CHUPINwas 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 unquestionablyhave 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! Whatare 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 roomssurprised 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 difficultyshe 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 themantelshelf. “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,neeBlanche 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 awhite 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 adeeper 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, butrather 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 pausedfor 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 thatcry 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 wasdead, 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, hehastened 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.
ITwill be recollected that of all those who witnessed the Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall over the precipice below the citadel of Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only onewho did not despair. He set about his task with more than courage, with a reverent faith in the protection of providence, remembering Ambroise Pare’s sublime phrase—”I dress the wound—God heals it.” That he was right to hope was conclusively shown by the fact that after six months sojourn in Father Poignot’s house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp about with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of recovery, however, when it was essential he should take some little exercise, he was seriously inconvenienced by the diminutive proportions of Poignot’s loft, so that he welcomed with intense delight the prospect of taking up his abode at the Borderie with Marie-Anne; and when indeed the abbe fixed the day for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive, as a schoolboy is for the holidays. “I am suffocating here,” he said to his wife, “literally suffocating. The time passes so slowly. When will the happy day come!”
It came at last. The morning was spent in packing up such things as they had managed to procure, during their stay at the farm; and soon after nightfall Poignot’s elder son began carrying them away. “Everything is at the Borderie,” said the honest fellow, on returning from his last trip, “and Mademoiselle Lacheneur bids the baron bring a good appetite.”
“I shall have one, never fear!” responded M. d’Escorval gaily. “We shall all have one.”
Father Poignot himself was busy harnessing his best horse to the cart which was to convey the baron to his new home. The worthy man felt sad as he thought that these guests, for whose sake he had incurred such danger, were now going to leave him. He felt he should acutely miss them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted after they had left. He would allow no one else to arrange the mattress intended for M. d’Escorval comfortably in the cart; and when he had done this to his satisfaction, he murmured, with a sigh, “It’s time to start!” and turned to climb the narrow staircase leading to the loft.
M. d’Escorval with a patient’s natural egotism had not thought of the parting. But when he saw the honest farmer, coming to bid him good-bye, with signs of deep emotion on his face, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the royal andcourageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about to leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. “You have rendered me a service which nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling. “You have saved my life.”
“Oh! we won’t talk of that, baron. In my place, you would have done the same—neither more nor less.”
“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live long enough to show my gratitude.”
The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty in carrying the baron down; but finally they had him stretched comfortably on his mattress in the cart; a few handfuls of straw being scattered over his limbs so as to hide him from the gaze of any inquisitive passers-by. The latter was scarcely to be expected it is true, for it was now fully eleven o’clock at night. Parting greetings were exchanged, and then the cart which young Poignot drove with the utmost caution started slowly on its way.
On foot, some twenty paces in the rear came Madame d’Escorval, leaning on the abbe’s arm. It was very dark, but even if they had been in the full sunshine, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. He had allowed his hair and beard to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighbourhood, his face being partially hidden by a large slouch hat. He had not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had originally seemed to him insurmountable, had now vanished, and in the near future he saw the baron’s innocence proclaimed by an impartial tribunal, while he himself was re-installed in the parsonage of Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollection of Maurice he would have had nothing to trouble his mind. Why had young d’Escorval given no sign of life? It seemed impossible for him to have met with any misfortune without hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal Bavois who would have risked anything to come and warn them, if Maurice had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflections, that he did not notice Madame d’Escorval was leaning more heavily on his arm and gradually slackening her pace. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she said at last, “but I can go no farther. Itis so long since I was out of doors, that I have almost forgotten how to walk.”
“Fortunately we are almost there,” replied the priest; and indeed a moment afterwards young Poignot drew up at the corner of the foot-path leading to the Borderie. Telling the baron that the journey was ended he gave a low whistle, like that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival a few hours before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again, in a louder key, and then a third time with all his might—still there was no response. Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart, “It’s very strange that Marie-Anne doesn’t hear me,” remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We can’t take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?”
“She’s asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “stay with your horse, my boy, and I’ll go and wake her.”
He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly that he almost fell backward—he paused horror-stricken at the sight before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on the palm of his hand—it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.
But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done was to induce the baron to return to thefarm-house without telling him of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M. d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back to your father’s house.”
Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”
The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,” exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in great danger.An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!”
The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he asked.
“I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he—the miserable traitor!—who committed this foul deed.”
“Still, what motive could he have had?”
With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean answered: “Oh, you may be certain that the daughter’s blood will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of an army of retainers at Sairmeuse.”
“Wretched man, what do you mean?”
“What I say.” And he coldly added: “Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.”
The priest recoiled. “You are mad!” he said severely.
But Jean gravely shook his head. “If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied, “it is only because you are ignorant of Martial’s wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wanted to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse the honour; and that was a crime for which she must be punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur’s daughter would never be his, he poisoned her that she might not belong to any one else.” All efforts to convince Jean of the folly of his accusations would at that moment have been vain. No proofs would have convinced him. He would have closed his eyes to all evidence.
“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,” thought the abbe; and then he added aloud: “We can’t allow the poor girl’s body to remain here on the floor. Help me, and we will place it on the bed.”
Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was perceptible; but at last, after a severe struggle, he complied. No one had ever yet slept on this bed whichChanlouineau had destined for Marie-Anne, saying to himself that it should be for her, or for no one. And Marie-Anne it was who rested there the first—sleeping the sleep of death. When the sad task was accomplished, Jean threw himself into the same arm-chair in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, he sat there as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above the last resting places of the dead.
In the meanwhile, the abbe knelt by the bed-side, and began reciting the prayers for the departed, entreating God to grant peace and happiness in heaven to her who had suffered so much on earth. But he prayed only with his lips, for in spite of all his efforts, his mind would persist in wandering. He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne’s death. Had she been murdered? Was it possible that she had committed suicide? The latter idea occurred to him without his having any great faith in it; but, on the other hand, how could her death possibly be the result of crime? He had carefully examined the room, and had discovered nothing that betrayed a stranger’s visit. All he could prove was that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had been poisoned by absorbing it in the broth a few drops of which were left in the bowl standing on the mantelpiece. “When morning comes,” thought the abbe, “I will look outside.”
Accordingly, at daybreak he went into the garden, and made a careful examination of the premises. At first he saw nothing that gave him the least clue, and he was about to abandon his investigations, when on entering the little grove, he espied a large dark stain on the grass a few paces off. He went nearer—it was blood! In a state of great excitement, he summoned Jean to inform him of the discovery.
“Some one has been murdered here,” said young Lacheneur; “and only last night, for the blood has scarcely had time to dry.”
“The victim must have lost a great deal of blood,” remarked the priest; “it might be possible to discover who he was by following these stains.”
“Yes, I will try,” replied Jean with alacrity. “Go into the house, sir; I will soon be back again.”
A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man, for the blood stains left along his line of route were so frequent and distinct. These tell-tale marks led to Chupin’s hovel, the door of which was closed. Jean rapped, however, without the slightest hesitation, and when the old poacher’s eldest son opened the door, he perceived a very singular spectacle. The dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner of the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the dead man’s wife and sons armed with spades and pick-axes were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the hovel’s only floor. They were seeking for the hidden treasure, for the 20,000 francs in gold, paid for Lacheneur’s betrayal! “What do you want?” asked the widow, roughly.
“I want to see Father Chupin.”
“Can’t you see that he’s been murdered,” replied one of the sons. And brandishing his pick close to Jean’s head, he added: “And you’re the murderer, perhaps. But that’s for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you don’t want me to do for you.”
Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young Chupin for his threat, but under the circumstances a conflict was scarcely permissible. Accordingly, he turned without another word hastened back to the Borderie. Chupin’s death upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him. “I swore that the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some one has cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial have assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? The best way to assure one’s self of an accomplice’s silence is certainly to kill him.”
Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going up-stairs, when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back room. “That’s strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?” And yielding to the impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the communicating door.
The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale and agitated.
“Who’s there?” inquired Jean, eagerly.
“Why, Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.”
“My God!”
“And it’s a miracle that Maurice has not been up stairs.”
“But whence does he come from? Why have we had no news of him?”
“I don’t know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor boy! after I told him his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne!’ He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes home with his heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble—I fear to tell him the truth.”
“Yes, it’s really too terrible!”
“Now I have warned you; be prudent—and come in.” They entered the room together; and both Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean warmly. They had not seen one another since the duel at La Reche, interrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they separated that day they scarcely expected to meet again.
Now Maurice, however, was in the best of spirits, and it was with a smile on his face that he remarked: “I am glad you’ve come. There’s nothing to fear now.” Then turning to the abbe, he remarked: “But I just promised to let you know the reason of my long silence. Three days after we crossed the frontier—Corporal Bavois and I—we reached Turin. We were tired out. We went to a small inn, and they gave us a room with two beds. While we were undressing, the corporal said to me: ‘I am quite capable of sleeping two whole days without waking,’ while I promised myself at least a good twelve hours’ rest; but we reckoned without our host, as you’ll see. It was scarcely daybreak when we were suddenly woke up. There were a dozen men in our room, one or two of them in some official costume. They spoke to us in Italian, and ordered us to dress ourselves. They were so numerous that resistance was useless, so we obeyed; and an hour after we were both in prison, confined in the same cell. You may well imagine what our thoughts were. The corporal remarked to me, in that cool way of his: ‘It will require four days to obtain our extradition, and three days to take us back to Montaignac—that’s seven, then there’ll be one day more to try us, so we’ve in all just eight days to live.’ Bavois said that at least a hundred times during the first five or six days of ourconfinement, but five months passed by, and every night we went to bed expecting they’d come for us on the following morning. But they didn’t come. We were kindly treated. They did not take away my money; and they willingly sold us various little luxuries. We were allowed two hours of exercise every day in the courtyard, and the keepers even lent us several books to read. In short, I shouldn’t have had any particular cause for complaint, if I had only been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or if I had been able to communicate with my father or Marie-Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and were not allowed to have any intercourse with the other prisoners. At length our detention seemed so strange and became so insupportable that we resolved to obtain some explanation of it at any cost. We changed our tactics. We had hitherto been quiet and submissive: but now we became as violent and unmanageable as possible. The whole prison resounded with our cries and protestations; we were continually sending for the superintendent, and claiming the intervention of the French ambassador. These proceedings at last had the desired effect. One fine afternoon the governor of the jail released us, not without expressing his regret at being deprived of the society of such amiable and charming guests. Our first act, as you may suppose, was to hasten to the ambassador. We didn’t see that dignitary, but his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my story, and became excessively grave. I remember each word of his reply. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I can assure you most positively that any proceedings instituted against you in France have had nothing whatever to do with your detention here.’ And I expressed my astonishment frankly. ‘One moment,’ he added, ‘I will give you my opinion. One of your enemies—I leave you to discover which—must exert a powerful influence in Turin. You were in his way, perhaps, and he had you imprisoned by the Piedmontese police.”
Jean Lacheneur struck the table beside him with his clenched fist. “Ah! the secretary was right!” he exclaimed. “Maurice, it was Martial de Sairmeuse who caused your arrest——”
“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, with a warning glance at Jean.
In a moment Maurice’s eyes gleamed brilliantly, then, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, he said, “Never mind; I don’t wish to trouble myself any more about the past. My father is well again—that is the main thing. We can easily find some way of getting him safely across the frontier. And then Marie-Anne and I—we will tend him so devotedly that he will soon forget it was my rashness that almost cost him his life. He is so good, so indulgent for the faults of others. We will go and reside in Italy or Switzerland, and you shall accompany us, Monsieur the Abbe, and you as well, Jean. As for you, corporal, it’s already decided that you belong to our family.”
While Maurice spoke in this fashion, so hopefully, so confidently, Jean and the abbe, realising the bitter truth, sought to avert their faces; but they could not conceal their agitation from young D’Escorval’s searching glance. “What is the matter?” he asked, with evident surprise.
They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word. Maurice’s astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressible fear. He enumerated all the misfortunes which could possibly have befallen him.
“What has happened?” he asked in a husky voice. “My father is safe is he not? You said that my mother would want nothing more, if I were only by her side again. Is it Marie-Anne then——” He hesitated.
“Courage, Maurice,” murmured the abbe. “Courage!”
The young fellow tottered as if he were about to fall. He had turned intensely pale. “Marie-Anne is dead!” he exclaimed.
Jean and the abbe were silent.
“Dead!” repeated Maurice; “and no secret voice warned me! Dead! When?”
“She died only last night,” replied Jean.
Maurice rose. “Last night?” said he. “In that case, then, she is still here. Where?—upstairs?” And without waiting for a reply, he darted toward the staircase so quickly that neither Jean nor the abbe had time to intercept him. With three bounds he reached the room above; he walked straight to the bed, and with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid his loved one’s face. But at the same moment he recoiled with a heart-broken cry. What! was this the beautiful, the radiant Marie-Anne—she whom he had loved so fervently! He did not recognize her.He could not recognize these distorted features—that swollen, discoloured face—these eyes, now almost hidden by the purple swelling round them. When Jean and the priest entered the room they found him standing with his head thrown back, his eyes dilated with terror, his right arm rigidly extended toward the corpse. “Maurice,” said the priest, gently, “be calm. Courage!”
The young fellow turned with an expression of complete bewilderment upon his features. “Yes,” he faltered; “that is what I need—courage!” He staggered as he spoke, and they were obliged to support him to an arm-chair.
“Be a man,” continued the priest. “Where is your energy? To live is to suffer.”
He listened, but did not seem to understand. “Live!” he murmured; “why should I live since she is dead?”
His eyes gleamed so strangely that the abbe was alarmed. “If he does not weep, he will most certainly lose his reason!” thought the priest. Then in a commanding voice he added aloud, “You have no right to despair; you owe a sacred duty to your child.”
The same remembrance which had given Marie-Anne strength to hold even death itself at bay for a moment, saved Maurice from the dangerous trance into which he was sinking. He shuddered as if he had received an electric shock, and springing from his chair, “That is true,” he cried. “Take me to my child!”
“Not just now, Maurice; wait a little.”
“Where is it? Tell me where it is.”
“I cannot; I do not know.”
An expression of unspeakable anguish stole over Maurice’s face, and in a broken voice he said: “What! you don’t know? Did she not confide in you?”
“No. I suspected her secret. I, alone——”
“You, alone! Then the child is perhaps dead. Even if it is living, who can tell where it is?”
“We shall no doubt find a clue.”
“You are right,” faltered Maurice. “When Marie-Anne knew that her life was in danger, she could not have forgotten her little one. Those who cared for her in her last moments must have received some message for me. I must see those who watched over her. Who were they?” The priest averted his face. “I asked you who was withher when she died,” repeated Maurice, in a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained silent, a terrible light dawned on the young fellow’s mind. He understood the cause of Marie-Anne’s distorted features now. “She perished the victim of a crime!” he exclaimed. “Some monster killed her. If she died such a death, our child is lost for ever! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the greatest precautions! Ah! we are all of us cursed!” He sank back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and with big tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.
“He is saved!” thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of such intense sorrow.
Jean Lacheneur stood by the priest’s side with gloom upon his face. Suddenly he drew the Abbe Midon towards one of the windows: “What is this about a child?” he enquired, harshly.
The priest’s face flushed. “You have heard,” he answered, laconically.
“Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was Maurice’s mistress, and that she had a child by him? Is that the case? I won’t, I can’t believe it! She whom I revered as a saint! What! you would have me believe that her eyes lied—her eyes so chaste, so pure? And he—Maurice—he whom I loved as a brother! So his friendship was only a cloak which he assumed so as to rob us of our honour!” Jean hissed these words through his set teeth in such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear him. “But how did she conceal her shame?” he continued. “No one suspected it—absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Did the thought of disgrace frighten her? Did she follow the example of so many ruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child? Ah, if it be alive I will find it, and in any case Maurice shall be punished for his perfidy as he deserves.” He paused; the window was open, and the sound of galloping horses could be plainly heard approaching along the adjacent highway. Both Jean and the abbe leant forward and looked out. Two horsemen were riding toward the Borderie—the first some ten yards in advance of the other. The former halted at the corner of the garden path, threw his reins to his follower—a groom—and then strode on foot toward the house. On recognizing this visitor, Jean bounded fromthe window with a yell. He clutched Maurice by the shoulders, and, shaking him violently, exclaimed, “Up! here comes Martial, Marie-Anne’s murderer! Up! he is coming! He is at our mercy!”
Maurice sprang to his feet, infuriated; but the abbe darted to the door and intercepted both young fellows as they were about to leave the room. “Not a word! not a threat!” he said, imperiously. “I forbid it. At least respect the presence of death!” He spoke with such authority, and his glance was so commanding, that both Jean and Maurice involuntarily paused. Before the priest had time to add another word, Martial was there. He did not cross the threshold. One look and he realised the situation. He turned very pale, but not a word escaped his lips. Wonderful as was his usual power of self-control he could not articulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed on which Marie-Anne’s lifeless form was reposing that he asked for an explanation.
“She was infamously poisoned last evening,” sadly replied the abbe.
Then Maurice, forgetting the priest’s demands, stepped forward. “She was alone and defenseless,” he said vehemently. “I have only been at liberty during the last two days. But I know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and thrown into prison. They told me the coward’s name! Yes, it was you, you infamous wretch! Ah! you dare not deny it; you confess your guilt, you scoundrel!”
Once again the abbe interposed; He threw himself between the rivals, fearing lest they should come to blows. But the Marquis de Sairmeuse had already resumed his usual haughty and indifferent manner. He took a bulky envelope from his pocket, and threw it on the table. “This,” said he coldly, “is what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains, first of all, royal letters of licence from his majesty for the Baron d’Escorval, who is now at liberty to return to his old home. He is, in fact, free and saved, for he is granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. In the same envelope you will also find a decree of noncomplicity rendered in favour of the Abbe Midon, and an order from the bishop of the diocese, reinstating him as cure of Sairmeuse; and, finally, Corporal Bavois’ discharge from the service, drawnup in proper form, with the needful memorandum securing his right to a pension.”
He paused, and as his hearers stood motionless with wonder, he turned and approached Marie-Anne’s bedside. Then, with his hand raised to heaven over the lifeless form of her whom he had loved, and in a voice that would have made the murderess tremble in her innermost soul, he solemnly exclaimed: “I swear to you, Marie-Anne, that I will avenge you!” For a few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stooped, pressed a kiss on the dead girl’s brow, and left the room.
“And you think that man can be guilty!” exclaimed the abbe. “You see, Jean, that you are mad!”
“And this last insult to my dead sister is an honour, I suppose,” said Jean, with a furious gesture.
“And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!” exclaimed Maurice.
From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial vault into the saddle. But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac. It was towards the Chateau de Courtornieu that he now hastened.
BLANCHE’Sreason 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, shehad 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 coollyreason, 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.