ed woman that I am! Ah! this suffering is too horrible. Blanche,
remember----"

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 s