Without hesitation, without remorse, without even turning pale, she poured into the bowl the entire contents of the vial. Her self-possession was so perfect, she even recollected that the powder might be slow in dissolving, and she stirred it gently for a moment or more. Having done this--she seemed to think of everything--she tasted the bouillon. She noticed a slightly bitter taste, but it was not sufficiently perceptible to awaken distrust. Now Mme. Blanche breathed freely. If she could succeed in making her escape she was avenged. She was going toward the door when a sound on the stairs startled her. Two persons were ascending the staircase. Where should she go? where could she conceal herself? She was now so sure she would be detected that she almost decided to throw the bowl into the fire, and then boldly face the intruders. But no--a chance remained--she darted into the dressing-room. She dared not close the door; the least click of the latch would have betrayed her. Marie-Anne entered the chamber, followed by a peasant, bearing a large bundle. “Ah! here is my candle!” she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold. “Joy must be making me lose my wits! I could have sworn that I left it on the table downstairs.” Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this circumstance. “Where shall I put this clothing?” asked the young peasant. “Lay it down here. I will arrange the articles by and by,” replied Marie Anne. The boy dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief. “This is the last,” he exclaimed. “Now, our gentleman can come.” “At what hour will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne. “At eleven o’clock. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.” Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent clock on the mantel. “I have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I shall need. Supper is ready; I am going to set the table here, by the fire. Tell him to bring a good appetite.” “I will tell him, and many thanks, Mademoiselle, for having come to meet me and aid me with my second load. It was not so very heavy, but it was clumsy to handle.” “Will you not accept a glass of wine?” “No, thank you. I must hasten back. _Au revoir_, Mademoiselle Lacheneur.” “_Au revoir_, Poignot.” This name Poignot had no significance in the ears of Blanche. Ah! had she heard Monsieur d’Escorval’s or the abbe’s name mentioned, she might have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s guilt; her resolution might have wavered, and--who knows? But no. Young Poignot, in referring to the baron had said: “our gentleman,” Marie-Anne said: “he.” Is not “he” always the person who is uppermost in our minds, the husband whom one hates or the lover whom one adores? “Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche translated Martial.