But she had not advanced three steps before Marie-Anne suddenly, and as if she had been galvanized by an electric battery, rose and extended her arms to bar her enemy’s passage.
This movement was so unexpected and so frightful that Mme. Blanche recoiled.
“The Marquise de Sairmeuse,” faltered Marie-Anne. “You, Blanche—here!”
And her suffering, explained by the presence of this young girl who once had been her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed:
“You are my murderer!”
Blanche de Courtornieu’s was one of those iron natures that break, but never bend.
Since she had been discovered, nothing in the world would induce her to deny her guilt.
She advanced resolutely, and in a firm voice:
“Yes,” she said, “I have taken my revenge. Do you think I did not suffer that evening when you sent your brother to take away my newly wedded husband, upon whose face I have not gazed since?”
“Your husband! I sent to take him away! I do not understand you.”