The Ancestral Legacy Begins in the Wild West

Chapter 186 The Woman Who Poisoned Her Husband

The next morning, the sunlight slanted down into the courtyard, making the stone pavement appear white.

Mrs. Polina sat at a separate, exquisite little table covered with a snow-white tablecloth, on which sat a set of fine porcelain teaware, the spout of which was still steaming.

She held the teacup, her little finger slightly raised, took a sip, and put the cup back on the saucer without making a sound.

Isabella sat opposite her. Although she was called a personal maid, few people had ever heard of a maid sitting on equal footing with her master while drinking tea.

Of course, several dedicated, fully equipped guards stood in the corner around them, so few people around them paid much attention to this side, and naturally no one pointed or whispered about it.

Isabella was wearing the same simple gray dress as before, her hair was pinned up at the back of her head, with a few stray hairs hanging down beside her ears.

Only by getting very close and observing carefully can one discover her exquisite long hair and eyes, which do not resemble those of an ordinary maid.

She sat there with her back straight, her movements of holding the teacup even more deft than Madame Polina's, though her face was obscured by the brim of her hat, revealing only a pointed chin and a pair of downcast eyes.

Those eyes lifted from the rim of the teacup, swept over the surrounding prisoners peering around, and then fell back down.

Madame Polina, standing beside her, picked up a pastry with her fingertips, took a bite, and chewed slowly. She seemed even more relaxed than Isabella, as if she were in her own living room, not in the exercise yard of the Bastille.

Zhang Chang'an leaned against the wall and gestured with his lip in that direction: "What's going on here?"

Morel leaned closer, lowering his voice with an air of inquisitiveness: "What else could it be? A privileged offender, of course. But Mr. Zhang, this lady—her situation is indeed a bit different."

Hearing their discussion, a large group of prisoners, whether familiar or not, quickly moved closer to them.

Morel cleared his throat and lowered his voice even further, as if he were talking about some unspeakable secret.

"Jean-Pauline Félicité. Her husband wasn't a nobleman, just a very successful businessman. She herself had a noble background and even seemed to have some connections with people in the royal palace. However, by her generation, they had lost a lot of money and land."

Now that her husband is dead, she has consolidated her assets and now possesses more than when her husband was alive. She is rich, powerful, and has connections in the palace.

Therefore, she's not your average privileged offender; even the most troublesome person wouldn't dare mess with someone like her.

George scratched his head: "How did someone like that get in? What did she do wrong?"

Morel glanced around, then lowered his voice further: "Remember that iris murder case we watched a few days ago?"

The group of people were stunned for a moment.

Zhang Chang'an tore open a piece of bread, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed, and slowly said, "She killed her husband?"

Morel shrugged, spreading his hands with a "who knows" expression: "I don't know, but that's what I suspect. But even if that's the case, he did it too cleanly, just like the ones that happened before, leaving no trace, so there's no way to convict him."

"However, this matter has already caused quite a stir. Think about it, so many nobles and wealthy merchants have died. These people were the most powerful and influential group in the city."

Indeed, some died, but many others are still alive. So many people like him were betrayed by their wives, daughters, and lovers. How could those who are still alive not be afraid?

Therefore, our warden, as the person specially sent by the Alchemy Society to investigate, is under immense pressure, but also has immense authority. Even without evidence, he can still lock her up first.

But she is indeed powerful and influential, and I heard that many people in the royal family are pleading for him, so they haven't been able to use torture or anything like that; they've just kept him here.

Several people glanced in that direction at the same time.

Mrs. Polina picked up her teacup again and took a sip, glancing at the prisoners who were peering out from the rim of the cup.

Many prisoners immediately pulled their heads back in.

Isabella sat opposite her, holding a teacup, her eyes fixed intently on the tea beneath her lowered eyelids. Her hand was steady, and the cup did not wobble.

Last night, when she followed Mrs. Polina into the prison carrying her suitcase, her palms were cold. Now they're warm.

The warmth of the tea seeped in through the cup, soothing my fingertips. The warmth traveled up my fingers, to my wrist, to my forearm, and to my chest, where it had been hanging there, supporting me.

"Finally, we escaped—"

She took a sip of tea, put the cup back on the saucer, and looked up from the rim of the cup, scanning the faces in the yard that were either curious, wary, or evasive.

Among the prisoners, some were talking about her, some were talking about Mrs. Polina, and some were guessing who they were and what they had done.

But no one knew who she was. They did it cleanly; the noblewomen kept their mouths shut, and the dead men could no longer speak.

Those who investigated, those alchemists who carried alchemical reagents and searched every corpse and every crime scene, found nothing.

Because what they were looking for was some kind of rare poison, a colorless and odorless one that originated in the East.

Something that even phlogiston test strips can't detect.

They didn't know what it was called, what it looked like, or which route it came from to enter Paris.

All they knew was that the men had died, at the hands of their wives, daughters, and lovers, and at the hands of something they didn't recognize.

Isabella picked up her teacup and took another sip. The steam from the tea clung to her eyelashes, momentarily blurring her gray vision.

She put the cup down and gently rubbed the corner of her eye with the back of her hand to wipe away the moisture.

Mrs. Polina turned and glanced at her, but said nothing, only pushing the plate of pastries toward her.

That evening, at the entrance to the underground space, Zhang Chang'an stood in front of the rammed earth wall and waited.

The dark hole in front of him was a size larger than it had been a few days ago, and several clods of soil had fallen off the edge, breaking into a pile of powder on the ground.

He couldn't see anything inside the cave, but his psychic senses told him that something was approaching, unhurried and steady, each step firm and rhythmic, completely different from the chaotic footsteps of the ghouls.

Quasimodo's figure emerged from the darkness. He wore his tattered cloak and leaned on his long wooden cane with a bell attached; with each step he took, the bell swayed gently, emitting a dull tinkling sound.

He stopped in front of Zhang Chang'an, slammed his wooden cane on the ground, and with his other hand pulled out an oil paper package from inside his cloak and handed it over.

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