“It shall be for her,” he said to himself, “or for no one.”
And it was Marie-Anne who rested there first—dead.
When this sad task was accomplished, he threw himself into the same arm-chair in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face buried in his hands, and his elbows supported upon his knees, he sat there as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above the last resting-places of the dead.
The abbe knelt at the head of the bed and began the recital of the prayers for the dead, entreating God to grant peace and happiness in heaven to her who had suffered so much upon earth.
But he prayed only with his lips. In spite of his efforts, his mind would persist in wandering.
He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne’s death. Had she been murdered? Could it be that she had committed suicide?
This explanation recurred to him, but he could not believe it.
But, on the other hand, how could her death possibly be the result of a crime?
He had carefully examined the room, and he had discovered nothing that betrayed the presence of a stranger.
All that he could prove was, that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had been poisoned by the bouillon, a few drops of which were left in the bowl that was standing upon the mantel.