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Updated: June 20, 2025
She knew that poison caused death; she had not suspected the agony of that death. She no longer thought of augmenting Marie-Anne's sufferings by upbraiding her. Her only desire now was to leave this house, whose very floor seemed to scorch her feet.
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.
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.
He sat down and picked up a magazine from the table upon which Marie-Anne's work-basket lay. He was cool as ice now. His blood flowed evenly and his pulse beat unhurriedly. Never had he felt himself more his own master, more like grappling with a situation. St. Pierre was coming to fight. He had no doubt of that. Perhaps not physically, at first.
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.
On her tiptoes, her cheeks like crimson flowers, she had given her still redder lips to him! And his own lips burned, and his heart pounded hard, and he stared for a time like one struck dumb at the spot where she had stood by the window. Then suddenly, he turned to the door and flung it wide open, and on his lips was the reckless cry of Marie-Anne's name. But St.
Before carrying any of his atrocious designs into execution, he went to Sairmeuse to visit Marie-Anne's grave, in order to obtain there an increase of animosity, as well as the relentless sang-froid of a stern avenger of crime.
But Martial's was one of those natures which become exasperated by the least shadow of suspicion. The idea that anyone should suppose him influenced by threats, when in reality, he had yielded only to Marie-Anne's tears, angered him beyond endurance. "These are my last words, Monsieur," he said, emphatically.
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.
M. Lacheneur made no reply. Marie-Anne's despair was heart-breaking; he felt that he could not bear to witness it, that it would shake his resolution, and he re-entered the house. But his penetration was not at fault. While waiting to find a revenge which would be worthy of her, Mlle. Blanche armed herself with a weapon of which jealousy and hatred so often avail themselves calumny.
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