“Ah! here is my candle!” she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold.  “Joy must be making me lose my wits!  I could have sworn that I left it on the table downstairs.”  Blanche shuddered.  She had not thought of this circumstance.

“Where shall I put this clothing?” asked the young peasant.

“Lay it down here.  I will arrange the articles by and by,” replied Marie Anne.

The boy dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief.

“This is the last,” he exclaimed.  “Now, our gentleman can come.”

“At what hour will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne.

“At eleven o’clock.  It will be nearly midnight when he gets here.”

Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent clock on the mantel.

“I have still three hours before me,” said she; “more time than I shall need.  Supper is ready; I am going to set the table here, by the fire.  Tell him to bring a good appetite.”

“I will tell him, and many thanks, Mademoiselle, for having come to meet me and aid me with my second load.  It was not so very heavy, but it was clumsy to handle.”

“Will you not accept a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.  I must hasten back. Au revoir, Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”

“Au revoir, Poignot.”

This name Poignot had no significance in the ears of Blanche.

Ah! had she heard Monsieur d’Escorval’s or the abbe’s name mentioned, she might have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s guilt; her resolution might have wavered, and—­who knows?

But no.  Young Poignot, in referring to the baron had said:  “our gentleman,” Marie-Anne said:  “he.”

Is not “he” always the person who is uppermost in our minds, the husband whom one hates or the lover whom one adores?

“Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche translated Martial.

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.