She said this, but the vision did not fade. When she shut her eyes the phantom still faced her—even through her closed eyelids, and through the coverlids drawn up over her face. Say what she would, she did not succeed in sleeping till daybreak. And, worst of all, night after night, the same vision haunted her, reviving the terror which she forgot during the day-time in the broad sunlight. For she would regain her courage and become sceptical again as soon as the morning broke. “How foolish it is to be afraid of something that does not exist!” she would remark, railing at herself. “To-night I will conquer this absurd weakness.” But when evening came all her resolution vanished, and scarcely had she retired to her room than the same fears seized hold of her, and the same phantom rose before her eyes. She fancied that her nocturnal agonies would cease when the investigation anent the murder was over—that she would forget both her crime and promise; but the enquiry finished, and yet the same vision haunted her, and she did not forget. Darwin has remarked that it is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse, and Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this assertion, made by the deepest thinker and closest observer of the age.
And yet her sufferings, atrocious as they were, did not induce her for one moment to abandon the plan she had formed on the occasion of Martial’s visit. She played her part so well that, moved with pity, if not with love, he returned to see her frequently, and at last, one day, besought her to allow him to remain. But even this triumph did not restore her peace of mind. For between her and her husband rose the dreadful vision of Marie-Anne’s distorted features. She knew only too well that Martial had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown her already intolerable sufferings came an incident which filled her with dismay. Alluding one evening to Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he said, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures. As he spoke his voice vibrated with still powerful passion, and Blanche, in terror asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit—and he might discover it. Now it was that she began to regret she had not kept her promise; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child. But to do this effectually it was essential she should be in a large city—in Paris, for instance—where she could procure discreet and skilful agents. Thus it was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. But with the Duke de Sairmeuse’s assistance she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, with a radiant face, she informed Aunt Medea that she and her husband would leave Courtornieu at the end of the coming week.
In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change in the dependent relative’s tone and manner had, it is true, been a gradual one; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and now it showed itself continually. For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over chaperone no longer trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had been her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of independence in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been used to remain modestly in the background, but now she drew her chair forward, and unhesitatingly took part in the conversation. At table, she gave free expression to her preferences and dislikes; and on two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders. One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home. And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intentions of going; and as it rained she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done. All these little incidents could have been nothing separately, but taken together they plainly showed that the once humble chaperone’s character had changed. When her niece announced that she and Martial were about to leave the neighbourhood, Aunt Medea was greatly surprised, for the project had never been discussed in her presence. “What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“And where are you going to, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that’s decided. The capital’s the proper place for my husband, and, with his name, fortune, talents and the king’s favour, he will secure a high position there. He will re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently, so that we shall have a princely establishment.”
Aunt Medea’s expression plainly indicated that she was suffering all the torments of envy. “And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You—aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. “I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! won’t you have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”