This name Poignot had no significance in the ears of Blanche.
Ah! had she heard Monsieur d’Escorval’s or the abbe’s name mentioned, she might have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s guilt; her resolution might have wavered, and—who knows?
But no. Young Poignot, in referring to the baron had said: “our gentleman,” Marie-Anne said: “he.”
Is not “he” always the person who is uppermost in our minds, the husband whom one hates or the lover whom one adores?
“Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche translated Martial.
Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse who was to arrive at midnight. She was sure of it. It was he who had been preceded by a messenger bearing clothing. This could only mean that he was about to establish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, of his dignity, and of his duties; forgetful even of his prejudices.
These conjectures inflamed her fury still more.
Why should she hesitate or tremble after that?
Her only dread now, was lest she should be discovered.
Aunt Medea was, it is true, in the garden; but after the orders she had received the poor woman would remain motionless as stone behind the clump of lilacs, the entire night if necessary.