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!”