I hated my husband; I loved the Count de Chalusse madly,
and he had sworn that he would marry me if ever I became a widow.
Do you understand now? The name of the poison I obtained--how I
proposed to administer it, and what its effects would be--all this
is plainly written in my own handwriting and signed--yes, signed--
with my own name. The plot failed, but it was none the less real,
positive, palpable--and those letters are a proof of it. But they
shall never be read--no--not if I am obliged to set fire to the
Hotel de Chalusse with my own hand."
Now the count's constant terror, the fear with which this woman
had inspired him, were explained. He was an accomplice--he also
had written no doubt, and she had preserved his letters as he had
preserved hers. Crime had bound them indissolubly together.
Horrified beyond expression, Marguerite freed herself from Madame
Trigault's grasp. "I swear to you, madame, that everything any
human being can do to save your letters shall be done by me," she
exclaimed.
"And have you any hope of success?"
"Yes," replied the girl, remembering her friend, the magistrate.
Moved by a far more powerful emotion than any she had ever known
before, the baroness uttered an exclamation of joy. "Ah! how good
you are!" she exclaimed--"how generous! how noble! You take your
revenge in giving me back life, honor, everything--for you are my
daughter; do you not know it? Did they not tell you, before
bringing you here, that I was the hated and unnatural mother who
abandoned you?"
She advanced with tearful eyes and outstretched arms, but
Marguerite sternly waved her back.
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