The bright lamps were glaring
full upon her still beautiful but sightless eyes, which, wide open,
looked, even in death, reproachfully yet forgivingly upon their
murderess.
Something startled La Corriveau in that look. She turned hastily
away, and, relighting her candle, passed through the dark archway of
the secret door, forgetting to close it after her, and retraced her
steps along the stone passage until she came to the watch-tower,
where she dashed out her light.
Creeping around the tower in the dim moonlight, she listened long
and anxiously at door and window to discover if all was still about
the Chateau. Not a sound was heard but the water of the little
brook gurgling in its pebbly bed, which seemed to be all that was
awake on this night of death.
La Corriveau emerged cautiously from the tower. She crept like a
guilty thing under the shadow of the hedge, and got away unperceived
by the same road she had come. She glided like a dark spectre
through the forest of Beaumanoir, and returned to the city to tell
Angelique des Meloises that the arms of the Intendant were now empty
and ready to clasp her as his bride; that her rival was dead, and
she had put herself under bonds forever to La Corriveau as the price
of innocent blood.
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