The poison sank into the very
hearts of the roses, whence it breathed death from every petal and
every leaf, leaving them fair as she who had sent them, but fatal to
the approach of lip or nostril, fit emblems of her unpitying hate
and remorseless jealousy.
La Corriveau wrapped the bouquet in a medicated paper of silver
tissue, which prevented the escape of the volatile death, and
replacing the roses carefully in the basket, prepared for her
departure to Beaumanoir.
CHAPTER XL.
QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE!"
It was the eve of St. Michael. A quiet autumnal night brooded over
the forest of Beaumanoir. The moon, in her wane, had risen late,
and struggled feebly among the broken clouds that were gathering
slowly in the east, indicative of a storm. She shed a dim light
through the glades and thickets, just enough to discover a path
where the dark figure of a woman made her way swiftly and cautiously
towards the Chateau of the Intendant.
She was dressed in the ordinary costume of a peasant-woman, and
carried a small basket on her arm, which, had she opened it, would
have been found to contain a candle and a bouquet of fresh roses
carefully covered with a paper of silver tissue,--nothing more.
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