th herself.

"What do you say?" inquired Aunt Medea, with evident curiosity.

"I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be Marquise de Sairmeuse
in reality as well as in name. My husband will return to me, and
then--oh, then!"

"God grant it!" said Aunt Medea, hypocritically.

In her secret heart she had but little faith in this prediction, and
whether it was realized or not mattered little to her.

"Still another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that--that
what you did at the Borderie was unnecessary," she said, in that low
tone that accomplices always use in speaking of their crime.

Such had been the opinion of Blanche; but she now shook her head, and
gloomily replied:

"You are wrong; that which took place at the Borderie has restored my
husband to me. I understand it all, now. It is true that Marie-Anne was
not Martial's mistress, but Martial loved her. He loved her, and the
rebuffs which he received only increased his passion. It was for her
sake that he abandoned me; and never, while she lived, would he have
thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was the remnant of the emotion
which had been awakened by another. His tenderness was only the
expression of his sorrow. Whatever happens, I shall have only her
leavings--what she has disdained!" the young marquise added, bitterly;
and her eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot in ungovernable anger.
"And shall I regret what I have done?" she exclaimed; "never! no,
never!"

From that moment, she was herself again, brave and determined.

But horrible fears assailed her when the inquest began.

Officials came from Montaignac charged with investigating the affair.
They examined a host of witnesses, and there was even talk of sending
to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravelling all the
mysteries of crime.

Aunt Medea was half crazed with terror; and her fear was so apparent
that it caused Blanche great anxiety.

"You will end by betraying us," she remarked, one evening.

"Ah! my terror is beyond my control."

"If that is the case, do not leave your room."

"It would be more prudent, certainly."

"You can say that you are not well; your meals shall be served in your
own apartment."

Aunt Medea's face brightened. In her inmost heart she was enraptured. To
have her meals served in her own room, in her bed in the morning, and
on a little table by the fire in the evening, had long been the ambition
and the dream of the poor