In the garden below Aunt Medea heard it, perhaps; but she would have allowed herself to be chopped in pieces rather than stir from her place. And yet, there was one who heard that cry of distress. Had Blanche and her victim been less overwhelmed with despair, they would have heard a noise upon the staircase which creaked beneath the tread of a man who was cautiously ascending it. But it was not a saviour, for he did not answer the appeal. But even though there had been aid near at hand, it would have come too late. Marie-Anne felt that there was no longer any hope for her, and that it was the chill of death which was creeping up to her heart. She felt that her life was fast ebbing away. So, when Blanche seemed about to rush out in search of assistance, she detained her by a gesture, and gently said: “Blanche.” The murderess paused. “Do not summon anyone; it would do no good. Remain; be calm, that I may at least die in peace. It will not be long now.” “Hush! do not speak so. You must not, you shall not die! If you should die--great God! what would my life be afterward?” Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was pursuing its work of dissolution. Her breath made a whistling sound as it forced its way through her inflamed throat; her tongue, when she moved it, produced in her mouth the terrible sensation of a piece of red-hot iron; her lips were parched and swollen; her hands, inert and paralyzed, would no longer obey her will. But the horror of the situation restored Blanche’s calmness. “All is not yet lost,” she exclaimed. “It was in that great box there upon the table, where I found”--she dared not utter the word poison--“the white powder which I poured into the bowl. You know this powder; you must know the antidote.” Marie-Anne sadly shook her head. “Nothing can save me now,” she murmured, in an almost inaudible voice; “but I do not complain. Who knows the misery from which death may preserve me? I do not crave life; I have suffered so much during the past year; I have endured such humiliation; I have wept so much! A curse was upon me!” She was suddenly endowed with that clearness of mental vision so often granted to the dying. She saw how she had wrought her own undoing by consenting to accept the perfidious role imposed upon her by her father, and how she, herself, had paved the way for the falsehoods, slander, crimes and misfortunes of which she had been the victim. Her voice grew fainter and fainter. Worn out by suffering, a sensation of drowsiness stole over her. She was falling asleep in the arms of death. Suddenly such a terrible thought pierced the stupor which enveloped her that she uttered a heart-breaking cry: “My child!” Collecting, by a superhuman effort, all the will, energy, and strength that the poison had left her, she straightened herself in her arm-chair, her features contracted by mortal anguish.