Whilst all this turmoil had been going on, Paris was no less a scene of excitement; indeed, it was greater, inasmuch as it affected a larger number of persons. The awful death of Sainte-Croix, and the discoveries which had arisen from the unexpected revelation of the casket, furnished sufficient matter for conversation to all the gossips of the good city. Maître Glazer’s shop was more than ever besieged by the curious bourgeoisie, as he was supposed to be better acquainted than any one else, not even excepting the commissary of police, with the circumstances of the event. But it was remarked that Philippe preserved a perfect silence respecting the share which the Marchioness of Brinvilliers was known to have had in the transactions of the newly-discovered poisoners. He always avoided the most distant allusion to the catastrophe, and even when Maître Picard wished to push his questions very closely—half in his capacity of public functionary, half as a private gossip—the young student generally cut all his queries so very short, that Picard almost imagined he must have been one of the parties implicated.
‘For, look you, messieurs,’ the little chapelier would say, when he got out of Philippe’s ear-shot, and was traversing the Place Maubert, ‘Madame de Brinvilliers had as many accomplices as our good King Louis—whom Montespan preserve!—has sweethearts. Else, whence came the powerful armed force which unhorsed me on the road to Le Bourget?’
‘She had dealings with the sorcerers,’ observed a neighbour.
‘I believe it,’ replied M. Picard. ‘I heard of her with Exili, who is about to suffer at the gibbet of Montfaucon, the night M. de Sainte-Croix died. And the exempt’s guards, who returned to Paris, have affirmed that she flew past them on a whirlwind whilst they halted at Le Bourget. She will never be taken—no: the devil would save her from the centre of the Chambre Ardente itself, even if M. La Reynie had the care of her. Allons! buvons! it is a wicked world!’
And then the little bourgeois and his neighbours turned into the nearest tavern, and, whatever might be the time of day at their entrance, never appeared until after curfew had sounded, when Maître Picard was usually conducted home to the Rue de la Harpe by the Gascon, Jean Blacquart, whose unwillingness to engage in personal encounter was scarcely sufficient to keep the chapelier from pot-valiantly embroiling himself with everybody unarmed that he chanced to meet. Our business is not, however, so much with these personages just at present; but with those of whom we have not heard for some little time.
Night was closing round the gloomy precincts of the Cimetière des Innocents—mysterious, cold, cheerless. The snow lay upon the burial-ground, and clung to the decaying wreaths and garlands that rotted on the iron crosses which started up from the earth. The solemn and dreary place was doubly desolate in the wintry trance of nature. In the centre of the cemetery a tall obelisk arose, and on the summit of this, some fifteen feet from the ground, was a large lantern, from which a pale light gleamed over the abodes of the dead, throwing its rays sufficiently far to reveal a ghastly procession of corpses, of all ages and professions, painted on the walls and covered charnels in which the wealthier classes were interred who chose to carry their exclusiveness into the very grave. This danse macabre, or dance of death, was then rapidly becoming invisible at different stages of its march. At various parts of the enclosure small lamps struggled with the wind, as they hung before images of the Virgin placed in niches of the walls and tombs, and lights were visible in the higher windows of the crowded, and not unpicturesque, buildings that enclosed the cemetery; but elsewhere everything was dark, and the place was untenanted but by the dead.
One figure, however, might have been seen kneeling at a fresh grave for some time, in spite of the inclemency of the weather. And about this the snow had been cleared away; the chaplets on the small cross were fresh, and a few dark evergreens were planted at the head and foot. A scroll in the ironwork bore the inscription, ‘Cy giste Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, qui trépassa, la vingt-neuvième année de son âge.’ It was the tomb of the guilty lover of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, and the solitary mourner was Louise Gauthier.
Of all with whom Sainte-Croix had been on terms of intimacy, not one had cared to make inquiry after him, when the report of his death was first promulgated, but the Languedocian. But Louise, assisted by Benoit (with whom she had returned to live, since the evening at the Hôtel de Cluny, when she again fell in with him), had seen the body taken from the dismal vault below the Palais des Thermes to his old abode in the Rue des Bernardins. She had been the solitary mourner when his body was rudely consigned to that part of the ground allotted to those for whom no consecrated rites were offered; and her own hands afterwards had adorned the grave—the only one thus distinguished in this division of the cemetery—with the humble tributes that were about it. All this she had done without one tear or expression of the wretchedness that was breaking her heart; but when it was accomplished, she gave full vent to her pent-up feelings, and was accustomed to seek the cemetery every evening, weeping and praying in the terrible solitude of the burial-place, over the grave whose narrow limits comprised her world.
It was past the time of curfew; but the city of Paris had not the air of quietude which it usually bore at this period of the night. The murmur of a distant multitude could be heard mingling with the occasional solemn tolling of some hoarse and deep-mouthed bell, and now and then the roll of drums calling troops together. Louise had been some hours in the cemetery, when she was surprised by the appearance of Benoit and his wife, who had come to seek her, alarmed at her unusual stay from home, although they were aware of the locality in which she was most likely to be found. The honest couple had started off together to bring her back; and now, assisting her to rise, had persuaded her to return with them.
As they got into the Rue des Lombards, on their way towards the river, a sudden rush of people in great numbers separated them from one another, and they were obliged to fall in with the stream, which, increasing at every corner of a fresh thoroughfare, almost carried them off their legs. Louise addressed a few questions to some that she came in contact with, but no answer was returned; all appeared too anxious to hurry onward. Soon the crowd became more dense in the narrow streets, and the confusion and jostling was increased by the mounted guard who pressed on through the people, almost riding them down, amidst the screams of the women and curses of the men, who only received a few blows in return. She was now entirely borne onward by the multitude, and in the dense mass of people could scarcely look up to see in what direction she was being impelled, until she found herself close to the Grand Châtelet.
The whole of the carrefour was lined with troops carrying cressets, so that it was light as day; and in the centre a scaffold was erected, on which one or two figures were standing. One of these was a priest, the others were masked, and held what appeared in the distance to be long staves in their hands. Louise’s heart sickened as she foresaw that she was about to be present at an execution, and one of the most terrible kind. There was no headsman’s block on the platform; but some apparatus could be seen upon the floor, but a few inches in height. A wretch was about to be broken on the wheel.
Suddenly the murmurs of the people ceased; lights moved in slow procession from the Châtelet, and the voices of monks could be heard chaunting a requiem. They advanced between lines of troops towards the scaffold, and then the criminal could be distinctly seen. He was not walking, however, between them, nor was he dragged on a sledge, but borne on a species of bier, raised on the shoulders of some of the soldiery; from which the spectators knew that the question had been undergone, and the rack had left its victim crippled, with dislocated limbs. By the men in masks he was lifted on to the platform, and then a yell from the vast multitude assembled broke the silence that had just reigned. It was a terrible cry of ferocity and denunciation.
Louise could scarcely speak; but she asked a female who was close to her the name of the criminal.
‘One of the poisoners,’ replied the woman; ‘his name is Lachaussée. He will make up for Sainte-Croix’s cheating us out of his execution. And the Marchioness of Brinvilliers will follow, when she is caught. Oh! these are brave times! I should like to have seen Sainte-Croix broken. They say he was handsome; and that he would have held out to the last. Hist!’
The noise of the multitude ceased as the priest advanced to the edge of the scaffold and addressed them. His words could only be heard by the few around him; but they were carried from one to the other, and were to the effect that the criminal had refused to confess, after having undergone the question both ordinary and extraordinary; that his own guilt had been sufficiently proved; but that none of his accomplices had been named, except his master and instructor, Monsieur Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, upon whom a just retribution had fallen. The last judgment of the law would now be carried into effect, but the coup de grace would be withheld until the criminal had confessed all that he was known to be acquainted with respecting his presumed accomplice, the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, now in sanctuary, as it was supposed, at a convent beyond the frontier.
There was an awful silence. The wretched man was seized by the other figures on the scaffold and placed upon the wheel, and the next minute the staff in the hands of one of the executioners was raised. It descended with a dull, heavy sound, distinctly audible at every part of the square, as was the sharp cry of agony that burst from the lips of the culprit. The priest stooped down, and appeared to commune with him; but in a few seconds he rose again, and the blow was repeated, followed by the same scream, but less piercing than before. Another and another followed, and then a conversation of greater length took place between the criminal and his confessor. The monk advanced again to the front of the scaffold, and waving his hand, stopped the murmur that was rising from the crowd as they commented on the proceedings.
‘The criminal Lachaussée has confessed,’ he said. ‘He acknowledges his guilt, and also that of Madame Marie-Marguerite d’Aubray, Marchioness of Brinvilliers, hitherto suspected, from whom he owns to have received the poisons with which her two brothers were murdered. The coup de grace may now be given.’
He held up a crucifix in sight of the writhing object of his speech, and directed the chief executioner to despatch his victim. The man again raised the bar, and it descended upon the breast of Lachaussée, crushing all before it. No cry followed the blow this time: the death of the wretched man was instantaneous.
The multitude remained silent for a few seconds, as if they were listening for another cry. But voices were at length heard, first one and then another, gradually spreading, until the murmur broke forth into one savage roar of exultation, when they knew that the criminal had ceased to exist. A clue had been found to the mystery in which the deaths by poison had long been involved; and now that one of the participators in the horrible deeds, that had so long baffled the keenest vigilance of the authorities, had expiated his offence before their eyes, their satisfaction knew no bounds. And when they had thus vented their approval of the sight they had just witnessed, they turned away from the carrefour, and began to leave the spot by the different outlets.
Louise, who had been scarcely able to sustain herself through the ghastly scene, was hurried on by the breaking up of the crowd, until she contrived to get within a porte-cochère, meaning to let them pass. But she had not been there an instant before she was recognised by a man in the throng, who had been a servant of François d’Aubray.
‘Ho!’ cried the fellow, as he saw her by the light of a cresset, ‘here is another of them. I saw her with Madame de Brinvilliers the night that her brothers were murdered. She is an empoisonneuse. To prison with the witch!’
He advanced towards the poor girl as he spoke, whilst the crowd stopped in their passage. But as he approached her he was seized by a powerful arm, and, having been twisted round, was flung with some violence upon the ground.
Any other officer than Desgrais would have given up further attempts to arrest the Marchioness, now that she was in the sanctuary of a convent—in a town, too, where any invasion of the privileges belonging to a religious house would have been avenged with the most unrelenting severity. But the exempt felt bitterly the manner in which he had been more than once duped upon the road, at times when his prey was completely within his grasp. He was exceedingly sensitive as regarded his position, and reputation as the most vigilant officer of the Maréchaussée, and he determined not to enter Paris again until he could do so accompanied by the Marchioness.
To effect this, he took a lodging in a retired quarter of Liége, and remained there for a few weeks, dismissing his archers and guards, with orders to return to Givet, and be in readiness to join him at Liége upon the shortest notice. To the Marchioness he was personally unknown. She had not met him above once or twice, and then without particularly regarding him; and this decided him as to the course he would pursue. He was young and active; the very business in which he was constantly engaged had given him admission into all ranks of society; and he had tact and ready perception to profit by his observations, and adopt the manners of any particular class which he found it necessary to assume. He arranged his plans and, when he imagined sufficient time had elapsed, proceeded to put them into execution.
To effect the capture he disguised himself in the dress of an abbe, and presented himself one evening at the gates of the convent in which Marie had sought shelter, requesting to see her. The porter, after a slight hesitation, admitted him to the parlour, and in a few minutes the object of his venture appeared.
The Marchioness had entirely recovered from the fatigues of her journey. Those who had known her intimately would have remarked a few lines on her face, resulting from the agitation caused by recent events; but to others there was still the same girlish, confiding face—still the same blue lustrous eyes and smooth expansive forehead, and the rosy lips still half-revealed the same beautiful teeth that had so dazzled the sight of the gallants, and raised the envy of the dames of the court at Versailles. She bowed gracefully to Desgrais as she entered the room, and then in her softest tones inquired ‘to what chance she was indebted for the honour of a visit from Monsieur l’Abbé?’
‘I am a poor servant of the Church, madame,’ he replied, ‘and am returning from a pilgrimage to Rome with relics to be deposited at the Jacobins, in the Rue St. Honoré. Being detained at Liége upon matters of ecclesiastical interest, I heard that you were here, and came to offer my respects.’
‘I have done little to deserve this attention, my holy father,’ said Marie.
‘You have suffered much undeserved misery, madame,’ answered Desgrais. ‘You were a supporter of our Church—a good and charitable lady, as all Paris can vouch; and I should have taken blame unto myself had I not paid this tribute to your goodness.’
‘Alas! mon père!’ cried Marie; ‘would that the world could think of me as well as you do. Of what avail has been my past life? You will find, on your return to Paris, the blackest stories current against me. A woman, once fallen, has no hope; but every one—those who would have cringed to her the lowest when she was in her position being the foremost—will hurry to crush her more utterly, to beat her lower down. I am lost—for ever!’
‘Yet you should hope that the consciousness of your own innocence will one day prevail,’ returned the exempt.
‘I have no hope, monsieur. I am alone in this dreary place—alone, even in the midst of its inmates, as though I were shut out entirely from the world.’
Desgrais paused for an instant. ‘She has not mentioned her comrades,’ he said to himself, ‘and she was certainly accompanied on the road. All accounts agree in this.’
‘You are mistaken, madame,’ he continued aloud. ‘Think. Is there no one on whom you think you might rely?’
‘What mean you?’ inquired Marie eagerly.
For a few seconds they continued gazing at one another, each waiting for the other to speak. Desgrais was waiting for some cue, from which his tact might enable him to proceed, and the Marchioness was fearful of committing herself by revealing more than the other knew. Two deep and artful natures were pitted against each other.
Desgrais was the first to speak. With an assumed expression of countenance, calculated to impress his companion with the idea that he understood everything then passing in her mind, and in a voice of deep meaning, he said—
‘Is there no one, think you, who feels an interest in you? You can trust me. What communication have you held with the world since you have been in this retreat?’
‘None, father—on my soul, none.’
‘And have you expected to hear from no one?’ continued Desgrais in the same tone.
‘Camille!’ exclaimed the Marchioness eagerly. And then, as if aware she had been indiscreet, she closed her lips forcibly together, and remained silent.
‘Yes—Camille,’ replied Desgrais, quickly catching at the name. ‘Did you think he had deserted you?’
And he looked cautiously round the parlour, and then placed his finger on his mouth, as though he was fearful of being overheard.
‘I did not know in what quarter of the town he lived,’ she answered.
‘So,’ thought Desgrais, ‘he is in Liége, then.’
‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘circumstances are changed. He cares no more for me.’
‘Would you see him?’ asked Desgrais.
The vanity of the woman triumphed over her caution. Camille Theria, it was evident to Marie, had found his old attachment revive as they had met again. He had forgotten his fiancée, and was anxious again to see her.
‘Am I to believe you?’ she asked.
‘You may believe your eyes,’ replied the exempt. ‘He will be at the tavern of the “Trois Rois” at curfew time to-night.’
‘Why will he not come here?’
‘Would it be advisable? You need fear nothing. I will escort you from the convent and return with you.’
‘It will compromise your position,’ said Marie.
‘That will be my own affair, madame,’ replied Desgrais. ‘The weather is unfavourable enough to drive the passengers from the streets, and the night is dark. No harm can arrive.’
‘What can he want with me?’ said Marie, half speaking to herself, as she appeared undecided how to act.
‘You will learn all,’ said Desgrais, not trusting himself to speak further on a subject of which he was so utterly ignorant. ‘But time presses, and the bells will soon ring out. Come, madame, come.’
Without any other covering than a cloak wrapped about her, and concealing as much as possible her head and face, Marie yielded to the persuasions of Desgrais, and, taking his arm, left the convent unobserved, in the direction of the tavern he had mentioned. The perfect quietude she had enjoyed since her arrival at the convent had led her to believe that the French police had entirely given up their intentions of arresting her. Sainte-Croix, in her fearful heartlessness, had been already forgotten, and the prospect of a new conquest—a new victim to her treacherous passions—drew her on with irresistible attraction.
They traversed the steep and uneven streets of Liége until they came to the door of the tavern, from whose windows the red firelights were streaming across the thoroughfare. Desgrais muttered a few words of excuse for the humble appearance of the place, and then conducted Marie into the public room.
‘One instant,’ he said. ‘I will ask if he is here.’
He left the room, closing the door behind him, and Marie was a few moments alone in the apartment. With some slight mistrust, she listened for his return, and imagined she heard, for a few seconds, the clank of arms. But this subsided almost immediately, and Desgrais came back again.
‘Is he not yet here?’ she asked.
‘He is not, madame,’ said Desgrais in an altered tone; ‘nor is it likely that he will come.’
‘What do you imply?’ exclaimed Marie, somewhat alarmed, and advancing towards the door.
‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Desgrais, ‘but you cannot pass.’
‘Insolent!’ cried the Marchioness. ‘What does this outrage mean?’
‘That you are my prisoner, madame.’
‘Prisoner! And by whose orders?’
‘By order of his Majesty Louis XIV., King of France,’ cried Desgrais loudly, as he threw aside his abbe’s robes, and appeared in his under-clothing as exempt of the guard. ‘Madame, you are mine at last!’
The words had been the signal to those without, whom he had left the room to put upon their guard. As he pronounced
them, they rushed into the room, and the Marchioness found herself surrounded by the archers of the royal guard.
In an instant Marie perceived the trap that had been laid for her.
‘Miscreant!’ she cried, as she rushed at Desgrais in her rage. ‘You have not yet got your prey within your fangs. I am in a country in which your authority goes for nought. You cannot arrest me.’
‘Once more, you must pardon me, Madame la Marquise,’ replied Desgrais, as he drew a paper from his belt. ‘The council of this town has authorised your extradition, upon a letter from the King. You are as much our prisoner as though we had arrested you in your own hôtel in Paris.’
As quick as lightning, upon comprehending the meaning of the words, Marie drew a poniard from its sheath at the side of one of the guards, and endeavoured to plunge it into her breast. But her hand was arrested by another of the party, and the weapon wrested from her. Baffled in this intention, and in an agony of powerless rage, she endeavoured to speak, but her mouth refused utterance to the words, and with a terrible cry she fell senseless upon the ground.
Confiding her to the care of one of his men, and ordering the others to keep guard without, Desgrais now returned to the convent in search of further evidence, furnished with proper authority to bring away whatever he could find. But Marie had little with her. A small case of letters and papers was, however, discovered under her pillow, and of this Desgrais immediately took possession. It contained most important evidence against her—no less than a confession of the past actions of her life.
In the meantime Marie gradually recovered; but it was some time before she came completely to herself, from a succession of fainting-fits supervening one upon another as the least degree of consciousness returned, and the dreadful reality of her position broke in upon her. The rough soldier with whom she had been left, unused to guard such prisoners, and somewhat struck with her beauty and evidently superior position in life, had been in great confusion of ideas as to what he ought to do, and had at last called one of the females attached to the establishment to the aid of the Marchioness. By some of those trifling remedies which women only appear to have at command for their own sex, in the like emergencies, Marie was gradually brought round, and then the female departed, and she was left alone with her guard—pale and trembling, resembling a corpse, but for the still bright eye, and the convulsive quivering of every nerve in her delicate frame. She uttered not a syllable, but remained in a corner of the room, on a rude settle to which she had been carried by the soldiers; and the sentinel’s heavy tread, as he paced backwards and forwards before the door of the apartment, was the only sound that broke the dreary stillness.
In less than an hour Desgrais returned. He came accompanied by a voiture de poste, having directly after the capture of his prisoner ordered it to be in waiting, as well as despatched a courier with commands to have everything in readiness along the road for fresh relays. He now entered the room, and requested Marie to accompany him into the carriage.
‘You have played a sorry part, monsieur, in this drama,’ she said to him, ‘and you have triumphed: do not think I am stooping to you if I make one request: could you see how deeply I feel myself to be degraded in asking this favour, you—even you—might pity me and grant it. You have played with the name of a person this evening, and won your stake off it. Will you allow me to write to him?’
‘Provided I see the letter, and you can write it in ten minutes,’ replied Desgrais. ‘We must reach Dinant to supper, where also you will rest the night.’
‘Half that time will be sufficient,’ said Marie. ‘Give me the means, and for a few minutes leave me to myself.’
Desgrais produced his tablets, and tearing a few blank leaves from them gave them to the Marchioness, as well as a style he carried; then placing the sentinel again before the door, he withdrew.
As soon as he was gone Marie traced a few words upon the paper, and then spoke to the guard.
‘What is your name?’ she asked in a low, hurried tone.
‘Antoine Barbier,’ replied the man gruffly, ‘archer in his Majesty’s service.’
And he continued his march. In less than a minute she again addressed him.
‘See!’ she exclaimed, taking a massive jewelled ornament from her hair. ‘The sale of this will provide you with good cheer for many a long day, and I will give it to you if you will forward this letter for me to its address. There is nothing in this against your orders. See,’ she continued, adding the address. ‘“M. Camille Theria, à Liége;” he is an apothecary in the town. Will you do this for me?’
‘Give it to me,’ said the man. ‘I will find some one when I am relieved who will pay attention to it.’
‘Take the wages, then, at the same time,’ added Marie.
‘No,’ replied the archer, as he put the proffered gift on one side. ‘I do not want payment for this.’
In a minute or two Desgrais came back to know if the letter was concluded, as the carriage was ready to start. Marie shrunk from him when he entered as though he had been a serpent—her horror of the exempt was not feigned.
‘I cannot write, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I am at your service. Allons!’
She put away the arm of the officer as he held it forward for her to take, and passed into the passage, which was lined with the archers. As she passed the sentinel who had kept guard over her in the inn, she whispered to him ‘Remember,’ and then entered the carriage without another word, throwing herself into a corner and muffling her face in her cloak.
Desgrais was about to follow, when Barbier slipped the note into his hand. He read—
‘My dear Theria—I have been taken by Desgrais, and am on my road to Paris: save me at all hazards.
‘Marie.’
‘Lose not an instant,’ cried the exempt, as he entered the carriage. ‘On—on with your horses as fast as whip and spur can urge them!’
The outcry raised against Louise Gauthier as she left the ghastly scene in the Carrefour du Châtelet had for the moment well-nigh deprived her of her senses. She saw the man who had accused her of being an empoisonneuse and an accomplice of Madame de Brinvilliers, thrown down by one of the crowd, and fearful that a desperate riot was about to commence, she seized the opportunity which the confusion afforded, and broke through the ring of the infuriated people who had surrounded her, whilst their attention was diverted. But the person who had come to her assistance followed her; and when a turn in the street gave them an opportunity of escaping from the resistless current of the mob, she discovered that it was a well-looking young man to whom she had been indebted for her safety.
‘Pardon me, mademoiselle,’ exclaimed the student—for such by his dress he appeared to be—raising his cap, ‘for introducing myself to you thus hurriedly. Is your name Louise Gauthier?’
‘It is, monsieur,’ replied the Languedocian timidly.
‘And mine is Philippe Glazer,’ said the other. ‘Now we know one another. I was sent to look after you by Benoit Mousel, who is at home by this time. They lost you in the Rue des Lombards.’
‘How can I thank you for your interference?’ said Louise.
‘Thank our Lady rather, for the lucky chance that brought me to you at such a moment. I despaired of seeing you in such a vast mob, although Benoit has described you pretty closely. But come, we will find our way to the quay.’
‘You know Benoit Mousel, then?’ said Louise, as they moved on together.
‘Passably well, mademoiselle. I had him under my care for a while, after he had been somewhat unceremoniously pitched out of a window at the Hôtel de Cluny, during one of the merrymakings that M. de Lauzun is accustomed to hold there whenever he is not in the Bastille.’
Louise Gauthier recollected the evening too well, and shuddered as she recalled to mind its events. She did not speak again, but keeping close to Philippe’s side, as if she feared a fresh attack from the people about, kept on her way in silence towards the water-side.
They descended to one of the landing-places at the foot of the Pont Notre Dame, and found the boat lying there, into which the student assisted his companion, and then, with a few strokes of his powerful arm, reached the boat-mill. There was a light in the chamber, and the instant they touched the lighter Benoit and his wife appeared with a flambeau, and broke forth into exclamations of joy at the return of Louise.
In two minutes more the party were assembled in the room, to which the reader has been already introduced. Bathilde bustled about, with her usual good-tempered activity, to place the repast on the table; and when all this was settled, she opened the door of the stove, to let its warm light stream out over the room; and they then took their places.
‘I need not make a secret of my mission, mademoiselle,’ said Philippe, when they were seated; ‘for I presume there is nothing you would wish to conceal from our friends.’
‘Because if there is, you know, Louise,’ said Benoit in continuation, ‘Bathilde and I will——’
‘Pray stop, mon ami,’ interrupted Louise; ‘what can I wish to keep from you—you, who know everything, and have been so kind to me? Well, monsieur?’ she added, looking anxiously at Philippe.
‘You know this writing,’ observed Philippe, as he handed her a small packet sealed, and bearing an address.
Louise tremblingly took the parcel and looked at the superscription. As she recognised it, she uttered a low cry of astonishment.
‘It is indeed his,’ she exclaimed, as she bowed her head down, and allowed the parcel to drop in her lap. The next minute her tears were falling quickly after one another upon it.
Bathilde took her hand kindly and pressed it as they watched her grief in silence, which Philippe Glazer was the first to break.
‘I found that in Monsieur de Sainte-Croix’s escritoire,’ he said; ‘one of the few things that Desgrais did not seize upon. I told him it was mine, for I saw what they had discovered made mischief enough, and I did not care to have it extended. It was only to-night I discovered by chance that you were with Benoit and his wife.’
Tearfully, and with hesitating hands, Louise opened the packet, and produced from its folds a document drawn up evidently in legal style, and a small note, which she handed to Philippe.
‘Read it, monsieur,’ she said; ‘I cannot. How long it is since I have seen that writing! I used to wait day after day for some message from him, to show that I was not forgotten—if it had been but one line—until my heart was sick with the vain expectation. And now it has come; and—he is dead.’
The student took the note, and hastily ran his eye over it, before he communicated its contents to the little party. Bathilde and Benoit watched his face anxiously, as they saw it brighten whilst he scanned the writings; it evidently contained no bad news. ‘Joy!’ he exclaimed, as he finished it; ‘joy to all. I think I shall give up medicine and take to farming.’
‘Go on, monsieur!’ exclaimed Benoit and his wife in a breath. ‘What is it?’
‘The conveyance of a terrain on the Orbe, in Languedoc,’ continued Philippe, reading, ‘with a plantation of olives and mulberries to Louise Gauthier, to be held by her in common with whomever may have befriended her in Paris, and of which the necessary papers are in the hands of M. Macé, notary, Rue de Provence, Beziers!’
‘I knew it!’ said Benoit, as he slapped the table with a vehemence that sent some things jumping off it, after a few seconds of astonishment. ‘I knew some day fortune would turn. Continue, monsieur.’
Philippe Glazer proceeded to read the note, whilst Louise gazed at him, almost bewildered.
‘“When you receive this,”’ he went on, ‘“I shall have expiated every crime. I feel convinced that my death, come when it may, will be violent and sudden: and whatever may have been my faults, I shall have been punished for them. All I had to dispose of I have left you: in possessing it, do not forget any that have assisted you. It has been kept through every embarrassment to this end; but circumstances prevented my giving it to you in my lifetime. Beware of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers; forgive me for the misery I caused you, which has been repaid one hundredfold, and forget, if possible,
‘“Gaudin de Sainte-Croix.
‘“To be delivered into the hands of Louise Gauthier, or, failing to find her, of Benoit Mousel, at the mill-boat below the Pont Notre Dame, in trust for her.”’
‘There,’ said Philippe, as he concluded, and put the papers on the table; ‘my task is accomplished.’
‘I cannot accept it,’ said Louise after a short pause.
‘Cannot! mademoiselle,’ said the student; ‘you must. Better you take it than it fall into M. Macé’s hands for want of a claimant; and from him to a stranger, or the king, or any of his favourites.’
‘It would only be on one condition,’ continued the Languedocian. ‘That Benoit and his wife shared it with me.’
‘Pardieu! Louise; the terms are not hard,’ said Benoit: ‘and our hard work will lighten the feeling of dependence. Sacristie! a chance of seeing Languedoc again, eh, Bathilde!’
‘And a farm,’ said his wife; ‘and olives, and mulberries—perhaps chestnuts.’
‘And no more living by my wits,’ continued Benoit, ‘which are wearing away from constant use, when the mill is out of work. No more mountebanking nor singing songs, nor being pitched out of windows for so doing, instead of being paid. Oh—you will go, Louise; we will all go.’
‘And in a patache,’ said Bathilde, ‘with Jacquot to draw us: six leagues a day at least! What shall be our first stage?’
‘There is plenty of time before you to settle that point,’ said Philippe, smiling at the eager desire of Bathilde to leave Paris. Then turning to Louise, he added, ‘You can have no scruples, now, mademoiselle, about this bequest, were it only for the sake of these good people. Think that it may not be so much to benefit yourself as to render them happy. You consent?’
‘I do,’ replied Louise, after pausing a few seconds. ‘I cannot look for happiness myself—at least, on earth—but through me they may attain it. I care not how soon we quit this heartless, terrible city—never to return.’
‘We will talk of that to-morrow,’ said Benoit. ‘I think enough has taken place for this day. Ventrebleu! what a whirl my head is in: the river may rock the boat like a cradle, and the mill click all night, before it sends me to sleep. You two women get to bed, and Monsieur Glazer and myself will make ourselves comfortable here. I would not recommend him to go along the quays so late, for the city is in a troubled state to-night, and the execution has drawn all the gallows-birds abroad.’
And as Louise and Bathilde retired, the two others drew to the fire, and lighted mighty pipes, whose capacious bowls indicated a lengthy sitting.
Hurried on by the orders of the exempt, and escorted by a body of archers, who kept at full gallop round the carriage, the postilions spurred and lashed their horses, bringing Desgrais and his prisoner to Dinant sooner even than they expected. But, beyond the advantage of losing as little time as possible upon the road, there was no absolute necessity for this speed. Theria had not received the letter, as we have seen; and if he had, he could have rendered but little assistance to the Marchioness. Still Desgrais knew his prisoner; and uncertain as to what trouble she might cause him by her wonderful art and powers of inventing stratagems, he determined not to relax his vigilance until Marie was safe and secure within the walls of the Conciergerie.
No great deal occurred upon the road worthy of chronicling. The Marchioness threw herself in the corner of the carriage, and covering her face with a veil, remained so throughout the journey. From the attempt she had made at self-destruction, Desgrais kept his eye upon her; and upon their arrival at Dinant he ordered all the knives to be removed from the supper table, leaving her under the guard of Antoine Barbier, the archer who had watched her at Liége, whilst he went to arrange with a courier to start directly for Rocroy, and inform the magistrates of that place that the Marchioness would be there on the morrow; in order that they might interrogate her, unexpectedly, before she had sufficient time to plan her answers.
As soon as Marie saw that she was left with the same man to whom she had given the note intended for Camille Theria, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
‘I thought you were to remain at Liége,’ she said. ‘You have come with us, and the letter has not been delivered!’
The man was taken rather suddenly aback by the Marchioness’s affirmation. He became confused, and turned away without replying.
‘You have deceived me!’ she continued with violence, ‘and I am utterly lost. Now I see why you would not take a reward from me. Where is the letter?’
‘I have not got it,’ replied the archer. ‘I can answer no more questions, or I shall be punished.’ And he continued his march.
She would, in spite of this, have spoken to him again, but a servant of the inn entered the room bearing a tray, on which was some refreshment. Marie refused it, as the man placed it on the table; but directly afterwards, correcting herself, told him to leave it and retire. The archer glanced at the service to see that there was nothing with which the Marchioness could commit suicide, and then dismissed the attendant, as he continued his monotonous patrol before the door. Suddenly Marie seized one of the drinking-glasses and dashed it upon the ground, breaking it into several pieces. The noise alarmed the sentinel, and as the Marchioness sprang forward to seize one of the bits, with the intention of swallowing it, he also rushed from his post and seized it from her.
‘Again foiled!’ she muttered through her teeth, as she retreated to the table. ‘Why have you done this?’
‘My orders are to watch you closely,’ said the man, ‘and at present I have nothing to do but obey the directions of Monsieur Desgrais.’
The Marchioness again was silent for some time. She pushed the cover laid for supper away from her, and remained gazing intently at the fire. At last she spoke.
‘My friend,’ she said to the archer, ‘I believe you have done well. The moment of insanity has passed, and I am grateful to you; you shall see that I will not forget you, in consequence.’
The man roughly inclined his head, and continued his promenade.
‘Does your condition of life please you?’ asked Marie.
‘Mass!’ replied the archer, as he stopped and leant upon his pike. ‘There might be better and there might be worse. I like it well enough: there is no choice if I did not.’
‘You can leave it, if you choose,’ said the Marchioness. ‘Listen. I have gold enough at Offemont to buy land in Italy that would support you and yours for life. Is there no one you would care to share it with?’
The man did not answer. He looked at Marie, and vainly endeavoured to fathom her meaning.
‘You are my only sentinel,’ she went on. ‘What is to prevent our flying together. Once at my château, I will load you with wealth, and you can pass the frontier before our flight has been discovered. I can also put myself beyond the reach of——’
‘No more, madame!’ replied the archer sternly. ‘You have mistaken your man. Has not one lesson been enough?’
The conversation was broken by the entrance of the servant of the hotel—a powerful coarse Flemish woman, with a repulsive manner and countenance, under whose charge Marie was to be placed for the night, a change of guard being posted outside her chamber. She shuddered at this ill-favoured creature, as she followed her to the sleeping apartment, wherein six hours of repose were to be allowed to her before they again started on their journey.
On arriving at Rocroy the next day she was taken before M. de Palluan, as they had previously arranged, and subjected to a severe examination. But unexpectedly as the interview was brought about, the magistrate could elicit nothing from her; even in the face of a confession in her own hand-writing, which a courier had brought after her from Liége, having found it amongst some more of her effects in her chamber at the convent. She met every question with a firm denial or an evasive answer, given with a readiness and self-possession that astonished her interrogators, who, finding that nothing had been gained by this course, which they imagined would have decided any question of her innocence, however slight, that existed, broke up their court, and made arrangements for proceeding with her at once to the Conciergerie—the chief prison in Paris.21
A long and dismal interval followed the arrest of the Marchioness before she was brought to trial. The chain of circumstances, connected with the charges every day increasing against her, was so intricate that it required the utmost attention and indefatigable research to connect and arrange its links; and the first legal authorities were engaged, both for the prosecution and the defence. Meanwhile public excitement was raised to the highest pitch. The mysterious circumstances connected with the deaths of M. d’Aubray and his two sons; the station of society in which Marie moved; her reputation for beauty and gallantry, and, more than all, the revelations expected from the proces upon a subject of so dark a nature—treating of a crime from the action of which no one felt secure, and about which such terror prevailed, as the mortality by poison hitherto attributed to unknown pathological causes increased, forming so fearful an episode in the reign of Louis Quatorze; all these things together invested the proceedings with a general interest never equalled. The Provost of Paris, the Procureur du Roi, the Lieutenant-Criminal of the Châtelet, and other dignitaries arranged a terrible array of facts, fixing the guilt upon the Marchioness beyond all doubt; whilst the officials of a lower grade built up fresh accusations every day, by their ingenious connection of circumstances that they arrived at by the strangest methods possible to conceive.
But of all the pleadings connected with this interesting affair the defence set up by M. Nivelle, the advocate of the Marchioness, was most remarkable. Marie had contented herself with simply denying every fact that was brought forward against her; but Nivelle took up the charges in order, one after the other, and endeavoured with the most consummate skill to refute the whole of them, even down to the apparently most unimportant. The liaison between Marie and Sainte-Croix he allowed,—indeed it was generally received; and, in fact, avowed as the subject had been, it would have been ridiculous to have attempted to deny it. But upon Gaudin he threw all the blame. He endeavoured to show that, being a gambler, Marie’s lover had not only thrown away his own property, but a large portion of hers; and being subsequently thrown into the Bastille by M. d’Aubray, had been influenced as much by avarice as by revenge, and had made the unfortunate Marchioness of Brinvilliers his dupe and instrument. He proved that Marie, with her husband, enjoyed a fortune of more than eight hundred thousand livres; that every advantage of position, wealth, and connections had fallen to her lot; and that it was folly to think, for one instant, she would have thus far placed herself in the fearful position which she was assumed to have taken when there was nothing to gain, but everything, both in this world and beyond it, to lose. ‘And, moreover,’ he added, ‘the Marchioness of Brinvilliers is persuaded that the too common but fatal mistake of trusting to popular prejudication can never have any effect upon the minds of judges so eminent for impartiality, nor give rise to any suspicions of the candour of their decision. She knows that they would never condemn upon appearances alone, nor upon common rumour. On the contrary, the more atrocious the crimes were said to be by the popular tongue, judging from the mere form of the accusation, the more care would be required to examine closely all the evidence brought forward, and only to allow those allegations to be received which were consistent with the common course of justice. She hopes, also,’ he went on, ‘that the sacred laws of religion are held in too much veneration by her judges to allow them to give their countenance to any violation of a confession—one of the most important mysteries of our religion: and that since the present accusation brings forward an array of charges—the most frightful and infamous—against a woman of birth and quality, she trusts her judges will not place the least reliance upon the imperfect attestations brought forward, when the clearest and most convincing are necessary to enable them to form a just opinion. She has been deceived by the arts of Sainte-Croix—the only author of all the crimes laid to her charge—and, for the unfortunate connection which placed her in the position to be thus deceived, she has already been sufficiently punished by the misery she has since undergone, and a series of wretched inflictions and trials, which are in themselves sufficient to excite the compassion, not only of those who still think well of her, but of her bitterest enemies.’
The original impression of the document is now lying before us; and it is impossible to avoid being struck with the wondrous ingenuity with which the whole paper is drawn up.
But cleverly as M. Nivelle advocated her cause, the collection of facts was too strong to allow her defence to make the favourable impression he desired. The prosecutors, aware of the importance with which the trial was invested by the entire population of Paris, comprising both those who were for and those who were against her, were as keen in their search for condemnatory testimony as Nivelle had been for any that might exculpate her. Amongst the evidence brought forward was that of her servant Françoise Roussel, who deposed to having been made sick, almost to death, by substances which the Marchioness had administered to her in cakes and confections. The archer, Antoine Barbier, related all that had passed upon the road from Liége; Desgrais himself spoke of the papers found in her chamber after she had been carried from that town; and even Glazer’s assistant, the miserable Panurge, proved that whilst Sainte-Croix occupied the rooms in his master’s house the Marchioness was in the habit of coming there and preparing compounds with him, which were afterwards ascertained to be deadly poisons. There could not be the slightest doubt of her guilt.
The behaviour of Marie during this trying ordeal excited the strangest feelings amongst the official dignitaries. Although the most acute and experienced legal men in Paris were engaged upon the side of the Crown, they found it impossible to elicit from her anything that tended to prove, from her own actions, that she was guilty, as long as the trial continued; but when it was brought to a close, and the decision of the Chambers was finally given against her, her stubbornness appeared to give way, and the Court, with some respect for her rank, then requested the Doctor Pirot, of the Sorbonne, to attend constantly upon her. There were always two priests regularly attached to the Conciergerie; but constant communion with the lowest of criminals had made them—so the opinion of the Court went—unfit to administer to the Marchioness; and the good father, who was esteemed highly in Paris for his gentle piety, was accordingly chosen as her last religious adviser.
He attended at the prison every day, and every day he made an impression upon his charge. He has described her as a woman naturally intrepid, and rising above all difficulties, expressing herself in but few words, yet always to the purpose, and finding, with the most astounding readiness, expedients to free herself from any charges that might be brought against her. She appeared in any position of difficulty at once to decide upon what line of argument or conduct she meant to pursue, even when she was in the most embarrassing situations. Her physiognomy and conversation offered no grounds for supposing that she was any other than a persecuted, gentle, and confiding woman; and her beauty, which had become a proverb, was of that class which appears inseparable from an equally perfect morale. True it was, that the harassing trials she had lately undergone had marked her face with a few lines, but ‘les yeux bleus, doux et parfaitment beaux, et la peau extraordinairement blanche,’22 still remained; and these attributes, with her other singularly fascinating qualities, were more than enough to enlist many sympathies in her favour.
Day after day did Pirot seek the Conciergerie with the earliest dawn, never leaving his charge but at night; and gradually he found, to his gratification, that her proud spirit was yielding to his unremitting and earnest attention. To him the task was allotted of breaking to her the verdict of the assembled Chambers; and to his gentleness was she indebted for the state of mind that enabled her to receive the terrible tidings with comparative serenity. And so things went on until the eve of the fearful day named by the Court for the expiation of her crimes, Marie never feeling at rest but when he was with her; and Pirot taking so deep an interest in his charge that, although his meek disposition and retiring habits almost disqualified him for the task imposed upon him by the Chambers, he resolved never to leave her until the final parting should take place in the Place de Grêve; and as that time drew nigh, the closer did Marie cling to him for consolation and support. She watched the time of his arrival, and regretted his departure, as earnestly as she would once have done with less holy motives, when others were concerned, until the period above alluded to drew nigh.
It was, then, the night before the execution. Pirot had business which had taken him from the Conciergerie during the day, but at nightfall he was once more at the prison, for the Marchioness had promised to make a full confession of all the events of her life. In the morning, during a brief interview of an hour, he had been gratified to find that his unaffected simplicity, his piety, and gentle manners, had in part elicited from Marie a circumstantial avowal of many of the deeds with the commission of which she was charged; and thus far he had accomplished more than her judges had done, or the fear of the torture had led her to confess. As he entered the cell in which she was confined, she rose to receive him with an earnestness that showed how welcome his presence was to her; but started back upon perceiving that the good old man was pale, and evidently shaken.
‘You are ill, mon père,’ she said; ‘you are so good—so charitable thus to bestow your time on me, that I fear your health is suffering.’
‘It is not that, madame,’ he said as he advanced; ‘but they have been telling me news in the porter’s lodge that has thus affected me. You have heard the sentence?’
‘The greffier has told it to me, but not formally,’ she said. ‘I am prepared for everything. See—take my hand; is it trembling?’
Pirot seized the small hand presented to him: Marie had power over every muscle to keep it immovable; but her skin was hot and fevered.
‘You have heard that they were going to cut this hand off,’ she said.
‘So they have told me,’ replied Pirot, in a low tone, almost choked with emotion.
‘It is,’ she said, ‘but an idle story of the people about the prison. On that point you can be calm. And, see,—they are bringing in my supper. You must take some with me; it is the last, you know.’
Pirot gazed at her, as he listened to the calm manner in which she spoke, with unfeigned astonishment; and ere he could reply, some of the attendants had brought in a tray and placed it on the table; whilst Marie almost led the doctor to one of the rude settles, and placed herself opposite to him.
There was something terrible in her unconcern. Her face preserved its usual unfathomable expression, and at times she smiled; but an unwonted brightness sparkled in her eyes, and she spoke in loud and rapid tones, somewhat resembling a person under the first influence of opium. As she took her place at the table, she did the honours of the homely repast as though she had been at the head of a party in her own house; she even partook of some of the dishes; but Pirot was too much overcome to swallow a morsel.
‘You will let me drink to your health,’ she said; ‘it is a compliment you need not return.’ And with her own hands she filled Pirot’s glass, continuing, as he bowed to her, ‘To-morrow is a fast-day. I will keep it so—at least, as much of it as I shall enjoy. And yet I have much to undergo.’ Then altering her voice, she added, ‘I would pay you more attention, my father, and serve you myself; but you see they have left me neither knife nor fork.’
And in this singular manner did she continue to talk until the meal was over, when she appeared anxious that Pirot should take her confession. He had writing things with him, and at her request produced them, as she said—
‘Alas! I have committed so many sins that I cannot trust to the accuracy of a verbal catalogue. But you shall know all.’
This document, for obvious reasons, remained a secret; nor has it since been found. It occupied more than two hours in being drawn up; and just as it was finished the jailor announced that a female wished to see the Marchioness. It was the first request of the kind that had been made since her imprisonment; but she gave orders that the stranger should be admitted; whilst Pirot, remaining at her own request, retired into a corner of the chamber and occupied himself at prayer. The man of the prison ushered in a woman, with her face carefully concealed. Marie advanced to receive her; when the other threw back her veil and discovered the features of Louise Gauthier.
The Marchioness recoiled a step or two as she recognised the stranger, and her face underwent a rapid and fearful change.
‘You have done well,’ she said in irony, ‘to let me see you enjoy this last triumph. A sight of me to-morrow, in the streets, was not enough; you must come to gloat upon me here.’
‘By your hopes of heaven, speak not thus!’ cried Louise earnestly, as she advanced towards her. ‘You are mistaken. I have come in all good feeling—if you will but receive me.’
‘What would you do?’ asked Marie; ‘am I to believe you?’
‘By all that one who is not utterly lost can call to strengthen her asseverations, you may,’ replied the Languedocian. ‘By the memory of him whom we both loved—in the name of Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, do not believe my nature to be so base.’
The Marchioness gazed at the girl for a minute with a glance of most intense scrutiny. Then she said coldly, once more gaining a command over her temper—
‘Well, mademoiselle, you can continue.’
‘At this terrible moment,’ said Louise, in a low impressive accent, ‘when your life is reckoned in the past, and the future is as nothing on this side of the grave, you will perhaps listen to me, and believe that I have come to you in charity and peace. I forget all that has been; I have thought only that Gaudin loved you—and though—heaven knows—you crushed my heart for ever in encouraging his attachment, I have come at this fearful hour to seek you, and let you know that there is one of your own sex who, for his sake, will undertake any mission or pilgrimage that will serve you.’
Marie made no answer: her pride was struggling with her will, and she could not speak.
‘You have seen no friend during your dismal imprisonment,’ said Louise; ‘let me therefore be your confidant, if there is aught you will stoop to trust me with. Remember that we shall meet no more. O madame! for your own sake! as you valued Gaudin’s love! do not go forth to-morrow in enmity against one who, if she wronged you, did it innocently. What can I do to serve you?’
She uttered the last words with such truthful earnestness that Marie’s pride relaxed, and Pirot at the same instant rose from his prie-dieu and came towards them. As Louise extended her hand the Marchioness took it, and he saw, for the first time since he had been with her, that she was weeping. He led them to one of the prison seats, and in a few minutes Marie was confiding a message to Louise, at his request, for her children.
The interview lasted half an hour; and when it finished the Marchioness was perfectly exhausted. She had scarcely strength sufficient to tell Pirot that she wished him with her at daylight, when she fell back, unable to keep up any longer, against the damp wall of the prison. The good doctor summoned the females who had attended upon her since her capture, and then, when he saw she was recovering, he took his leave, accompanied by Louise, who left him in the Rue de Calandre to return to her friends at the boat-mill.
The early morning of the terrible day arrived. With its first dawn the good Pirot, according to his promise, was at the gates of the Conciergerie; and being immediately conducted to the cell in which Marie was confined, discovered that she had not been to bed that night, but since the departure of Louise Gauthier had been occupied in writing to various branches of her family.
She rose to receive him as he entered; and at a sign the person who had been in attendance took her departure. Pirot observed that her eyelids were red with watching, not from tears: but a fire was burning in her eyes with almost unearthly brilliancy. Her cheek was flushed with hectic patches, and her whole frame was trembling with nervous excitement. As the doctor saluted her with the conventional words of greeting she smiled and replied—
‘You forget, monsieur, that I shall scarcely witness the noon of to-day. A few hours—only a few hours more! I have often tried to imagine the feelings of those who were condemned; and now that I am almost upon the scaffold it appears like some troubled dream.’
‘We will not waste this brief interval in speculations,’ replied Pirot. ‘The officers of the prison will soon interrupt us. Have you nothing to confide to me before they arrive?’
‘They will take charge of these letters I have written, and will read them before they send them forth,’ replied Marie. ‘But here is one,’ she continued, as her voice hesitated and fell, ‘that I could wish you yourself would deliver. It is to M. de Brinvilliers, my husband; it relates only to him, and—my children!’
Pirot looked at her as she spoke, and her face betrayed the violent emotion that the mention of her children had given rise to. She struggled with her pride for a few seconds, and then broke down into a natural and violent burst of tears. Her sympathies had been scarcely touched whilst merely thinking of her two little daughters; but the instant she named them to another her wonderful self-possession gave way. She leant upon the rude table, and covering her face with her mantle wept aloud.
Pirot took the letter from her hand, and read as follows—thinking it best to allow the violence of Marie’s grief to have full play, rather than to attempt to check it by any reasoning of his own:—
‘For the last time, Antoine, and on the point of delivering up my soul to God, I write to you, wishing to assure you of my friendship, which will continue until the latest moment of my life. I am about to suffer the degrading punishment my enemies have condemned me to. Forgive them, I beseech you, as I have done: and forgive me also, for the shame which, through my actions, will fall upon your name. Remember that we are but on earth for a short period; and that, before long, you yourself may have to render a just account to God of all your actions, even the most insignificant, as I shall have to do in a few hours. Instruct and watch over our poor children: Madame Marillac and Madame Cousté will inform you of all they will require. Let your prayers be continually offered up for my repose, and believe that I die thinking of you only.
‘Marie.’
He had scarcely concluded the epistle when the Marchioness recovered from the access of emotion, and raised her face towards him, as she hurriedly wiped her eyes.
‘This is childish,’ she exclaimed. ‘What must you think of me, monsieur? And yet I would sooner you should have witnessed this weak ebullition than others in the prison. Come, sir, we will pray for the forgiveness of those under whose directions and hands I am about to suffer, and for the salvation of my own soul.’
She threw open the leaves of a religious book that was lying on the bench, and prayed long and earnestly. Pirot joined her: and thus they continued for more than an hour, until their devotions were interrupted by the arrival of the concierge and one or two officers, who came to announce to her that the chief greffier was waiting in the lower room to read the sentence of the Court to her. Upon this she arose, without betokening any fresh emotion, and wrapping a cloak about her, accompanied by Pirot, preceded and followed by the people of the prison, she quitted her cell.
They descended some steps, and led her into a low arched room, but dimly lighted by a few glimmering lamps suspended in iron frames from the ceiling. The walls were damp and rugged; and an old and half-obscure painting of a holy family was suspended at the end of the room. Under this was a common wooden prie-dieu, such as we now see in the foreign churches, and near it some rude chairs and a table, on which were materials for writing; and around it three or four of the judicial functionaries were sitting, being now joined by Pirot. Opposite to this, against the wall, was a low pile of what was apparently furniture, covered entirely with a black tarpaulin, and on the ground, near that, some brass and earthen vessels full of water. The things here enumerated comprised all that was movable in the dungeon.
As Marie entered one of the magistrates made a sign to the concierge, who placed a seat for her near the table; and when she had taken it the examination commenced. It was conducted by the officials in turn, many questions being suggested by Pirot, and to all of them the Marchioness replied with the most extraordinary coolness and self-possession, although with a caution which astounded her interrogators—avowing the fact of having administered certain drugs to her father and others, but denying all knowledge of their composition or antidotes—and also vehemently declaring that she had no accomplices in the crimes with which she was charged. But beyond this they could extract nothing from her; and although the combined ingenuity of her examiners, deeply versed as they were in every kind of method by which any confession might be educed, was exerted against her during a protracted sitting, she met every question with an exculpatory reply, and nothing more could be obtained from her.23
Seeing this, the examination was at length brought to a conclusion, and one of the interrogators gave orders that the chief greffier should read the arrest. The functionary hereon rose from his seat with the paper in his hand, and commenced reading it in a hurried voice, as if it were a task he was anxious to bring to a speedy conclusion. The arrest was to the effect that the Court of the Chambers assembled having found Marie-Marguerite d’Aubray, the wife of the Marquis of Brinvilliers, guilty of the crimes attributed to her, condemned her to do penance before the principal door of Notre Dame, with a lighted torch in her hand weighing two pounds; and there, whilst on her knees, to confess that she had wilfully poisoned her father and brothers, and to demand pardon of God. And having been brought hither on a tumbrel, with her feet naked, and a cord about her neck, she should be carried on to the Place de Grêve, to have her head cut off upon a scaffold erected for that purpose; after which her body should be burned, and the ashes scattered to the wind: the question—both ordinary and extraordinary—first being applied. The document went on to speak of the confiscation of her property, which was to go partly to the king, partly to defray the expenses of the prosecutions connected with the affair, including that of Lachaussée; and the residue for masses to be said in the chapel of the Conciergerie, for the repose of the souls of her victims.
During the reading of this paper Marie continued to preserve the same self-possession, even interrogating the greffier with a calm, unshaken voice, upon certain points connected with it. As the functionary concluded the magistrates rose, and another man advanced, of whose presence Marie had not been before aware. He was tall and pale, and he wore a tight fitting dress of unrelieved black. Marie perceived by the cords in his hands that he was the executioner; and to him alone she now belonged.
As the magistrates quitted the chamber he drew away the black cloth that covered the apparatus of torture, and revealed the ghastly paraphernalia. Pirot whispered a few words of encouragement in her ear, and then followed the others, leaving Marie alone with the executioner and the greffier, who remained at the table to take down the answers of the prisoner. Marie glanced at the vessels of water which stood upon the ground. She knew the nature of the terrible ordeal she was about to undergo, but her courage failed her not.
‘You surely do not mean me to swallow all that water, monsieur?’ she said to the greffier; ‘small as I am, there is more than enough to drown me.’
The officer returned no answer, but looked significantly at the executioner. The man approached the Marchioness, and began to unfasten her attire, removing one of her clothes after another, until nothing was left her but an under-garment, in which she now stood before the greffier, her limbs as white as the linen that scarcely shrouded them, but exhibiting not the slightest signs of tremor. Again the interrogator questioned her respecting her accomplices; and again Marie firmly denied the existence of any. All his efforts were vain, as had been those of the magistrates. The sentence was ordered to be carried out.
The ‘water question,’ as it was termed, was one of the most revolting punishments which the barbarous usages of the period allowed in its criminal proceedings; the Marchioness of Brinvilliers was one of almost its last victims, as it was then practised in all its unmitigated severity. The sufferer was compelled to swallow a large quantity of water, forced into the mouth by a horn; the body being at the same time secured to a bench, in a most painful position, whilst the hands and feet were attached to rings of iron in the wall and floor of the chamber. For the ‘ordinary question,’ as it was termed, the bench was two feet high, and the quantity of water to be swallowed nearly twelve pints; for the ‘extraordinary’ ordeal a trestle three feet high was substituted for the other, the hands and feet still remaining fixed to the rings, and an additional quantity of water, equal to the first, was forced down the sufferer’s throat. In the event of the prisoner’s obstinacy, and a refusal to open the mouth, the executioner closed the nostrils with his thumb and finger, until the unfortunate person was obliged to part his lips to breathe, when advantage was immediately taken of this to force the end of the horn down his throat. The consequence of this barbarous practice was, the distension of the chest by the introduction of the water, causing such agonising pain that very few were able to resist it.