She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible.

Blanche frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, and endeavored to arouse her.

“To whom have you confided your child?” she repeated; “to whom?  Marie-Anne—­a word more—­a single word—­a name, Marie-Anne!”

The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death-rattle sounded in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her form; she slid down from the chair, and fell full length upon the floor.

Marie-Anne was dead—­dead, and she had not disclosed the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she had intrusted her child.  She was dead, and the terrified murderess stood in the middle of the room, as rigid and motionless as a statue.  It seemed to her that madness—­a madness like that which had stricken her father—­was developing itself in her brain.

She forgot everything; she forgot that a guest was expected at midnight, that time was flying, and that she would surely be discovered if she did not flee.

But the man who had entered when she cried for aid was watching over her.  When he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her last, he made a slight noise at the door, and thrust his leering face into the room.

“Chupin!” faltered Mme. Blanche.

“In the flesh,” he responded.  “This was a grand chance for you.  Ah, ha!  The business riled your stomach a little, but nonsense! that will soon pass off.  But we must not dawdle here; someone may come in.  Let us make haste.”

Mechanically the murderess advanced; but Marie-Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring the passage.  To leave the room it was necessary to step over the lifeless form of her victim.  She had not courage to do this, and recoiled with a shudder.

But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples.  He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had been a child and carried her out of the house.

He was drunk with joy.  Fears for the future no longer disquieted him, now that Mme. Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains—­complicity in crime.

He saw himself on the threshold of a life of ease and continual feasting.  Remorse for Lacheneur’s betrayal had ceased to trouble him.  He saw himself sumptuously fed, lodged and clothed; above all, effectually guarded by an army of servants.

Blanche, who had experienced a feeling of deadly faintness, was revived by the cool night air.

“I wish to walk,” said she.

Chupin placed her on the ground about twenty paces from the house.

“And Aunt Medea!” she exclaimed.

Her relative was beside her; like one of those dogs who are left at the door when their master enters a house, she had, instinctively followed her niece on seeing her borne from the cottage by the old poacher.

“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin.  “Come, I will lead the way.”

And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened toward the grove.