For two hours and a half Marie-Anne would be alone at the Borderie. Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to watch the effects of the poison upon her hated rival.
When the crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she had been absent from Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau; Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And besides, who would dare to accuse her, Marquise de Sairmeuse nee Blanche de Courtornieu, of being the murderer? “But she does not drink it!” Blanche thought.
Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon entirely. She had opened the bundle of clothing, and was busily arranging the articles in a wardrobe near the bed.
Who talks of presentiments. She was as gay and vivacious as in her days of happiness; and as she worked, she hummed an air that Maurice had often sung.
She felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends would soon be around her.
When her task of putting away the clothing was completed and the wardrobe closed, she drew a small table up before the fire.
Not until then did she notice the bowl standing upon the mantel.
“Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl she raised it to her lips.
From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation; she saw the movement, and yet not the slightest remorse struck her soul.
Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the bowl down.