She was angry at her own cowardice, but she feared the suspicions of
Bigot. There was ever something in his dark nature which she could
not fathom, and deep and crafty as she knew herself to be, she
feared that he was more deep and more crafty than herself.
What if he should discover her hand in this bloody business? The
thought drove her frantic, until she fancied she repented of the
deed.
Had it brought a certainty, this crime, then--why, then--she had
found a compensation for the risk she was running, for the pain she
was enduring, which she tried to believe was regret and pity for her
victim. Her anxiety redoubled when it occurred to her that Bigot,
remembering her passionate appeals to him for the removal of
Caroline, might suspect her of the murder as the one alone having a
palpable interest in it.
"But Bigot shall never believe it even if he suspect it!" exclaimed
she at last, shaking off her fears. "I have made fools of many men
for my pleasure, I can surely blind one for my safety; and, after
all, whose fault is it but Bigot's? He would not grant me the
lettre de cachet nor keep his promise for her removal.
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