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.

Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon entirely. She had opened
the bundle of clothing, and was busily arranging the articles in a
wardrobe near the bed.

Who talks of presentiments. She was as gay and vivacious as in her days
of happiness; and as she worked, she hummed an air that Maurice had
often sung.

She felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends would soon be
around her.

When her task of putting away the clothing was completed and the
wardrobe closed, she drew a small table up before the fire.

Not until then did she notice the bowl standing upon the mantel.

"Stupid!" she said, with a laugh; and taking the bowl she raised it to
her lips.

From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne's exclamation; she
saw the movement, and yet not the slightest remorse struck her soul.

Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the
bowl down.

A horrible dread made the watcher's heart stand still. "Does she notice
a peculiar taste in the bouillon?" she thought.

No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of grease had formed
over the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then
stirred it up for some time, to divide the greasy particles.

After she had done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon the
mantel, and resumed her work.

It was done. The _denouement_ no longer depended upon Blanche de
Courtornieu's will. Come what would, she was a murderess.

But though she was conscious of her crime, the excess of her hatred
prevented her from realizing its enormity. She said to herself that
it was only an act of justice which she had accomplished; that the
vengeance she had taken was not proportionate to the offence, and that
nothing could atone for the torture she had endured.

But in a few moments a sinister apprehension took possession of her
mind.

Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had
expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken dow