The countess turned to write and read in a loud voice: "I declare that in the month of February, 1827, a man named—"
La Chouette had drawn out her dagger. Already she raised it to strike her victim between the shoulders. Sarah again turned.
La Chouette, not to be discovered, placed her right arm on the back of the chair, and leaned toward her to answer her new question.
"I have forgotten the name of the man who confided the child to you."
"Pierre Tournemine," answered La Chouette.
"Pierre Tournemine," repeated Sarah, continuing to write—"now in the galleys at Rochefort, placed in my hands a child who had been confided to him by the housekeeper of—"
The countess could not finish. La Chouette, after having softly disencumbered herself of the basket by dropping it on the ground, had thrown herself on the countess with as much rapidity as fury; with her left hand she caught her by the throat, and holding her face down to the table, she had, with her right hand, planted the dagger between the shoulders.
This horrible deed was executed so quickly that the countess did not utter a single cry or groan. Still seated, she remained with her face on the table. The pen had fallen from her hand.
"The same blow as Fourline gave the little old man in the Rue du Roule," said the monster. "Another one who will talk no more—her account is made."
And gathering in haste the jewels, which she threw into her basket, she did not perceive that her victim still breathed.