"When I am on the point of yielding up my soul to God, I wish to assure
you of my affection for you, which I shall feel until the last moment of
my life. I ask your pardon for all that I have done contrary to my duty.
I am dying a shameful death, the work of my enemies: I pardon them with
all my heart, and I pray you to do the same. I also beg you to forgive
me for any ignominy that may attach to you herefrom; but consider that
we are only here for a time, and that you may soon be forced to render
an account to God of all your actions, and even your idle words, just as
I must do now. Be mindful of your worldly affairs, and of our children,
and give them a good example; consult Madame Marillac and Madame Couste.
Let as many prayers as possible be said for me, and believe that in my
death I am still ever yours, D'AUBRAY."
The doctor read this letter carefully; then he told her that one of her
phrases was not right--the one about her enemies. "For you have no other
enemies," said he, "than your own crimes. Those whom you call your
enemies are those who love the memory of your father and brothers, whom
you ought to have loved more than they do."
"But those who have sought my death," she replied, "are my enemies, are
they not, and is it not a Christian act to forgive them?"
"Madame," said the doctor, "they are not your enemies, but you are the
enemy of the human race: nobody can think without, horror of your
crimes."
"And so, my father," she replied, "I feel no resentment towards them,
and I desire to meet in Paradise those who have been chiefly
instrumental in taking me and bringing me here."
"Madame," said the doctor, "what mean you by this? Such words are used
by some when they desire people's death. Explain, I beg, what you mean."
"Heaven forbid," cried the marquise, "that you should understand me
thus! Nay, may God grant them long prosperity in this world and infinite
glory in the next! Dictate a new letter, and I will write just what you
please."
When a fresh letter had been written, the marquise would attend to
nothing but her confession, and begged the doctor to take the pen for
her. "I have done so many wrong thing's," she said, "that if I only gave
you a verbal confession, I should never be sure I had given a complete
account."
Then they both knelt down to implore the grace of the Holy Spirit. They
said a 'Veni Creator' and a 'Salve Regina', and the doctor then rose and
seated himself at a table, while the marquise, still on her knees, began
a Confiteor and made her whole confession. At nine o'clock, Father
Chavigny, who had brought Doctor Pirot in the morning, came in again.
The marquise seemed annoyed, but still put a good face upon it. "My
father," said she, "I did not expect to see you so late; pray leave me a
few minutes longer with the doctor." He retired. "Why has he come?"
asked the marquise.
"It is better for you not to be alone," said the doctor.
"Then do you mean to leave me?" cried the marquise, apparently
terrified.
"Madame, I will do as you wish," he answered; "but you would be acting
kindly if you could spare me for a few hours. I might go home, and
Father Chavigny would stay with you."
"Ah!" she cried, wringing her hands, "you promised you would not leave
me till I am dead, and now you go away. Remember, I never saw you before
this morning, but since then you have become more to me than any of my
oldest friends."
"Madame," said the good doctor, "I will do all I can to please you. If I
ask for a little rest, it is in order that I may resume my place with
more vigour to-morrow, and render you better service than I otherwise
could. If I take no rest, all I say or do must suffer. You count on the
execution for tomorrow; I do not know if you are right; but if so,
to-morrow will be your great and decisive day, and we shall both need
all the strength we have. We have already been working for thirteen or
fourteen hours for the good of your salvation; I am not a strong man,
and I think you should realise, madame, that if you do not let me rest a
little, I may not be able to stay with you to the end."
"Sir," said the marquise, "you have closed my mouth. To-morrow is for me
a far more important day than to-day, and I have been wrong: of course
you must rest to-night. Let us just finish this one thing, and read over
what we have written."
It was done, and the doctor would have retired; but the supper came in,
and the marquise would not let him go without taking something. She told
the concierge to get a carriage and charge it to her. She took a cup of
soup and two eggs, and a minute later the concierge came back to say the
carriage was at the door. Then the marquise bade the doctor good-night,
making him promise to pray for her and to be at the Conciergerie by six
o'clock the next morning. This he promised her.
The day following, as he went into the tower, he found Father Chavigny,
who had taken his place with the marquise, kneeling and praying with
her. The priest was weeping, but she was calm, and received the doctor
in just the same way as she had let him go. When Father Chavigny saw
him, he retired. The marquise begged Chavigny to pray for her, and
wanted to make him promise to return, but that he would not do. She then
turned to the doctor, saying, "Sir, you are punctual, and I cannot
complain that you have broken your promise; but oh, how the time has
dragged, and how long it has seemed before the clock struck six!"
"I am here, madame," said the doctor; "but first of all, how have you
spent the night?"
"I have written three letters," said the marquise, "and, short as they
were, they took a long time to write: one was to my sister, one to
Madame de Marillac, and the third to M. Couste. I should have liked to
show them to you, but Father Chavigny offered to take charge of them,
and as he had approved of them, I could not venture to suggest any
doubts. After the letters were written, we had some conversation and
prayer; but when the father took up his breviary and I my rosary with
the same intention, I felt so weary that I asked if I might lie on my
bed; he said I might, and I had two good hours' sleep without dreams or
any sort of uneasiness; when I woke we prayed together, and had just
finished when you came back."
"Well, madame," said the doctor, "if you will, we can pray again; kneel
down, and let us say the 'Veni Sancte Spiritus'."
She obeyed, and said the prayer with much unction and piety. The prayer
finished, M. Pirot was about to take up the pen to go on with the
confession, when she said, "Pray let me submit to you one question which
is troubling me. Yesterday you gave me great hope of the mercy of God;
but I cannot presume to hope I shall be saved without spending a long
time in purgatory; my crime is far too atrocious to be pardoned on any
other conditions; and when I have attained to a love of God far greater
than I can feel here, I should not expect to be saved before my stains
have been purified by fire, without suffering the penalty that my sins
have deserved. But I have been told that the flames of purgatory where
souls are burned for a time are just the same as the flames of hell
where those who are damned burn through all eternity tell me, then, how
can a soul awaking in purgatory at the moment of separation from this
body be sure that she is not really in hell? how can she know that the
flames that burn her and consume not will some day cease? For the
torment she suffers is like that of the damned, and the flames wherewith
she is burned are even as the flames of hell. This I would fain know,
that at this awful moment I may feel no doubt, that I may know for
certain whether I dare hope or must despair."
"Madame," replied the doctor, "you are right, and God is too just to add
the horror of uncertainty to His rightful punishments. At that moment
when the soul quits her earthly body the judgment of God is passed upon
her: she hears the sentence of pardon or of doom; she knows whether she
is in the state of grace or of mortal sin; she sees whether she is to be
plunged forever into hell, or if God sends her for a time to purgatory.
This sentence, madame, you will learn at the very instant when the
executioner's axe strikes you; unless, indeed, the fire of charity has
so purified you in this life that you may pass, without any purgatory at
all, straight to the home of the blessed who surround the throne of the
Lord, there to receive a recompense for earthly martyrdom."
"Sir," replied the marquise, "I have such faith in all you say that I
feel I understand it all now, and I am satisfied."
The doctor and the marquise then resumed the confession that was
interrupted the night before. The marquise had during the night
recollected certain articles that she wanted to add. So they continued,
the doctor making her pause now and then in the narration of the heavier
offences to recite an act of contrition.
After an hour and a half they came to tell her to go down. The registrar
was waiting to read her the sentence. She listened very calmly,
kneeling, only moving her head; then, with no alteration in her voice,
she said, "In a moment: we will have one word more, the doctor and I,
and then I am at your disposal." She then continued to dictate the rest
of her confession. When she reached the end, she begged him to offer a
short prayer with her, that God might help her to appear with such
becoming contrition before her judges as should atone for her scandalous
effrontery. She then took up her cloak, a prayer-book which Father
Chavigny had left with her, and followed the concierge, who led her to
the torture chamber, where her sentence was to be read.
First, there was an examination which lasted five hours. The marquise
told all she had promised to tell, denying that she had any accomplices,
and affirming that she knew nothing of the composition of the poisons
she had administered, and nothing of their antidotes. When this was
done, and the judges saw that they could extract nothing further, they
signed to the registrar to read the sentence. She stood to hear it: it
was as follows:
"That by the finding of the court, d'Aubray de Brinvilliers is convicted
of causing the death by poison of Maitre Dreux d'Aubray, her father, and
of the two Maitres d'Aubray, her brothers, one a civil lieutenant, the
other a councillor to the Parliament, also of attempting the life of
Therese d'Aubray, her sister; in punishment whereof the court has
condemned and does condemn the said d'Aubray de Brinvilliers to make the
rightful atonement before the great gate of the church of Paris, whither
she shall be conveyed in a tumbril, barefoot, a rope on her neck,
holding in her hands a burning torch two pounds in weight; and there on
her knees she shall say and declare that maliciously, with desire for
revenge and seeking their goods, she did poison her father, cause to be
poisoned her two brothers, and attempt the life of her sister, whereof
she doth repent, asking pardon of God, of the king, and of the judges;
and when this is done, she shall be conveyed and carried in the same
tumbril to the Place de Greve of this town, there to have her head cut
off on a scaffold to be set up for the purpose at that place; afterwards
her body to be burnt and the ashes scattered; and first she is to be
subjected to the question ordinary and extraordinary, that she may
reveal the names of her accomplices. She is declared to be deprived of
all successions from her said father, brothers, and sister, from the
date of the several crimes; and all her goods are confiscated to the
proper persons; and the sum of 4000 livres shall be paid out of her
estate to the king, and 400 livres to the Church for prayers to be said
on behalf of the poisoned persons; and all the costs shall be paid,
including those of Amelin called Lachaussee. In Parliament, 16th July
1676."
The marquise heard her sentence without showing any sign of fear or
weakness. When it was finished, she said to the registrar, "Will you,
sir, be so kind as to read it again? I had not expected the tumbril, and
I was so much struck by that that I lost the thread of what followed."
The registrar read the sentence again. From that moment she was the
property of the executioner, who approached her. She knew him by the
cord he held in his hands, and extended her own, looking him over coolly
from head to foot without a word. The judges then filed out, disclosing
as they did so the various apparatus of the question. The marquise
firmly gazed upon the racks and ghastly rings, on which so many had been
stretched crying and screaming. She noticed the three buckets of water
[Note: The torture with the water was thus administered. There were
eight vessels, each containing 2 pints of water. Four of these were
given for the ordinary, and eight for the extraordinary. The executioner
inserted a horn into the patient's mouth, and if he shut his teeth,
forced him to open them by pinching his nose with the finger and thumb.]
prepared for her, and turned to the registrar--for she would not address
the executioner--saying, with a smile, "No doubt all this water is to
drown me in? I hope you don't suppose that a person of my size could
swallow it all." The executioner said not a word, but began taking off
her cloak and all her other garments, until she was completely naked. He
then led her up to the wall and made her sit on the rack of the ordinary
question, two feet from the ground. There she was again asked to give
the names of her accomplices, the composition of the poison and its
antidote; but she made the same reply as to the doctor, only adding, "If
you do not believe me, you have my body in your hands, and you can
torture me."
The registrar signed to the executioner to do his duty. He first
fastened the feet of the marquise to two rings close together fixed to a
board; then making her lie down, he fastened her wrists to two other
rings in the wall, distant about three feet from each other. The head
was at the same height as the feet, and the body, held up on a trestle,
described a half-curve, as though lying over a wheel. To increase the
stretch of the limbs, the man gave two turns to a crank, which pushed
the feet, at first about twelve inches from the rings, to a distance of
six inches. And here we may leave our narrative to reproduce the
official report.
"On the small trestle, while she was being stretched, she said several
times, 'My God! you are killing me! And I only spoke the truth.'
"The water was given: she turned and twisted, saying, 'You are killing
me!'
"The water was again given.
"Admonished to name her accomplices, she said there was only one man,
who had asked her for poison to get rid of his wife, but he was dead.
"The water was given; she moved a little, but would not say anything.
"Admonished to say why, if she had no accomplice, she had written from
the Conciergerie to Penautier, begging him to do all he could for her,
and to remember that his interests in this matter were the same as her
own, she said that she never knew Penautier had had any understanding
with Sainte-Croix about the poisons, and it would be a lie to say
otherwise; but when a paper was found in Sainte-Croix's box that
concerned Penautier, she remembered how often she had seen him at the
house, and thought it possible that the friendship might have included
some business about the poisons; that, being in doubt on the point, she
risked writing a letter as though she were sure, for by doing so she was
not prejudicing her own case; for either Penautier was an accomplice of
Sainte-Croix or he was not. If he was, he would suppose the marquise
knew enough to accuse him, and would accordingly do his best to save
her; if he was not, the letter was a letter wasted, and that was all.
"The water was again given; she turned and twisted much, but said that
on this subject she had said all she possibly could; if she said
anything else, it would be untrue."
The ordinary question was at an end. The marquise had now taken half the
quantity of water she had thought enough to drown her. The executioner
paused before he proceeded to the extraordinary question. Instead of the
trestle two feet and a half high on which she lay, they passed under her
body a trestle of three and a half feet, which gave the body a greater
arch, and as this was done without lengthening the ropes, her limbs were
still further stretched, and the bonds, tightly straining at wrists and
ankles, penetrated the flesh and made the blood run. The question began
once more, interrupted by the demands of the registrar and the answers
of the sufferer. Her cries seemed not even to be heard.
"On the large trestle, during the stretching, she said several times, 'O
God, you tear me to, pieces! Lord, pardon me! Lord, have mercy upon me!'
"Asked if she had nothing more to tell regarding her accomplices, she
said they might kill her, but she would not tell a lie that would
destroy her soul.
"The water was given, she moved about a little, but would not speak.
"Admonished that she should tell the composition of the poisons and
their antidotes, she said that she did not know what was in them; the
only thing she could recall was toads; that Sainte-Croix never revealed
his secret to her; that she did not believe he made them himself, but
had them prepared by Glazer; she seemed to remember that some of them
contained nothing but rarefied arsenic; that as to an antidote, she knew
of no other than milk; and Sainte-Croix had told her that if one had
taken milk in the morning, and on the first onset of the poison took
another glassful, one would have nothing to fear.
"Admonished to say if she could add anything further, she said she had
now told everything; and if they killed her, they could not extract
anything more.
"More water was given; she writhed a little, and said she was dead, but
nothing more.
"More water was given; she writhed more violently, but would say no
more.
"Yet again water was given; writhing and twisting, she said, with a deep
groan, 'O my God, I am killed!' but would speak no more."
Then they tortured her no further: she was let down, untied, and placed
before the fire in the usual manner. While there, close to the fire,
lying on the mattress, she was visited by the good doctor, who, feeling
he could not bear to witness the spectacle just described, had asked her
leave to retire, that he might say a mass for her, that God might grant
her patience and courage. It is plain that the good priest had not
prayed in vain.
"Ah," said the marquise, when she perceived him, "I have long been
desiring to see you again, that you might comfort me. My torture has
been very long and very painful, but this is the last time I shall have
to treat with men; now all is with God for the future. See my hands,
sir, and my feet, are they not torn and wounded? Have not my
executioners smitten me in the same places where Christ was smitten?"
"And therefore, madame," replied the priest, "these sufferings now are
your happiness; each torture is one step nearer to heaven. As you say,
you are now for God alone; all your thoughts and hopes must be fastened
upon Him; we must pray to Him, like the penitent king, to give you a
place among His elect; and since nought that is impure can pass thither,
we must strive, madame, to purify you from all that might bar the way to
heaven."
The marquise rose with the doctor's aid, for she could scarcely stand;
tottering, she stepped forward between him and the executioner, who took
charge of her immediately after the sentence was read, and was not
allowed to leave her before it was completely carried out. They all
three entered the chapel and went into the choir, where the doctor and
the marquise knelt in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. At that moment
several persons appeared in the nave, drawn by curiosity. They could not
be turned out, so the executioner, to save the marquise from being
annoyed, shut the gate of the choir, and let the patient pass behind the
altar. There she sat down in a chair, and the doctor on a seat opposite;
then he first saw, by the light of the chapel window, how greatly
changed she was. Her face, generally so pale, was inflamed, her eyes
glowing and feverish, all her body involuntarily trembling. The doctor
would have spoken a few words of consolation, but she did not attend.
"Sir," she said, "do you know that my sentence is an ignominious one? Do
you know there is fire in the sentence?"
The doctor gave no answer; but, thinking she needed something, bade the
gaoler to bring her wine. A minute later he brought it in a cup, and the
doctor handed it to the marquise, who moistened her lips and then gave
it back. She then noticed that her neck was uncovered, and took out her
handkerchief to cover it, asking the gaoler for a pin to fasten it with.
When he was slow in finding a pin, looking on his person for it, she
fancied that he feared she would choke herself, and shaking her head,
said, with a smile, "You have nothing to fear now; and here is the
doctor, who will pledge his word that I will do myself no mischief."
"Madame," said the gaoler, handing her the pin she wanted, "I beg your
pardon for keeping you waiting. I swear I did not distrust you; if
anyone distrusts you, it is not I."
Then kneeling before her, he begged to kiss her hand. She gave it, and
asked him to pray to God for her. "Ah yes," he cried, sobbing, "with all
my heart." She then fastened her dress as best she could with her hands
tied, and when the gaoler had gone and she was alone with the doctor,
said:--
"Did you not hear what I said, sir? I told you there was fire in my
sentence. And though it is only after death that my body is to be burnt,
it will always be a terrible disgrace on my memory. I am saved the pain
of being burnt alive, and thus, perhaps, saved from a death of despair,
but the shamefulness is the same, and it is that I think of."
"Madame," said the doctor, "it in no way affects your soul's salvation
whether your body is cast into the fire and reduced to ashes or whether
it is buried in the ground and eaten by worms, whether it is drawn on a
hurdle and thrown upon a dung-heap, or embalmed with Oriental perfumes
and laid in a rich man's tomb. Whatever may be your end, your body will
arise on the appointed day, and if Heaven so will, it will come forth
from its ashes more glorious than a royal corpse lying at this moment in
a gilded casket. Obsequies, madame, are for those who survive, not for
the dead."
A sound was heard at the door of the choir. The doctor went to see what
it was, and found a man who insisted on entering, all but fighting with
the executioner. The doctor approached and asked what was the matter.
The man was a saddler, from whom the marquise had bought a carriage
before she left France; this she had partly paid for, but still owed him
two hundred livres. He produced the note he had had from her, on which
was a faithful record of the sums she had paid on account. The marquise
at this point called out, not knowing what was going on, and the doctor
and executioner went to her. "Have they come to fetch me already?" said
she. "I am not well prepared just at this moment; but never mind, I am
ready."
The doctor reassured her, and told her what was going on. "The man is
quite right," she said to the executioner; "tell him I will give orders
as far as I can about the money." Then, seeing the executioner retiring,
she said to the doctor, "Must I go now, sir? I wish they would give me a
little more time; for though I am ready, as I told you, I am not really
prepared. Forgive me, father; it is the question and the sentence that
have upset me it is this fire burning in my eyes like hell-flames.
"Had they left me with you all this time, there would now be better hope
of my salvation."
"Madame," said the doctor, "you will probably have all the time before
nightfall to compose yourself and think what remains for you to do."
"Ah, sir," she replied, with a smile, "do not think they will show so
much consideration for a poor wretch condemned to be burnt. That does
not depend on ourselves; but as soon as everything is ready, they will
let us know, and we must start."
"Madame," said the doctor, "I am certain that they will give you the
time you need."
"No, no," she replied abruptly and feverishly, "no, I will not keep them
waiting. As soon as the tumbril is at this door, they have only to tell
me, and I go down."
"Madame," said he, "I would not hold you back if I found you prepared to
stand before the face of God, for in your situation it is right to ask
for no time, and to go when the moment is come; but not everyone is so
ready as Christ was, who rose from prayer and awaked His disciples that
He might leave the garden and go out to meet His enemies. You at this
moment are weak, and if they come for you just now I should resist your
departure."
"Be calm; the time is not yet come," said the executioner, who had heard
this talk. He knew his statement must be believed, and wished as far as
possible to reassure the marquise. "There is no hurry, and we cannot
start for another two of three hours."
This assurance calmed the marquise somewhat, and she thanked the man.
Then turning to the doctor, she said, "Here is a rosary that I would
rather should not fall into this person's hands. Not that he could not
make good use of it; for, in spite of their trade, I fancy that these
people are Christians like ourselves. But I should prefer to leave this
to somebody else."
"Madame," said the doctor, "if you will tell me your wishes in this
matter, I will see that they are carried out."
"Alas!" she said, "there is no one but my sister; and I fear lest she,
remembering my crime towards her, may be too horrified to touch anything
that belonged to me. If she did not mind, it would be a great comfort to
me to think she would wear it after my death, and that the sight of it
would remind her to pray for me; but after what has passed, the rosary
could hardly fail to revive an odious recollection. My God, my God! I am
desperately wicked; can it be that you will pardon me?"
"Madame," replied the doctor, "I think you are mistaken about Mlle,
d'Aubray. You may see by her letter what are her feelings towards you,
and you must pray with this rosary up to the very end. Let not your
prayers be interrupted or distracted, for no guilty penitent must cease
from prayer; and I, madame, will engage to deliver the rosary where it
will be gladly received."
And the marquise, who had been constantly distracted since the morning,
was now, thanks to the patient goodness of the doctor, able to return
with her former fervour to her prayers. She prayed till seven o'clock.
As the clock struck, the executioner without a word came and stood
before her; she saw that her moment had come, and said to the doctor,
grasping his arm, "A little longer; just a few moments, I entreat."
"Madame," said the doctor, rising, "we will now adore the divine blood
of the Sacrament, praying that you may be thus cleansed from all soil
and sin that may be still in your heart. Thus shall you gain the respite
you desire."
The executioner then tied tight the cords round her hands that he had
let loose before, and she advanced pretty firmly and knelt before the
altar, between the doctor and the chaplain. The latter was in his
surplice, and chanted a 'Veni Creator, Salve Regina, and Tantum ergo'.
These prayers over, he pronounced the blessing of the Holy Sacrament,
while the marquise knelt with her face upon the ground. The executioner
then went forward to get ready a shirt, and she made her exit from the
chapel, supported on the left by the doctor's arm, on the right by the
executioner's assistant. Thus proceeding, she first felt embarrassment
and confusion. Ten or twelve people were waiting outside, and as she
suddenly confronted them, she made a step backward, and with her hands,
bound though they were, pulled the headdress down to cover half her
face. She passed through a small door, which was closed behind her, and
then found herself between the two doors alone, with the doctor and the
executioner's man. Here the rosary, in consequence of her violent
movement to cover her face, came undone, and several beads fell on the
floor. She went on, however, without observing this; but the doctor
stopped her, and he and the man stooped down and picked up all the
beads, which they put into her hand. Thanking them humbly for this
attention, she said to the man, "Sir, I know I have now no worldly
possessions, that all I have upon me belongs to you, and I may not give
anything away without your consent; but I ask you kindly to allow me to
give this chaplet to the doctor before I die: you will not be much the
loser, for it is of no value, and I am giving it to him for my sister.
Kindly let me do this."
"Madame," said the man, "it is the custom for us to get all the property
of the condemned; but you are mistress of all you have, and if the thing
were of the very greatest value you might dispose of it as you pleased."
The doctor, whose arm she held, felt her shiver at this gallantry, which
for her, with her natural haughty disposition, must have been the worst
humiliation imaginable; but the movement was restrained, and her face
gave no sign. She now came to the porch of the Conciergerie, between the
court and the first door, and there she was made to sit down, so as to
be put into the right condition for making the 'amende honorable'. Each
step brought her nearer to the scaffold, and so did each incident cause
her more uneasiness. Now she turned round desperately, and perceived the
executioner holding a shirt in his hand. The door of the vestibule
opened, and about fifty people came in, among them the Countess of
Soissons, Madame du Refuge, Mlle. de Scudery, M. de Roquelaure, and the
Abbe de Chimay. At the sight the marquise reddened with shame, and
turning to the doctor, said, "Is this man to strip me again, as he did
in the question chamber? All these preparations are very cruel; and, in
spite of myself, they divert my thoughts, from God."
Low as her voice was, the executioner heard, and reassured her, saying
that they would take nothing off, only putting the shirt over her other
clothes.
He then approached, and the marquise, unable to speak to the doctor with
a man on each side of her, showed him by her looks how deeply she felt
the ignominy of her situation. Then, when the shirt had been put on, for
which operation her hands had to be untied, the man raised the headdress
which she had pulled down, and tied it round her neck, then fastened her
hands together with one rope and put another round her waist, and yet
another round her neck; then, kneeling before her, he took off her shoes
and stockings. Then she stretched out her hands to the doctor.
"Oh, sir," she cried, "in God's name, you see what they have done to me!
Come and comfort me."
The doctor came at once, supporting her head upon his breast, trying to
comfort her; but she, in a tone of bitter lamentation, gazing at the
crowd, who devoured her with all their eyes, cried, "Oh, sir, is not
this a strange, barbarous curiosity?"
"Madame," said he, the tears in his eyes, "do not look at these eager
people from the point of view of their curiosity and barbarity, though
that is real enough, but consider it part of the humiliation sent by God
for the expiation of your crimes. God, who was innocent, was subject to
very different opprobrium, and yet suffered all with joy; for, as
Tertullian observes, He was a victim fattened on the joys of suffering
alone."
As the doctor spoke these words, the executioner placed in the
marquise's hands the lighted torch which she was to carry to Notre-Dame,
there to make the 'amende honorable', and as it was too heavy, weighing
two pounds, the doctor supported it with his right hand, while the
registrar read her sentence aloud a second time. The doctor did all in
his power to prevent her from hearing this by speaking unceasingly of
God. Still she grew frightfully pale at the words, "When this is done,
she shall be conveyed on a tumbril, barefoot, a cord round her neck,
holding in her hands a burning torch two pounds in weight," and the
doctor could feel no doubt that in spite of his efforts she had heard.
It became still worse when she reached the threshold of the vestibule
and saw the great crowd waiting in the court. Then her face worked
convulsively, and crouching down, as though she would bury her feet in
the earth, she addressed the doctor in words both plaintive and wild:
"Is it possible that, after what is now happening, M. de Brinvilliers
can endure to go on living?"
"Madame," said the doctor, "when our Lord was about to leave His
disciples, He did not ask God to remove them from this earth, but to
preserve them from all sin. 'My Father,' He said, 'I ask not that You
take them from the world, but keep them safe from evil.' If, madame, you
pray for M. de Brinvilliers, let it be only that he may be kept in
grace, if he has it, and may attain to it if he has it not."
But the words were useless: at that moment the humiliation was too great
and too public; her face contracted, her eyebrows knit, flames darted
from her eyes, her mouth was all twisted. Her whole appearance was
horrible; the devil was once more in possession. During this paroxysm,
which lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, Lebrun, who stood near, got
such a vivid impression of her face that the following night he could
not sleep, and with the sight of it ever before his eyes made the fine
drawing which--is now in the Louvre, giving to the figure the head of a
tiger, in order to show that the principal features were the same, and
the whole resemblance very striking.
The delay in progress was caused by the immense crowd blocking the
court, only pushed aside by archers on horseback, who separated the
people. The marquise now went out, and the doctor, lest the sight of the
people should completely distract her, put a crucifix in her hand,
bidding her fix her gaze upon it. This advice she followed till they
gained the gate into the street where the tumbril was waiting; then she
lifted her eyes to see the shameful object. It was one of the smallest
of carts, still splashed with mud and marked by the stones it had
carried, with no seat, only a little straw at the bottom. It was drawn
by a wretched horse, well matching the disgraceful conveyance.
The executioner bade her get in first, which she did very rapidly, as if
to escape observation. There she crouched like a wild beast, in the left
corner, on the straw, riding backwards. The doctor sat beside her on the
right. Then the executioner got in, shutting the door behind him, and
sat opposite her, stretching his legs between the doctor's. His man,
whose business it was to guide the horse, sat on the front, back to back
with the doctor and the marquise, his feet stuck out on the shafts. Thus
it is easy to understand how Madame de Sevigne, who was on the Pont
Notre-Dame, could see nothing but the headdress of the marquise as she
was driven to Notre-Dame.
The cortege had only gone a few steps, when the face of the marquise,
for a time a little calmer, was again convulsed. From her eyes, fixed
constantly on the crucifix, there darted a flaming glance, then came a
troubled and frenzied look which terrified the doctor. He knew she must
have been struck by something she saw, and, wishing to calm her, asked
what it was.
"Nothing, nothing," she replied quickly, looking towards him; "it was
nothing."
"But, madame," said he, "you cannot give the lie to your own eyes; and a
minute ago I saw a fire very different from the fire of love, which only
some displeasing sight can have provoked. What may this be? Tell me,
pray; for you promised to tell me of any sort of temptation that might
assail you."
"Sir," she said, "I will do so, but it is nothing." Then, looking
towards the executioner, who, as we know, sat facing the doctor, she
said, "Put me in front of you, please; hide that man from me." And she
stretched out her hands towards a man who was following the tumbril on
horseback, and so dropped the torch, which the doctor took, and the
crucifix, which fell on the floor. The executioner looked back, and then
turned sideways as she wished, nodding and saying, "Oh yes, I
understand." The doctor pressed to know what it meant, and she said, "It
is nothing worth telling you, and it is a weakness in me not to be able
to bear the sight of a man who has ill-used me. The man who touched the
back of the tumbril is Desgrais, who arrested me at Liege, and treated
me so badly all along the road. When I saw him, I could not control
myself, as you noticed."
"Madame," said the doctor, "I have heard of him, and you yourself spoke
of him in confession; but the man was sent to arrest you, and was in a
responsible position, so that he had to guard you closely and
rigorously; even if he had been more severe, he would only have been
carrying out his orders. Jesus Christ, madame, could but have regarded
His executioners as ministers of iniquity, servants of injustice, who
added of their own accord every indignity they could think of; yet all
along the way He looked on them with patience and more than patience,
and in His death He prayed for them."
In the heart of the marquise a hard struggle was passing, and this was
reflected on her face; but it was only for a moment, and after a last
convulsive shudder she was again calm and serene; then she said:--
"Sir, you are right, and I am very wrong to feel such a fancy as this:
may God forgive me; and pray remember this fault on the scaffold, when
you give me the absolution you promise, that this too may be pardoned
me." Then she turned to the executioner and said, "Please sit where you
were before, that I may see M. Desgrais." The man hesitated, but on a
sign from the doctor obeyed. The marquise looked fully at Desgrais for
some time, praying for him; then, fixing her eyes on the crucifix, began
to pray for herself: this incident occurred in front of the church of
Sainte-Genevieve des Ardents.
But, slowly as it moved, the tumbril steadily advanced, and at last
reached the place of Notre-Dame. The archers drove back the crowding
people, and the tumbril went up to the steps, and there stopped. The
executioner got down, removed the board at the back, held out his arms
to the marquise, and set her down on the pavement. The doctor then got
down, his legs quite numb from the cramped position he had been in since
they left the Conciergerie. He mounted the church steps and stood behind
the marquise, who herself stood on the square, with the registrar on her
right, the executioner on her left, and a great crowd of people behind
her, inside the church, all the doors being thrown open. She was made to
kneel, and in her hands was placed the lighted torch, which up to that
time the doctor had helped to carry. Then the registrar read the 'amende
honorable' from a written paper, and she began to say it after him, but
in so low a voice that the executioner said loudly, "Speak out as he
does; repeat every word. Louder, louder!" Then she raised her voice, and
loudly and firmly recited the following apology.
"I confess that, wickedly and for revenge, I poisoned my father and my
brothers, and attempted to poison my sister, to obtain possession of
their goods, and I ask pardon of God, of the king, and of my country's
laws."
The 'amende honorable' over, the executioner again carried her to the
tumbril, not giving her the torch any more: the doctor sat beside her:
all was just as before, and the tumbril went on towards La Greve. From
that moment, until she arrived at the scaffold, she never took her eyes
off the crucifix, which the doctor held before her the whole time,
exhorting her with religious words, trying to divert her attention from
the terrible noise which the people made around the car, a murmur
mingled with curses.
When they reached the Place de Greve, the tumbril stopped at a little
distance from the scaffold. Then the registrar M. Drouet, came up on
horseback, and, addressing the marquise, said, "Madame, have you nothing
more to say? If you wish to make any declaration, the twelve
commissaries are here at hand, ready to receive it."
"You see, madame," said the doctor, "we are now at the end of our
journey, and, thank God, you have not lost your power of endurance on
the road; do not destroy the effect of all you have suffered and all you
have yet to suffer by concealing what you know, if perchance you do know
more than you have hitherto said."
"I have told all I know," said the marquise, "and there is no more I can
say."
"Repeat these words in a loud voice," said the doctor, "so that
everybody may hear."