Martial1 de Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the Chateau2 de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even more than Blanche.
In ten seconds, more ideas passed through her brain than had visited it for ten years.
She saw the gendarmes3 at the chateau; she saw her niece arrested, incarcerated4 in the Montaignac prison, and brought before the Court of Assizes.
If this were all she had to fear! But suppose she, too, were compromised, suspected of complicity, dragged before the judge, and even accused of being the sole culprit!
Finding the suspense5 intolerable, she left her room; and, stealing on tiptoe to the great drawing-room, she applied6 her ear to the door of the little blue salon7, in which Blanche and Martial were seated.
The conversation which she heard convinced her that her fears were groundless.
She drew a long breath, as if a mighty8 burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken root in her brain.
When Martial left the room, Aunt Medea at once opened the communicating door and entered the blue salon, thus avowing9 that she had been a listener.
Twenty-four hours earlier she would not have dreamed of committing such an enormity.
“Well, Blanche, we were frightened at nothing,” she exclaimed.
Blanche did not reply.
She was deliberating, forcing herself to weigh the probable consequences of all these events which had succeeded each other with such marvellous rapidity.
“Perhaps the hour of my revenge is almost here,” murmured Blanche, as if communing with herself.
“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.
“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be Marquise de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and then — oh, then!”
“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically.
In her secret heart she had but little faith in this prediction, and whether it was realized or not mattered little to her.
“Still another proof that your jealousy10 led you astray; and that — that what you did at the Borderie was unnecessary,” she said, in that low tone that accomplices11 always use in speaking of their crime.
Such had been the opinion of Blanche; but she now shook her head, and gloomily replied:
“You are wrong; that which took place at the Borderie has restored my husband to me. I understand it all, now. It is true that Marie-Anne was not Martial’s mistress, but Martial loved her. He loved her, and the rebuffs which he received only increased his passion. It was for her sake that he abandoned me; and never, while she lived, would he have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of the emotion which had been awakened12 by another. His tenderness was only the expression of his sorrow. Whatever happens, I shall have only her leavings — what she has disdained13!” the young marquise added, bitterly; and her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot in ungovernable anger. “And shall I regret what I have done?” she exclaimed; “never! no, never!”
From that moment, she was herself again, brave and determined14.
But horrible fears assailed15 her when the inquest began.
Officials came from Montaignac charged with investigating the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even talk of sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling16 all the mysteries of crime.
Aunt Medea was half crazed with terror; and her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great anxiety.
“You will end by betraying us,” she remarked, one evening.
“Ah! my terror is beyond my control.”
“If that is the case, do not leave your room.”
“It would be more prudent17, certainly.”
“You can say that you are not well; your meals shall be served in your own apartment.”
Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her inmost heart she was enraptured18. To have her meals served in her own room, in her bed in the morning, and on a little table by the fire in the evening, had long been the ambition and the dream of the poor dependent. But how to accomplish it! Two or three times, being a trifle indisposed, she had ventured to ask if her breakfast might be brought to her room, but her request had been harshly refused.
“If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come down and take her place at the table as usual,” had been the response of Mme. Blanche.
To be treated in this way in a chateau where there were a dozen servants standing19 about idle was hard indeed.
But now ——
Every morning, in obedience20 to a formal order from Blanche, the cook came up to receive Aunt Medea’s commands; she was permitted to dictate21 the bill-of-fare each day, and to order the dishes that she preferred.
These new joys awakened many strange thoughts in her mind, and dissipated much of the regret which she had felt for the crime at the Borderie.
The inquest was the subject of all her conversation with her niece. They had all the latest information in regard to the facts developed by the investigation22 through the butler, who took a great interest in such matters, and who had won the good-will of the agents from Montaignac, by making them familiar with the contents of his wine-cellar.
Through him, Blanche and her aunt learned that suspicion pointed23 to the deceased Chupin. Had he not been seen prowling around the Borderie on the very evening that the crime was committed? The testimony24 of the young peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur seemed decisive.
The motive25 was evident; at least, everyone thought so. Twenty persons had heard Chupin declare, with frightful26 oaths, that he should never be tranquil27 in mind while a Lacheneur was left upon earth.
So that which might have ruined Blanche, saved her; and the death of the old poacher seemed really providential.
Why should she suspect that Chupin had revealed her secret before his death?
When the butler told her that the judges and the police agents had returned to Montaignac, she had great difficulty in concealing28 her joy.
“There is no longer anything to fear,” she said to Aunt Medea.
She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man. There remained the justice of God.
A few weeks before, this thought of “the justice of God” might, perhaps, have brought a smile to the lips of Mme. Blanche.
She then regarded it as an imaginary evil, designed to hold timorous29 spirits in check.
On the morning that followed her crime, she almost shrugged30 her shoulders at the thought of Marie-Anne’s dying threats.
She remembered her promise, but she did not intend to fulfil it.
She had considered the matter, and she saw the terrible risk to which she exposed herself if she endeavored to find the missing child.
“The father will be sure to discover it,” she thought.
But she was to realize the power of her victim’s threats that same evening.
Overcome with fatigue31, she retired32 to her room at an early hour, and instead of reading, as she was accustomed to do before retiring, she extinguished her candle as soon as she had undressed, saying:
“I must sleep.”
But sleep had fled. Her crime was ever in her thoughts; it rose before her in all its horror and atrocity33. She knew that she was lying upon her bed, at Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she was there in Chanlouineau’s house, pouring out poison, then watching its effects, concealed34 in the dressing-room.
She was struggling against these thoughts; she was exerting all her strength of will to drive away these terrible memories, when she thought she heard the key turn in the lock. She lifted her head from the pillow with a start.
Then, by the uncertain light of her night-lamp, she thought she saw the door open slowly and noiselessly. Marie-Anne entered — gliding35 in like a phantom36. She seated herself in an arm-chair near the bed. Great tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she looked sadly, yet threateningly, around her.
The murderess hid her face under the bed-covers; and her whole body was bathed in an icy perspiration37. For her, this was not a mere38 apparition39 — it was a frightful reality.
But hers was not a nature to submit unresistingly to such an impression. She shook off the stupor40 that was creeping over her, and tried to reason with herself aloud, as if the sound of her voice would reassure41 her.
“I am dreaming!” she said. “Do the dead return to life? Am I childish enough to be frightened by phantoms42 born of my own imaginations?”
She said this, but the phantom did not disappear.
She shut her eyes, but still she saw it through her closed eyelids43 — through the coverings which she had drawn44 up over her head, she saw it still.
Not until daybreak did Mme. Blanche fall asleep.
And it was the same the next night, and the night following that, and always and always; and the terrors of each night were augmented45 by the terrors of the nights which had preceded it.
During the day, in the bright sunshine, she regained46 her courage, and became sceptical again. Then she railed at herself.
“To be afraid of something that does not exist, is folly47!” she said, vehemently48. “To-night I will conquer my absurd weakness.”
But when evening came all her brave resolution vanished, and the same fear seized her when night appeared with its cortege of spectres.
It is true that Mme. Blanche attributed her tortures at night to the disquietude she suffered during the day.
For the officials were at Sairmeuse then, and she trembled. A mere nothing might divert suspicion from Chupin and direct it toward her. What if some peasant had seen her with Chupin? What if some trifling49 circumstance should furnish a clew which would lead straight to Courtornieu?
“When the investigation is over, I shall forget,” she thought.
It ended, but she did not forget.
Darwin has said:
“It is when their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse50.”
Mme. Blanche might have vouched51 for the truth of this assertion, made by the most profound thinker and closest observer of the age.
And yet, the agony she was enduring did not make her abandon, for a single moment, the plan she had conceived on the day of Martial’s visit.
She played her part so well, that, deeply moved, almost repentant52, he returned five or six times, and at last, one day, he besought53 her to allow him to remain.
But even the joy of this triumph did not restore her peace of mind.
Between her and her husband rose that dread54 apparition; and Marie-Anne’s distorted features were ever before her. She knew only too well that this heart-broken man had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown all, to her already intolerable sufferings was added another, more poignant55 than all the rest.
Speaking one evening of Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke56 of his oath of vengeance57. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he remarked, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch58 who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures.
He spoke with extreme violence and in a voice vibrant59 with his still powerful passion.
And Blanche, in terror, asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit — and he might discover it.
She now began to regret that she had not kept the promise she had made to her victim; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child.
To do this effectually it was necessary for her to be in a large city — Paris, for example — where she could procure60 discreet61 and skilful62 agents.
It was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. Aided by the Duc de Sairmeuse, she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, Mme. Blanche, with a radiant face, announced to Aunt Medea:
“Aunt, we leave just one week from to-day.”
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1
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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