*THE MARQUISE DE BRINVILLIERS*
*THE MARQUISE DE BRINVILLIERS*
Towards the end of the year 1665, on a fine autumn evening, there was a
considerable crowd assembled on the Pont-Neuf where it makes a turn down
to the rue Dauphine. The object of this crowd and the centre of
attraction was a closely shut, carriage. A police official was trying to
force open the door, and two out of the four sergeants who were with him
were holding the horses back and the other two stopping the driver, who
paid no attention to their commands, but only endeavoured to urge his
horses to a gallop. The struggle had been going on same time, when
suddenly one of the doors violently pushed open, and a young officer in
the uniform of a cavalry captain jumped down, shutting the door as he
did so though not too quickly for the nearest spectators to perceive a
woman sitting at the back of the carriage. She was wrapped in cloak and
veil, and judging by the precautions she, had taken to hide her face
from every eye, she must have had her reasons for avoiding recognition.
"Sir," said the young man, addressing the officer with a haughty air, "I
presume, till I find myself mistaken, that your business is with me
alone; so I will ask you to inform me what powers you may have for thus
stopping my coach; also, since I have alighted, I desire you to give
your men orders to let the vehicle go on."
"First of all," replied the man, by no means intimidated by these lordly
airs, but signing to his men that they must not release the coach or the
horses, "be so good as to answer my questions."
"I am attending," said the young man, controlling his agitation by a
visible effort.
"Are you the Chevalier Gaudin de Sainte-Croix?"
"I am he."
"Captain of the Tracy, regiment?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I arrest you in the king's name."
"What powers have you?"
"This warrant."
Sainte-Croix cast a rapid glance at the paper, and instantly recognised
the signature of the minister of police: he then apparently confined his
attention to the woman who was still in the carriage; then he returned
to his first question.
"This is all very well, sir," he said to the officer, "but this warrant
contains no other name than mine, and so you have no right to expose
thus to the public gaze the lady with whom I was travelling when you
arrested me. I must beg of you to order your assistants to allow this
carriage to drive on; then take me where you please, for I am ready to
go with you."
To the officer this request seemed a just one: he signed to his men to
let the driver and the horses go on; and, they, who had waited only for
this, lost no time in breaking through the crowd, which melted away
before them; thus the woman escaped for whose safety the prisoner seemed
so much concerned.
Sainte-Croix kept his promise and offered no resistance; for some
moments he followed the officer, surrounded by a crowd which seemed to
have transferred all its curiosity to his account; then, at the corner
of the Quai de d'Horloge, a man called up a carriage that had not been
observed before, and Sainte-Croix took his place with the same haughty
and disdainful air that he had shown throughout the scene we have just
described. The officer sat beside him, two of his men got up behind, and
the other two, obeying no doubt their master's orders, retired with a
parting direction to the driver.
"The Bastille!"
Our readers will now permit us to make them more fully acquainted with
the man who is to take the first place in the story. The origin of
Gaudin de Sainte-Croix was not known: according to one tale, he was the
natural son of a great lord; another account declared that he was the
offspring of poor people, but that, disgusted with his obscure birth, he
preferred a splendid disgrace, and therefore chose to pass for what he
was not. The only certainty is that he was born at Montauban, and in
actual rank and position he was captain of the Tracy regiment. At the
time when this narrative opens, towards the end of 1665, Sainte-Croix
was about twenty-eight or thirty, a fine young man of cheerful and
lively appearance, a merry comrade at a banquet, and an excellent
captain: he took his pleasure with other men, and was so impressionable
a character that he enjoyed a virtuous project as well as any plan for a
debauch; in love he was most susceptible, and jealous to the point of
madness even about a courtesan, had she once taken his fancy; his
prodigality was princely, although he had no income; further, he was
most sensitive to slights, as all men are who, because they are placed
in an equivocal position, fancy that everyone who makes any reference to
their origin is offering an intentional insult.
We must now see by what a chain of circumstances he had arrived at his
present position. About the year 1660, Sainte-Croix, while in the army,
had made the acquaintance of the Marquis de Brinvilliers, maitre-de-camp
of the Normandy regiment.
Their age was much the same, and so was their manner of life: their
virtues and their vices were similar, and thus it happened that a mere
acquaintance grew into a friendship, and on his return from the field
the marquis introduced Sainte-Croix to his wife, and he became an
intimate of the house. The usual results followed. Madame de
Brinvilliers was then scarcely eight-and-twenty: she had married the
marquis in 1651-that is, nine years before. He enjoyed an income of
30,000 livres, to which she added her dowry of 200,000 livres, exclusive
of her expectations in the future. Her name was Marie-Madeleine; she had
a sister and two brothers: her father, M. de Dreux d'Aubray; was civil
lieutenant at the Chatelet de Paris. At the age of twenty-eight the
marquise was at the height of her beauty: her figure was small but
perfectly proportioned; her rounded face was charmingly pretty; her
features, so regular that no emotion seemed to alter their beauty,
suggested the lines of a statue miraculously endowed with life: it was
easy enough to mistake for the repose of a happy conscience the cold,
cruel calm which served as a mask to cover remorse.
Sainte-Croix and the marquise loved at first sight, and she was soon his
mistress. The marquis, perhaps endowed with the conjugal philosophy
which alone pleased the taste of the period, perhaps too much occupied
with his own pleasure to see what was going on before his eyes, offered
no jealous obstacle to the intimacy, and continued his foolish
extravagances long after they had impaired his fortunes: his affairs
became so entangled that the marquise, who cared for him no longer, and
desired a fuller liberty for the indulgence of her new passion, demanded
and obtained a separation. She then left her husband's house, and
henceforth abandoning all discretion, appeared everywhere in public with
Sainte-Croix. This behaviour, authorised as it was by the example of the
highest nobility, made no impression upon the. Marquis of Brinvilliers,
who merrily pursued the road to ruin, without worrying about his wife's
behaviour. Not so M. de Dreux d'Aubray: he had the scrupulosity of a
legal dignitary. He was scandalised at his daughter's conduct, and
feared a stain upon his own fair name: he procured a warrant for the
arrest of Sainte-Croix wheresoever the bearer might chance to encounter
him. We have seen how it was put in execution when Sainte-Croix was
driving in the carriage of the marquise, whom our readers will doubtless
have recognised as the woman who concealed herself so carefully.
From one's knowledge of the character of Sainte-Croix, it is easy to
imagine that he had to use great self-control to govern the anger he
felt at being arrested in the middle of the street; thus, although
during the whole drive he uttered not a single word, it was plain to see
that a terrible storm was gathering, soon to break. But he preserved the
same impossibility both at the opening and shutting of the fatal gates,
which, like the gates of hell, had so often bidden those who entered
abandon all hope on their threshold, and again when he replied to the
formal questions put to him by the governor. His voice was calm, and
when they gave him they prison register he signed it with a steady hand.
At once a gaoler, taking his orders from the governor, bade him follow:
after traversing various corridors, cold and damp, where the daylight
might sometimes enter but fresh air never, he opened a door, and
Sainte-Croix had no sooner entered than he heard it locked behind him.
At the grating of the lock he turned. The gaoler had left him with no
light but the rays of the moon, which, shining through a barred window
some eight or ten feet from the ground, shed a gleam upon a miserable
truckle-bed and left the rest of the room in deep obscurity. The
prisoner stood still for a moment and listened; then, when he had heard
the steps die away in the distance and knew himself to be alone at last,
he fell upon the bed with a cry more like the roaring of a wild beast
than any human sound: he cursed his fellow-man who had snatched him from
his joyous life to plunge him into a dungeon; he cursed his God who had
let this happen; he cried aloud to whatever powers might be that could
grant him revenge and liberty.
Just at that moment, as though summoned by these words from the bowels
of the earth, a man slowly stepped into the circle of blue light that
fell from the window-a man thin and pale, a man with long hair, in a
black doublet, who approached the foot of the bed where Sainte-Croix
lay. Brave as he was, this apparition so fully answered to his prayers
(and at the period the power of incantation and magic was still believed
in) that he felt no doubt that the arch-enemy of the human race, who is
continually at hand, had heard him and had now come in answer to his
prayers. He sat up on the bed, feeling mechanically at the place where
the handle of his sword would have been but two hours since, feeling his
hair stand on end, and a cold sweat began to stream down his face as the
strange fantastic being step by step approached him. At length the
apparition paused, the prisoner and he stood face to face for a moment,
their eyes riveted; then the mysterious stranger spoke in gloomy tones.
"Young man," said he, "you have prayed to the devil for vengeance on the
men who have taken you, for help against the God who has abandoned you.
I have the means, and I am here to proffer it. Have you the courage to
accept?"
"First of all," asked Sainte-Croix; "who are you?"
"Why seek you to know who I am," replied the unknown, "at the very
moment when I come at your call, and bring what you desire?"
"All the same," said Sainte-Croix, still attributing what he heard to a
supernatural being, "when one makes a compact of this kind, one prefers
to know with whom one is treating."
"Well, since you must know," said the stranger, "I am the Italian
Exili."
Sainte-Croix shuddered anew, passing from a supernatural vision to a
horrible reality. The name he had just heard had a terrible notoriety at
the time, not only in France but in Italy as well. Exili had been driven
out of Rome, charged with many poisonings, which, however, could not be
satisfactorily brought home to him. He had gone to Paris, and there, as
in his native country, he had drawn the eyes of the authorities upon
himself; but neither in Paris nor in Rome was he, the pupil of Rene and
of Trophana, convicted of guilt. All the same, though proof was wanting,
his enormities were so well accredited that there was no scruple as to
having him arrested. A warrant was out against him: Exili was taken up,
and was lodged in the Bastille. He had been there about six months when
Sainte-Croix was brought to the same place. The prisoners were numerous
just then, so the governor had his new guest put up in the same room as
the old one, mating Exili and Sainte-Croix, not knowing that they were a
pair of demons. Our readers now understand the rest. Sainte-Croix was
put into an unlighted room by the gaoler, and in the dark had failed to
see his companion: he had abandoned himself to his rage, his
imprecations had revealed his state of mind to Exili, who at once seized
the occasion for gaining a devoted and powerful disciple, who once out
of prison might open the doors for him, perhaps, or at least avenge his
fate should he be incarcerated for life.
The repugnance felt by Sainte-Croix for his fellow-prisoner did not last
long, and the clever master found his pupil apt. Sainte-Croix, a strange
mixture of qualities good and evil, had reached the supreme crisis of
his life, when the powers of darkness or of light were to prevail.
Maybe, if he had met some angelic soul at this point, he would have been
led to God; he encountered a demon, who conducted him to Satan.
Exili was no vulgar poisoner: he was a great artist in poisons,
comparable with the Medici or the Borgias. For him murder was a fine
art, and he had reduced it to fixed and rigid rules: he had arrived at a
point when he was guided not by his personal interest but by a taste for
experiment. God has reserved the act of creation for Himself, but has
suffered destruction to be within the scope of man: man therefore
supposes that in destroying life he is God's equal. Such was the nature
of Exili's pride: he was the dark, pale alchemist of death: others might
seek the mighty secret of life, but he had found the secret of
destruction.
For a time Sainte-Croix hesitated: at last he yielded to the taunts of
his companion, who accused Frenchmen of showing too much honour in their
crimes, of allowing themselves to be involved in the ruin of their
enemies, whereas they might easily survive them and triumph over their
destruction. In opposition to this French gallantry, which often
involves the murderer in a death more cruel than that he has given, he
pointed to the Florentine traitor with his amiable smile and his deadly
poison. He indicated certain powders and potions, some of them of dull
action, wearing out the victim so slowly that he dies after long
suffering; others violent and so quick, that they kill like a flash of
lightning, leaving not even time for a single cry. Little by little
Sainte-Croix became interested in the ghastly science that puts the
lives of all men in the hand of one. He joined in Exili's experiments;
then he grew clever enough to make them for himself; and when, at the
year's end, he left the Bastille, the pupil was almost as accomplished
as his master.
Sainte-Croix returned into that society which had banished him,
fortified by a fatal secret by whose aid he could repay all the evil he
had received. Soon afterwards Exili was set free--how it happened is not
known--and sought out Sainte-Croix, who let him a room in the name of
his steward, Martin de Breuille, a room situated in the blind, alley off
the Place Maubert, owned by a woman called Brunet.
It is not known whether Sainte-Croix had an opportunity of seeing the
Marquise de Brinvilliers during his sojourn in the Bastille, but it is
certain that as soon as he was a free man the lovers were more attached
than ever. They had learned by experience, however, of what they had to
fear; so they resolved that they would at once make trial of
Sainte-Croix's newly acquired knowledge, and M. d'Aubray was selected by
his daughter for the first victim. At one blow she would free herself
from the inconvenience of his rigid censorship, and by inheriting his
goods would repair her own fortune, which had been almost dissipated by
her husband. But in trying such a bold stroke one must be very sure of
results, so the marquise decided to experiment beforehand on another
person. Accordingly, when one day after luncheon her maid, Francoise
Roussel, came into her room, she gave her a slice of mutton and some
preserved gooseberries for her own meal. The girl unsuspiciously ate
what her mistress gave her, but almost at once felt ill, saying she had
severe pain in the stomach, and a sensation as though her heart were
being pricked with pins. But she did not die, and the marquise perceived
that the poison needed to be made stronger, and returned it to
Sainte-Croix, who brought her some more in a few days' time.
The moment had come for action. M. d'Aubray, tired with business, was to
spend a holiday at his castle called Offemont. The marquise offered to
go with him. M. d'Aubray, who supposed her relations with Sainte-Croix
to be quite broken off, joyfully accepted. Offemont was exactly the
place for a crime of this nature. In the middle of the forest of Aigue,
three or four miles from Compiegne, it would be impossible to get
efficient help before the rapid action of the poison had made it
useless.
M. d'Aubray started with his daughter and one servant only. Never had
the marquise been so devoted to her father, so especially
attentive, as she was during this journey. And M. d'Aubray, like
Christ--who though He had no children had a father's heart--loved
his repentant daughter more than if she had never strayed. And then
the marquise profited by the terrible calm look which we have
already noticed in her face: always with her father, sleeping in a
room adjoining his, eating with him, caring for his comfort in
every way, thoughtful and affectionate, allowing no other person to
do anything for him, she had to present a smiling face, in which
the most suspicious eye could detect nothing but filial tenderness,
though the vilest projects were in her heart. With this mask she
one evening offered him some soup that was poisoned. He took it;
with her eyes she saw him put it to his lips, watched him drink it
down, and with a brazen countenance she gave no outward sign of
that terrible anxiety that must have been pressing on her heart.
When he had drunk it all, and she had taken with steady hands the
cup and its saucer, she went back to her own room, waited and
listened....
The effect was rapid. The marquise heard her father moan; then she heard
groans. At last, unable to endure his sufferings, he called out to his
daughter. The marquise went to him. But now her face showed signs of the
liveliest anxiety, and it was for M. d'Aubray to try to reassure her
about himself! He thought it was only a trifling indisposition, and was
not willing that a doctor should be disturbed. But then he was seized by
a frightful vomiting, followed by such unendurable pain that he yielded
to his daughter's entreaty that she should send for help. A doctor
arrived at about eight o'clock in the morning, but by that time all that
could have helped a scientific inquiry had been disposed of: the doctor
saw nothing, in M. d'Aubray's story but what might be accounted for by
indigestion; so he dosed him, and went back to Compiegne.
All that day the marquise never left the sick man. At night she had a
bed made up in his room, declaring that no one else must sit up with
him; thus she, was able to watch the progress of the malady and see with
her own eyes the conflict between death and life in the body of her
father. The next day the doctor came again: M. d'Aubray was worse; the
nausea had ceased, but the pains in the stomach were now more acute; a
strange fire seemed to burn his vitals; and a treatment was ordered
which necessitated his return to Paris. He was soon so weak that he
thought it might be best to go only so far as Compiegne, but the
marquise was so insistent as to the necessity for further and better
advice than anything he could get away from home, that M. d'Aubray
decided to go. He made the journey in his own carriage, leaning upon his
daughter's shoulder; the behaviour of the marquise was always the same:
at last M. d'Aubray reached Paris. All had taken place as the marquise
desired; for the scene was now changed: the doctor who had witnessed the
symptoms would not be present at the death; no one could discover the
cause by studying the progress of the disorder; the thread of
investigation was snapped in two, and the two ends were now too distant
to be joined again. In spite, of every possible attention, M. d'Aubray
grew continually worse; the marquise was faithful to her mission, and
never left him for an hour. At list, after four days of agony, he died
in his daughter's arms, blessing the woman who was his murderess. Her
grief then broke forth uncontrolled. Her sobs and tears were so vehement
that her brothers' grief seemed cold beside hers. Nobody suspected a
crime, so no autopsy was held; the tomb was closed, and not the
slightest suspicion had approached her.
But the marquise had only gained half her purpose. She had now more
freedom for her love affairs, but her father's dispositions were not so
favourable as she expected: the greater part of his property, together
with his business, passed to the elder brother and to the second
brother, who was Parliamentary councillor; the position of, the marquise
was very little improved in point of fortune.
Sainte-Croix was leading a fine and joyous life. Although nobody
supposed him to be wealthy, he had a steward called Martin, three
lackeys called George, Lapierre, and Lachaussee, and besides his coach
and other carriages he kept ordinary bearers for excursions at night. As
he was young and good-looking, nobody troubled about where all these
luxuries came from. It was quite the custom in those days that a
well-set-up young gentleman should want for nothing, and Sainte-Croix
was commonly said to have found the philosopher's stone. In his life in
the world he had formed friendships with various persons, some noble,
some rich: among the latter was a man named Reich de Penautier,
receiver-general of the clergy and treasurer of the States of Languedoc,
a millionaire, and one of those men who are always successful, and who
seem able by the help of their money to arrange matters that would
appear to be in the province of God alone. This Penautier was connected
in business with a man called d'Alibert, his first clerk, who died all
of a sudden of apoplexy. The attack was known to Penautier sooner than
to his own family: then the papers about the conditions of partnership
disappeared, no one knew how, and d'Alibert's wife and child were
ruined. D'Alibert's brother-in-law, who was Sieur de la Magdelaine, felt
certain vague suspicions concerning this death, and wished to get to the
bottom of it; he accordingly began investigations, which were suddenly
brought to an end by his death.
In one way alone Fortune seemed to have abandoned her favourite: Maitre
Penautier had a great desire to succeed the Sieur of Mennevillette, who
was receiver of the clergy, and this office was worth nearly 60,000
livres. Penautier knew that Mennevillette was retiring in favour of his
chief clerk, Messire Pierre Hannyvel, Sieur de Saint-Laurent, and he had
taken all the necessary, steps for buying the place over his head: the
Sieur de Saint-Laurent, with the full support of the clergy, obtained
the reversion for nothing--a thing that never happened before. Penautier
then offered him 40,000 crowns to go halves, but Saint-Laurent refused.
Their relations, however, were not broken off, and they continued to
meet. Penautier was considered such a lucky fellow that it was generally
expected he would somehow or other get some day the post he coveted so
highly. People who had no faith in the mysteries of alchemy declared
that Sainte-Croix and Penautier did business together.
Now, when the period for mourning was over, the relations of the
marquise and Sainte-Croix were as open and public as before: the two
brothers d'Aubray expostulated with her by the medium of an older sister
who was in a Carmelite nunnery, and the marquise perceived that her
father had on his death bequeathed the care and supervision of her to
her brothers. Thus her first crime had been all but in vain: she had
wanted to get rid of her father's rebukes and to gain his fortune; as a
fact the fortune was diminished by reason of her elder brothers, and she
had scarcely enough to pay her debts; while the rebukes were renewed
from the mouths of her brothers, one of whom, being civil lieutenant,
had the power to separate her again from her lover. This must be
prevented. Lachaussee left the service of Sainte-Croix, and by a
contrivance of the marquise was installed three months later as servant
of the elder brother, who lived with the civil lieutenant. The poison to
be used on this occasion was not so swift as the one taken by M.
d'Aubray so violent a death happening so soon in the same family might
arouse suspicion. Experiments were tried once more, not on animals--for
their different organisation might put the poisoner's science in the
wrong--but as before upon human subjects; as before, a 'corpus vili' was
taken. The marquise had the reputation of a pious and charitable lady;
seldom did she fail to relieve the poor who appealed: more than this,
she took part in the work of those devoted women who are pledged to the
service of the sick, and she walked the hospitals and presented wine and
other medicaments. No one was surprised when she appeared in her
ordinary way at l'Hotel-Dieu. This time she brought biscuits and cakes
for the convalescent patients, her gifts being, as usual, gratefully
received. A month later she paid another visit, and inquired after
certain patients in whom she was particularly interested: since the last
time she came they had suffered a relapse--the malady had changed in
nature, and had shown graver symptoms. It was a kind of deadly fatigue,
killing them by a slows strange decay. She asked questions of the
doctors but could learn nothing: this malady was unknown to them, and
defied all the resources of their art. A fortnight later she returned.
Some of the sick people were dead, others still alive, but desperately
ill; living skeletons, all that seemed left of them was sight, speech,
and breath. At the end of two months they were all dead, and the
physicians had been as much at a loss over the post-mortems as over the
treatment of the dying.
Experiments of this kind were reassuring; so Lachaussee had orders to
carry out his instructions. One day the civil lieutenant rang his bell,
and Lachaussee, who served the councillor, as we said before, came up
for orders. He found the lieutenant at work with his secretary, Couste
what he wanted was a glass of wine and water. In a moment Lachaussee
brought it in. The lieutenant put the glass to his lips, but at the
first sip pushed it away, crying, "What have you brought, you wretch? I
believe you want to poison me." Then handing the glass to his secretary,
he added, "Look at it, Couste: what is this stuff?" The secretary put a
few drops into a coffee-spoon, lifting it to his nose and then to his
mouth: the drink had the smell and taste of vitriol. Meanwhile
Lachaussee went up to the secretary and told him he knew what it must
be: one of the councillor's valets had taken a dose of medicine that
morning, and without noticing he must have brought the very glass his
companion had used. Saying this, he took the glass from the secretary's
hand, put it to his lips, pretending to taste it himself, and then said
he had no doubt it was so, for he recognised the smell. He then threw
the wine into the fireplace.
As the lieutenant had not drunk enough to be upset by it, he soon forgot
this incident and the suspicions that had been aroused at the moment in
his mind. Sainte-Croix and the marquise perceived that they had made a
false step, and at the risk of involving several people in their plan
for vengeance, they decided on the employment of other means. Three
months passed without any favourable occasion presenting itself; at
last, on one of the early days of April 1670, the lieutenant took his
brother to his country place, Villequoy, in Beauce, to spend the Easter
vacation. Lachaussee was with his master, and received his instructions
at the moment of departure.
The day after they arrived in the country there was a pigeon-pie for
dinner: seven persons who had eaten it felt indisposed after the meal,
and the three who had not taken it were perfectly well. Those on whom
the poisonous substance had chiefly acted were the lieutenant, the
councillor, and the commandant of the watch. He may have eaten more, or
possibly the poison he had tasted on the former occasion helped, but at
any rate the lieutenant was the first to be attacked with vomiting two
hours later, the councillor showed the same symptoms; the commandant and
the others were a prey for several hours to frightful internal pains;
but from the beginning their condition was not nearly so grave as that
of the two brothers. This time again, as usual, the help of doctors was
useless. On the 12th of April, five days after they had been poisoned,
the lieutenant and his brother returned to Paris so changed that anyone
would have thought they had both suffered a long and cruel illness.
Madame de Brinvilliers was in the country at the time, and did not come
back during the whole time that her brothers were ill. From the very
first consultation in the lieutenant's case the doctors entertained no
hope. The symptoms were the same as those to which his father had
succumbed, and they supposed it was an unknown disease in the family.
They gave up all hope of recovery. Indeed, his state grew worse and
worse; he felt an unconquerable aversion for every kind of food, and the
vomiting was incessant. The last three days of his life he complained
that a fire was burning in his breast, and the flames that burned within
seemed to blaze forth at his eyes, the only part of his body that
appeared to live, so like a corpse was all the rest of him. On the 17th
of June 1670 he died: the poison had taken seventy-two days to complete
its work. Suspicion began to dawn: the lieutenant's body was opened, and
a formal report was drawn up. The operation was performed in the
presence of the surgeons Dupre and Durant, and Gavart, the apothecary,
by M. Bachot, the brothers' private physician. They found the stomach
and duodenum to be black and falling to pieces, the liver burnt and
gangrened. They said that this state of things must have been produced
by poison, but as the presence of certain bodily humours sometimes
produces similar appearances, they durst not declare that the
lieutenant's death could not have come about by natural causes, and he
was buried without further inquiry.
It was as his private physician that Dr. Bachot had asked for the
autopsy of his patient's brother. For the younger brother seemed to have
been attacked by the same complaint, and the doctor hoped to find from
the death of the one some means for preserving the life of the other.
The councillor was in a violent fever, agitated unceasingly both in body
and mind: he could not bear any position of any kind for more than a few
minutes at a time. Bed was a place of torture; but if he got up, he
cried for it again, at least for a change of suffering. At the end of
three months he died. His stomach, duodenum, and liver were all in the
same corrupt state as his brother's, and more than that, the surface of
his body was burnt away. This, said the doctors; was no dubious sign of
poisoning; although, they added, it sometimes happened that a
'cacochyme' produced the same effect. Lachaussee was so far from being
suspected, that the councillor, in recognition of the care he had
bestowed on him in his last illness, left him in his will a legacy of a
hundred crowns; moreover, he received a thousand francs from
Sainte-Croix and the marquise.
So great a disaster in one family, however, was not only sad but
alarming. Death knows no hatred: death is deaf and blind, nothing more,
and astonishment was felt at this ruthless destruction of all who bore
one name. Still nobody suspected the true culprits, search was
fruitless, inquiries led nowhere: the marquise put on mourning for her
brothers, Sainte-Croix continued in his path of folly, and all things
went on as before. Meanwhile Sainte-Croix had made the acquaintance of
the Sieur de Saint Laurent, the same man from whom Penautier had asked
for a post without success, and had made friends with him. Penautier had
meanwhile become the heir of his father-in-law, the Sieur Lesecq, whose
death had most unexpectedly occurred; he had thereby gained a second
post in Languedoc and an immense property: still, he coveted the place
of receiver of the clergy. Chance now once more helped him: a few days
after taking over from Sainte-Croix a man-servant named George, M. de
Saint-Laurent fell sick, and his illness showed symptoms similar to
those observed in the case of the d'Aubrays, father and sons; but it was
more rapid, lasting only twenty-four hours. Like them, M. de
Saint-Laurent died a prey to frightful tortures. The same day an officer
from the sovereign's court came to see him, heard every detail connected
with his friend's death, and when told of the symptoms said before the
servants to Sainfray the notary that it would be necessary to examine
the body. An hour later George disappeared, saying nothing to anybody,
and not even asking for his wages. Suspicions were excited; but again
they remained vague. The autopsy showed a state of things not precisely
to be called peculiar to poisoning cases the intestines, which the fatal
poison had not had time to burn as in the case of the d'Aubrays, were
marked with reddish spots like flea-bites. In June Penautier obtained
the post that had been held by the Sieur de Saint-Laurent.
But the widow had certain suspicions which were changed into something
like certainty by George's flight. A particular circumstance aided and
almost confirmed her doubts. An abbe who was a friend of her husband,
and knew all about the disappearance of George, met him some days
afterwards in the rue des Masons, near the Sorbonne. They were both on
the same side, and a hay-cart coming along the street was causing a
block. George raised his head and saw the abbe, knew him as a friend of
his late master, stooped under the cart and crawled to the other side,
thus at the risk of being crushed escaping from the eyes of a man whose
appearance recalled his crime and inspired him with fear of punishment.
Madame de Saint-Laurent preferred a charge against George, but though he
was sought for everywhere, he could never be found. Still the report of
these strange deaths, so sudden and so incomprehensible, was bruited
about Paris, and people began to feel frightened. Sainte-Croix, always
in the gay world, encountered the talk in drawing-rooms, and began to
feel a little uneasy. True, no suspicion pointed as yet in his
direction; but it was as well to take precautions, and Sainte-Croix
began to consider how he could be freed from anxiety. There was a post
in the king's service soon to be vacant, which would cost 100,000
crowns; and although Sainte-Croix had no apparent means, it was rumoured
that he was about to purchase it. He first addressed himself to
Belleguise to treat about this affair with Penautier. There was some
difficulty, however, to be encountered in this quarter. The sum was a
large one, and Penautier no longer required help; he had already come
into all the inheritance he looked for, and so he tried to throw cold
water on the project.
Sainte-Croix thus wrote to Belleguise:
"DEAR FRIEND,--Is it possible that you need any more talking to about
the matter you know of, so important as it is, and, maybe, able to give
us peace and quiet for the rest of our days! I really think the devil
must be in it, or else you simply will not be sensible: do show your
common sense, my good man, and look at it from all points of view; take
it at its very worst, and you still ought to feel bound to serve me,
seeing how I have made everything all right for you: all our interests
are together in this matter. Do help me, I beg of you; you may feel sure
I shall be deeply grateful, and you will never before have acted so
agreeably both for me and for yourself. You know quite enough about it,
for I have not spoken so openly even to my own brother as I have to you.
If you can come this afternoon, I shall be either at the house or quite
near at hand, you know where I mean, or I will expect you tomorrow
morning, or I will come and find you, according to what you
reply.--Always yours with all my heart."
The house meant by Sainte-Croix was in the rue des Bernardins, and the
place near at hand where he was to wait for Belleguise was the room he
leased from the widow Brunet, in the blind alley out of the Place
Maubert. It was in this room and at the apothecary Glazer's that
Sainte-Croix made his experiments; but in accordance with poetical
justice, the manipulation of the poisons proved fatal to the workers
themselves. The apothecary fell ill and died; Martin was attacked by
fearful sickness, which brought, him to death's door. Sainte-Croix was
unwell, and could not even go out, though he did not know what was the
matter. He had a furnace brought round to his house from Glazer's, and
ill as he was, went on with the experiments. Sainte-Croix was then
seeking to make a poison so subtle that the very effluvia might be
fatal. He had heard of the poisoned napkin given to the young dauphin,
elder brother of Charles VII, to wipe his hands on during a game of
tennis, and knew that the contact had caused his death; and the still
discussed tradition had informed him of the gloves of Jeanne d'Albret;
the secret was lost, but Sainte-Croix hoped to recover it. And then
there happened one of those strange accidents which seem to be not the
hand of chance but a punishment from Heaven. At the very moment when
Sainte-Croix was bending over his furnace, watching the fatal
preparation as it became hotter and hotter, the glass mask which he wore
over his face as a protection from any poisonous exhalations that might
rise up from the mixture, suddenly dropped off, and Sainte-Croix dropped
to the ground as though felled by a lightning stroke. At supper-time,
his wife finding that he did not come out from his closet where he was
shut in, knocked at the door, and received no answer; knowing that her
husband was wont to busy himself with dark and mysterious matters, she
feared some disaster had occurred. She called her servants, who broke in
the door. Then she found Sainte-Croix stretched out beside the furnace,
the broken glass lying by his side. It was impossible to deceive the
public as to the circumstances of this strange and sudden death: the
servants had seen the corpse, and they talked. The commissary Picard was
ordered to affix the seals, and all the widow could do was to remove the
furnace and the fragments of the glass mask.
The noise of the event soon spread all over Paris. Sainte-Croix was
extremely well known, and the, news that he was about to purchase a post
in the court had made him known even more widely. Lachaussee was one of
the first to learn of his master's death; and hearing that a seal had
been set upon his room, he hastened to put in an objection in these
terms:
"Objection of Lachaussee, who asserts that for seven years he was in the
service of the deceased; that he had given into his charge, two years
earlier, 100 pistoles and 200 white crowns, which should be found in a
cloth bag under the closet window, and in the same a paper stating that
the said sum belonged to him, together with the transfer of 300 livres
owed to him by the late M. d'Aubray, councillor; the said transfer made
by him at Laserre, together with three receipts from his master of
apprenticeship, 100 livres each: these moneys and papers he claims."
To Lachaussee the reply was given that he must wait till the day when
the seals were broken, and then if all was as he said, his property
would be returned.
But Lachaussee was not the only person who was agitated about the death
of Sainte-Croix. The, marquise, who was familiar with all the secrets of
this fatal closet, had hurried to the commissary as 2496 soon as she
heard of the event, and although it was ten o'clock at night had
demanded to speak with him. But he had replied by his head clerk, Pierre
Frater, that he was in bed; the marquise insisted, begging them to rouse
him up, for she wanted a box that she could not allow to have opened.
The clerk then went up to the Sieur Picard's bedroom, but came back
saying that what the marquise demanded was for the time being an
impossibility, for the commissary was asleep. She saw that it was idle
to insist, and went away, saying that she should send a man the next
morning to fetch the box. In the morning the man came, offering fifty
Louis to the commissary on behalf of the marquise, if he would give her
the box. But he replied that the box was in the sealed room, that it
would have to be opened, and that if the objects claimed by the marquise
were really hers, they would be safely handed over to her. This reply
struck the marquise like a thunderbolt. There was no time to be lost:
hastily she removed from the rue Neuve-Saint-Paul, where her town house
was, to Picpus, her country place. Thence she posted the same evening to
Liege, arriving the next morning, and retired to a convent.
The seals had been set on the 31st of July 1672, and they were taken off
on the 8th of August following. Just as they set to work a lawyer
charged with full powers of acting for the marquise, appeared and put in
the following statement: "Alexandre Delamarre, lawyer acting for the
Marquise de Brinvilliers, has come forward, and declares that if in the
box claimed by his client there is found a promise signed by her for the
sum of 30,000 livres, it is a paper taken from her by fraud, against
which, in case of her signature being verified, she intends to lodge an
appeal for nullification." This formality over, they proceeded to open
Sainte-Croix's closet: the key was handed to the commissary Picard by a
Carmelite called Friar Victorin. The commissary opened the door, and
entered with the parties interested, the officers, and the widow, and
they began by setting aside the loose papers, with a view to taking them
in order, one at a time. While they were thus busy, a small roll fell
down, on which these two words were written: "My Confession." All
present, having no reason to suppose Sainte-Croix a bad man, decided
that this paper ought not to be read. The deputy for the attorney
general on being consulted was of this opinion, and the confession of
Sainte-Croix was burnt. This act of conscience performed, they proceeded
to make an inventory. One of the first objects that attracted the
attention of the officers was the box claimed by Madame de Brinvilliers.
Her insistence had provoked curiosity, so they began with it. Everybody
went near to see what was in it, and it was opened.
We shall let the report speak: in such cases nothing is so effective or
so terrible as the official statement.
"In the closet of Sainte-Croix was found a small box one foot square, on
the top of which lay a half-sheet of paper entitled 'My Will,' written
on one side and containing these words: 'I humbly entreat any into whose
hands this chest may fall to do me the kindness of putting it into the
hands of Madame the Marquise de Brinvilliers, resident in the rue
Neuve-Saint-Paul, seeing that all the contents concern and belong to her
alone, and are of no use to any person in the world apart from herself:
in case of her being already dead before me, the box and all its
contents should be burnt without opening or disturbing anything. And
lest anyone should plead ignorance of the contents, I swear by the God I
worship and by all that is most sacred that no untruth is here asserted.
If anyone should contravene my wishes that are just and reasonable in
this matter, I charge their conscience therewith in discharging my own
in this world and the next, protesting that such is my last wish.
"'Given at Paris, the 25th of May after noon, 1672. Signed by
Sainte-Croix,'
"And below were written these words: 'There is one packet only addressed
to M. Penautier which should be delivered.'"
It may be easily understood that a disclosure of this kind only
increased the interest of the scene; there was a murmur of curiosity,
and when silence again reigned, the official continued in these words:
"A packet has been found sealed in eight different places with eight
different seals. On this is written: 'Papers to be burnt in case of my
death, of no consequence to anyone. I humbly beg those into whose hands
they may fall to burn them. I give this as a charge upon their
conscience; all without opening the packet.' In this packet we find two
parcels of sublimate.
"Item, another packet sealed with six different seals, on which is a
similar inscription, in which is found more sublimate, half a pound in
weight.
"Item, another packet sealed with six different seals, on which is a
similar inscription, in which are found three parcels, one containing
half an ounce of sublimate, the second 2 1/4 ozs. of Roman vitriol, and
the third some calcined prepared vitriol. In the box was found a large
square phial, one pint in capacity, full of a clear liquid, which was
looked at by M. Moreau, the doctor; he, however, could not tell its
nature until it was tested.
"Item, another phial, with half a pint of clear liquid with a white
sediment, about which Moreau said the same thing as before.
"Item, a small earthenware pot containing two or three lumps of prepared
opium.
"Item, a folded paper containing two drachms of corrosive sublimate
powdered.
"Next, a little box containing a sort of stone known as infernal stone.
"Next, a paper containing one ounce of opium.
"Next, a piece of pure antimony weighing three ounces.
"Next, a packet of powder on which was written: 'To check the flow of
blood.' Moreau said that it was quince flower and quince buds dried.
"Item, a pack sealed with six seals, on which was written, 'Papers to be
burnt in case of death.' In this twenty-four letters were found, said to
have been written by the Marquise de Brinvilliers.
"Item, another packet sealed with six seals, on which a similar
inscription was written. In this were twenty-seven pieces of paper on
each of which was written: 'Sundry curious secrets.'
"Item, another packet with six more seals, on which a similar
inscription was written. In this were found seventy-five livres,
addressed to different persons. Besides all these, in the box there were
two bonds, one from the marquise for 30,000, and one from Penautier for
10,000 francs, their dates corresponding to the time of the deaths of M.
d'Aubray and the Sieur de St. Laurent."
The difference in the amount shows that Sainte-Croix had a tariff, and
that parricide was more expensive than simple assassination. Thus in his
death did Sainte-Croix bequeath the poisons to his mistress and his
friend; not content with his own crimes in the past, he wished to be
their accomplice in the future.
The first business of the officials was to submit the different
substances to analysis, and to experiment with them on animals. The
report follows of Guy Simon, an apothecary, who was charged to undertake
the analysis and the experiments:
"This artificial poison reveals its nature on examination. It is so
disguised that one fails to recognise it, so subtle that it deceives the
scientific, so elusive that it escapes the doctor's eye: experiments
seem to be at fault with this poison, rules useless, aphorisms
ridiculous. The surest experiments are made by the use of the elements
or upon animals. In water, ordinary poison falls by its own weight. The
water is superior, the poison obeys, falls downwards, and takes the
lower place.
"The trial by fire is no less certain: the fire evaporates and disperses
all that is innocent and pure, leaving only acrid and sour matter which
resists its influence. The effect produced by poisons on animals is
still more plain to see: its malignity extends to every part that it
reaches, and all that it touches is vitiated; it burns and scorches all
the inner parts with a strange, irresistible fire.
"The poison employed by Sainte-Croix has been tried in all the ways, and
can defy every experiment. This poison floats in water, it is the
superior, and the water obeys it; it escapes in the trial by fire,
leaving behind only innocent deposits; in animals it is so skilfully
concealed that no one could detect it; all parts of the animal remain
healthy and active; even while it is spreading the cause of death, this
artificial poison leaves behind the marks and appearance of life. Every
sort of experiment has been tried. The first was to pour out several
drops of the liquid found into oil of tartar and sea water, and nothing
was precipitated into the vessels used; the second was to pour the same
liquid into a sanded vessel, and at the bottom there was found nothing
acrid or acid to the tongue, scarcely any stains; the third experiment
was tried upon an Indian fowl, a pigeon, a dog, and some other animals,
which died soon after. When they were opened, however, nothing was found
but a little coagulated blood in the ventricle of the heart. Another
experiment was giving a white powder to a cat, in a morsel of mutton.
The cat vomited for half an hour, and was found dead the next day, but
when opened no part of it was found to be affected by the poison. A
second trial of the same poison was made upon a pigeon, which soon died.
When opened, nothing peculiar was found except a little reddish water in
the stomach."
These experiments proved that Sainte-Croix was a learned chemist, and
suggested the idea that he did not employ his art for nothing; everybody
recalled the sudden, unexpected deaths that had occurred, and the bonds
from the marquise and from Penautier looked like blood-money. As one of
these two was absent, and the other so powerful and rich that they dared
not arrest him without proofs, attention was now paid to the objection
put in by Lachaussee.
It was said in the objection that Lachaussee had spent seven years in
the service of Sainte-Croix, so he could not have considered the time he
had passed with the d'Aubrays as an interruption to this service. The
bag containing the thousand pistoles and the three bonds for a hundred
livres had been found in the place indicated; thus Lachaussee had a
thorough knowledge of this closet: if he knew the closet, he would know
about the box; if he knew about the box, he could not be an innocent
man. This was enough to induce Madame Mangot de Villarceaux, the
lieutenant's widow, to lodge an accusation against him, and in
consequence a writ was issued against Lachaussee, and he was arrested.
When this happened, poison was found upon him. The trial came on before
the Chatelet. Lachaussee denied his guilt obstinately. The judges
thinking they had no sufficient proof, ordered the preparatory question
to be applied. Mme. Mangot appealed from a judgment which would probably
save the culprit if he had the strength to resist the torture and own to
nothing;
[Note: There were two kinds of question, one before and one after the
sentence was passed. In the first, an accused person would endure
frightful torture in the hope of saving his life, and so would often
confess nothing. In the second, there was no hope, and therefore it was
not worth while to suffer additional pains.]
so, in virtue of this appeal, a judgment, on March 4th, 1673, declared
that Jean Amelin Lachaussee was convicted of having poisoned the
lieutenant and the councillor; for which he was to be broken alive on
the wheel, having been first subjected to the question both ordinary and
extraordinary, with a view to the discovery of his accomplices. At the
same time Madame de Brinvilliers was condemned in default of appearance
to have her head cut off.
Lachaussee suffered the torture of the boot. This was having each leg
fastened between two planks and drawn together in an iron ring, after
which wedges were driven in between the middle planks; the ordinary
question was with four wedges, the extraordinary with eight. At the
third wedge Lachaussee said he was ready to speak; so the question was
stopped, and he was carried into the choir of the chapel stretched on a
mattress, where, in a weak voice--for he could hardly speak--he begged
for half an hour to recover himself. We give a verbatim extract from the
report of the question and the execution of the death-sentence:
"Lachaussee, released from the question and laid on the mattress, the
official reporter retired. Half an hour later Lachaussee begged that he
might return, and said that he was guilty; that Sainte-Croix told him
that Madame de Brinvilliers had given him the poison to administer to
her brothers; that he had done it in water and soup, had put the reddish
water in the lieutenant's glass in Paris, and the clear water in the pie
at Villequoy; that Sainte-Croix had promised to keep him always, and to
make him a gift of 100 pistolets; that he gave him an account of the
effect of the poisons, and that Sainte-Croix had given him some of the
waters several times. Sainte-Croix told him that the marquise knew
nothing of his other poisonings, but Lachaussee thought she did know,
because she had often spoken to him about his poisons; that she wanted
to compel him to go away, offering him money if he would go; that she
had asked him for the box and its contents; that if Sainte-Croix had
been able to put anyone into the service of Madame d'Aubray, the
lieutenant's widow, he would possibly have had her poisoned also; for he
had a fancy for her daughter."
This declaration, which left no room for doubt, led to the judgment that
came next, thus described in the Parliamentary register: "Report of the
question and execution on the 24th of March 1673, containing the
declarations and confessions of Jean Amelin Lachaussee; the court has
ordered that the persons mentioned, Belleguise, Martin, Poitevin,
Olivier, Veron pere, the wife of Quesdon the wigmaker, be summoned to
appear before the court to be interrogated and heard concerning matters
arising from the present inquiry, and orders that the decree of arrest
against Lapierre and summons against Penautier decreed by the criminal
lieutenant shall be carried out. In Parliament, 27th March 1673." In
virtue of this judgment, Penautier, Martin, and Belleguise were
interrogated on the 21st, 22nd, and 24th of April. On the 26th of July,
Penautier was discharged; fuller information was desired concerning
Belleguise, and the arrest of Martin was ordered. On the 24th of March,
Lachaussee had been broken on the wheel. As to Exili, the beginner of it
all, he had disappeared like Mephistopheles after Faust's end, and
nothing was heard of him. Towards the end of the year Martin was
released for want of sufficient evidence. But the Marquise de
Brinvilliers remained at Liege, and although she was shut up in a
convent she had by no means abandoned one, at any rate, of the most
worldly pleasures. She had soon found consolation for the death of
Sainte-Croix, whom, all the same, she had loved so much as to be willing
to kill herself for his sake. But she had adopted a new lover, Theria by
name. About this man it has been impossible to get any information,
except that his name was several times mentioned during the trial. Thus,
all the accusations had, one by one, fallen upon her, and it was
resolved to seek her out in the retreat where she was supposed to be
safe. The mission was difficult and very delicate. Desgrais, one of the
cleverest of the officials, offered to undertake it. He was a handsome
man, thirty-six years old or thereabouts: nothing in his looks betrayed
his connection with the police; he wore any kind of dress with equal
ease and grace, and was familiar with every grade in the social scale,
disguising himself as a wretched tramp or a noble lord. He was just the
right man, so his offer was accepted.
He started accordingly for Liege, escorted by several archers, and,
fortified by a letter from the king addressed to the Sixty of that town,
wherein Louis xiv demanded the guilty woman to be given up for
punishment. After examining the letter, which Desgrais had taken pains
to procure, the council authorised the extradition of the marquise.
This was much, but it was not all. The marquise, as we know, had taken
refuge in a convent, where Desgrais dared not arrest her by force, for
two reasons: first, because she might get information beforehand, and
hide herself in one of the cloister retreats whose secret is known only
to the superior; secondly, because Liege was so religious a town that
the event would produce a great sensation: the act might be looked upon
as a sacrilege, and might bring about a popular rising, during which the
marquise might possibly contrive to escape. So Desgrais paid a visit to
his wardrobe, and feeling that an abbe's dress would best free him from
suspicion, he appeared at the doors of the convent in the guise of a
fellow-countryman just returned from Rome, unwilling to pass through
Liege without presenting his compliments to the lovely and unfortunate
marquise. Desgrais had just the manner of the younger son of a great
house: he was as flattering as a courtier, as enterprising as a
musketeer. In this first visit he made himself attractive by his wit and
his audacity, so much so that more easily than he had dared to hope, he
got leave to pay a second call. The second visit was not long delayed:
Desgrais presented himself the very next day. Such eagerness was
flattering to the marquise, so Desgrais was received even better than
the night before. She, a woman of rank and fashion, for more than a year
had been robbed of all intercourse with people of a certain set, so with
Desgrais the marquise resumed her Parisian manner. Unhappily the
charming abbe was to leave Liege in a few days; and on that account he
became all the more pressing, and a third visit, to take place next day,
was formally arranged. Desgrais was punctual: the marquise was
impatiently waiting him; but by a conjunction of circumstances that
Desgrais had no doubt arranged beforehand, the amorous meeting was
disturbed two or three times just as they were getting more intimate and
least wanting to be observed. Desgrais complained of these tiresome
checks; besides, the marquise and he too would be compromised: he owed
concealment to his cloth: He begged her to grant him a rendezvous
outside the town, in some deserted walk, where there would be no fear of
their being recognised or followed: the marquise hesitated no longer
than would serve to put a price on the favour she was granting, and the
rendezvous was fixed for the same evening.
The evening came: both waited with the same impatience, but with very
different hopes. The marquise found Desgrais at the appointed spot: he
gave her his arm then holding her hand in his own, he gave a sign, the
archers appeared, the lover threw off his mask, Desgrais was confessed,
and the marquise was his prisoner. Desgrais left her in the hands of his
men, and hastily made his way to the convent. Then, and not before, he
produced his order from the Sixty, by means of which he opened the
marquise's room. Under her bed he found a box, which he seized and
sealed; then he went back to her, and gave the order to start.
When the marquise saw the box in the hands of Desgrais, she at first
appeared stunned; quickly recovering, she claimed a paper inside it
which contained her confession. Desgrais refused, and as he turned round
for the carriage to come forward, she tried to choke herself by
swallowing a pin. One of the archers, called Claude, Rolla, perceiving
her intention, contrived to get the pin out of her mouth. After this,
Desgrais commanded that she should be doubly watched.
They stopped for supper. An archer called Antoine Barbier was present at
the meal, and watched so that no knife or fork should be put on the
table, or any instrument with which she could wound or kill herself. The
marquise, as she put her glass to her mouth as though to drink, broke a
little bit off with her teeth; but the archer saw it in time, and forced
her to put it out on her plate. Then she promised him, if he would save
her, that she would make his fortune. He asked what he would have to do
for that. She proposed that he should cut Desgrais' throat; but he
refused, saying that he was at her service in any other way. So she
asked him for pen and paper, and wrote this letter:
"DEAR THERIA,--I am in the hands of Desgrais, who is taking me by road
from Liege to Paris. Come quickly and save me."
Antoine Barbier took the letter, promising to deliver it at the right
address; but he gave it to Desgrais instead. The next day, finding that
this letter had not been pressing enough, she wrote him another, saying
that the escort was only eight men, who could be easily overcome by four
or five determined assailants, and she counted on him to strike this
bald stroke. But, uneasy when she got no answer and no result from her
letters, she despatched a third missive to Theria. In this she implored
him by his own salvation, if he were not strong enough to attack her
escort and save her, at least to kill two of the four horses by which
she was conveyed, and to profit by the moment of confusion to seize the
chest and throw it into the fire; otherwise, she declared, she was lost.
Though Theria received none of these letters, which were one by one
handed over by Barbier to Desgrais, he all the same did go to
Maestricht, where the marquise was to pass, of his own accord. There he
tried to bribe the archers, offering much as 10,000 livres, but they
were incorruptible. At Rocroy the cortege met M. Palluau, the
councillor, whom the Parliament had sent after the prisoner, that he
might put questions to her at a time when she least expected them, and
so would not have prepared her answers. Desgrais told him all that had
passed, and specially called his attention to the famous box, the object
of so much anxiety and so many eager instructions. M. de Palluau opened
it, and found among other things a paper headed "My Confession." This
confession was a proof that the guilty feel great need of discovering
their crimes either to mankind or to a merciful God. Sainte-Croix, we
know, had made a confession that was burnt, and here was the marquise
equally imprudent. The confession contained seven articles, and began
thus, "I confess to God, and to you, my father," and was a complete
avowal, of all the crimes she had committed.
In the first article she accused herself of incendiarism;
In the second, of having ceased to be a virgin at seven years of age;
In the third of having poisoned her father;
In the fourth, of having poisoned her two brothers;
In the fifth, that she had tried to poison her sister, a Carmelite nun.
The two other articles were concerned with the description of strange
and unnatural sins. In this woman there was something of Locusta and
something of Messalina as well: antiquity could go no further.
M. de Palluau, fortified by his knowledge of this important document,
began his examination forthwith. We give it verbatim, rejoicing
that we may substitute an official report for our own narrative.
Asked why she fled to Liege, she replied that she left France on account
of some business with her sister-in-law.
Asked if she had any knowledge of the papers found in the box, she
replied that in the box there were several family papers, and among them
a general confession which she desired to make; when she wrote it,
however, her mind was disordered; she knew not what she had said or
done, being distraught at the time, in a foreign country, deserted by
her relatives, forced to borrow every penny.
Asked as to the first article, what house it was she had burnt, she
replied that she had not burnt anything, but when she wrote that she was
out of her senses.
Asked about the six other articles she replied that she had no
recollection of them.
Asked if she had not poisoned her father and brothers, she replied that
she knew nothing at all about it.
Asked if it were not Lachaussee who poisoned her brothers, she replied
that she knew nothing about it.
Asked if she did not know that her sister could not live long, having
been poisoned, she said that she expected her sister to die, because she
suffered in the same way as her brothers; that she had lost all memory
of the time when she wrote this confession; admitted that she left
France by the advice of her relations.
Asked why her relations had advised her thus, she replied that it was in
connection with her brothers' affairs; admitted seeing Sainte-Croix
since his release from the Bastille.
Asked if Sainte-Croix had not persuaded her to get rid of her father,
she replied that she could not remember; neither did she remember if
Sainte-Croix had given her powders or other drugs, nor if Sainte-Croix
had told her he knew how to make her rich.
Eight letters having been produced, asked to whom she had written them,
she replied that she did not remember.
Asked why she had promised to pay 30,000 livres to Sainte-Croix, she
replied that she intended to entrust this sum to his care, so that she
might make use of it when she wanted it, believing him to be her friend;
she had not wished this to be known, by reason of her creditors; that
she had an acknowledgment from Sainte-Croix, but had lost it in her
travels; that her husband knew nothing about it.
Asked if the promise was made before or after the death of her brothers,
she replied that she could not remember, and it made no difference.
Asked if she knew an apothecary called Glazer, she replied that she had
consulted him three times about inflammation.
Asked why she wrote to Theria to get hold of the box, she replied that
she did not understand.
Asked why, in writing to Theria, she had said she was lost unless he got
hold of the box, she replied that she could not remember.
Asked if she had seen during the journey with her father the first
symptoms of his malady, she replied that she had not noticed that her
father was ill on the journey, either going or coming back in 1666.
Asked if she had not done business with Penautier, she replied that
Penautier owed her 30,000 livres.
Asked how this was, she replied that she and her husband had lent
Penautier 10,000 crowns, that he had paid it back, and since then they
had had no dealings with him.
The marquise took refuge, we see, in a complete system of denial:
arrived in Paris, and confined in the Conciergerie, she did the same;
but soon other terrible charges were added, which still further
overwhelmed her.
The sergeant Cluet deposed: that, observing a lackey to M. d'Aubray, the
councillor, to be the man Lachaussee, whom he had seen in the service of
Sainte-Croix, he said to the marquise that if her brother knew that
Lachaussee had been with Sainte-Croix he would not like it, but that
Madame de Brinvilliers exclaimed, "Dear me, don't tell my brothers; they
would give him a thrashing, no doubt, and he may just as well get his
wages as any body else." He said nothing to the d'Aubrays, though he saw
Lachaussee paying daily visits to Sainte-Croix and to the marquise, who
was worrying Sainte-Croix to let her have her box, and wanted her bill
for two or three thousand pistoles. Other wise she would have had him
assassinated. She often said that she was very anxious that no one
should see the contents of the box; that it was a very important matter,
but only concerned herself. After the box was opened, the witness added,
he had told the marquise, that the commissary Picard said to Lachaussee
that there were strange things in it; but the lady blushed, and changed
the subject. He asked her if she were not an accomplice. She said,
"What! I?" but then muttered to herself: "Lachaussee ought to be sent
off to Picardy." The witness repeated that she had been after
Sainte-Croix along time about the box, and if she had got it she would
have had his throat cut. The witness further said that when he told
Briancourt that Lachaussee was taken and would doubtless confess all,
Briancourt, speaking of the marquise, remarked, "She is a lost woman."
That d'Aubray's daughter had called Briancourt a rogue, but Briancourt
had replied that she little knew what obligations she was under to him;
that they had wanted to poison both her and the lieutenant's widow, and
he alone had hindered it. He had heard from Briancourt that the marquise
had often said that there are means to get rid of people one dislikes,
and they can easily be put an end to in a bowl of soup.
The girl Edme Huet, a woman of Brescia, deposed that Sainte-Croix went
to see the marquise every day, and that in a box belonging to that lady
she had seen two little packets containing sublimate in powder and in
paste: she recognised these, because she was an apothecary's daughter.
She added that one day Madame de Brinvilliers, after a dinner party, in
a merry mood, said, showing her a little box, "Here is vengeance on
one's enemies: this box is small, but holds plenty of successsions!"
That she gave back the box into her hands, but soon changing from her
sprightly mood, she cried, "Good heavens, what have I said? Tell
nobody." That Lambert, clerk at the palace, told her he had brought the
packets to Madame from Sainte-Croix; that Lachaussee often went to see
her; and that she herself, not being paid ten pistoles which the
marquise owed her, went to complain to Sainte-Croix, threatening to tell
the lieutenant what she had seen; and accordingly the ten pistoles were
paid; further, that the marquise and Sainte-Croix always kept poison
about them, to make use of, in case of being arrested.
Laurent Perrette, living with Glazer, said that he had often seen a lady
call on his mistress with Sainte-Croix; that the footman told him she
was the Marquise de Brinvilliers; that he would wager his head on it
that they came to Glazer's to make poison; that when they came they used
to leave their carriage at the Foire Saint-Germain.
Marie de Villeray, maid to the marquise, deposed that after the death of
M. d'Aubray the councillor, Lachaussee came to see the lady and spoke
with her in private; that Briancourt said she had caused the death of a
worthy men; that Briancourt every day took some electuary for fear of
being poisoned, and it was no doubt due to this precaution that he was
still alive; but he feared he would be stabbed, because she had told him
the secret about the poisoning; that d'Aubray's daughter had to be
warned; and that there was a similar design against the tutor of M. de
Brinvillier's children. Marie de Villeray added that two days after the
death of the councillor, when Lachaussee was in Madame's bedroom,
Couste, the late lieutenant's secretary, was announced, and Lachaussee
had to be hidden in the alcove by the bed. Lachaussee brought the
marquise a letter from Sainte-Croix.
Francois Desgrais, officer, deposed that when he was given the king's
orders he arrested the marquise at Liege; that he found under her bed a
box which he sealed; that the lady had demanded a paper which was in it,
containing her confession, but he refused it; that on the road to Paris
the marquise had told him that she believed it was Glazer who made the
poisons for Sainte-Croix; that Sainte-Croix, who had made a rendezvous
with her one day at the cross Saint-Honore, there showed her four little
bottles, saying, "See what Glazer has sent me." She asked him for one,
but Sainte-Croix said he would rather die than give it up. He added that
the archer Antoine Barbier had given him three letters written by the
marquise to Theria; that in the first she had told him to come at once
and snatch her from the hands of the soldiers; that in the second she
said that the escort was only composed of eight persons, who could he
worsted by five men; that in the third she said that if he could not
save her from the men who were taking her away, he should at least
approach the commissary, and killing his valet's horse and two other
horses in his carriage, then take the box, and burn it; otherwise she
was lost.
Laviolette, an archer, deposed that on the evening of the arrest, the
marquise had a long pin and tried to put it in her mouth; that he
stopped her, and told her that she was very wicked; that he perceived
that people said the truth and that she had poisoned all her family; to
which she replied, that if she had, it was only through following bad
advice, and that one could not always be good.
Antoine Barbier, an archer, said that the marquise at table took up a
glass as though to drink, and tried to swallow a piece of it; that he
prevented this, and she promised to make his fortune if only he would
save her; that she wrote several letters to Theria; that during the
whole journey she tried all she could to swallow pins, bits of glass,
and earth; that she had proposed that he should cut Desgrais' throat,
and kill the commissary's valet; that she had bidden him get the box and
burn it, and bring a lighted torch to burn everything; that she had
written to Penautier from the Conciergerie; that she gave him, the
letter, and he pretended to deliver it.
Finally, Francoise Roussel deposed that she had been in the service of
the marquise, and the lady had one day given her some preserved
gooseberries; that she had eaten some on the point of her knife, and at
once felt ill. She also gave her a slice of mutton, rather wet, which
she ate, afterwards suffering great pain in the stomach, feeling as
though she had been pricked in the heart, and for three years had felt
the same, believing herself poisoned.
It was difficult to continue a system of absolute denial in face of
proofs like these. The marquise persisted, all the same, that she was in
no way guilty; and Maitre Nivelle, one of the best lawyers of the
period, consented to defend her cause.
He combated one charge after another, in a remarkably clever way, owning
to the adulterous connection of the marquise with Sainte-Croix, but
denying her participation in the murders of the d'Aubrays, father and
sons: these he ascribed entirely to the vengeance desired by
Sainte-Croix. As to the confession, the strongest and, he maintained,
the only evidence against Madame de Brinvilliers, he attacked its
validity by bringing forward certain similar cases, where the evidence
supplied by the accused against themselves had not been admitted by
reason of the legal action: 'Non auditur perire volens'. He cited three
instances, and as they are themselves interesting, we copy them verbatim
from his notes.