Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse who was to arrive at midnight. She was sure of it. It was he who had been preceded by a messenger bearing clothing. This could only mean that he was about to establish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, of his dignity, and of his duties; forgetful even of his prejudices. These conjectures inflamed her fury still more. Why should she hesitate or tremble after that? Her only dread now, was lest she should be discovered. Aunt Medea was, it is true, in the garden; but after the orders she had received the poor woman would remain motionless as stone behind the clump of lilacs, the entire night if necessary. For two hours and a half Marie-Anne would be alone at the Borderie. Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to watch the effects of the poison upon her hated rival. When the crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she had been absent from Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau; Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And besides, who would dare to accuse her, Marquise de Sairmeuse _nee_ Blanche de Courtornieu, of being the murderer? “But she does not drink it!” Blanche thought. Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon entirely. She had opened the bundle of clothing, and was busily arranging the articles in a wardrobe near the bed. Who talks of presentiments. She was as gay and vivacious as in her days of happiness; and as she worked, she hummed an air that Maurice had often sung. She felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends would soon be around her. When her task of putting away the clothing was completed and the wardrobe closed, she drew a small table up before the fire. Not until then did she notice the bowl standing upon the mantel. “Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl she raised it to her lips. From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation; she saw the movement, and yet not the slightest remorse struck her soul. Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the bowl down. A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart stand still. “Does she notice a peculiar taste in the bouillon?” she thought. No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of grease had formed over the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then stirred it up for some time, to divide the greasy particles. After she had done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon the mantel, and resumed her work. It was done. The _denouement_ no longer depended upon Blanche de Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, she was a murderess.