An Armenian woman had inspired a violent passion in a young Turkish
gentleman, but her prudence was long an obstacle to her lover's desires.
At last he went beyond all bounds, and threatened to kill both her and
her husband if she refused to gratify him. Frightened by this threat,
which she knew too well he would carry out, she feigned consent, and
gave the Turk a rendezvous at her house at an hour when she said her
husband would be absent; but by arrangement the husband arrived, and
although the Turk was armed with a sabre and a pair of pistols, it so
befell that they were fortunate enough to kill their enemy, whom they
buried under their dwelling unknown to all the world. But some days
after the event they went to confess to a priest of their nation, and
revealed every detail of the tragic story. This unworthy minister of the
Lord supposed that in a Mahommedan country, where the laws of the
priesthood and the functions of a confessor are either unknown or
disapproved, no examination would be made into the source of his
information, and that his evidence would have the same weight as any
other accuser's. So he resolved to make a profit and gratify his own
avarice. Several times he visited the husband and wife, always borrowing
considerable sums, and threatening to reveal their crime if they refused
him. The first few times the poor creatures gave in to his exactions;
but the moment came at last when, robbed of all their fortune, they were
obliged to refuse the sum he demanded. Faithful to his threat, the
priest, with a view to more reward, at once denounced them to the dead
man's father. He, who had adored his son, went to the vizier, told him
he had identified the murderers through their confessor, and asked for
justice. But this denunciation had by no means the desired effect. The
vizier, on the contrary, felt deep pity for the wretched Armenians, and
indignation against the priest who had betrayed them. He put the accuser
into a room which adjoined the court, and sent for the Armenian bishop
to ask what confession really was, and what punishment was deserved by a
priest who betrayed it, and what was the fate of those whose crimes were
made known in this fashion. The bishop replied that the secrets of
confession are inviolable, that Christians burn the priest who reveals
them, and absolve those whom he accuses, because the avowal made by the
guilty to the priest is proscribed by the Christian religion, on pain of
eternal damnation. The vizier, satisfied with the answer, took the
bishop into another room, and summoned the accused to declare all the
circumstances: the poor wretches, half dead, fell at the vizier's feet.
The woman spoke, explaining that the necessity of defending life and
honour had driven them to take up arms to kill their enemy. She added
that God alone had witnessed their crime, and it would still be unknown
had not the law of the same God compelled them to confide it to the ear
of one of His ministers for their forgiveness. Now the priest's
insatiable avarice had ruined them first and then denounced them. The
vizier made them go into a third room, and ordered the treacherous
priest to be confronted with the bishop, making him again rehearse the
penalties incurred by those who betray confessions. Then, applying this
to the guilty priest, he condemned him to be burnt alive in a public
place;--in anticipation, said he, of burning in hell, where he would
assuredly receive the punishment of his infidelity and crimes. The
sentence was executed without delay.
In spite of the effect which the advocate intended to produce by these
three cases, either the judges rejected them, or perhaps they thought
the other evidence without the confession was enough, and it was soon
clear to everyone, by the way the trial went forward, that the marquise
would be condemned. Indeed, before sentence was pronounced, on the
morning of July 16th, 1676, she saw M. Pirot, doctor of the Sorbonne,
come into her prison, sent by the chief president. This worthy
magistrate, foreseeing the issue, and feeling that one so guilty should
not be left till the last moment, had sent the good priest. The latter,
although he had objected that the Conciergerie had its own two
chaplains, and added that he was too feeble to undertake such a task,
being unable even to see another man bled without feeling ill, accepted
the painful mission, the president having so strongly urged it, on the
ground that in this case he needed a man who could be entirely trusted.
The president, in fact, declared that, accustomed as he was to dealing
with criminals, the strength of the marquise amazed him. The day before
he summoned M. Pirot, he had worked at the trial from morning to night,
and for thirteen hours the accused had been confronted with Briancourt,
one of the chief witnesses against her. On that very day, there had been
five hours more, and she had borne it all, showing as much respect
towards her judges as haughtiness towards the witness, reproaching him
as a miserable valet, given to drink, and protesting that as he had been
dismissed for his misdemeanours, his testimony against her ought to go
for nothing. So the chief president felt no hope of breaking her
inflexible spirit, except by the agency of a minister of religion; for
it was not enough to put her to death, the poisons must perish with her,
or else society would gain nothing. The doctor Pirot came to the
marquise with a letter from her sister, who, as we know, was a nun
bearing the name of Sister Marie at the convent Saint-Jacques. Her
letter exhorted the marquise, in the most touching and affectionate
terms, to place her confidence in the good priest, and look upon him not
only as a helper but as a friend.
When M. Pirot came before the marquise, she had just left the dock,
where she had been for three hours without confessing anything, or
seeming in the least touched by what the president said, though he,
after acting the part of judge, addressed her simply as a Christian, and
showing her what her deplorable position was, appearing now for the last
time before men, and destined so soon to appear before God, spoke to her
such moving words that he broke down himself, and the oldest and most
obdurate judges present wept when they heard him. When the marquise
perceived the doctor, suspecting that her trial was leading her to
death, she approached him, saying:
"You have come, sir, because----"
But Father Chavigny, who was with M. Pirot; interrupted her, saying:
"Madame, we will begin with a prayer."
They all fell on their knees invoking the Holy Spirit; then the marquise
asked them to add a prayer to the Virgin, and, this prayer finished, she
went up to the doctor, and, beginning afresh, said:
"Sir, no doubt the president has sent you to give me consolation: with
you I am to pass the little life I have left. I have long been eager to
see you."
"Madame," the doctor replied, "I come to render you any spiritual office
that I can; I only wish it were on another occasion."
"We must have resolution, sir," said she, smiling, "for all things."
Then turning to Father Chavigny, she said:
"My father, I am very grateful to you for bringing the doctor here, and
for all the other visits you have been willing to pay me. Pray to God
for me, I entreat you; henceforth I shall speak with no one but the
doctor, for with him I must speak of things that can only be discussed
tete-a-tete. Farewell, then, my father; God will reward you for the
attention you have been willing to bestow upon me."
With these words the father retired, leaving the marquise alone with the
doctor and the two men and one woman always in attendance on her. They
were in a large room in the Montgomery tower extending, throughout its
whole length. There was at the end of the room a bed with grey curtains
for the lady, and a folding-bed for the custodian. It is said to have
been the same room where the poet Theophile was once shut up, and near
the door there were still verses in his well-known style written by his
hand.
As soon as the two men and the woman saw for what the doctor had come,
they retired to the end of the room, leaving the marquise free to ask
for and receive the consolations brought her by the man of God. Then the
two sat at a table side by side. The marquise thought she was already
condemned, and began to speak on that assumption; but the doctor told
her that sentence was not yet given, and he did not know precisely when
it would be, still less what it would be; but at these words the
marquise interrupted him.
"Sir," she said, "I am not troubled about the future. If my sentence is
not given yet, it soon will be. I expect the news this morning, and I
know it will be death: the only grace I look for from the president is a
delay between the sentence and its execution; for if I were executed
to-day I should have very little time to prepare, and I feel I have need
for more."
The doctor did not expect such words, so he was overjoyed to learn what
she felt. In addition to what the president had said, he had heard from
Father Chavigny that he had told her the Sunday before that it was very
unlikely she would escape death, and indeed, so far as one could judge
by reports in the town, it was a foregone conclusion. When he said so,
at first she had appeared stunned, and said with an air of great terror,
"Father, must I die?" And when he tried to speak words of consolation,
she had risen and shaken her head, proudly replying--
"No, no, father; there is no need to encourage me. I will play my part,
and that at once: I shall know how to die like a woman of spirit."
Then the father had told her that we cannot prepare for death so quickly
and so easily; and that we have to be in readiness for a long time, not
to be taken by surprise; and she had replied that she needed but a
quarter of an hour to confess in, and one moment to die.
So the doctor was very glad to find that between Sunday and Thursday her
feelings had changed so much.
"Yes," said she, "the more I reflect the more I feel that one day would
not be enough to prepare myself for God's tribunal, to be judged by Him
after men have judged me."
"Madame," replied the doctor, "I do not know what or when your sentence
will be; but should it be death, and given to-day, I may venture to
promise you that it will not be carried out before to-morrow. But
although death is as yet uncertain, I think it well that you should be
prepared for any event."
"Oh, my death is quite certain," said she, "and I must not give way to
useless hopes. I must repose in you the great secrets of my whole life;
but, father, before this opening of my heart, let me hear from your lips
the opinion you have formed of me, and what you think in my present
state I ought to do."
"You perceive my plan," said the doctor, "and you anticipate what I was
about to say. Before entering into the secrets of your conscience,
before opening the discussion of your affairs with God, I am ready,
madame, to give you certain definite rules. I do not yet know whether
you are guilty at all, and I suspend my judgment as to all the crimes
you are accused of, since of them I can learn nothing except through
your confession. Thus it is my duty still to doubt your guilt. But I
cannot be ignorant of what you are accused of: this is a public matter,
and has reached my ears; for, as you may imagine, madame, your affairs
have made a great stir, and there are few people who know nothing about
them."
"Yes," she said, smiling, "I know there has been a great deal of talk,
and I am in every man's mouth."
"Then," replied the doctor, "the crime you are accused of is poisoning.
If you are guilty, as is believed, you cannot hope that God will pardon
you unless you make known to your judges what the poison is, what is its
composition and what its antidote, also the names of your accomplices.
Madame, we must lay hands on all these evil-doers without exception; for
if you spared them, they would be able to make use of your poison, and
you would then be guilty of all the murders committed by them after your
death, because you did not give them over to the judges during your
life; thus one might say you survive yourself, for your crime survives
you. You know, madame, that a sin in the moment of death is never
pardoned, and that to get remission for your crimes, if crimes you have,
they must die when you die: for if you slay them not, be very sure they
will slay you."
"Yes, I am sure of that," replied the marquise, after a moment of silent
thought; "and though I will not admit that I am guilty, I promise, if I
am guilty, to weigh your words. But one question, sir, and pray take
heed that an answer is necessary. Is there not crime in this world that
is beyond pardon? Are not some people guilty of sins so terrible and so
numerous that the Church dares not pardon them, and if God, in His
justice, takes account of them, He cannot for all His mercy pardon them?
See, I begin with this question, because, if I am to have no hope, it is
needless for me to confess."
"I wish to think, madame," replied the doctor, in spite of himself half
frightened at the marquise, "that this your first question is only put
by way of a general thesis, and has nothing to do with your own state. I
shall answer the question without any personal application. No, madame,
in this life there are no unpardonable sinners, terrible and numerous
howsoever their sins may be. This is an article of faith, and without
holding it you could not die a good Catholic. Some doctors, it is true,
have before now maintained the contrary, but they have been condemned as
heretics. Only despair and final impenitence are unpardonable, and they
are not sins of our life but in our death."
"Sir," replied the marquise, "God has given me grace to be convinced by
what you say, and I believe He will pardon all sins--that He has often
exercised this power. Now all my trouble is that He may not deign to
grant all His goodness to one so wretched as I am, a creature so
unworthy of the favours already bestowed on her."
The doctor reassured her as best he could, and began to examine her
attentively as they conversed together. "She was," he said, "a woman
naturally courageous and fearless; naturally gentle and good; not easily
excited; clever and penetrating, seeing things very clearly in her mind,
and expressing herself well and in few but careful words; easily finding
a way out of a difficulty, and choosing her line of conduct in the most
embarrassing circumstances; light-minded and fickle; unstable, paying no
attention if the same thing were said several times over. For this
reason," continued the doctor, "I was obliged to alter what I had to say
from time to time, keeping her but a short time to one subject, to
which, however, I would return later, giving the matter a new appearance
and disguising it a little. She spoke little and well, with no sign of
learning and no affectation, always, mistress of herself, always
composed and saying just what she intended to say. No one would have
supposed from her face or from her conversation that she was so wicked
as she must have been, judging by her public avowal of the parricide. It
is surprising, therefore--and one must bow down before the judgment of
God when He leaves mankind to himself--that a mind evidently of some
grandeur, professing fearlessness in the most untoward and unexpected
events, an immovable firmness and a resolution to await and to endure
death if so it must be, should yet be so criminal as she was proved to
be by the parricide to which she confessed before her judges. She had
nothing in her face that would indicate such evil. She had very abundant
chestnut hair, a rounded, well-shaped face, blue eyes very pretty and
gentle, extraordinarily white skin, good nose, and no disagreeable
feature. Still, there was nothing unusually attractive in the face:
already she was a little wrinkled, and looked older than her age.
Something made me ask at our first interview how old she was.
'Monsieur,' she said, 'if I were to live till Sainte-Madeleine's day I
should be forty-six. On her day I came into the world, and I bear her
name. I was christened Marie-Madeleine. But near to the day as we now
are, I shall not live so long: I must end to-day, or at latest
to-morrow, and it will be a favour to give me the one day. For this
kindness I rely on your word.' Anyone would have thought she was quite
forty-eight. Though her face as a rule looked so gentle, whenever an
unhappy thought crossed her mind she showed it by a contortion that
frightened one at first, and from time to time I saw her face twitching
with anger, scorn, or ill-will. I forgot to say that she was very little
and thin. Such is, roughly given, a description of her body and mind,
which I very soon came to know, taking pains from the first to observe
her, so as to lose no time in acting on what I discovered."
As she was giving a first brief sketch of her life to her confessor, the
marquise remembered that he had not yet said mass, and reminded him
herself that it was time to do so, pointing out to him the chapel of the
Conciergerie. She begged him to say a mass for her and in honour of Our
Lady, so that she might gain the intercession of the Virgin at the
throne of God. The Virgin she had always taken for her patron saint, and
in the midst of her crimes and disorderly life had never ceased in her
peculiar devotion. As she could not go with the priest, she promised to
be with him at least in the spirit. He left her at half-past ten in the
morning, and after four hours spent alone together, she had been induced
by his piety and gentleness to make confessions that could not be wrung
from her by the threats of the judges or the fear of the question. The
holy and devout priest said his mass, praying the Lord's help for
confessor and penitent alike. After mass, as he returned, he learned
from a librarian called Seney, at the porter's lodge, as he was taking a
glass of wine, that judgment had been given, and that Madame de
Brinvilliers was to have her hand cut off. This severity--as a fact,
there was a mitigation of the sentence--made him feel yet more interest
in his penitent, and he hastened back to her side.
As soon as she saw the door open, she advanced calmly towards him, and
asked if he had truly prayed for her; and when he assured her of this,
she said, "Father, shall I have the consolation of receiving the
viaticum before I die?"
"Madame," replied the doctor, "if you are condemned to death, you must
die without that sacrament, and I should be deceiving you if I let you
hope for it. We have heard of the death of the constable of Saint-Paul
without his obtaining this grace, in spite of all his entreaties. He was
executed in sight of the towers of Notre-Dame. He offered his own
prayer, as you may offer yours, if you suffer the same fate. But that is
all: God, in His goodness, allows it to suffice."
"But," replied the marquise, "I believe M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Thou
communicated before their death."
"I think not, madame," said the doctor; "for it is not so said in the
pages of Montresor or any other book that describes their execution."
"But M. de Montmorency?" said she.
"But M. de Marillac?" replied the doctor.
In truth, if the favour had been granted to the first, it had been
refused to the second, and the marquise was specially struck thereby,
for M. de Marillac was of her own family, and she was very proud of the
connection. No doubt she was unaware that M. de Rohan had received the
sacrament at the midnight mass said for the salvation of his soul by
Father Bourdaloue, for she said nothing about it, and hearing the
doctor's answer, only sighed.
"Besides," he continued, "in recalling examples of the kind, madame, you
must not build upon them, please: they are extraordinary cases, not the
rule. You must expect no privilege; in your case the ordinary laws will
be carried out, and your fate will not differ from the fate of other
condemned persons. How would it have been had you lived and died before
the reign of Charles VI? Up to the reign of this prince, the guilty died
without confession, and it was only by this king's orders that there was
a relaxation of this severity. Besides, communion is not absolutely
necessary to salvation, and one may communicate spiritually in reading
the word, which is like the body; in uniting oneself with the Church,
which is the mystical substance of Christ; and in suffering for Him and
with Him, this last communion of agony that is your portion, madame, and
is the most perfect communion of all. If you heartily detest your crime
and love God with all your soul, if you have faith and charity, your
death is a martyrdom and a new baptism."
"Alas, my God," replied the marquise, "after what you tell me, now that
I know the executioner's hand was necessary to my salvation, what should
I have become had I died at Liege? Where should I have been now? And
even if I had not been taken, and had lived another twenty years away
from France, what would my death have been, since it needed the scaffold
for my purification? Now I see all my wrong-doings, and the worst of all
is the last--I mean my effrontery before the judges. But all is not yet
lost, God be thanked; and as I have one last examination to go through,
I desire to make a complete confession about my whole life. You, Sir, I
entreat specially to ask pardon on my behalf of the first president;
yesterday, when I was in the dock, he spoke very touching words to me,
and I was deeply moved; but I would not show it, thinking that if I made
no avowal the evidence would not be sufficiently strong to convict me.
But it has happened otherwise, and I must have scandalised my judges by
such an exhibition of hardihood. Now I recognise my fault, and will
repair it. Furthermore, sir, far from feeling angry with the president
for the judgment he to-day passes against me, far from complaining of
the prosecutor who has demanded it, I thank them both most humbly, for
my salvation depends upon it."
The doctor was about to answer, encouraging her, when the door opened:
it was dinner coming in, for it was now half-past one. The marquise
paused and watched what was brought in, as though she were playing
hostess in her own country house. She made the woman and the two men who
watched her sit down to the table, and turning to the doctor, said,
"Sir, you will not wish me to stand on ceremony with you; these good
people always dine with me to keep me company, and if you approve, we
will do the same to-day. This is the last meal," she added, addressing
them, "that I shall take with you." Then turning to the woman, "Poor
Madame du Rus," said she, "I have been a trouble to you for a long time;
but have a little patience, and you will soon be rid of me. To-morrow
you can go to Dravet; you will have time, for in seven or eight hours
from now there will be nothing more to do for me, and I shall be in the
gentleman's hands; you will not be allowed near me. After then, you can
go away for good; for I don't suppose you will have the heart to see me
executed." All this she said quite calmly, but not with pride. From time
to time her people tried to hide their tears, and she made a sign of
pitying them. Seeing that the dinner was on the table and nobody eating,
she invited the doctor to take some soup, asking him to excuse the
cabbage in it, which made it a common soup and unworthy of his
acceptance. She herself took some soup and two eggs, begging her
fellow-guests to excuse her for not serving them, pointing out that no
knife or fork had been set in her place.
When the meal was almost half finished, she begged the doctor to let her
drink his health. He replied by drinking hers, and she seemed to be
quite charmed by, his condescension. "To-morrow is a fast day," said
she, setting down her glass, "and although it will be a day of great
fatigue for me, as I shall have to undergo the question as well as
death, I intend to obey the orders of the Church and keep my fast."
"Madame," replied the doctor, "if you needed soup to keep you up, you
would not have to feel any scruple, for it will be no self-indulgence,
but a necessity, and the Church does not exact fasting in such a case."
"Sir," replied the marquise, "I will make no difficulty about it, if it
is necessary and if you order it; but it will not be needed, I think: if
I have some soup this evening for supper, and some more made stronger
than usual a little before midnight, it will be enough to last me
through to-morrow, if I have two fresh eggs to take after the question."
"In truth," says the priest in the account we give here, "I was alarmed
by this calm behaviour. I trembled when I heard her give orders to the
concierge that the soup was to be made stronger than usual and that she
was to have two cups before midnight. When dinner was over, she was
given pen and ink, which she had already asked for, and told me that she
had a letter to write before I took up my pen to put down what she
wanted to dictate." The letter, she explained, which was difficult to
write, was to her husband. She would feel easier when it was written.
For her husband she expressed so much affection, that the doctor,
knowing what had passed, felt much surprised, and wishing to try her,
said that the affection was not reciprocated, as her husband had
abandoned her the whole time of the trial. The marquise interrupted him:
"My father, we must not judge things too quickly or merely by
appearances. M. de Brinvilliers has always concerned himself with me,
and has only failed in doing what it was impossible to do. Our
interchange of letters never ceased while I was out of the kingdom; do
not doubt but that he would have come to Paris as soon as he knew I was
in prison, had the state of his affairs allowed him to come safely. But
you must know that he is deeply in debt, and could not appear in Paris
without being arrested. Do not suppose that he is without feeling for
me."
She then began to write, and when her letter was finished she handed it
to the doctor, saying, "You, sir, are the lord and master of all my
sentiments from now till I die; read this letter, and if you find
anything that should be altered, tell me."