“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is downstairs in the blue drawing-room; and he begs mademoiselle to grant him a few minutes’ conversation.”
Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at her feet, the murderess could not have been more terrified. Her first thought was that everything had been discovered; for what else could have brought Martial there? She almost decided to send word that she was not at home, or that she was extremely ill; when reason told her that she was perhaps alarming herself needlessly, and that in any case the worst was preferable to suspense. “Tell the marquis that I will be with him in a moment,” she at last replied.
She desired a few minutes solitude to compose her features, to regain her self-possession, if possible, and conquer the nervous trembling that made her shake like a leaf. But in the midst of her uneasiness a sudden inspiration brought a malicious smile to her lip. “Ah!” she thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly natural. It may even be of service.” And yet as she descended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to herself: “Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible.”
It was certainly very extraordinary; and he himself had not come to Courtornieu without considerable hesitation. But it was the only means he had of procuring several important documents which were indispensable in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case. These documents, after the baron’s condemnation, had been left in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands. Now that the latter had gone out of his mind, it was impossible to ask him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to his wife for permission to search for them among her father’s papers. He had said to himself that morning: “I will carry the baron’s letters of licence to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to Courtornieu.”
He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full of hope; and found that Marie-Anne was dead. The discovery had been a terrible blow for Martial; and his conscience told him that he was not free from blame; that he had, at least, facilitated the perpetration of the crime. For it was indeed he who, by an abuse of influence, had caused Maurice’s arrest at Turin. But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity. Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him. And when Jean and Maurice upbraided him, his only revenge was to overwhelm them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss still printed on the dead girl’s brow, he said to himself: “For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron must be saved.”
By the expression of the servants’ faces as he leapt from the saddle in the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see Madame Blanche, he was again reminded of the sensation which this unexpected visit would necessarily cause. However, he cared little for it. He was passing through a crisis in which the mind can conceive no further misfortune, and becomes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well, for it was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and smiling. Her manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had seemed charming at the time.
At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked so sad and careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow seemingly stamped upon her features. “How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.
It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once realised that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his emotion, she perceived the profit she might derive from it. “I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” she replied, in a sad humble voice. “I shall never be consoled.”
She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart. For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or so heartless but his vanity is not flattered with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake. There is no man who is not moved by such a flattering idea; and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.
“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial. The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she felt ashamed. This simple gesture was the most eloquent of answers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He asked for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu’s papers with the view of finding the documents he required for M. d’Escorval’s case, and Blanche readily complied with his request. He then turned to take his leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences of too formal a promise he merely added: “Since you don’t forbid it, Blanche, I will return—to-morrow—another day.” However, as he rode back to Montaignac, his thoughts were busy. “She really loves me,” he mused; “that pallor, that weariness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father exist no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be considered as dead.”