A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still. “Does she notice a peculiar taste in the bouillon?” she thought.
No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of grease had formed over the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then stirred it up for some time, to divide the greasy particles.
After she had done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon the mantel, and resumed her work.
It was done. The denouement no longer depended upon Blanche de Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess.
But though she was conscious of her crime, the excess of her hatred prevented her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that it was only an act of justice which she had accomplished; that the vengeance she had taken was not proportionate to the offence, and that nothing could atone for the torture she had endured.
But in a few moments a sinister apprehension took possession of her mind.
Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken down by a thunder-bolt.
But no. The moments slipped by, and Marie-Anne continued her preparations for supper as if nothing had occurred.
She spread a white cloth over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and placed a dish upon it.
“What if she should come in here!” thought Blanche.