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.”