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.”