“Can you hinder the marriage?” asked Victorin.
“How far have they got?”
“To the second time of asking.”
“We must carry off the woman.—To-day is Sunday—there are but three days, for they will be married on Wednesday, no doubt; it is impossible.—But she may be killed—”
Victorin Hulot started with an honest man’s horror at hearing these five words uttered in cold blood.
“Murder?” said he. “And how could you do it?”
“For forty years, now, monsieur, we have played the part of fate,” replied she, with terrible pride, “and do just what we will in Paris. More than one family—even in the Faubourg Saint-Germain—has told me all its secrets, I can tell you. I have made and spoiled many a match, I have destroyed many a will and saved many a man’s honor. I have in there,” and she tapped her forehead, “a store of secrets which are worth thirty-six thousand francs a year to me; and you—you will be one of my lambs, hoh! Could such a woman as I am be what I am if she revealed her ways and means? I act.
“Whatever I may do, sir, will be the result of an accident; you need feel no remorse. You will be like a man cured by a clairvoyant; by the end of a month, it seems all the work of Nature.”
Victorin broke out in a cold sweat. The sight of an executioner would have shocked him less than this prolix and pretentious Sister of the Hulks. As he looked at her purple-red gown, she seemed to him dyed in blood.
“Madame, I do not accept the help of your experience and skill if success is to cost anybody’s life, or the least criminal act is to come of it.”