The reason of Mme. Blanche had sustained a frightful shock, when Chupin was obliged to lift her and carry her from Marie-Anne’s chamber.
But she lost consciousness entirely when she saw the old poacher stricken down by her side.
On and after that night Aunt Medea took her revenge for all the slights she had received.
Scarcely tolerated until then at Courtornieu, she henceforth made herself respected, and even feared.
She, who usually swooned if a kitten hurt itself, did not utter a cry. Her extreme fear gave her the courage that not unfrequently animates cowards when they are in some dire extremity.
She seized the arm of her bewildered niece, and, by dint of dragging and pushing, had her back at the chateau in much less time than it had taken them to go to the Borderie.
It was half-past one o’clock when they reached the little garden-gate, by which they had left the grounds.
No one in the chateau was aware of their long absence.
This was due to several different circumstances. First, to the precautions taken by Blanche, who had given orders, before going out, that no one should come to her room, on any pretext whatever, unless she rang.
It also chanced to be the birthday of the marquis’svalet de chambre. The servants had dined more sumptuously than usual. They had toasts and songs over their dessert; and at the conclusion of the repast, they amused themselves by an extempore ball.
They were still dancing at half-past one; all the doors were open, and the two ladies succeeded in gaining the chamber of Blanche without being observed.
When the doors of the apartment had been securely closed, and when 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.
Blanche shuddered.
“Why do you wish to know?” she asked.
“Because I suffered agony during the three hours that I spent in waiting for you. What was the meaning of those despairing cries that I heard? Why did you call for aid? I heard a death-rattle that made my hair stand on end with terror. Why was it necessary for Chupin to bring you out in his arms?”
Aunt Medea would have packed her trunks, perhaps, that very evening, had she seen the glance which her niece bestowed upon her.
Blanche longed for power to annihilate this relative—this witness who might ruin her by a word, but whom she would ever have beside her, a living reproach for her crime.
“You do not answer me,” insisted Aunt Medea.
Blanche was trying to decide whether it would be better for her to reveal the truth, horrible as it was, or to invent some plausible explanation.
To confess all! It would be intolerable. She would place herself, body and soul, in Aunt Medea’s power.
But, on the other hand, if she deceived her, was it not more than probable that her aunt would betray her by some involuntary exclamation when she heard of the crime which had been committed at the Borderie?
“For she is so stupid!” thought Blanche.
She felt that it would be the wisest plan, under such circumstances, to be perfectly frank, to teach her relative her lesson, and to imbue her with some of her own firmness.
Having come to this conclusion, she 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 killed her.”
She expected despairing cries, or a fainting fit; nothing of the kind. Stupid though Aunt Medea was, she had divined the truth before she interrogated her niece. Besides, the insults she had received for years had extinguished every generous sentiment, dried up the springs of emotion, and destroyed every particle of moral sensibility she had ever possessed.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “it is terrible! What if it should be discovered!”
Then she shed a few tears, but not more than she had often wept for some trifle.
Blanche breathed more freely. Surely she could count upon the silence and absolute submission of her dependent relative. Convinced of this, she began to recount all the details of the frightful drama which had been enacted at the Borderie.
She yielded to a desire which was stronger than her own will; to the wild longing that sometimes unbinds the tongue of the worst criminals, and forces them—irresistibly impels them—to talk of their crimes, even when they distrust their confidant.
But when she came to the proofs which had convinced her of her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay.
That certificate of marriage signed by the Cure of Vigano; what had she done with it? where was it? She remembered holding it in her hands.
She sprang up, examined the pocket of her dress and uttered a cry of joy. She had it safe. She threw it 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 that tormented her, she talked with extreme volubility, repeating again and again that she was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and that she would brave impossibilities to recover Marie-Anne’s child.
And certainly, the task was both difficult and dangerous.
If she sought the child openly, it would be equivalent to a confession of guilt. She would be compelled to act secretly, and with great caution.
“But I shall succeed,” she said. “I will spare no expense.”
And remembering her vow, and the threats of her dying victim, she added:
“I must succeed. I have sworn—and I was forgiven under those conditions.”
Astonishment dried the ever ready tears of Aunt Medea.
That her niece, with her dreadful crime still fresh in her mind, could coolly reason, deliberate, and make plans for the future, seemed to her incomprehensible.
“What an iron will!” she thought.
But in her bewilderment she quite overlooked something that would have enlightened any ordinary observer.
Blanche was seated upon her bed, her hair was unbound, her eyes were glittering with delirium, and her incoherent words and her excited gestures betrayed the frightful anxiety that was torturing her.
And she talked and talked, exclaiming, questioning Aunt Medea, and forcing her to reply, only that she might escape from her own thoughts.
Morning had dawned some time before, and the servants were heard bustling about the chateau, and Blanche, oblivious to all around her, was still explaining how she could, in less than a year, 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.
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 toilet, when the ringing of the bell announced a visitor.
Almost immediately a maid appeared, evidently in a state of great excitement.
“What is it?” inquired Blanche, eagerly. “Who has come?”
“Ah, Madame—that is, Mademoiselle, if you only knew——”
“Willyou speak?”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is below, in the blue drawing-room; and he begs Mademoiselle to grant him a few moments’ conversation.”
Had a thunder-bolt riven the earth at the feet of the murderess, she could not have been more terrified.
“All must have been discovered!” this was her first thought. That alone would have brought Martial there.
She almost decided to reply that she was not at home, or that she was extremely ill; but reason told her that she was alarming herself needlessly, perhaps, and that, in any case, the worst was preferable to suspense.
“Tell the marquis that I will be there in a moment,” she replied.
She desired a few minutes of solitude to compose her features, to regain her self-possession, if possible, and to conquer the nervous trembling that made her shake like a leaf.
But just as she was most disquieted by the thought of her peril, a sudden inspiration brought a malicious smile to her lip.
“Ah!” she thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly natural. It may even be made of service.”
As she descended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to herself:
“Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible.”
It was certainly very extraordinary; and it had not been without much hesitation that he resolved upon this painful step.
But it was the only means of procuring several important documents which were indispensable in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case.
These documents, after the baron’s condemnation, had been left in the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu. Now that he had lost his reason, it was impossible to ask him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to the daughter for permission to search for them among her father’s papers.
This was why Martial said to himself that morning:
“I will carry the baron’s safe-conduct to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to Courtornieu.”
He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full of hope. Alas! Marie-Anne was dead.
No one would ever know what a terrible blow it had been to Martial; and his conscience told him that he was not free from blame; that he had, at least, rendered the execution of the crime an easy matter.
For it was indeed he who, by abusing his influence, had caused the arrest of Maurice at Turin.
But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity.
Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him. And when Jean and Maurice insulted him, he revenged himself only by overwhelming them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss pressed on the brow of the dead, he said to himself:
“For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron must be saved.”
By the expression on the faces of the valets when he dismounted in the court-yard of the chateau and asked to see Mme. Blanche, the marquis was again reminded of the profound sensation which this unexpected visit would produce. But, what did it matter to him? He was passing through one of those crises in which the mind can conceive of no further misfortune, and is therefore indifferent to everything.
Still he trembled when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well. It was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was vacillating between her and Marie-Anne.
How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and laughing. Her naivete was affected, perhaps, but was it any the less charming on that account?
At this very moment Blanche entered the room. She looked so careworn and sad that he scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow imprinted upon her features.
“How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.
It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She saw that he knew nothing of her crime. She noticed his emotion, and saw the profit she could derive from it.
“I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” she replied, humbly and sadly. “I shall never be consoled.”
She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart.
For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or soblasethat his vanity is not pleased with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake.
There is no man who is not moved by this most delicious flattery, and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.
“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial.
The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she was ashamed. It was the most eloquent of replies.
But Martial said no more on this subject. He made known his petition, which was granted, then fearing, perhaps, to promise too much, he said:
“Since you do not forbid it, Blanche, I will return—to-morrow—another day.”
As he rode back to Montaignac, Martial’s thoughts were busy.
“She really loves me,” he thought; “that pallor, that weakness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced me in my rupture with her father exist no longer, and the Marquis de Courtornieu may be regarded as dead.”
All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the public square when Martial passed through the village. They had just heard of the murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the justice of the peace, relating the circumstances of the poisoning.
After a prolonged inquest the following verdict was rendered: “That a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle poison with her food.”
The report added that: “Said Chupin had been himself assassinated, soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown.”
But this affair interested the community much less than the visits which Martial was paying to Mme. Blanche.
It was soon rumored that the Marquis and the Marquise de Sairmeuse were reconciled, and in a few weeks they left for Paris with the intention of residing there permanently. A few days after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins announced his determination of taking up his abode in the same great city.
Some of his friends endeavored to dissuade him, assuring him that he would certainly die of starvation.
“Nonsense!” he replied, with singular assurance; “I, on the contrary, have an idea that I shall not want for anything there.”
Time gradually heals all wounds, and in less than a year it was difficult to discern any trace of the fierce whirlwind of passion which had devastated the peaceful valley of the Oiselle.
What remained to attest the reality of all these events, which, though they were so recent, had already been relegated to the domain of the legendary?
A charred ruin on the Reche.
A grave in the cemetery, upon which was inscribed:
“Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of twenty. Pray for her!”
Only a few, the oldest men and the politicians of the village, forgot their solicitude in regard to the crops to remember this episode.
Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, when they had gathered at the Boeuf Couronne, they laid down their greasy cards and gravely discussed the events of the past years.
They never failed to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama at Montaignac had, in common parlance, “come to a bad end.”
Victors and vanquished seemed to be pursued by the same inexorable fatality.
Look at the names already upon the fatal list!
Lacheneur, beheaded.
Chanlouineau, shot.
Marie-Anne, poisoned.
Chupin, the traitor, assassinated.
The Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would have seemed a mercy in comparison with such total annihilation of intelligence. He had fallen below the level of the brute, which is, at least, endowed with instinct. Since the departure of his daughter he had been cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give them much trouble, and when they desired to go out they shut him up, not in his chamber, but in the cellar, to prevent his ravings and shrieks from being heard from without.
If people supposed for awhile that the Sairmeuse would escape the fate of the others, they were mistaken. It was not long before the curse fell upon them.
One fine morning in the month of December, the duke left the chateau to take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighborhood.
At nightfall, his horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and riderless.
What had become of its master?
A search was instituted at once, and all night long twenty men, bearing torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling at the top of their voices.
Five days went by, and the search for the missing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear, came to the chateau one morning to tell them that he had discovered, at the base of a precipice, the bloody and mangled body of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
It seemed strange that such an excellent rider should have met with such a fate. There might have been some doubt as to its being an accident, had it not been for the explanation given by the grooms.
“The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,” said these men. “She was always taking fright and shying at everything.”
The following week Jean Lacheneur left the neighborhood.
The conduct of this singular man had caused much comment. When Marie-Anne died, he at first refused his inheritance.
“I wish nothing that came to her through Chanlouineau!” he said everywhere, thus calumniating the memory of his sister as he had calumniated her when alive.
Then, after a short absence, and without any apparent reason, he suddenly changed his mind.
He not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain possession of it. He made many excuses; and, if one might believe him, he was not acting in his own interest, but merely conforming to the wishes of his deceased sister; and he declared that not a penny would go into his pockets.
This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal possession of the estate, he sold all the property, troubling himself but little in regard to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash.
He reserved only the furniture of the sumptuously adorned chamber at the Borderie. These articles he burned.
This strange act was the talk of the neighborhood.
“The poor young man has lost his reason!” was the almost universal opinion.
And those who doubted it, doubted it no longer when it became known that Jean Lacheneur had formed an engagement with a company of strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days.
But the young man had not wanted for good advice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and complete his studies; but in vain.
The necessity for concealment no longer existed, either in the case of the baron or the priest.
Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the one in the presbytery, the other at Escorval, as in days gone by.
Acquitted at his new trial, restored to the possession of his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a very slight lameness, the baron would have deemed himself a fortunate man, had it not been for his great anxiety on his son’s account.
Poor Maurice! his heart was broken by the sound of the clods of earth falling upon Marie-Anne’s coffin; and his very life now seemed dependent upon the hope of finding his child.
Assured of the powerful assistance of Abbe Midon, he had confessed all to his father, and confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was an honored guest at Escorval; and these devoted friends had promised him all possible aid.
The task was very difficult, however, and certain resolutions on the part of Maurice greatly diminished the chance of success.
Unlike Jean, he was determined to guard religiously the honor of the dead; and he had madehisfriends promise that Marie-Anne’s name should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search.
“We shall succeed all the same,” said the abbe, kindly; “with time and patience any mystery can be solved.”
He divided the department into a certain number of districts; then one of the little band went each day from house to house questioning the inmates, but not without extreme caution, for fear of arousing suspicion, for a peasant becomes intractable at once if his suspicions are aroused.
But the weeks went by, and the quest was fruitless. Maurice was deeply discouraged.
“My child died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe reassured him.
“I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “I know, by Marie-Anne’s absence, the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”
“And yet there is not a nook or corner for miles around which we have not explored.”
“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest, now, was only striving to gain time, knowing full well that it is the sovereign balm for all sorrows.
His confidence, which had been very great at first, had been sensibly diminished by the responses of an old woman, who passed for one of the greatest gossips in the community.
Adroitly interrogated, the worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there must be one in the neighborhood, since it was the third time she had been questioned on the subject.
Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in hiding it.
He set the old gossip to talking, and after a two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two persons besides Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child.
Why, with what aim, and who these persons could be the abbe was unable to ascertain.
“Ah! rascals have their uses after all,” he thought. “If we only had a man like Chupin to set upon the track!”
But the old poacher was dead, and his eldest son—the one who knew Blanche de Courtornieu’s secret—was in Paris.
Only the widow and the second son remained in Sairmeuse.
They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was burning in their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morning until night the mother and son toiled on, until the earth around their hut had been explored to the depth of six feet.
A word dropped by a peasant one day put an end to these researches.
“Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I did not suppose you were such a fool as to persist in hunting birds’ nests after the birds have flown. Your brother, who is in Paris, can undoubtedly tell you where the treasure was concealed.”
The younger Chupin uttered the fierce roar of a wild beast.
“Holy Virgin! you are right!” he exclaimed. “Wait until I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we will see.”
Martial de Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than Blanche.
In ten seconds, more ideas passed through her brain than had visited it for ten years.
She saw the gendarmes at the chateau; she saw her niece arrested, incarcerated in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Court of Assizes.
If this were all she had to fear! But suppose she, too, were compromised, suspected of complicity, dragged before the judge, and even accused of being the sole culprit!
Finding the suspense intolerable, she left her room; and, stealing on tiptoe to the great drawing-room, she applied her ear to the door of the little blue salon, in which Blanche and Martial were seated.
The conversation which she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless.
She drew a long breath, as if a mighty burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her brain.
When Martial left the room, Aunt Medea at once opened the communicating door and entered the blue salon, thus avowing that she had been a listener.
Twenty-four hours earlier she would not have dreamed of committing such an enormity.
“Well, Blanche, we were frightened at nothing,” she exclaimed.
Blanche did not reply.
She was deliberating, forcing herself to weigh the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity.
“Perhaps the hour of my revenge is almost here,” murmured Blanche, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be Marquise de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then—oh, then!”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically.
In her secret heart she had but little faith in this prediction, and whether it was realized or not mattered little to her.
“Still another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that—that what you did at the Borderie was unnecessary,” she said, in that low tone that accomplices always use in speaking of their crime.
Such had been the opinion of Blanche; but she now shook her head, and gloomily replied:
“You are wrong; that which took place at the Borderie has restored my husband to me. I understand it all, now. It is true that Marie-Anne was not Martial’s mistress, but Martial loved her. He loved her, and the rebuffs which he received only increased his passion. It was for her sake that he abandoned me; and never, while she lived, would he have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of the emotion which had been awakened by another. His tenderness was only the expression of his sorrow. Whatever happens, I shall have only her leavings—what she has disdained!” the young marquise added, bitterly; and her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot in ungovernable anger. “And shall I regret what I have done?” she exclaimed; “never! no, never!”
From that moment, she was herself again, brave and determined.
But horrible fears assailed her when the inquest began.
Officials came from Montaignac charged with investigating the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling all the mysteries of crime.
Aunt Medea was half crazed with terror; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great anxiety.
“You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.
“Ah! my terror is beyond my control.”
“If that is the case, do not leave your room.”
“It would be more prudent, certainly.”
“You can say that you are not well; your meals shall be served in your own apartment.”
Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her inmost heart she was enraptured. To have her meals served in her own room, in her bed in the morning, and on a little table by the fire in the evening, had long been the ambition and the dream of the poor dependent. But how to accomplish it! Two or three times, being a trifle indisposed, she had ventured to ask if her breakfast might be brought to her room, but her request had been harshly refused.
“If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come down and take her place at the table as usual,” had been the response of Mme. Blanche.
To be treated in this way in a chateau where there were a dozen servants standing about idle was hard indeed.
But now——
Every morning, in obedience to a formal order from Blanche, the cook came up to receive Aunt Medea’s commands; she was permitted to dictate the bill-of-fare each day, and to order the dishes that she preferred.
These new joys awakened many strange thoughts in her mind, and dissipated much of the regret which she had felt for the crime at the Borderie.
The inquest was the subject of all her conversation with her niece. They had all the latest information in regard to the facts developed by the investigation through the butler, who took a great interest in such matters, and who had won the good-will of the agents from Montaignac, by making them familiar with the contents of his wine-cellar.
Through him, Blanche and her aunt learned that suspicion pointed to the deceased Chupin. Had he not been seen prowling around the Borderie on the very evening that the crime was committed? The testimony of the young peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur seemed decisive.
The motive was evident; at least, everyone thought so. Twenty persons had heard Chupin declare, with frightful oaths, that he should never be tranquil in mind while a Lacheneur was left upon earth.
So that which might have ruined Blanche, saved her; and the death of the old poacher seemed really providential.
Why should she suspect that Chupin had revealed her secret before his death?
When the butler told her that the judges and the police agents had returned to Montaignac, she had great difficulty in concealing her joy.
“There is no longer anything to fear,” she said to Aunt Medea.
She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man. There remained the justice of God.
A few weeks before, this thought of “the justice of God” might, perhaps, have brought a smile to the lips of Mme. Blanche.
She then regarded it as an imaginary evil, designed to hold timorous spirits in check.
On the morning that followed her crime, she almost shrugged her shoulders at the thought of Marie-Anne’s dying threats.
She remembered her promise, but she did not intend to fulfil it.
She had considered the matter, and she saw the terrible risk to which she exposed herself if she endeavored to find the missing child.
“The father will be sure to discover it,” she thought.
But she was to realize the power of her victim’s threats that same evening.
Overcome with fatigue, she retired to her room at an early hour, and instead of reading, as she was accustomed to do before retiring, she extinguished her candle as soon as she had undressed, saying:
“I must sleep.”
But sleep had fled. Her crime was ever in her thoughts; it rose before her in all its horror and atrocity. She knew that she was lying upon her bed, at Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she was there in Chanlouineau’s house, pouring out poison, then watching its effects, concealed in the dressing-room.
She was struggling against these thoughts; she was exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible memories, when she thought she heard the key turn in the lock. She lifted her head from the pillow with a start.
Then, by the uncertain light of her night-lamp, she thought she saw the door open slowly and noiselessly. Marie-Anne entered—gliding in like a phantom. She seated herself in an arm-chair near the bed. Great tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she looked sadly, yet threateningly, around her.
The murderess hid her face under the bed-covers; and her whole body was bathed in an icy perspiration. For her, this was not a mere apparition—it was a frightful reality.
But hers was not a nature to submit unresistingly to such an impression. She shook off the stupor that was creeping over her, and tried to reason with herself aloud, as if the sound of her voice would reassure her.
“I am dreaming!” she said. “Do the dead return to life? Am I childish enough to be frightened by phantoms born of my own imaginations?”
She said this, but the phantom did not disappear.
She shut her eyes, but still she saw it through her closed eyelids—through the coverings which she had drawn up over her head, she saw it still.
Not until daybreak did Mme. Blanche fall asleep.
And it was the same the next night, and the night following that, and always and always; and the terrors of each night were augmented by the terrors of the nights which had preceded it.
During the day, in the bright sunshine, she regained her courage, and became sceptical again. Then she railed at herself.
“To be afraid of something that does not exist, is folly!” she said, vehemently. “To-night I will conquer my absurd weakness.”
But when evening came all her brave resolution vanished, and the same fear seized her when night appeared with itscortegeof spectres.
It is true that Mme. Blanche attributed her tortures at night to the disquietude she suffered during the day.
For the officials were at Sairmeuse then, and she trembled. A mere nothing might divert suspicion from Chupin and direct it toward her. What if some peasant had seen her with Chupin? What if some trifling circumstance should furnish a clew which would lead straight to Courtornieu?
“When the investigation is over, I shall forget,” she thought.
It ended, but she did not forget.
Darwin has said:
“It is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse.”
Mme. Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this assertion, made by the most profound thinker and closest observer of the age.
And yet, the agony she was enduring did not make her abandon, for a single moment, the plan she had conceived on the day of Martial’s visit.
She played her part so well, that, deeply moved, almost repentant, he returned five or six times, and at last, one day, he besought her to allow him to remain.
But even the joy of this triumph did not restore her peace of mind.
Between her and her husband rose that dread apparition; and Marie-Anne’s distorted features were ever before her. She knew only too well that this heart-broken man had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown all, to her already intolerable sufferings was added another, more poignant than all the rest.
Speaking one evening of Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he remarked, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered herdiea lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures.
He spoke with extreme violence and in a voice vibrant with his still powerful passion.
And Blanche, in terror, asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit—and he might discover it.
She now began to regret that she had not kept the promise she had made to her victim; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child.
To do this effectually it was necessary for her to be in a large city—Paris, for example—where she could procure discreet and skilful agents.
It was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. Aided by the Duc de Sairmeuse, she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, Mme. Blanche, with a radiant face, announced to Aunt Medea:
“Aunt, we leave just one week from to-day.”
Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same.
The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and it betrayed itself in numberless trifles.
For example, though the poor dependent still retained her humble, resigned manner; she had lost, little by little, the servile fear that had showed itself in her every movement. She no longer trembled when anyone addressed her, and there was occasionally a ring of independence in her voice.
If visitors were present, she no longer kept herself modestly in the background, but drew forward her chair and took part in the conversation. At table, she allowed her preferences and her dislikes to appear. On two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders.
Once Mme. Blanche, on going out, asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home.
And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intention of going; and as it rained, she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done.
All this was nothing, in appearance; in reality, it was monstrous, amazing. It was quite plain that the humble relative was becoming bold, even audacious, in her demands.
As this departure, which her niece had just announced so gayly, had never been discussed before her, she was greatly surprised.
“What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“To go where, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there; that is decided. That is the place for my husband. His name, his fortune, his talents, the favor of the King, assure him a high position there. He will repurchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently. We shall have a princely establishment.”
All the torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Medea’s countenance.
“‘And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You, aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied.
“I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“Whatdoyou wish, then?” she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.
“I thought—I wondered—if you would not take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt; impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.
“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”
A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.
“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely.
And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added:
“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.
“That is to say,” she said, at last, “you permit me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less of you. Thanks!”
She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. There was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued:
“Very well! this decides me. I entreated you, and you brutally refused to heed my prayer, now I command and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris—and I shall go. Ah! it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way. I have endured in silence for a long time, but I have rebelled at last. My life in this house has been a hell. It is true that you have given me shelter—that you have fed and lodged me; but you have taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I have endured? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me, your own flesh and blood? And I have had no wages; on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah! you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me—humiliated me—trampled me under foot!”
She paused.
The bitter rancor which had been accumulating for years fairly choked her; but after a moment she resumed, in a tone of intense irony:
“You ask me what would I do in Paris? I, too, would enjoy myself. What will you do, yourself? You will go to Court, to balls, and to the play, will you not? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilets, I—poor Aunt Medea—who have never seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Yes, twice a year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your own sake; and in order that your poor relation should do honor to your generosity. You dressed me in it, as you sew gold lace upon the clothing of your lackeys, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; buffeted upon one cheek, I offered the other. I must live—I must have food. And you, Blanche, how often, to make me subservient to your will, have you said to me: ‘You will do thus-and-so, if you desire to remain at Courtornieu?’ And I obeyed—I was forced to obey, since I knew not where to go. Ah! you have abused me in every way; but now my turn has come!”
Blanche was so amazed that she could not articulate a syllable. At last, in a scarcely audible voice, she faltered:
“I do not understand you, aunt; I do not understand you.”
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her niece had done a few moments before.
“In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you that since you have, against my will, made me your accomplice, we must share everything in common. I share the danger; I will share the pleasure. What if all should be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes; and that is why you are seeking diversion. Very well! I also desire diversion. I shall go to Paris with you.”
By a terrible effort Blanche had succeeded in regaining her self-possession, in some measure at least.
“And if I should say no?” she responded, coldly.
“But you will not say no.”
“And why, if you please?”
“Because——”
“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head.
“I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself. No, I shall not do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No threat was capable of moving her like that.
“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she; “I promise it.”
Then she added, gently:
“But it is unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time, unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you alone are to blame. Why have you said nothing? I attributed your complaisance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman as quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine apparel. Confess that it was impossible. Had I known—But rest easy, aunt; I will atone for my neglect.”
And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse:
“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me, do you not?”
And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like two friends united after a misunderstanding. But Aunt Medea was as far from being deceived by this mock reconciliation as the clearsighted Blanche.
“It will be best for me to keep on thequi vive,” thought the humble relative. “God only knows with what intense joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie-Anne.”
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through the mind of Mme. Blanche.
She felt as a convict might feel on seeing his most execrated enemy, perhaps the man who had betrayed him, fastened to the other end of his chain.
“I am bound now and forever to this dangerous and perfidious creature,” she thought. “I am no longer my own mistress; I belong to her. When she commands, I must obey. I must be the slave of her every caprice—and she has forty years of humiliation and servitude to avenge.”
The prospect of such a life made her tremble; and she racked her brain to discover some way of freeing herself from her detested companion.
Would it be possible to inspire Aunt Medea with a desire to live independently in her own house, served by her own servants?
Might she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed for finery and ball-dresses, to marry? A handsome marriage-portion will always attract a husband.
But, in either case, Blanche would require money—a large sum of money, for whose use she would be accountable to no one.
This conviction made her resolve to take possession of about two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in bank-notes and coin, belonging to her father.
This sum represented the savings of the Marquis de Courtornieu during the past three years. No one knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that he had lost his reason, Blanche, who knew where the hoard was concealed, could take it for her own use without the slightest danger.
“With this,” she thought, “I can at any moment enrich Aunt Medea without having recourse to Martial.”
After this little scene there was a constant interchange of delicate attentions and touching devotion between the two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my dearly beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gossips of the neighborhood, who had often commented upon the haughty disdain which Mme. Blanche displayed in her treatment of her relative, would have found abundant food for comment had they known that Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle lined with costly fur, exactly like the marquise’s own, and that she made the journey, not in the large Berlin, with the servants, but in the post-chaise with the Marquis and Marquise de Sairmeuse.
The change was so marked that even Martial remarked it, and as soon as he found himself alone with his wife, he exclaimed, in a tone of good-natured raillery:
“What is the meaning of all this devotion? We shall finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shall we not?”
Blanche trembled, and flushed a little.
“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I never can forget all the affection and devotion she lavished upon me when I was so unhappy.”
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no further notice of the matter, for his mind just then was fully occupied.
The agent, whom he had sent to Paris in advance, to purchase, if possible, the Hotel de Sairmeuse, had written him to make all possible haste, as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain.
“Plague take the fellow!” said the marquis, angrily, on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, for which we have been waiting ten years, slip through his fingers. I shall find no pleasure in Paris if I cannot own our old residence.”
He was so impatient to reach Paris that, on the second day of their journey, he declared if he were alone he would travel all night.
“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel fatigued in the least, and a night of travel does not appall me.”
They did travel all night, and the next day, about nine o’clock, they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast.
“I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon be back.”
He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant.
“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand francs. He shall have it in welcome.”
Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he always used in addressing his wife, he said:
“It only remains for me to sign the paper; but I will not do so unless the house suits you. If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.”
This visit was, of course, one of pure form; but Mme. Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most magnificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, and extending to the Rue de Varennes.
Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several years, and required many repairs.
“It will take at least six months to restore it,” said Martial; “perhaps more. It is true that they might in three months, perhaps, render a portion of it very comfortable.”
“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” approved Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes.
“Ah! then you agree with me! In that case, you may rest assured that I will expedite matters as much as possible.”
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that a person is never so well, nor so quickly served, as when he serves himself, so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred with architects, interviewed contractors, and hurried on the workmen.
As soon as he was up in the morning he started out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned until dinner.
Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her time within doors, on account of the bad weather, she was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to distract her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears; a sort of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie; the clamors of conscience sank into faint whispers.
The past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant entered, and said:
“There is a man below who wishes to speak with Madame.”