whistle. This was a signal from the younger Poignot, who soon appeared laden with an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s medicine chest, and a bag of books. They were all placed in the room upstairs--the room which Chanlouineau had decorated at such cost, and which Marie-Anne now intended for the baron. Young Poignot told her that he had several other things to bring, and nearly an hour afterwards, fancying that he might be overloaded, she ventured out to meet him. The night was very dark, and as she hastened on, Marie-Anne failed to notice two figures stooping behind a clump of lilac bushes in her little garden.

XXXII.

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.