THE LAST INTERVIEW.
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.