tibly impels them--to talk of their crimes, even
when they distrust their confidant.

But when she came to the proofs which had convinced her of her
lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay.

That certificate of marriage signed by the Cure of Vigano; what had she
done with it? where was it? She remembered holding it in her hands.

She sprang up, examined the pocket of her dress and uttered a cry of
joy. She had it safe. She threw it into a drawer, and turned the key.

Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own room, but Blanche entreated her
to remain. She was unwilling to be left alone--she dared not--she was
afraid.

And as if she desired to silence the inward voice that tormented her,
she talked with extreme volubility, repeating again and again that she
was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and that she would
brave impossibilities to recover Marie-Anne's child.

And certainly, the task was both difficult and dangerous.

If she sought the child openly, it would be equivalent to a confession
of guilt. She would be compelled to act secretly, and with great
caution.

"But I shall succeed," she said. "I will spare no expense."

And remembering her vow, and the threats of her dying victim, she added:

"I must succeed. I have sworn--and I was forgiven under those
conditions."

Astonishment dried the ever ready tears of Aunt Medea.

That her niece, with her dreadful crime still fresh in her mind, could
coolly reason, deliberate, and make plans for the future, seemed to her
incomprehensible.

"What an iron will!" she thought.

But in her bewilderment she quite overlooked something that would have
enlightened any ordinary observer.

Blanche was seated upon her bed, her hair was unbound, her eyes were
glittering with delirium, and her incoherent words and her excited
gestures betrayed the frightful anxiety that was torturing her.

And she talked and talked, exclaiming, questioning Aunt Medea, and
forcing her to reply, only that she might escape from her own thoughts.

Morning had dawned some time before, and the servants were heard
bustling about the chateau, and Blanche, oblivious to all around
her, was still explaining how she could, in less than a year, restore
Marie-Anne's child to Maurice d'Escorval.

She paused abruptly in the middle of a sentence.

Instinct had suddenly warned her of the danger she incurred in making
the slightest change in her habits.

She sent Aunt Medea awa