Part 22
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the table in the front room. Blanche seized it and boldly began an exploration of the dwelling. Owing to Chupin’s description, she was tolerably familiar with the arrangements on the ground floor, and yet the aspect of the rooms surprised her. They were roughly floored with tiles, and the walls were poorly whitewashed. A massive linen press, a couple of heavy tables, and a few clumsy chairs, constituted the only furniture in the front apartment, while from the beams above hung numerous bags of grain and bunches of dried herbs. Marie-Anne evidently slept in the back room, which contained an old-fashioned country bedstead very high and broad, and the tall fluted posts of which were draped with green serge curtains, sliding on iron rings. Fastened to the wall at the head of the bed was a receptacle for holy water. Blanche dipped her finger in the bowl, and found it full to the brim. Then beside the window on a wooden shelf she espied a jug and basin of common earthenware. “It must be confessed that my husband doesn’t provide his idol with a very sumptuous abode,” she muttered with a sneer. And for a moment, indeed, she was almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led her astray. Remembering Martial’s fastidious tastes, she failed to reconcile them with these meager surroundings. The presence of the holy water, moreover, seemed incompatible with her suspicions. But the latter revived again when she entered the kitchen. A savoury soup was bubbling in a pot over the fire, and fragrant stews were simmering in two or three saucepans. Such preparations could not be made for Marie-Anne alone. Who then were they for? At this moment Blanche remembered the ruddy glow which she had noticed through the windows on the floor above. Hastily leaving the kitchen she climbed the stairs and opened a door she found in front of her. A cry of mingled anger and surprise escaped her lips. She stood on the threshold of the room which Chanlouineau in the boldness of his passion had designed to be the sanctuary of his love. Here every thing was beautiful and luxurious: “Ah, so after all it’s true,” exclaimed Blanche in a paroxysm of jealousy. “And I was fancying that everything was too meager and too poor. Down stairs everything is so arranged that visitors may not suspect the truth! Ah, now I recognise Martial’s astonishing talent for dissimulation, he is so infatuated with this creature that he is even anxious to shield her reputation. He keeps his visits secret and hides himself up here. Yes, here it is that they laugh at me the deluded forsaken wife whose marriage was but a mockery!”
She had wished to know the truth, and now she felt she knew it. Certainty was less cruel than everlasting suspicion, and she even took a bitter delight in examining the appointments of the apartment, which to her mind proved how deeply Martial must be infatuated. She felt the heavy curtains of brocaded silken stuff with trembling hands; she tested the thickness of the rich carpet with her feet; the embroidered coverlid on the palissandre bedstead, the mirrors, the hundred knicknacks on the tables and the mantleshelf--all in turn met with her attentive scrutiny. Everything indicated that some one was expected--the bright fire--the cosy arm-chair beside it, the slippers on the rug. And who would Marie-Anne expect but Martial? No doubt the man whom Blanche had seen arriving had come to announce the marquis’s approach, and Marie-Anne had gone to meet him.
Curiously enough, on the hearth stood a bowl of soup, still warm, and which Marie-Anne had evidently been about to drink when she heard the messenger’s signal. Blanche was still wondering how she could profit of her discoveries, when she espied a chest of polished oak standing open on a table near a glass door leading into an adjoining dressing room. She walked towards it and perceived that it contained a number of tiny vials and boxes. It was indeed the Abbe Midon’s medicine chest, which Marie-Anne had placed here in readiness, should it be needed when the baron arrived, weak from his nocturnal journey. Blanche was examining the contents when suddenly she noticed two bottles of blue glass, on which “poison” was inscribed. “Poison!”--the word seemed to fascinate her, and by a diabolical inspiration she associated these vials with the bowl of soup standing on the hearth. “And why not?” she muttered. “I could escape afterwards.” Another thought made her pause, however. Martial would no doubt return with Marie-Anne, and perhaps he would drink this broth. She hesitated for a moment, and then took one of the vials in her hand, murmuring as she did so, “God will decide; it is better he should die than belong to another.” She had hitherto acted like one bewildered, but this act, simple in its performance, but terrible in its import, seemed to restore all her presence of mind. “What poison is it,” thought she, “ought I to administer a large or a small dose?” With some little difficulty she opened the bottle and poured a small portion of its contents into the palm of her hand. The poison was a fine, white powder, glistening like pulverized glass. “Can it really be sugar?” thought Blanche; and with the view of making sure she moistened a finger tip, and gathered on it a few atoms of the powder, which she applied to her tongue. Its taste was not unlike that of an apple. She wiped her tongue with her handkerchief, and then without hesitation or remorse, without even turning pale, she poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bowl. Her self-possession was so perfect that she even stirred the broth, so that the powder might more rapidly dissolve. She next tasted it, and found that it had a slightly bitter flavour--not sufficiently perceptible, however, to awaken distrust. All that now remained was to escape, and she was already walking towards the door when, to her horror, she heard some one coming up the stairs. What should she do? where could she conceal herself? She now felt so sure that she would be detected that she almost decided to throw the contents of the bowl into the fire, and then face the intruders. But no--a chance remained--the dressing-room! She darted into it, without daring, however, to close the door, for the least click of the lock might betray her.
Immediately afterwards Marie-Anne entered the apartment, followed by a peasant carrying a large bundle. “Ah! here is my candle!” she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold. “Joy must be making me lose my wits! I could have sworn that I left it on the table down-stairs.”
Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this circumstance before.
“Where shall I put these clothes?” asked the peasant.
“Lay them down here. I will arrange them by and by,” replied Marie-Anne.
The youth dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief. “That’s the last,” he exclaimed. “Now our gentleman can come.”
“At what o’clock will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne.
“At eleven. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.”
Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent timepiece on the mantelshelf. “I have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I need. Supper is ready, I am going to set the table here by the fire. Tell him to bring a good appetite with him.”
“I won’t forget, mademoiselle; thank you for having come to meet me. The load wasn’t so very heavy, but it was awkward to handle.”
“Won’t you take a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. I must make haste back, Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Good night, Poignot.”
Blanche had never heard this name of Poignot before; it had no meaning for her. Ah, if she had heard M. d’Escorval or the abbe mentioned, she might perhaps have doubted the truth; her resolution might have wavered and--who knows? But unfortunately, young Poignot, in referring to the baron, had spoken of him as “our gentleman,” while Marie-Anne said, “he.” And to Blanche’s mind they both of them referred to Martial. Yes, unquestionably it must be the Marquis de Sairmeuse, who would arrive at midnight. She was sure of it. It was he who had sent this messenger with a parcel of clothes--a proceeding which could only mean that he was going to establish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, his dignity, and duties; forgetful even of his prejudices as well. These conjectures could only fire Blanche’s jealous fury. Why should she hesitate or tremble after that? The only thing she had to fear now was that Marie-Anne might enter the dressing-room and find her there. She had but little anxiety concerning Aunt Medea, who, it is true, was still in the garden; but after the orders she had received the poor dependent would remain as still as a stone behind the lilac bushes, and, if needs be, during the whole night. On the other hand, Marie-Anne would remain alone in the house during another two hours and a half, and Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to watch the effects of the poison on her hated rival. When the crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she was not at Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau; Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And, besides, who would dare to accuse the Marchioness de Sairmeuse, _nee_ Blanche de Courtornieu, of murder? One thing that worried Blanche was that Marie-Anne seemed to pay no attention to the broth. She had, in fact, forgotten it. She had opened the bundle of clothes, and was now busily arranging them in a wardrobe near the bed. Who talks of presentiments! She was as gay and vivacious as in her happiest days; and while she folded the clothes hummed an air that Maurice had often sung. She felt that her troubles were nearly over, for her friends would soon be round her, and a brighter time seemed near at hand. When she had put all the clothes away, she shut the wardrobe and drew a small table up before the fire. It was not till then that she noticed the bowl standing on the hearth. “How stupid I am!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl in her hands, she raised it to her lips.
Blanche heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation plainly enough; she saw what she was doing; and yet she never felt the slightest remorse. However, Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, and then, in evident disgust, she set the bowl down. A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still, and she wondered whether her victim had detected any peculiar taste in the soup. No, she had not; but, owing to the fire having fallen low, it had grown nearly cold, and a slight coating of grease floated on its surface. Taking a spoon Marie-Anne skimmed the broth carefully, and stirred it up. Then, being thirsty, she drank the liquid almost at one draught, laid the bowl on the mantelpiece, and resumed her work.
The crime was perpetrated. The future no longer depended on Blanche de Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess. But though she was conscious of her crime, the excess of her jealous hatred prevented her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that she had only accomplished an act of justice, that in reality her vengeance was scarcely cruel enough for the wrongs she had suffered, and that nothing could indeed fully atone for the tortures inflicted on her. But in a few moments grievous misgivings took possession of her mind. Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken down by a thunderbolt. But no, several minutes passed, and Marie-Anne continued her preparations for supper as if nothing had occurred. She spread a white cloth over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and placed a cruet-stand and salt-cellar on it. Blanche’s heart was beating so violently that she could scarcely realise why its throbbings were not heard in the adjoining room. Her assurance had been great, but now the fear of punishment which usually precedes remorse crept over her mind; and the idea that her victim might enter the dressing-room made her turn pale with fear. At last she saw Marie-Anne take the light and go down-stairs. Blanche was left alone, and the thought of escaping again occurred to her; but how could she possibly leave the house without being seen? Must she wait there, hidden in that nook for ever? “That couldn’t have been poison. It doesn’t act,” she muttered in a rage.
Alas! it did act as she herself perceived when Marie-Anne re-entered the room. The latter had changed frightfully during the brief interval she had spent on the ground floor. Her face was livid and mottled with purple spots, her distended eyes glittered with a strange brilliancy, and she let a pile of plates she carried fall on the table with a crash.
“The poison! it begins to act at last!” thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearth-rug, gazing wildly round her, as if seeking for the cause of her incomprehensible sufferings. She passed and repassed her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in cold sweat; she gasped for breath, and then suddenly overcome with nausea, she staggered, pressed her hands convulsively to her breast, and sank into the arm-chair, crying: “Oh, God! how I suffer!”
Kneeling by the door of the dressing-room which was only partly closed, Blanche eagerly watched the workings of the poison she had administered. She was so near her victim that she could distinguish the throbbing of her temples, and sometimes she fancied she could feel on her own cheek her rival’s breath, scorching her like flame. An utter prostration followed Marie-Anne’s paroxysm of agony; and if it had not been for the convulsive working of her mouth and laboured breathing, it might have been supposed that she was dead. But soon the nausea returned, and she was seized with vomiting. Each effort seemed to contract her body; and gradually a ghastly tint crept over her face, the spots on her cheeks became of a deeper tint, her eyes seemed as if they were about to burst from their sockets, and great drops of perspiration rolled down her cheeks. Her sufferings must have been intolerable. She moaned feebly at times, and at intervals gave vent to truly heart-rending shrieks. Then she faltered fragmentary sentences; she begged piteously for water, or entreated heaven to shorten her tortures. “Ah, it is horrible! I suffer too much! My God! grant me death!” She invoked all the friends she had ever known, calling for aid in a despairing voice. She called on Madame d’Escorval, the abbe, Maurice, her brother, Chanlouineau, and Martial!
Martial!--that name more than sufficed to chase all pity from Blanche’s heart. “Go on! call your lover, call!” she said to herself, bitterly. “He will come too late.” And as Marie-Anne repeated the name, in a tone of agonized entreaty: “Suffer!” continued Blanche, “suffer, you deserve it! You imparted to Martial the courage to forsake me, his wife, like a drunken lacquey would abandon the lowest of degraded creatures! Die, and my husband will return to me repentant.” No, she had no pity. She felt a difficulty in breathing, but that merely resulted from the instinctive horror which the sufferings of others inspire--a purely physical impression, which is adorned with the fine name of sensibility, but which is, in reality, the grossest selfishness.
And yet, Marie-Anne was sinking perceptibly. She had fallen on to the floor, during one of her attacks of sickness, and now she even seemed unable to moan; her eyes closed, and after a spasm which brought a bloody foam to her lips, her head sank back, and she lay motionless on the hearth-rug.
“It is over,” murmured Blanche, rising to her feet. To her surprise her own limbs trembled so acutely, that she could scarcely stand. Her will was still firm and implacable; but her flesh failed her. She had never even imagined a scene like that she had just witnessed. She knew that poison caused death; but she had not suspected the agony of such a death. She no longer thought of increasing her victim’s sufferings by upbraiding her. Her only desire now was to leave the house, the very floor of which seemed to scorch her feet. A strange, inexplicable sensation was creeping over her; it was not yet fright, but rather the stupor that follows the perpetration of a terrible crime. Still, she compelled herself to wait a few moments longer; then seeing that Marie-Anne still remained motionless, with closed eyes, she ventured to open the door softly, and enter the room in which her victim was lying. But she had not taken three steps forward before Marie-Anne, as if she had been galvanized by an electric battery, suddenly rose and extended her arms to bar her enemy’s passage. This movement was so unexpected and so appalling that Blanche recoiled. “The Marchioness de Sairmeuse,” faltered Marie-Anne. “You, Blanche--here!” And finding an explanation of her sufferings in the presence of this young woman, who once had been her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed: “It is you who have murdered me!”
Blanche de Courtornieu’s nature was one of those that break, but never bend. Since she had been detected, nothing in the world would induce her to deny her guilt. She advanced boldly, and in a firm voice replied: “Yes, I have taken my revenge. Do you think I didn’t suffer that evening when you sent your brother to take my newly-wedded husband away, so that I have never since gazed upon his face?”
“Your husband! I sent my brother to take him away! I do not understand you.”
“Do you dare deny, then, that you are not Martial’s mistress!”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse’s mistress! why I saw him yesterday for the first time since the Baron d’Escorval’s escape.” The effort which Marie-Anne had made to rise and speak had exhausted her strength. She fell back in the arm-chair.
But Blanche was pitiless. “You only saw Martial then,” she said. “Pray, tell me, who gave you this costly furniture, these silk hangings, all the luxury that surrounds you?”
“Chanlouineau.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “So be it,” she said, with an ironical smile. “But you are not waiting for Chanlouineau this evening? Have you warmed these slippers and laid this table for Chanlouineau? Was it Chanlouineau who sent his clothes by a peasant named Poignot? You see that I know everything?” She paused for some reply; but her victim was silent. “Who are you waiting for?” insisted Blanche. “Answer me!”
“I cannot!”
“Ah, of course not, because you know that it is your lover who is coming, you wretched woman--my husband, Martial!”
Marie-Anne was considering the situation as well as her intolerable sufferings and troubled mind would permit. Could she name the persons she was expecting? Would not any mention of the Baron d’Escorval to Blanche ruin and betray him? They were hoping for a letter of licence for a revision of judgment, but he was none the less under sentence of death, and liable to be executed in twenty-four hours.
“So you refuse to tell me whom you expect here--at midnight,” repeated the marchioness.
“I refuse,” gasped Marie-Anne; but at the same time she was seized with a sudden impulse. Although the slightest movement caused her intolerable agony, she tore her dress open, and drew a folded paper from her bosom. “I am not the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s mistress,” she said, in an almost inaudible voice. “I am Maurice d’Escorval’s wife. Here is the proof--read.”
Blanche had scarcely glanced at the paper than she turned as pale as her victim. Her sight failed her; there was a strange ringing in her ears, and a cold sweat started from every pore in her skin. This paper was the marriage certificate of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, drawn up by the cure of Vigano, witnessed by the old physician and Bavois, and sealed with the parish seal. The proof was indisputable. She had committed a useless crime; she had murdered an innocent woman. The first good impulse of her life made her heart beat more quickly. She did not stop to consider; she forgot the danger to which she exposed herself, and in a ringing voice she cried; “Help! help!”
Eleven o’clock was just striking in the country; every one was naturally abed, and, moreover, the nearest farm-house was half a league away. Blanche’s shout was apparently lost in the stillness of the night. In the garden below Aunt Medea perhaps heard it; but she would have allowed herself to be cut to pieces rather than stir from her place. And yet there was one other who heard that cry of distress. Had Blanche and her victim been less overwhelmed with despair, they would have heard a noise on the stairs, which at that very moment were creaking under the tread of a man, who was cautiously climbing them. But he was not a saviour, for he did not answer the appeal. However, even if there had been help at hand, it would now have come too late.
Marie-Anne felt that there was no longer any hope for her, and that it was the chill of death which was creeping towards her heart. She felt that her life was fast ebbing away. So, when Blanche turned as if to rush out in search of assistance, she detained her with a gesture, and gently called her by her name. The murderess paused. “Do not summon any one,” murmured Marie-Anne; “It would do no good. Let me at least die in peace. It will not be long now.”
“Hush! do not speak so. You must not--you shall not die! If you should die--great God! what would my life be afterwards!”
Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was rapidly completing its work. The sufferer’s breath literally whistled as it forced its way through her inflamed throat. When she moved her tongue, it scorched her palate as if it had been a piece of hot iron; her lips were parched and swollen; and her hands, inert and paralysed, would no longer obey her will.
But the horror of the situation restored Blanche’s calmness. “All is not yet lost,” she exclaimed. “It was in that great box there on the table that I found the white powder I poured into the bowl. You must know what it is; you must know the antidote.”
Marie-Anne sadly shook her head. “Nothing can save me now,” she murmured, in an almost inaudible voice; “but I don’t complain. Who knows the misery from which death may preserve me? I don’t crave life; I have suffered so much during the past year; I have endured such humiliation; I have wept so much! A curse was on me!” She was suddenly endowed with that clearness of mental vision so often granted to the dying. She saw how she had wrought her own undoing by consenting to play the perfidious part her father had assigned her, and how she herself had paved the way for the slander, crimes, and misfortunes of which she had been the victim.
Her voice grew fainter and fainter. Worn out with suffering, a sensation of drowsiness stole over her. She was falling asleep in the arms of death. But suddenly such a terrible thought found its way into her failing mind that she gasped with agony, “My child!” And then, regaining, by a superhuman effort as much will, energy, and strength, as the poison would allow her, she straitened herself in the arm-chair, and though her features were contracted by mortal anguish, yet with an energy of which no one would have supposed her capable, she exclaimed, “Blanche, listen to me. It is the secret of my life which I am going to reveal to you; no one suspects it. I have a son by Maurice. Alas! many months have elapsed since my husband disappeared. If he is dead, what will become of my child? Blanche, you, who have killed me, swear to me that you will be a mother to my child!”
Blanche was utterly overcome. “I swear!” she sobbed; “I swear!”
“On that condition, but on that condition alone, I pardon you. But take care! Do not forget your oath! Blanche, heaven sometimes allows the dead to avenge themselves. You have sworn, remember. My spirit will allow you no rest if you do not fulfil your vow!”