When the butler told her that the judges and the police agents had returned to Montaignac, she had great difficulty in concealing 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 timorous spirits in check.

On the morning that followed her crime, she almost shrugged 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 fatigue, she retired 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 atrocity.  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, concealed 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—­gliding in like a phantom.  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 perspiration.  For her, this was not a mere apparition—­it was a frightful reality.

But hers was not a nature to submit unresistingly to such an impression.  She shook off the stupor that was creeping over her, and tried to reason with herself aloud, as if the sound of her voice would reassure her.

“I am dreaming!” she said.  “Do the dead return to life?  Am I childish enough to be frightened by phantoms 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 eyelids—­through the coverings which she had drawn up over her head, she saw it still.

Not until daybreak did Mme. Blanche fall asleep.