Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She had expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before her, as if stricken down by a thunder-bolt.
But no. The moments slipped by, and Marie-Anne continued her preparations for supper as if nothing had occurred.
She spread a white cloth over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and placed a dish upon it.
“What if she should come in here!” thought Blanche.
The fear of punishment which precedes remorse, made her heart beat with such violence that she could not understand why its throbbing were not heard in the adjoining room. Her terror increased when she saw Marie-Anne take the light and go downstairs. Blanche was left alone. The thought of making her escape occurred to her; but how, and by what way could she leave the house without being seen?
“It must be that poison does not work!” she said, in a rage.
Alas! no. She knew better when Marie-Anne reappeared.
In the few moments she had spent below, her features had become frightfully changed. Her face was livid and mottled with purple spots, her eyes were distended and glittered with a strange brilliancy. She let the plates which she held fall upon the table with a crash.
“The poison! it begins!” thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearth, gazing wildly around her, as if seeking the cause of her incomprehensible suffering. She passed and re-passed her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration; she gasped for breath. Then suddenly, overcome with nausea, she staggered, pressed her hands convulsively upon her breast, and sank into the armchair, crying:
“Oh, God! how I suffer!”
CHAPTER XLVI
Kneeling by the half-open door, Blanche eagerly watched the workings of the poison which she had administered.
She was so near her victim that she could distinguish the throbbing of her temples, and sometimes she fancied she could feel upon her cheek her rival’s breath, which scorched like flame.
An utter prostration followed Marie-Anne’s paroxysm of agony. One would have supposed her dead had it not been for the convulsive workings of the jaws and her labored breathing.
But soon the nausea returned, and she was seized with vomiting. Each effort to relieve seemed to wrench her whole body; and gradually a ghastly tint crept over her face, the spots upon her cheeks became more pronounced in tint, her eyes appeared ready to burst from their sockets, and great drops of perspiration rolled down her cheeks.
Her sufferings must have been intolerable. She moaned feebly at times, and occasionally rendered heart-rending shrieks. Then she faltered fragmentary sentences; she begged piteously for water or entreated God to shorten her torture.
“Ah, it is horrible! I suffer too much! Death! My God! grant me death!”
She invoked all the friends she had ever known, calling for aid in a despairing voice.
She called Mme. d’Escorval, the abbe, Maurice, her brother, Chanlouineau, Martial!
Martial, this name was more than sufficient to extinguish all pity in the heart of Mme. Blanche.
“Go on! call your lover, call!” she said to herself, bitterly. “He will come too late.”
And as Marie-Anne repeated the name in a tone of agonized entreaty:
“Suffer!” continued Mme. Blanche, “suffer, you who have inspired Martial with the odious courage to forsake me, his wife, as a drunken lackey would abandon the lowest of degraded creatures! Die, and my husband will return to me repentant.”
No, she had no pity. She felt a difficulty in breathing, but that resulted simply from the instinctive horror which the sufferings of others inspire—an entirely different physical impression, which is adorned with the fine name of sensibility, but which is, in reality, the grossest selfishness.
And yet, Marie-Anne was perceptibly sinking. Soon she had not strength even to moan; her eyes closed, and after a spasm which brought a bloody foam to her lips, her head sank back, and she lay motionless.
“It is over,” murmured Blanche.
She rose, but her limbs trembled so that she could scarcely stand.
Her heart remained firm and implacable; but the flesh failed.
Never had she imagined a scene like that which she had just witnessed. She knew that poison caused death; she had not suspected the agony of that death.
She no longer thought of augmenting Marie-Anne’s sufferings by upbraiding her. Her only desire now was to leave this house, whose very floor seemed to scorch her feet.
A strange, inexplicable sensation crept over her; it was not yet fright, it was the stupor that follows the commission of a terrible crime—the stupor of the murderer.
Still, she compelled herself to wait a few moments longer; then seeing that Marie-Anne still remained motionless and with closed eyes, she ventured to softly open the door and to enter the room in which her victim was lying.
But she had not advanced three steps before Marie-Anne suddenly, and as if she had been galvanized by an electric battery, rose and extended her arms to bar her enemy’s passage.
This movement was so unexpected and so frightful that Mme. Blanche recoiled.
“The Marquise de Sairmeuse,” faltered Marie-Anne. “You, Blanche—here!”
And her suffering, explained by the presence of this young girl who once had been her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed:
“You are my murderer!”
Blanche de Courtornieu’s was one of those iron natures that break, but never bend.
Since she had been discovered, nothing in the world would induce her to deny her guilt.
She advanced resolutely, and in a firm voice:
“Yes,” she said, “I have taken my revenge. Do you think I did not suffer that evening when you sent your brother to take away my newly wedded husband, upon whose face I have not gazed since?”
“Your husband! I sent to take him away! I do not understand you.”
“Do you then dare to deny that you are not Martial’s mistress!”
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse! I saw him yesterday for the first time since Baron d’Escorval’s escape.”
The effort which she had made to rise and to speak had exhausted her strength. She fell back in the armchair.
But Blanche
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