rie-Anne's by minutes; and she
said to herself, again and again, that the torture of poison could not
be as intolerable as her agony.

CHAPTER LIII

How was it that Martial had failed to discover or to suspect this state
of affairs?

A moment's reflection will explain this fact which is so extraordinary
in appearance, so natural in reality.

The head of a family, whether he dwells in an attic or in a palace, is
always the last to know what is going on in his home. What everybody
else knows he does not even suspect. The master often sleeps while his
house is on fire. Some terrible catastrophe--an explosion--is necessary
to arouse him from his fancied security.

The life that Martial led was likely to prevent him from arriving at the
truth. He was a stranger to his wife. His manner toward her was perfect,
full of deference and chivalrous courtesy; but they had nothing in
common except a name and certain interests.

Each lived their own life. They met only at dinner, or at the
entertainments which they gave and which were considered the most
brilliant in Paris society.

The duchess had her own apartments, her servants, her carriages, her
horses, her own table.

At twenty-five, Martial, the last descendant of the great house of
Sairmeuse--a man upon whom destiny had apparently lavished every
blessing--the possessor of youth, unbounded wealth, and a brilliant
intellect, succumbed beneath the burden of an incurable despondency and
_ennui_.

The death of Marie-Anne had destroyed all his hopes of happiness; and
realizing the emptiness of his life, he did his best to fill the void
with bustle and excitement. He threw himself headlong into politics,
striving to find in power and in satisfied ambition some relief from his
despondency.

It is only just to say that Mme. Blanche had remained superior to
circumstances; and that she had played the role of a happy, contented
woman with consummate skill.

Her frightful sufferings and anxiety never marred the haughty serenity
of her face. She soon won a place as one of the queens of Parisian
society; and plunged into dissipation with a sort of frenzy. Was she
endeavoring to divert her mind? Did she hope to overpower thought by
excessive fatigue?

To Aunt Medea alone did Blanche reveal her secret heart.

"I am like a culprit who has been bound to the scaffold, and then
abandoned by the executioner, who says, as he departs: 'Live until the
axe falls of its own accord.