April 29 and July 16, 1676, the case occupied twenty-two sittings. The
marchioness displayed an energy and force of will which was a constant
subject of astonishment to her judges. She denied everything
obstinately, and contradicted her accusers in a hard and haughty voice,
but never failed in the respect due to the judges--a respect in which
pride and nobility mingled, and which made the audience feel that she
considered herself at least the equal of the men judging her.
When they came to read the account of the examination at Mézières on
April 17, there occurred a scene which was not unexpected. The following
is an extract from the official report of the proceedings:--
'At the reading of these interrogatories, the first president wished to
intervene and postpone it until after the confession had been read.
This raised a difficulty, and a discussion ensued as to whether it was
allowable to question the lady on these particular crimes, such as
sodomy and incest, which being on this occasion only a matter of
confession, it seemed that they should be kept a great secret; some were
for, others against.
'Monsieur de Palluau said that, having consulted the law-doctors, he had
been told that, a confession having been found _en route_, it ought to
have been burnt under penalty, as some believed, of mortal sin.
'Other doctors held that the said Palluau, in his capacity as judge, had
had no choice but to give a description of the confession, and to
interrogate her on the aforesaid paper beginning, _I accuse myself, my
father,_ etc.
'The first president held that the question was extremely uncertain, yet
he thought the papers ought to be read.
'The President de Mesmes held that this sort of confession had been
utilised in Christian countries, and quoted the epistle of St. Leo,
showing that the judges had made use of them.
'Nivelle, advocate, urged the contrary opinion.
'The first president answered that the epistle of St. Leo was utterly
opposed to the contention of Monsieur de Mesmes, and that there was
nothing for it but to resume the reading.
'The question having been argued, the reading was continued.
'Asked if she had not made her confession, and to whom she ought to
confess, she answered that she had had no intention whatever of making a
confession, and knew no priests or monks to whom she ought to confess.
'Monsieur Roujault reported in the afternoon that he had put the
question to Monsieur Benjamin, an ecclesiastical judge, to Monsieur du
Saussoy and other casuists, and to Monsieur de Lestocq, doctor and
professor in theology, who all agreed that this paper should be seen,
and Madame de Brinvilliers questioned on it; that the secrecy of the
confessional could only be between the confessor and the penitent, and a
paper having been found purporting to be a confession, it might be read
by the judges.'
On July 13, 1676, a terrible deposition was heard--that of Briancourt,
who related in detail his mistress's life. He spoke in a voice broken by
emotion. The marchioness contradicted him with the same cold, haughty
impassivity. 'Her spirit quite overawes us,' said President Lamoignon.
'We worked yesterday at her case till eight o'clock in the evening; she
was confronted with Briancourt for thirteen hours, and to-day another
five, and she has gone through both ordeals with surprising courage. No
one could have more respect for the judges, nor more scorn for the
witness confronting her: she taunted him with being a besotted lackey,
bundled out of the house for his disorderly conduct, and one whose
testimony should not be received against her.' But she was lost. The
marchioness saw looming before her the spectacle of her ignominious
punishment--the public penance on her knees before the porch of Notre
Dame, clad only in her shift, torch in hand; she saw the instruments of
torture, the thought of which might make the boldest shudder, then the
scaffold, the stake, the 'tomb of fire' whence the hand of the
executioner would scatter her ashes, under the gaze of the mob. The
judges themselves, who were about to condemn her, felt a tightening at
the heart. And when Briancourt, at the close of his deposition, his eyes
streaming with tears, his voice choked with sobs, said: 'I warned you
many a time, madam, about your disorders and your cruelty, and that your
crimes would ruin you,' the marchioness replied--a wonderful reply in
its pride and self-control--'You are chicken-hearted, you are crying!'
Could one find such a saying in Roman history, or in Corneille? We
prefer the bare cold version of the official minute to the version
reported by President Lamoignon to the abbé Pirot: 'She insulted
Briancourt about the tears he shed at the remembrance of the death of
her brothers, when he declared that she had made him her confidant in
regard to their poisoning, and told him that he was a villain to weep
before all these gentlemen--that it resulted from a mean spirit. All
this was said with great coolness, and without any appearance of
changing countenance during the five hours we all watched her to-day.'
Advocate Nivelle, on whom fell the heavy task of presenting the defence
of the accused lady, acquitted himself of it with remarkable success.
His defence was still renowned in the eighteenth century. It was broad
in style, and some of his phrases were of great beauty.
'The enormity of the crimes,' he said, 'and the rank of the person
accused require proofs of the most convincing clearness, written, so to
speak, with rays of sunlight.' He went on to ask if the proofs adduced
against Madame de Brinvilliers were of this quality. He succeeded in
throwing doubt on the sincerity of several of the more weighty
depositions--that of Sergeant Cluet, for instance, who was devoted body
and soul, he said, to the opposite party; to the widow d'Aubray, who
sustained her part of plaintiff with the extremest animosity. The
deposition of Edme Briscien, he maintained, should be entirely rejected,
for the witness was not confronted with the marchioness, and on that
point the rules of procedure were absolute. He very cleverly took
advantage of some inconsistencies in La Chaussée's declaration after
torture. The argument based on Sainte-Croix' famous box seemed to him to
have as little weight. Indeed, the note of May 25, 1670, in which
Sainte-Croix declared that the contents of the box belonged to the
marchioness, was undoubtedly anterior to the introduction of poison
bottles into the box; it applied only to the lady's letters to
Sainte-Croix, in which there was no question of poison. Coming at last
to the written confession seized at Liége, Nivelle strongly protested
against the inferential proof of guilt which the judges drew from it.
'The last proof,' he said, 'relates to a paper found among those of the
marchioness, in which she had written a religious confession. It is
astounding that the accusers desired the judges to read this paper, for
it was of a nature which laws human and divine hold sacred and
inviolable under the seal of secrecy and silence demanded by the rules
of one of the most august of mysteries, as I will prove by invincible
arguments.' These arguments were exhausted in a minute study of the
writings of the Church fathers and of ecclesiastical history, from which
the advocate produced numerous examples and excerpts likely to imbue the
judges with the profoundest respect for the secrecy of confession, under
whatever form it might present itself.
Finally, Nivelle set himself to win a little sympathy, or at any rate
pity, for his client. He depicted this woman as a frail thing, of noble
birth, beautiful and sensitive by nature, a butt for several months past
to calumnies prompted by hate, to the rough treatment and insults of
archers, drunken soldiers, and coarse jailors; she had also been
deprived of spiritual consolation, and even on Whitsunday had been
refused permission to hear mass. Undoubtedly Nivelle largely contributed
to that revulsion of feeling in favour of the marchioness which was so
strongly marked during the last days.
The advocate concluded his address with a powerful appeal to the
prosecutrix: 'The accuser ought not to press hardly against the lady,
because she has already received satisfaction for the death of her
husband in the exemplary punishment of that wretched criminal (La
Chaussée) who slew him; she should rather wish that the family to which
she is allied should not be sullied with an eternal disgrace, and that
she should not incur the reproach of being wanting in natural feeling
for her nephews, whom she ought to consider as her own children. The
death of the late Messieurs d'Aubray has been publicly avenged, and if
they could now tell us what they feel, they would doubtless show that
the affection they always bore to their sister was a sign that they
recognised how incapable she was of so unnatural a crime; they would
themselves plead for their own blood, and be far indeed from sacrificing
their relatives and exposing them to infamous punishment; they would
prove that their highest satisfaction is to preserve their honour in
preserving her life, and that otherwise it would be to punish themselves
rather than to avenge them. But if they find their consolation in the
acquittal of Lady Brinvilliers; if her children--who would suffer
punishment as if they were guilty, and to whom life would become a
torture and death a consolation--find in it the preservation of the
honour of a family so notable as that from which their mother is
sprung--these wise magistrates who are to judge her will also have more
glory in giving to the public a famous example of their justice, their
piety, and their sovereign equity, by declaring her innocent.'
On July 15, 1676, Madame de Brinvilliers appeared for the last time
before her judges for her final cross-examination, and in the course of
this long ordeal, in which for three hours her whole life was
remorselessly dissected, she did not flag for a moment. She denied
everything; she did not know what poison and antidote meant; her
pretended confession was sheer madness. 'She did not appear affected by
what the first president said, though, after he had done his part as
judge, he assumed the tone of a merciful friend, and addressed to her
words most admirably calculated to move her, and bring her to feel in
some degree the lamentable state in which she was. The first president,'
we read in a summary report of the trial, 'dwelt upon the dreadful
illness of her father, on the perilous state she was in, and told her
that she was engaged in perhaps the last act of her life; he invited her
seriously to reflect on her evil conduct, which had drawn upon her the
reproaches of her family, and even of those who had lived in sin with
her. The President de Novion reminded her that her brother the civil
lieutenant had suspected other persons, and that this suspicion had
embittered his last moments. The first president told her also' (and
this is one of the most curious features of the trial for the study of
the moral ideas of the period), 'that the greatest of all her crimes,
horrible as they were, was, not the poisoning of her father and
brothers, but her attempt to poison herself. She was kept for another
half hour, but would say nothing, merely showing signs of a little
distress at heart.'
'The first president wept bitterly,' writes the abbé Pirot, 'and all the
judges shed tears.' She alone kept her head proudly erect, and preserved
undimmed the stony clearness of her blue eyes.
Taine has given in one line a marvellous definition of the character of
Racine's heroines and the art of the poet himself: 'We imagine the tears
which never appear in their beautiful eyes.' The sequel of our story
will indicate, even more than the preceding pages, that Madame de
Brinvilliers in some points resembled some of Racine's heroines, and
will help to show with what exactitude the incomparable poet reproduced
the models presented him by the society of his time.
In closing this memorable scene on July 15, President Lamoignon told the
prisoner that, out of charity and on the plea of her sister the
Carmelite nun, a person of the greatest merit and the highest virtue was
being sent to her to console her and to exhort her to think of her
soul's salvation. We are about to see coming upon the stage one of the
most interesting figures in the drama, the sympathetic abbé, Edme Pirot.
III. HER DEATH
Edme Pirot was a professor of theology at the Sorbonne. Born at Auxerre
on August 12, 1631, he was of the same age as the Marchioness of
Brinvilliers. His discussions with Leibnitz had made his name famous
throughout Europe. His was an ardent and sensitive soul: his heart was
torn when he came in contact with the griefs of others. 'The delicacy of
my temperament was so great,' he said, 'that I could never bear the
sight of blood, not even my own, and at one time I had turned quite
faint at the sight of a wound being dressed, and never since ventured to
come within sight of a similar operation.' He had an acute and subtle
intellect, endowed with a remarkable faculty for psychological insight.
President Lamoignon, in appointing the abbé Pirot to attend Madame de
Brinvilliers, had given a fresh proof of his knowledge of men. He knew
that the gentle and soul-stirring words of the priest would act on the
heart of the prisoner, and perhaps obtain what all the machinery of
justice had not succeeded in achieving--the revelation of her
accomplices, the composition of her poisons and the proper antidotes to
employ. 'It is for the public interest,' said Lamoignon to the abbé
Pirot, 'that her crimes should die with her, and that she should
acquaint us with all the consequences her poison might have, so far as
she knows them; without which we should be unable to counteract them,
and her poisons would survive her.' Further, it was his earnest desire
to find in Pirot a priest whose exhortations would, at the hour of
death, touch this rebellious soul and set it on the narrow road to
salvation.
The good abbé has described the last day of Madame de Brinvilliers
minute by minute. His story fills two volumes, one of the most
extraordinary monuments literature can show. It is written with no
regard for artistic effect: the conversations are reported at length,
with repetitions and interminably wearisome details; but the clear,
exact, and flowing style, the just and restrained expression of the
keenest passions, continually remind us of the tragedies of Racine.
_Phédre_ and the abbé Pirot's story were composed in the same year; if
the priest had given any thought to the public as he wrote, and had paid
some attention to his style and to the avoidance of repetitions and
prolixity, posterity unquestionably might well have signed both works
with the same name.
Michelet has strikingly described the appearance of the priest in the
tower of the Conciergerie:--
'Quaking with terror, Pirot was ushered into the Conciergerie, and taken
to the top of the Montgommery tower; there he entered a room in which
there were four persons--two warders, a wardress, and, farthest away
from him, the monster.
'The monster was quite a little woman, dainty, with very soft blue eyes,
marvellously beautiful. As soon as she saw Pirot, she prettily thanked a
priest who up to then had attended her, and expressed with easy grace
her absolute confidence in the learned abbé. He saw at once how much she
was loved by those who lived with her. When she spoke of her death, the
two men and the woman burst into tears. She seemed to love them too, and
was kind and gentle with them, not proud at all; she made them eat at
her table.
'"To be sure, sir," she said to Pirot, "you are the priest that the
first president has sent to console me; it is with you that I am to
pass the little that remains of life: and I have long been impatient to
see you."
'"I come, madam," answered Pirot, "to render you in spiritual matters
what service I can. I could wish it were in any other matter than this."
'"Sir," she rejoined, "we must submit to everything."'
And at that moment, turning towards an Oratorian named Father de
Chevigny, she said: 'Father, I am obliged to you for bringing this
gentleman, and for all the other visits you have been good enough to pay
me; pray God for me, I beseech you: henceforth I shall speak to scarcely
any one but the father here. I have matters to discuss with him that are
spoken of in secret. Farewell.'
The Oratorian retired.
Madame de Brinvilliers seems to have been won at the outset by the
affectionate expression of her confessor, and by his sincere and
sympathetic words. Judgment had not yet been pronounced. 'My death is
certain,' she said; 'I must not delude myself with hope. I have to tell
you the story of all my life.' But the conversation drifted away to what
was being said of her in society. 'I can imagine pretty well that they
are talking a good deal about me, and that I have been for some time a
byword among the people.' And her eyes flashed.
Pirot tried to show her that, assuming she was guilty, her duty was to
disclose all her accomplices, to reveal the composition of her poisons
and the means of counteracting them. She interrupted him: 'Sir, are
there not some sins that are unpardonable in this world, either from
their gravity or their number? Are there not some so atrocious or so
numerous that the Church cannot remit them?' 'Believe, madam, that there
are no sins irremissible in this life,' answered the priest, and he
enlarged on this theme with force and warmth and an infectious faith.
Conviction by degrees took possession of the prisoner's soul, and with
it there dawned a gleam of regeneration, hope in a future life serene
and happy--glorious, as the abbé said--and with the thought her heart
was changed. '"Sir," she answered me, "I am convinced of all you tell
me. I believe that God can pardon all sins; I believe that He has often
exercised this power; but all my trouble now is to know whether He will
apply His power to one so wretched as I." I told her that she must hope
that God would take pity on her in His infinite mercy. She began to
describe in general terms the whole of her life, and from that moment I
saw that her heart was touched, and she burst into tears beholding her
wretchedness.' By the contagion of his sympathetic kindness, and by the
light of redemption, Pirot had in a few hours melted this heart of brass
like wax.
'After she had given me an outline of her life, knowing that I had not
yet said mass, she intimated spontaneously that it was time to say it,
and that I might go down to the chapel for that purpose. She begged me
say it to our Lady on her behalf, so as to obtain the pardon of which
she stood in need, and asked me to come up again as soon as the
sacrifice had been completed, saying that she would be present in
spirit, since she was not permitted to attend in person, and that she
thought of telling me in detail on my return that which she had so far
told me only in general terms.
'After my mass,' continues Pirot, 'as I was taking a sip of wine in the
jailer's room before returning to the tower, I learned from Monsieur de
Sency, librarian to the Palais, that Madame de Brinvilliers was
condemned. I went upstairs and found the marchioness awaiting me in
great serenity.
'"It is only by dying by the hand of the executioner," she said, "that I
can win salvation. If I had died at Liége before my arrest, where should
I be now? And if I had not been taken, what would my end have been? I
will confess my crime to the judges to whom I have denied it hitherto. I
fancied I could conceal it, flattering myself that without my confession
there would have been nothing to convict me, and that I was not bound to
accuse myself. To-morrow, at my last examination, I mean to repair the
ill that I have done at the others.
'"I beg you, sir," she went on suddenly, "to make my excuses to the
first president. You will please see him on my behalf after my death,
and will tell him that I ask his pardon, and that of all the judges,
for the effrontery they have seen in me; that I believed it would serve
my defence, and that I never believed there would be proof enough to
condemn me without my avowal; that I now see things in a different
light, and that I was touched yesterday by what he said to me, and that
I put violent constraint on myself to prevent my features from showing
what I felt. Ask him to forgive me for the offence I gave to the whole
bench assembled to judge me, and to beg the other judges to pardon me."
'It was thus,' Pirot continues, 'that she went on relating to me the
whole matter until half-past one, when a servant came and brought the
cloth for dinner. She took nothing but two fresh eggs and a little soup,
and talked to me, while I was eating, about indifferent things, with
very great freedom of mind and a tranquillity which surprised me, as if
she were entertaining me at dinner in a country house. She invited to
the table the two men and the women who were her usual guard. "Sir," she
said to me, after she had told them to sit down, "you will not mind our
dispensing with ceremony for you? They are accustomed to eat with me to
keep me company, and we shall do so to-day if you do not object. This,"
she said to them, "is the last meal I shall take with you." And turning
towards the woman who was beside her, she said: "Madam, my poor Du Rus,
you will soon be quit of me; I have long been a trouble to you, but it
will soon be over. To-morrow you will be able to go to Dranet. You will
have time enough for that. In seven or eight hours you will have me no
longer to bother you, for I do not think you have the heart to see my
end."
'She said all this with a coolness and serenity which indicated rather a
natural equality of mind than an affected pride. And as these people
from time to time burst into tears and withdrew to conceal them from
her, she, noticing it, threw me a glance of pity, though she shed no
tears, as though sorry for their grief, almost as a mother might do on
her deathbed, when, seeing around her her weeping servants, she looks at
the confessor kneeling near her and marks the sorrow their affection
gives him.
'From time to time she urged me to eat, and scolded the jailer for
putting cabbage in the soup. She asked me with much politeness to allow
her to drink my health. I thought that I might do her some pleasure in
drinking to hers, and it was not difficult to show her this little
attention. She asked me to excuse her for not serving me, careful not to
say that she had no knife for that purpose, so as not to give the
slightest shadow of complaint.
'"Sir," she said to me at the end of the meal, "it is fast-day
to-morrow, and though it will be a very tiring day for me"--she was to
undergo torture and then be beheaded--"I have no intention of eating
meat." "Madam," I replied, "if you need a meat soup to sustain you,
there will be no occasion to stand on scruples; it will not be out of
fastidiousness, but from pure necessity, and the law of the Church is
not rigorous in such a case." "Sir," she replied, "I would not be
particular if I needed it and you ordered it; but I am sure it will not
be necessary. All I require is a little soup this evening at
supper-time, and again at eleven o'clock; to-day they will make it a
little stronger than usual, and with that, and a couple of eggs I can
take at the torture, I shall get through to-morrow."
'It is true,' adds the good priest, 'that I was thunderstruck at all
this composure, and I shivered when I heard her tell the jailer, so
quietly, that the soup was to be stronger that evening than usual, and
that two servings were to be kept for her before midnight.
'I saw in her at this moment much affection for Monsieur de
Brinvilliers, and as it was generally believed that she had always had
little enough love for him, I was surprised to find that she had so
much. Indeed, it appeared to me to verge towards excess, and for half an
hour I saw her more distressed for him than for herself.' And when
Pirot, to test her, said that her husband appeared very insensible to
her approaching fate, he drew from her a dignified reply: he must not
judge things so hastily, she told him, or without intimate knowledge,
and that up to that day she had only had to congratulate herself on her
husband.