uis de Sairmeuse," she said, in an
almost inaudible voice; "I am the wife of Maurice d'Escorval. Here is
the proof--read."

No sooner had Blanche glanced at the paper, than she became as pale as
her victim. Her sight failed her; there was a strange ringing in her
ears, a cold sweat started from every pore.

This paper was the marriage-certificate of Maurice and Marie-Anne, drawn
up by the cure of Vigano, witnessed by the old physician and Bavois, and
sealed with the seal of the parish.

The proof was indisputable. She had committed a useless crime; she had
murdered an innocent woman.

The first good impulse of her life made her heart beat more quickly.
She did not stop to consider; she forgot the danger to which she exposed
herself, and in a ringing voice she cried:

"Help! help!"

Eleven o'clock was sounding; the whole country was asleep. The
farm-house nearest the Borderie was half a league distant.

The voice of Blanche was lost in the deep stillness of the night.

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.

B