Her passion for dress killed her. Her illness lasted only three days; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were terrible.
Constrained by her fear of death to examine her own conscience, she saw plainly that by profiting by the crime of her niece she had been as culpable as if she had aided her in committing it. She had been very devout in former years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and intensified. Her faith returned, accompanied by a cortege of terrors.
“I am lost!” she cried; “I am lost!”
She tossed to and fro upon her bed; she writhed and shrieked as if she already saw hell opening to engulf her.
She called upon the Holy Virgin and upon all the saints to protect her. She entreated God to grant her time for repentance and for expiation. She begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession.
Paler than the dying woman, but implacable, Blanche watched over her, aided by that one of her personal attendants in whom she had most confidence.
“If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought. “I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will betray me.”
It did not last long.
The patient’s delirium was succeeded by such utter prostration that it seemed each moment would be her last.
But toward midnight she appeared to revive a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she said: