“It is over,” murmured Blanche, rising to her feet. To her surprise her own limbs trembled so acutely, that she could scarcely stand. Her will was still firm and implacable; but her flesh failed her. She had never even imagined a scene like that she had just witnessed. She knew that poison caused death; but she had not suspected the agony of such a death. She no longer thought of increasing her victim’s sufferings by upbraiding her. Her only desire now was to leave the house, the very floor of which seemed to scorch her feet. A strange, inexplicable sensation was creeping over her; it was not yet fright, but rather the stupor that follows the perpetration of a terrible crime. Still, she compelled herself to wait a few moments longer; then seeing that Marie-Anne still remained motionless, with closed eyes, she ventured to open the door softly, and enter the room in which her victim was lying. But she had not taken three steps forward before Marie-Anne, as if she had been galvanized by an electric battery, suddenly rose and extended her arms to bar her enemy’s passage. This movement was so unexpected and so appalling that Blanche recoiled. “The Marchioness de Sairmeuse,” faltered Marie-Anne. “You, Blanche--here!” And finding an explanation of her sufferings in the presence of this young woman, who once had been her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed: “It is you who have murdered me!” Blanche de Courtornieu’s nature was one of those that break, but never bend. Since she had been detected, nothing in the world would induce her to deny her guilt. She advanced boldly, and in a firm voice replied: “Yes, I have taken my revenge. Do you think I didn’t suffer that evening when you sent your brother to take my newly-wedded husband away, so that I have never since gazed upon his face?” “Your husband! I sent my brother to take him away! I do not understand you.” “Do you dare deny, then, that you are not Martial’s mistress!” “The Marquis de Sairmeuse’s mistress! why I saw him yesterday for the first time since the Baron d’Escorval’s escape.” The effort which Marie-Anne had made to rise and speak had exhausted her strength. She fell back in the arm-chair. But Blanche was pitiless. “You only saw Martial then,” she said. “Pray, tell me, who gave you this costly furniture, these silk hangings, all the luxury that surrounds you?” “Chanlouineau.” Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “So be it,” she said, with an ironical smile. “But you are not waiting for Chanlouineau this evening? Have you warmed these slippers and laid this table for Chanlouineau? Was it Chanlouineau who sent his clothes by a peasant named Poignot? You see that I know everything?” She paused for some reply; but her victim was silent. “Who are you waiting for?” insisted Blanche. “Answer me!” “I cannot!” “Ah, of course not, because you know that it is your lover who is coming, you wretched woman--my husband, Martial!”