So, when Blanche seemed about to rush out in search of assistance, she detained her by a gesture, and gently said:
“Blanche.”
The murderess paused.
“Do not summon anyone; it would do no good. Remain; be calm, that I may at least die in peace. It will not be long now.”
“Hush! do not speak so. You must not, you shall not die! If you should die—great God! what would my life be afterward?”
Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was pursuing its work of dissolution. Her breath made a whistling sound as it forced its way through her inflamed throat; her tongue, when she moved it, produced in her mouth the terrible sensation of a piece of red-hot iron; her lips were parched and swollen; her hands, inert and paralyzed, would no longer obey her will.
But the horror of the situation restored Blanche’s calmness.
“All is not yet lost,” she exclaimed. “It was in that great box there upon the table, where I found”—she dared not utter the word poison—“the white powder which I poured into the bowl. You know this powder; you must know the antidote.”
Marie-Anne sadly shook her head.
“Nothing can save me now,” she murmured, in an almost inaudible voice; “but I do not complain. Who knows the misery from which death may preserve me? I do not crave life; I have suffered so much during the past year; I have endured such humiliation; I have wept so much! A curse was upon me!”