Mme. Blanche gave her five hundred francs.

“Either her humility is a mask,” she thought, “or her husband has told her nothing.”

Five days later Polyte Chupin presented himself.

They needed three hundred francs more before they could commence business, and he came on behalf of his mother to entreat the kind lady to advance them.

Determined to discover exactly where she stood, the duchess shortly refused, and the young man departed without a word.

Evidently the mother and son were ignorant of the facts.  Chupin’s secret had died with him.

This happened early in January.  Toward the last of February, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an absurd costume, in spite of all the attempts which her niece made to dissuade her.

Her passion for dress killed her.  Her illness lasted only three days; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were terrible.

Constrained by her fear of death to examine her own conscience, she saw plainly that by profiting by the crime of her niece she had been as culpable as if she had aided her in committing it.  She had been very devout in former years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and intensified.  Her faith returned, accompanied by a cortege of terrors.

“I am lost!” she cried; “I am lost!”

She tossed to and fro upon her bed; she writhed and shrieked as if she already saw hell opening to engulf her.

She called upon the Holy Virgin and upon all the saints to protect her.  She entreated God to grant her time for repentance and for expiation.  She begged to see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession.

Paler than the dying woman, but implacable, Blanche watched over her, aided by that one of her personal attendants in whom she had most confidence.

“If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought.  “I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will betray me.”

It did not last long.

The patient’s delirium was succeeded by such utter prostration that it seemed each moment would be her last.

But toward midnight she appeared to revive a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she said: 

“You have had no pity, Blanche.  You have deprived me of all hope in the life to come.  God will punish you.  You, too, shall die like a dog; alone, without a word of Christian counsel or encouragement.  I curse you!”

And she died just as the clock was striking two.

The time when Blanche would have given almost anything to know that Aunt
Medea was beneath the sod, had long since passed.

Now, the death of the poor old woman affected her deeply.

She had lost an accomplice who had often consoled her, and she had gained nothing, since one of her maids was now acquainted with the secret of the crime at the Borderie.