It was the second day after Marie-Anne’s installation at the Borderie.
That event was the general topic of conversation; and Chanlouineau’s will was the subject of countless comments.
“Here is Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter with an income of more than two thousand francs, without counting the house,” said the old people, gravely.
“An honest girl would have had no such luck as that!” muttered the unattractive maidens who had not been fortunate enough to secure husbands.
This was the great news which Chupin brought to Mme. Blanche.
She listened to it, trembling with anger, her hands so convulsively clinched that the nails penetrated the flesh.
“What audacity!” she exclaimed. “What impudence!”
The old poacher seemed to be of the same opinion.
“If each of her lovers gives her as much she will be richer than a queen. She will have enough to buy both Sairmeuse and Courtornieu, if she chooses,” he remarked, maliciously.
If he had desired to augment the rage of Mme. Blanche, he had good reason to be satisfied.
“And this is the woman who has alienated Martial’s heart from me!” she exclaimed. “It is for this miserable wretch that he abandons me!”
The unworthiness of the unfortunate girl whom she regarded as her rival, incensed her to such a degree that she entirely forgot Chupin’s presence. She made no attempt to restrain herself or to hide the secret of her sufferings.
“Are you sure that what you tell me is true?” she asked.
“As sure as that you stand there.”
“Who told you all this?”
“No one—I have eyes. I went to the Borderie yesterday to see for myself, and all the shutters were open. Marie-Anne was leaning out of a window. She does not even wear mourning, the heartless hussy!”
Poor Marie-Anne, indeed, had no dress but the one which Mme. d’Escorval had given her on the night of the insurrection, when she laid aside her masculine habiliments.
Chupin wished to irritate Mme. Blanche still more by other malicious remarks, but she checked him by a gesture.
“So you know the way to the Borderie?” she inquired.
“Perfectly.”
“Where is it?”
“Opposite the mills of the Oiselle, near the river, about a league and a half from here.”
“That is true. I remember now. Were you ever in the house?”
“More than a hundred times while Chanlouineau was living.”
“Explain the topography of the dwelling!”
Chupin’s eyes dilated to their widest extent.
“What do you wish?” he asked, not understanding in the least what was required of him.
“I mean, explain how the house is constructed.”
“Ah! now I understand. The house is built upon an open space a little distance from the road. Before it is a small garden, and behind it an orchard enclosed by a hedge. Back of the orchard, to the right, are the vineyards; but on the left side is a small grove that shades a spring.”
He paused suddenly, and with a knowing wink, inquired:
“But what use do you expect to make of all this information?”
“What does that matter to you? How is the interior arranged?”
“There are three large square rooms on the ground floor, besides the kitchen and a small dark room.”
“Now, what is on the floor above?”
“I have never been up there.”
“How are the rooms furnished which you have visited?”
“Like those in any peasant’s house.”
Certainly no one was aware of the existence of the luxurious apartment which Chanlouineau had intended for Marie-Anne. He had never spoken of it, and had even taken the greatest precautions to prevent anyone from seeing him transport the furniture.
“How many doors are there?” inquired Blanche.
“Three; one opening into the garden, another into the orchard, another communicating with the stables. The staircase leading to the floor above is in the middle room.”
“And is Marie-Anne alone at the Borderie?”
“Entirely alone at present; but I suppose it will not be long before her brigand of a brother joins her.”
Mme. Blanche fell into a revery so deep and so prolonged that Chupin at last became impatient.
He ventured to touch her upon the arm, and, in a wily voice, he said: “Well, what shall we decide?”
Blanche shuddered like a wounded man on hearing the terrible click of the surgeon’s instruments.
“My mind is not yet made up,” she replied. “I must reflect—I will see.”
And remarking the old poacher’s discontented face, she said, vehemently:
“I will do nothing lightly. Do not lose sight of Martial. If he goes to the Borderie, and he will go there, I must be informed of it. If he writes, and he will write, try to procure one of his letters. I must see you every other day. Do not rest! Strive to deserve the good place I am reserving for you at Courtornieu. Go!”
He departed without a word, but also without attempting to conceal his disappointment and chagrin.
“It serves you right for listening to a silly, affected woman,” he growled. “She fills the air with her ravings; she wishes to kill everybody, to burn and destroy everything. She only asks for an opportunity. The occasion presents itself, and her heart fails her. She draws back—she is afraid!”
Chupin did Mme. Blanche great injustice. The movement of horror which he had observed was the instinctive revolt of the flesh, and not a faltering of her inflexible will.
Her reflections were not of a nature to appease her rancor.
Whatever Chupin and all Sairmeuse might say to the contrary, Blanche regarded this story of Marie-Anne’s travels as a ridiculous fable. In her opinion, Marie-Anne had simply emerged from the retreat where Martial had deemed it prudent to conceal her.
But why this sudden reappearance? The vindictive woman was ready to swear that it was out of mere bravado, and intended only as an insult to her.
“And I will have my revenge,” she thought. “I would tear my heart out if it were capable of cowardly weakness under such provocation!”
The voice of conscience was unheard in this tumult of passion. Her sufferings, and Jean Lacheneur’s attempt upon her father’s life seemed to justify the most extreme measures.
She had plenty of time now to brood over her wrongs, and to concoct schemes of vengeance. Her father no longer required her care. He had passed from the frenzied ravings of insanity and delirium to the stupor of idiocy.
The physician declared his patient cured.
Cured! The body was cured, perhaps, but reason had succumbed. All traces of intelligence had disappeared from this once mobile face, so ready to assume any expression which the most consummate hypocrisy required.
There was no longer a sparkle in the eye which had formerly gleamed with cunning, and the lower lip hung with a terrible expression of stupidity.
And there was no hope of any improvement.
A single passion, the table, took the place of all the passions which had formerly swayed the life of this ambitious man.
The marquis, who had always been temperate in his habits, now ate and drank with the most disgusting voracity, and he was becoming immensely corpulent. A soulless body, he wandered about the chateau and its surroundings without projects, without aim. Self-consciousness, all thought of dignity, knowledge of good and evil, memory—he had lost all these. 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 the marquis roamed about the large gardens, his daughter regarded him from her window with a strange terror in her heart.
But 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 it would have been had his bullet pierced my father’s heart. It is a revenge like this that I desire. It is due me; I will have it!”
She saw Chupin every two or three days; sometimes going to the place of meeting alone, sometimes accompanied by Aunt Medea.
The old poacher came punctually, although he was beginning to tire of his task.
“I am risking a great deal,” he growled. “I supposed that Jean Lacheneur would go and live at the Borderie with his sister. Then, I should be safe. But no; the brigand continues to prowl around with his gun under his arm, and to sleep in the woods at night. What game is he hunting? Father Chupin, of course. On the other hand, I know that my rascally innkeeper over there has abandoned his inn and mysteriously disappeared. Where is he? Hidden behind one of these trees, perhaps, deciding in which portion of my body he shall plunge his knife.”
What irritated the old poacher most of all was, that after two months of surveillance, he had arrived at the conclusion that, whatever might have been the relations existing between Martial and Marie-Anne in the past, all was now over between them.
But Blanche would not admit this.
“Say that they are more cunning than you, Father Chupin.”
“Cunning—and how? Since I have been watching the marquis, he has not once passed outside the fortifications. On the other hand, the postman at Sairmeuse, who has been adroitly questioned by my wife, declares that he has not taken a single letter to the Borderie.”
Had it not been for the hope of a safe and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned his task; and, in spite of the tempting rewards that were promised him, he had relaxed his surveillance.
If he still came to the rendezvous, it was only because he had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his expenses each time.
And when Mme. Blanche demanded an account of everything that Martial had done, he told her anything that came into his head.
Mme. Blanche soon discovered this. One day, early in September, she interrupted him as he began the same old story, and, looking him steadfastly in the eye, she said:
“Either you are betraying me, or you are a fool. Yesterday Martial and Marie-Anne spent a quarter of an hour together at the Croix d’Arcy.”
The old physician at Vigano, who had come to Marie-Anne’s aid, was an honorable man. His intellect was of a superior order, and his heart was equal to his intelligence. He knew life; he had loved and suffered, and he possessed two sublime virtues—forbearance and charity.
It was easy for such a man to read Marie-Anne’s character; and while he was at the Borderie he endeavored in every possible way to reassure her, and to restore the self-respect of the unfortunate girl who had confided in him.
Had he succeeded? He certainly hoped so.
But when he departed and Marie-Anne was again left in solitude, she could not overcome the feeling of despondency that stole over her.
Many, in her situation, would have regained their serenity of mind, and even rejoiced. Had she not succeeded in concealing her fault? Who suspected it, except, perhaps, the abbe.
Hence, Marie-Anne had nothing to fear, and everything to hope.
But this conviction did not appease her sorrow. Hers was one of those pure and proud natures that are more sensitive to the whisperings of conscience than to the clamors of the world.
She had been accused of having three lovers—Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice. The calumny had not moved her. What tortured her was what these people did not know—the truth.
Nor was this all. The sublime instinct of maternity had been awakened within her. When she saw the physician depart, bearing her child, she felt as if soul and body were being rent asunder. When could she hope to see again this little son who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her? The tears gushed to her eyes when she thought that his first smile would not be for her.
Ah! had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she would unhesitatingly have braved public opinion, and kept her precious child.
Her brave and honest nature could have endured any humiliation far better than the continual lie she was forced to live.
But she had promised; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her that for his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas! but the semblance of honor.
And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze in her veins.
Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she sent for him; but it was not without much persuasion that he consented to come to the Borderie.
It was easy to explain Chupin’s terror when one saw Jean Lacheneur. His clothing was literally in tatters, his face wore an expression of ferocious despair, and a fierce unextinguishable hatred burned in his eyes.
When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled in horror. She did not recognize him until he spoke.
“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily.
“You—my poor Jean! you!”
He surveyed himself from head to foot, and said, with a sneering laugh:
“Really, I should not like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”
Marie-Anne shuddered. She fancied that a threat lurked beneath these ironical words, beneath this mockery of himself.
“What a life yours must be, my poor brother! Why did you not come 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?”
“It is impossible, Marie-Anne.”
“And why?”
A fleeting crimson suffused Jean Lacheneur’s cheek; he hesitated for a moment, then:
“Because I have a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours,” he replied. “We can no longer be anything to each other. I deny you to-day, that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, I renounce you, who are my all—the only person on earth whom I love. Your most cruel enemies have not calumniated you more foully than I——”
He paused an instant, then he added:
“I have said openly, before numerous witnesses, that I would never set foot in a house that had been given you by Chanlouineau.”
“Jean! you, my brother! said that?”
“I said it. It must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us. This must be, in order that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval can be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”
Marie-Anne stood as if petrified.
“He is mad!” she murmured.
“Do I really have that appearance?”
She shook off the stupor that paralyzed her, and seizing her brother’s hands:
“What do you intend to do?” she exclaimed. “What do you intend to do? Tell me; I will know.”
“Nothing! let me alone.”
“Jean!”
“Let me alone,” he said, roughly, disengaging himself.
A horrible presentiment crossed Marie-Anne’s mind.
She stepped back, and solemnly, entreatingly, she said:
“Take care, take care, my brother. It is not well to tamper with these matters. Leave to God’s justice the task of punishing those who have wronged us.”
But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. He uttered a hoarse, discordant laugh, then striking his gun heavily with his hand, he exclaimed:
“Here is justice!”
Appalled and distressed beyond measure, Marie-Anne sank into a chair. 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 all—family, friends, fortune, the present and the future—even his daughter’s honor—the idea which had caused so much blood to flow, which had cost the life of so many innocent men, and which had finally conducted him to the scaffold.
“Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”
The young man’s face became livid; his hands clinched involuntarily, but he controlled his anger.
Advancing toward his sister, in a cold, quiet tone that added a frightful violence to his threats, he said:
“It is because I remember my father that justice shall be done. Ah! these miserable nobles would not display such audacity if all sons had my resolution. A scoundrel would hesitate before attacking a good man if he was obliged to say to himself: ‘I cannot strike this honest man, for though he die, his children will surely call me to account. Their fury will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us sleeping and waking, pursue us without ceasing, everywhere, and pitilessly. Their hatred always on the alert, will accompany us and surround us. It will be an implacable, merciless warfare. I shall never venture forth without fearing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until we have succumbed, they will prowl about our house, trying to slip in through tiniest opening, death, dishonor, ruin, infamy, and misery!’”
He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added:
“That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me.”
It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur’s words. His threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His quiet manner, his icy tones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which endure so long as the man lives.
He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth he added:
“Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”
Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties.
And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in this mood.
She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice:
“Jean,” said she, “I implore you to renounce these projects. In the name of our mother, return to your better self. These are crimes which you are meditating!”
With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, he replied:
“Have done with this. I was wrong to confide my hopes to you. Do not make me regret that I came here.”
Then the sister tried another plan. She rose, forced her lips to smile, and as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, she begged Jean to remain with her that evening, at least, and share her frugal supper.
“Remain,” she entreated; “that is not much to do—and it will make me so happy. And since it will be the last time we shall see each other for years, grant me a few hours. It is so long since we have met. I have suffered so much. I have so many things to tell you! Jean, my dear brother, can it be that you love me no longer?”
One must have been bronze to remain insensible to such prayers. Jean Lacheneur’s heart swelled almost to bursting; his stern features relaxed, and a tear trembled in his eye.
Marie-Anne saw that tear. She thought she had conquered, and clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed:
“Ah! you will remain! you will remain!”
No. Jean had already mastered his momentary weakness, though not without a terrible effort; and in a harsh voice:
“Impossible! impossible!” he repeated.
Then, as his sister clung to him imploringly, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart.
“Poor sister—poor Marie-Anne—you will never know what it costs me to refuse you, to separate myself from you. But this must be. In even coming here I have been guilty of an imprudent act. You do not understand to what perils you will be exposed if people suspect any bond between us. I trust 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 do not try to see me, or even to learn what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.”
He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, then lifted her, placed her in a chair, and freed himself from her detaining hands.
“Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”
She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back. Too late!
He had fled.
“It is over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.”
A vague, inexplicable, but horrible fear, contracted her heart. She felt that she was being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancor, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.
But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy presentiments.
One evening, while she was preparing her little table, she heard a rustling sound at the door. She turned and looked; someone had slipped a letter under the door.
Courageously, and without an instant’s hesitation, she sprang to the door and opened it. No one was there!
The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloom without. She listened; not a sound broke the stillness.
Agitated and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light, and looked at the address.
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement.
She recognized Martial’s handwriting. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her!
Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.” She broke the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, and read:
“My dear Marie-Anne—Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events.
“Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me your friendship and your esteem.
“But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Baron d’Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon.
“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 desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license 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 grandeur of his passion.
How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be.
One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.
Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.
And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five months before.
But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most profound admiration to the deepest distrust.
“What if Martial’s offer is 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 these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her.
When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence.
It was night, 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:
“This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.”
And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions:
“You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere. It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision.”
The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.
“Monsieur d’Escorval 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.”
Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupefied.
“What!” said she. “Monsieur d’Escorval will give himself up to his enemies? Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct from the King?”
“Yes.”
She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said:
“In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.”
The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident that he felt some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he said:
“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 does not always reach the person to whom it is addressed. You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse.”
Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.
“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 attentions of the marquis.”
“Oh! sir, I entreat you.”
“But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty speaks. You owe this sacrifice to an innocent man who has been ruined through your father.”
He explained to her all that she must say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person. But the cause of her repugnance was not what the abbe supposed. Her reputation! Alas! she knew that was lost forever. No, it was not that.
A fortnight before she would not have been disquieted by the prospect of this interview. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, he was perfectly indifferent to her, while now——
Perhaps in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the place of meeting, she hoped that this spot, haunted by so many cruel memories, would restore her former aversion.
On pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, she said to herself that Martial would undoubtedly wound her by the tone of careless gallantry which was habitual to him.
But in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word that was not connected with the baron.
It was only when the conference was ended, and he had consented to all the conditions, that he said, sadly:
“We are friends, are we not?”
In an almost inaudible voice she answered:
“Yes.”
And that was all. He remounted his horse which had been held by a servant, and departed in the direction of Montaignac.
Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as he disappeared; and then her inmost heart was revealed as by a lightning flash.
“Mon Dieu! wretch that Iam!” she exclaimed. “Do I not love? is it possible that I could ever love any other than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”
Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she recounted the details of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive it. He was thinking only of the baron.
“I was sure that Martial would agree to everything; I was so certain of it that I have made all the arrangements for the baron to leave the farm. He will await, at your house, a safe-conduct from His Majesty.
“The close air and the heat of the loft are retarding the baron’s recovery,” the abbe pursued, “so be prepared for his coming to-morrow evening. One of the Poignot boys will bring over all our baggage. About eleven o’clock we will put Monsieur d’Escorval in a carriage; and we will all sup together at the Borderie.”
“Heaven comes to my aid!” thought Marie-Anne as she walked homeward.
She thought that she would no longer be alone, that Mme. d’Escorval would be with her to talk to her of Maurice, and that all the friends who would surround her would aid her in driving away the thoughts of Martial, which haunted her.
So the next day she was more cheerful 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.
Eight o’clock was sounding when she heard a peculiar whistle.
It was the signal of the younger Poignot, who came bringing an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s box of medicine, and a bag of books.
These articles Marie-Anne deposited in the room which Chanlouineau had adorned for her, and which she intended for the baron. After arranging them to her satisfaction she went out to meet young Poignot, who had told her that he would soon return with other articles.
The night was very dark, and Marie-Anne, as she hastened on, did not notice two motionless figures in the shadow of a clump of lilacs in her little garden.
Detected by Mme. Blanche in a palpable falsehood, Chupin was quite crestfallen for a moment.
He saw the pleasing vision of a retreat at Courtornieu vanish; he saw himself suddenly deprived of frequent gifts which permitted him to spare his hoarded treasure, and even to increase it.
But he soon regained his assurance, and with an affectation of frankness he said:
“I may be stupid, but I could not deceive an infant. Someone must have told you falsely.”
Mme. Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“I obtained my information from two persons who were ignorant of the interest it would possess for me.”
“As truly as the sun is in the heavens I swear——”
“Do not swear; simply confess that you have been wanting in zeal.”
The young lady’s manner betrayed such positive certainty that Chupin ceased his denials and changed his tactics.
With the most abject humility, he admitted that the evening before he had relaxed his surveillance; he had been very busy; one of his boys had injured his foot; then he had encountered some friends who persuaded him to enter a drinking-saloon, where he had taken more than usual, so that——
He told this story in a whining tone, and every moment he interrupted himself to affirm his repentance and to cover himself with reproaches.
“Old drunkard!” he said, “this will teach you——”
But these protestations, far from reassuring Mme. Blanche, made her still more suspicious,
“All this is very well, Father Chupin,” she said, dryly, “but what are you going to do now to repair your negligence?”
“What do I intend to do?” he exclaimed, feigning the most violent anger. “Oh! you will see. I will prove that no one can deceive me with impunity. Near the Borderie is a small grove. I shall station myself there; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that house unbeknown to me.”
Mme. Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and taking out three louis, she gave them to Chupin, saying:
“Take these, and be more careful in future. Another blunder like this, and I shall be compelled to ask the aid of some other person.”
The old poacher went away, whistling quite reassured; but he was wrong. The lady’s generosity was only intended to allay his suspicions.
And why should she not suppose he had betrayed her—this miserable wretch, who made it his business to betray others? What reason had she for placing any confidence in his reports? She paid him! Others, by paying him more, would certainly have the preference!
But how could she ascertain what she wished to know? Ah! she saw but one way—a very disagreeable, but a sure way. She, herself, would play the spy.
This idea took such possession of her mind that, after dinner was concluded, and twilight had enveloped the earth in a mantle of gray, she summoned Aunt Medea.
“Get your cloak, quickly, aunt,” she commanded. “I am going for a walk, and you must accompany me.”
Aunt Medea extended her hand to the bell-rope, but her niece stopped her.
“You will dispense with the services of your maid,” said she. “I do not wish anyone in the chateau to know that we have gone out.”
“Are we going alone?”
“Alone.”
“Alone, and on foot, at night——”
“I am in a hurry, aunt,” interrupted Blanche, “and I am waiting for you.”
In the twinkling of an eye Aunt Medea was ready.
The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at dinner, and Blanche and Aunt Medea reached the little gate leading from the garden into the open fields without being observed.
“Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned Aunt Medea.
“What is that to you? Come!”
Mme. Blanche was going to the Borderie.
She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle, but she preferred to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely to meet someone.
The night was still, but very dark, and the progress of the two women was often retarded by hedges and ditches. Twice Blanche lost her way. Again and again, Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough ground, and bruised herself against the stones; she groaned, she almost wept, but her terrible niece was pitiless.
“Come!” she said, “or I will leave you to find your way as best you can.”
And the poor dependent struggled on.
At last, after a tramp of more than an hour, Blanche ventured to breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken.
“Are we at our journey’s end?” inquired Aunt Medea, timidly.
“Yes, but be quiet. Remain where you are, I wish to look about a little.”
“What! you are leaving me alone? Blanche, I entreat you! What are you going to do?Mon Dieu! you frighten me. I am afraid, Blanche!”
But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, seeking Chupin. She did not find him.
“I knew the wretch was deceiving me,” she muttered through her set teeth. “Who knows but Martial and Marie-Anne are there in that house now, mocking me, and laughing at my credulity?”
She rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead with fright, and both advanced to the edge of the woods, which commanded a view of the front of the house.
A flickering, crimson light gleamed through two windows in the second story. Evidently there was a fire in the room.
“That is right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly; “Martial is such a chilly person!”
She was about to approach the house, when a peculiar whistle rooted her to the spot.
She looked about her, and, in spite of the darkness, she discerned in the footpath leading to the Borderie, a man laden with articles which she could not distinguish.
Almost immediately a woman, certainly Marie-Anne, left the house and advanced to meet him.
They exchanged a few words and then walked together to the house. Soon after the man emerged without his burden and went away.
“What does this mean?” murmured Mme. Blanche.
She waited patiently for more than half an hour, and as nothing stirred:
“Let us go nearer,” she said to Aunt Medea, “I wish to look through the windows.”
They were approaching the house when, just as they reached the little garden, the door of the cottage opened so suddenly that they had scarcely time to conceal themselves in a clump of lilac-bushes.
Marie-Anne came out, imprudently leaving the key in the door, passed down the narrow path, gained the road, and disappeared.
Blanche pressed Aunt Medea’s arm with a violence that made her cry out.
“Wait for me here,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever happens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a word! Do not stir from this spot; I will return.”
And she entered the cottage.
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the table in the front room.
Blanche seized it and boldly began an exploration of the dwelling.
She had gone over the arrangement of the Borderie so often in her own mind that the rooms seemed familiar to her, she seemed to recognize them.
In spite of Chupin’s description the poverty of this humble abode astonished her. There was no floor save the ground; the walls were poorly whitewashed; all kinds of grain and bunches of herbs hung suspended from the ceiling; a few heavy tables, wooden benches, and clumsy chairs constituted the entire furniture.
Marie-Anne evidently occupied the back room. It was the only apartment that contained a bed. This was one of those immense country affairs, very high and broad, with tall fluted posts, draped with green serge curtains, sliding back and forth on iron rings.
At the head of the bed, fastened to the wall, hung a receptacle for holy-water. Blanche dipped her finger in the bowl; it was full to the brim.
Beside the window was a wooden shelf supported by a hook, and on the shelf stood a basin and bowl of the commonest earthenware.
“It must be confessed that my husband does not provide a very sumptuous abode for his idol,” said Mme. Blanche, with a sneer.
She was almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led her astray.
She remembered Martial’s fastidious tastes, and she did not know how to reconcile them with these meagre surroundings. Then, there was the holy-water!
But her suspicions became stronger when she entered the kitchen. Some savory compound was bubbling in a pot over the fire, and several saucepans, in which fragrant stews were simmering, stood among the warm ashes.
“All this cannot be for her,” murmured Blanche.
Then she remembered the two windows in the story above which she had seen illuminated by the trembling glow of the fire-light.
“I must examine the rooms above,” she thought.
The staircase led up from the middle of the room; she knew this. She quickly ascended the stairs, pushed open a door, and could not repress a cry of surprise and rage.
She found herself in the sumptuously appointed room which Chanlouineau had made the sanctuary of his great love, and upon which he had lavished, with the fanaticism of passion, all that was costly and luxurious.
“Then it is true!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I thought just now that all was too meagre and too poor! Miserable dupe that I am! Below, all is arranged for the eyes of comers and goers. Here, everything is intended exclusively for themselves. Now, I recognize Martial’s astonishing talent for dissimulation. He loves this vile creature so much that he is anxious in regard to her reputation; he keeps his visits to her a secret, and this is the hidden paradise of their love. Here they laugh at me, the poor forsaken wife, whose marriage was but a mockery.”
She had desired to know the truth; certainty was less terrible to endure than this constant suspicion, And, as if she found a little enjoyment in proving the extent of Martial’s love for a hated rival, she took an inventory, as it were, of the magnificent appointments of the chamber, feeling the heavy brocaded silk stuff that formed the curtains, and testing the thickness of the rich carpet with her foot.
Everything indicated that Marie-Anne was expecting someone; the bright fire, the large arm-chair placed before the hearth, the embroidered slippers lying beside the chair.
And whom could she expect save Martial? The person who had been there a few moments before probably came to announce the arrival of her lover, and she had gone out to meet him.
For a trifling circumstance would seem to indicate that this messenger had not been expected.
Upon the mantel stood a bowl of still smoking bouillon.
It was evident that Marie-Anne was on the point of drinking this when she heard the signal.
Mme. Blanche was wondering how she could profit by her discovery, when her eyes fell upon a large oaken box standing open upon a table near the glass door leading into the dressing-room, and filled with tiny boxes and vials.
Mechanically she approached it, and among the bottles she saw two of blue glass, upon which the word “poison” was inscribed.
“Poison!” Blanche could not turn her eyes from this word, which seemed to exert a kind of fascination over her.
A diabolical inspiration associated the contents of these vials with the bowl standing upon the mantel.
“And why not?” she murmured. “I could escape afterward.”
A terrible thought made her pause. Martial would return with Marie-Anne; who could say that it would not be he who would drink the contents of the bowl.
“God shall decide!” she murmured. “It is better one’s husband should be dead than belong to another!”
And with a firm hand, she took up one of the vials.
Since her entrance into the cottage Blanche had scarcely been conscious of her acts. Hatred and despair had clouded her brain like fumes of alcohol.
But when her hand came in contact with the glass containing the deadly drug, the terrible shock dissipated her bewilderment; she regained the full possession of her faculties; the power of calm deliberation returned.
This is proved by the fact that her first thought was this:
“I am ignorant even of the name of the poison which I hold. What dose must I administer, much or little?”
She opened the vial, not without considerable difficulty, and poured a few grains of its contents into the palm of her hand. It was a fine, white powder, glistening like pulverized glass, and looking not unlike sugar.
“Can it really be sugar?” she thought.
Resolved to ascertain, she moistened the tip of her finger, and collected upon it a few atoms of the powder which she placed upon her tongue.
The taste was like that of an extremely acid apple.
Without hesitation, without remorse, without even turning pale, she poured into the bowl the entire contents of the vial.
Her self-possession was so perfect, she even recollected that the powder might be slow in dissolving, and she stirred it gently for a moment or more.
Having done this—she seemed to think of everything—she tasted the bouillon. She noticed a slightly bitter taste, but it was not sufficiently perceptible to awaken distrust.
Now Mme. Blanche breathed freely. If she could succeed in making her escape she was avenged.
She was going toward the door when a sound on the stairs startled her.
Two persons were ascending the staircase.
Where should she go? where could she conceal herself?
She was now so sure she would be detected that she almost decided to throw the bowl into the fire, and then boldly face the intruders.
But no—a chance remained—she darted into the dressing-room. She dared not close the door; the least click of the latch would have betrayed her.
Marie-Anne entered the chamber, followed by a peasant, bearing a large bundle.
“Ah! here is my candle!” she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold. “Joy must be making me lose my wits! I could have sworn that I left it on the table downstairs.” Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this circumstance.
“Where shall I put this clothing?” asked the young peasant.
“Lay it down here. I will arrange the articles by and by,” replied Marie Anne.
The boy dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief.
“This is the last,” he exclaimed. “Now, our gentleman can come.”
“At what hour will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne.
“At eleven o’clock. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.”
Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent clock on the mantel.
“I have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I shall need. Supper is ready; I am going to set the table here, by the fire. Tell him to bring a good appetite.”
“I will tell him, and many thanks, Mademoiselle, for having come to meet me and aid me with my second load. It was not so very heavy, but it was clumsy to handle.”
“Will you not accept a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you. I must hasten back.Au revoir, Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Au revoir, Poignot.”
This name Poignot had no significance in the ears of Blanche.
Ah! had she heard Monsieur d’Escorval’s or the abbe’s name mentioned, she might have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s guilt; her resolution might have wavered, and—who knows?
But no. Young Poignot, in referring to the baron had said: “our gentleman,” Marie-Anne said: “he.”
Is not “he” always the person who is uppermost in our minds, the husband whom one hates or the lover whom one adores?
“Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche translated Martial.
Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse who was to arrive at midnight. She was sure of it. It was he who had been preceded by a messenger bearing clothing. This could only mean that he was about to establish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, of his dignity, and of his duties; forgetful even of his prejudices.
These conjectures inflamed her fury still more.
Why should she hesitate or tremble after that?
Her only dread now, was lest she should be discovered.
Aunt Medea was, it is true, in the garden; but after the orders she had received the poor woman would remain motionless as stone behind the clump of lilacs, the entire night if necessary.
For two hours and a half Marie-Anne would be alone at the Borderie. Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to watch the effects of the poison upon her hated rival.
When the crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she had been absent from Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau; Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And besides, who would dare to accuse her, Marquise de SairmeuseneeBlanche de Courtornieu, of being the murderer? “But she does not drink it!” Blanche thought.
Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon entirely. She had opened the bundle of clothing, and was busily arranging the articles in a wardrobe near the bed.
Who talks of presentiments. She was as gay and vivacious as in her days of happiness; and as she worked, she hummed an air that Maurice had often sung.
She felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends would soon be around her.
When her task of putting away the clothing was completed and the wardrobe closed, she drew a small table up before the fire.
Not until then did she notice the bowl standing upon the mantel.
“Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl she raised it to her lips.
From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation; she saw the movement, and yet not the slightest remorse struck her soul.
Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the bowl down.
A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still. “Does she notice a peculiar taste in the bouillon?” she thought.
No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of grease had formed over the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then stirred it up for some time, to divide the greasy particles.
After she had done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon the mantel, and resumed her work.
It was done. Thedenouementno longer depended upon Blanche de Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess.
But though she was conscious of her crime, the excess of her hatred prevented her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that it was only an act of justice which she had accomplished; that the vengeance she had taken was not proportionate to the offence, and that nothing could atone for the torture she had endured.
But in a few moments a sinister apprehension took possession of her mind.
Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken down by a thunder-bolt.
But no. The moments slipped by, and Marie-Anne continued her preparations for supper as if nothing had occurred.
She spread a white cloth over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and placed a dish upon it.
“What if she should come in here!” thought Blanche.
The fear of punishment which precedes remorse, made her heart beat with such violence that she could not understand why its throbbing were not heard in the adjoining room. Her terror increased when she saw Marie-Anne take the light and go downstairs. Blanche was left alone. The thought of making her escape occurred to her; but how, and by what way could she leave the house without being seen?
“It must be that poison does not work!” she said, in a rage.
Alas! no. She knew better when Marie-Anne reappeared.
In the few moments she had spent below, her features had become frightfully changed. Her face was livid and mottled with purple spots, her eyes were distended and glittered with a strange brilliancy. She let the plates which she held fall upon the table with a crash.
“The poison! it begins!” thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearth, gazing wildly around her, as if seeking the cause of her incomprehensible suffering. She passed and re-passed her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration; she gasped for breath. Then suddenly, overcome with nausea, she staggered, pressed her hands convulsively upon her breast, and sank into the armchair, crying:
“Oh, God! how I suffer!”