Blanche was trying to decide whether it would be better for her to reveal the truth, horrible as it was, or to invent some plausible explanation. To confess all! It would be intolerable. She would place herself, body and soul, in Aunt Medea’s power. But, on the other hand, if she deceived her, was it not more than probable that her aunt would betray her by some involuntary exclamation when she heard of the crime which had been committed at the Borderie? “For she is so stupid!” thought Blanche. She felt that it would be the wisest plan, under such circumstances, to be perfectly frank, to teach her relative her lesson, and to imbue her with some of her own firmness. Having come to this conclusion, she disdained all concealment. “Ah, well!” she said, “I was jealous of Marie-Anne. I thought she was Martial’s mistress. I was half crazed, and I killed her.” She expected despairing cries, or a fainting fit; nothing of the kind. Stupid though Aunt Medea was, she had divined the truth before she interrogated her niece. Besides, the insults she had received for years had extinguished every generous sentiment, dried up the springs of emotion, and destroyed every particle of moral sensibility she had ever possessed. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “it is terrible! What if it should be discovered!” Then she shed a few tears, but not more than she had often wept for some trifle. Blanche breathed more freely. Surely she could count upon the silence and absolute submission of her dependent relative. Convinced of this, she began to recount all the details of the frightful drama which had been enacted at the Borderie. She yielded to a desire which was stronger than her own will; to the wild longing that sometimes unbinds the tongue of the worst criminals, and forces them--irresistibly impels them--to talk of their crimes, even when they distrust their confidant. But when she came to the proofs which had convinced her of her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay. That certificate of marriage signed by the Cure of Vigano; what had she done with it? where was it? She remembered holding it in her hands. She sprang up, examined the pocket of her dress and uttered a cry of joy. She had it safe. She threw it into a drawer, and turned the key. Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own room, but Blanche entreated her to remain. She was unwilling to be left alone--she dared not--she was afraid. And as if she desired to silence the inward voice that tormented her, she talked with extreme volubility, repeating again and again that she was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and that she would brave impossibilities to recover Marie-Anne’s child. And certainly, the task was both difficult and dangerous. If she sought the child openly, it would be equivalent to a confession of guilt. She would be compelled to act secretly, and with great caution. “But I shall succeed,” she said. “I will spare no expense.”