Marquise de Brinvilliers .....................................................................................................................................1

Towards the end of the year 1665, on a fine autumn evening, there was a considerable crowd assembled on

the PontNeuf 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 violentiy 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

"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.

SainteCroix 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

"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

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.

SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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

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 SainteCroix 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, SainteCroix was about

twentyeight 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

We must now see by what a chain of circumstances he had arrived at his present position. About the year

1660, SainteCroix, while in the army, had made the acquaintance of the Marquis de Brinvilliers,

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 SainteCroix to his wife, and he became an intimate of the house. The usual results followed.

Madame de Brinvilliers was then scarcely eightandtwenty: she had married the marquis in 1651that 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

twentyeight 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.

SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix. 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 SainteCroix wheresoever

the bearer might chance to encounter him. We have seen how it was put in execution when SainteCroix was

driving in the carriage of the marquise, whom our readers will doubtless have recognised as the woman who

>From one's knowledge of the character of SainteCroix, it is easy to imagine that he had to use great

selfcontrol 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 SainteCroix had no sooner entered than he heard it locked behind

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

trucklebed 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 windowa man thin and pale, a man with long hair, in a black

doublet, who approached the foot of the bed where SainteCroix 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 archenemy 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

"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

"Why seek you to know who I am," replied the unknown, "at the very moment when I come at your call, and

"All the same," said SainteCroix, still attributing what he heard to a supernatural being, "when one makes a

SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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

SainteCroix, 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

The repugnance felt by SainteCroix for his fellowprisoner did ,not last long, and the clever master found

his pupil apt. SainteCroix, 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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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.

SainteCroix 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 freehow it happened is not

knownand sought out SainteCroix, 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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix'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 SainteCroix, who brought

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

SainteCroix 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

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 Christwho though He

had no children had a father's heartloved 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

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

SainteCroix 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 goodlooking, nobody

troubled about where all these luxuries came from. It was quite the custom in those days that a wellsetup

young gentleman should want for nothing, and SainteCroix 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, receivergeneral 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 brotherinlaw, 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

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 SaintLaurent, and he had taken all the necessary, steps for buying the place over his head: the Sieur

de SaintLaurent, with the full support of the clergy, obtained the reversion for nothinga thing that never

happened before. Penautier then offered him 40,000 crowns to go halves, but SaintLaurent 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 SainteCroix and Penautier did business

Now, when the period for mourning was over, the relations of the marquise and SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix, 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 animalsfor

their different organisation might put the poisoner's science in the wrongbut 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'HotelDieu. 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 relapsethe 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

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 coffeespoon, 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

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. SainteCroix 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

The day after they arrived in the country there was a pigeonpie 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 seventytwo 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

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

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, SainteCroix continued in his path of folly, and all things went on as before.

Meanwhile SainteCroix 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 fatherin 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 SainteCroix a

manservant named George, M. de SaintLaurent 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 twentyfour hours.

Like them, M. de SaintLaurent 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

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 haycart 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 SaintLaurent 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. SainteCroix, always in the gay world, encountered the talk in drawingrooms, 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

SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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,

"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

The house meant by SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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.

SainteCroix 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.

SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix

dropped to the ground as though felled by a lightning stroke. At suppertime, 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 SainteCroix 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

The noise of the event soon spread all over Paris. SainteCroix 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

"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

To Lachaussee the reply was given that he must wait till the day when the seals were broken, and then if all

But Lachaussee was not the only person who was agitated about the death of SainteCroix. 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 NeuveSaintPaul, 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

SainteCroix'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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix was found a small box one foot square, on the top of which lay a halfsheet 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 NeuveSaintPaul, 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

"And below were written these words: 'There is one packet only addressed to M. Penautier which should be

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

"Item, another packet sealed with six different seals, on which is a similar inscription, in which is found more

"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

"Item, another phial, with half a pint of clear liquid with a white sediment, about which Moreau said the same

"Next, a packet of powder on which was written: 'To check the flow of blood.' Moreau said that it was quince

"Item, a pack sealed with six seals, on which was written, 'Papers to be burnt in case of death.' In this

twentyfour 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

twentyseven 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

seventyfive 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

The difference in the amount shows that SainteCroix had a tariff, and that parricide was more expensive

than simple assassination. Thus in his death did SainteCroix 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

"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

"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

"The poison employed by SainteCroix 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

These experiments proved that SainteCroix 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

It was said in the objection that Lachaussee had spent seven years in the service of SainteCroix, 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

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

[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

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 voicefor he could hardly speakhe begged for half an hour to recover himself. We give

a verbatim extract from the report of the question and the execution of the deathsentence:

"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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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. SainteCroix 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

SainteCroix 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 2lst, 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 SainteCroix, 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, thirtysix 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

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

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 fellowcountryman 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

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

"DEAR THERIA,I am in the hands of Desgrais, who is taking me by road from Liege to Paris. Come

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. SainteCroix, 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.

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

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

Asked as to the first article, what house it was she had burnt, she replied that she had not burnt anything, but

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;

Asked if SainteCroix had not persuaded her to get rid of her father, she replied that she could not remember;

neither did she remember if SainteCroix had given her powders or other drugs, nor if Sainte Croix had told

Eight letters having been produced, asked to whom she had written them, she replied that she did not

Asked why she had promised to pay 30,000 livres to SainteCroix, 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

SainteCroix, 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

Asked if she knew an apothecary called Glazer, she replied that she had consulted him three times about

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

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

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

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 SainteCroix, he said to the marquise that if her brother

knew that Lachaussee had been with SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix 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,

The girl Edme Huet, a woman of Brescia, deposed that SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix; 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 SainteCroix, threatening to tell the lieutenant what she had seen; and accordingly

the ten pistoles were paid; further, that the marquise and SainteCroix always kept poison about them, to

Laurent Perrette, living with Glazer, said that he had often seen a lady call on his mistress with SainteCroix;

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

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

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 SainteCroix; that SainteCroix, who had made a

rendezvous with her one day at the cross SaintHonore, there showed her four little bottles, saying, "See what

Glazer has sent me." She asked him for one, but SainteCroix 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;

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

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

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

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 SainteCroix. 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

Dominicus Soto, a very famous canonist and theologian, confessor to Charles V, present at the first meetings

of the Council of Trent under Paul III, propounds a question about a man who had lost a paper on which he

had written down his sins. It happened that this paper fell into the hands of an ecclesiastical judge, who

wished to put in information against the writer on the strength of this document. Now this judge was justly

punished by his superior, because confession is so sacred that even that which is destined to constitute the

confession should be wrapped in eternal silence. In accordance with this precedent, the following judgment,

reported in the 'Traite des Confesseurs', was given by Roderic Acugno. A Catalonian, native of Barcelona,

who was condemned to death for homicide and owned his guilt, refused to confess when the hour of

punishment arrived. However strongly pressed, he resisted, and so violently, giving no reason, that all were

persuaded that his mind was unhinged by the fear of death. SaintThomas of Villeneuve, Archbishop of

Valencia, heard of his obstinacy. Valencia was the place where his sentence was given. The worthy prelate

was so charitable as to try to persuade the criminal to make his confession, so as not to lose his soul as well as

his body. Great was his surprise, when he asked the reason of the refusal, to hear the doomed man declare

that he hated confessors, because he had been condemned through the treachery of his own priest, who was

the only person who knew about the murder. In confession he had admitted his crime and said where the

body was buried, and all about it; his confessor had revealed it all, and he could not deny it, and so he had

been condemned. He had only just learned, what he did not know at the time he confessed, that his confessor

was the brother of the man he had killed, and that the desire for vengeance had prompted the bad priest to

betray his confession. SaintThomas, hearing this, thought that this incident was of more importance than the

trial, which concerned the life of only one person, whereas the honour of religion was at stake, with

consequences infinitely more important. He felt he must verify this statement, and summoned the confessor.

When he had admitted the breach of faith, the judges were obliged to revoke their sentence and pardon the

criminal, much to the gratification of the public mind. The confessor was adjudged a very severe penance,

which SaintThomas modified because of his prompt avowal of his fault, and still more because he had given

an opportunity for the public exhibition of that reverence which judges themselves are bound to pay to

In 1579 an innkeeper at Toulouse killed with his own hand, unknown to the inmates of his house, a stranger

who had come to lodge with him, and buried him secretly in the cellar. The wretch then suffered from

remorse, and confessed the crime with all its circumstances, telling his confessor where the body was buried.

The relations of the dead man, after making all possible search to get news of him, at last proclaimed through

the town a large reward to be given to anyone who would discover what had happened to him. The confessor,

tempted by this bait, secretly gave word that they had only to search in the innkeeper's cellar and they would

find the corpse. And they found it in the place indicated. The innkeeper was thrown into prison, was tortured,

and confessed his crime. But afterwards he always maintained that his confessor was the only person who

could have betrayed him. Then the Parliament, indignant with such means of finding out the truth, declared

him innocent, failing other proof than what came through his confessor. The confessor was himself

condemned to be hanged, and his body was burnt. So fully did the tribunal in its wisdom recognise the

importance of securing the sanctity of a sacrament that is indispensable to salvation.

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 SaintJacques. 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

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,

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

"Madame," the doctor replied, "I come to render you any spiritual office that I can; I only wish it were on

"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 teteatete. Farewell, then, my father; God will

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

foldingbed 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 today I should have very little time to prepare,

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,

"No, no, father; there is no need to encourage me. I will play my part, and that at once: I shall know how to

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

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

"Madame," replied the doctor, "I do not know what or when your sentence will be; but should it be death, and

given today, 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

"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 evildoers 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

"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

"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

"Sir," replied the marquise, "God has given me grace to be convinced by what you say, and I believe He will

pardon all sinsthat 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; lightminded 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, thereforeand one must bow down before the

judgment of God when He leaves mankind to himselfthat 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, wellshaped 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 fortysix. On

her day I came into the world, and I bear her name. I was christened MarieMadeleine. But near to the day as

we now are, I shall not live so long: I must end today, or at latest tomorrow, 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

fortyeight. 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 illwill. 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

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 halfpast 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 severityas a

fact, there was a mitigation of the sentencemade him feel yet more interest in his penitent, and he hastened

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

"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 SaintPaul

without his obtaining this grace, in spite of all his entreaties. He was executed in sight of the towers of

NotreDame. He offered his own prayer, as you may offer yours, if you suffer the same fate. But that is all:

"But," replied the marquise, "I believe M. de CinqMars 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

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,

"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

"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 lastI 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 today passes

against me, far from complaining of the prosecutor who has demanded it, I thank them both most humbly, for

The doctor was about to answer, encouraging her, when the door opened: it was dinner coming in, for it was

now halfpast 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 today. 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. Tomorrow 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 fellowguests 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. "Tomorrow 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 tomorrow, if I have two fresh eggs to take after

"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

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

"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

The doctor read this letter carefully; then he told her that one of her phrases was not rightthe 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

"But those who have sought my death," she replied, "are my enemies, are they not, and is it not a Christian

"Madame," said the doctor, "they are not your enemies, but you are the enemy of the human race: nobody can

"And so, my father," she replied, "I feel no resentment towards them, and I desire to meet in Paradise those

"Madame," said the doctor, "what mean you by this? Such words are used by some when they desire people's

"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

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

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.

"Madame, I will do as you wish," he answered; "but you would be acting kindly if you could spare me for a

"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

"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 tomorrow, 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, tomorrow 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

"Sir," said the marquise, "you have closed my mouth. Tomorrow is for me a far more important day than

today, and I have been wrong: of course you must rest tonight. Let us just finish this one thing, and read

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 goodnight, making him promise to pray for her and to be at the Conciergerie by

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

"Well, madame," said the doctor, "if you will, we can pray again; kneel down, and let us say the 'Veni Sancte

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

"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

"Sir," replied the marquise, "I have such faith in all you say that I feel I understand it all now, and I am

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 prayerbook 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

"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

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

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

[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

prepared for her, and turned to the registrarfor she would not address the executionersaying, 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

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 halfcurve, 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!

"Admonished to name her accomplices, she said there was only one man, who had asked her for poison to get

"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 SainteCroix about the poisons,

and it would be a lie to say otherwise; but when a paper was found in SainteCroix'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 SainteCroix 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

"The water was again given; she turned and twisted much, but said that on this subject she had said all she

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

"On the large trestle, during the stretching, she said several times, 'O God, you tear me to, pieces! Lord,

"Asked if she had nothing more to tell regarding her accomplices, she said they might kill her, but she would

"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 SainteCroix 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 SainteCroix had told her that if one had taken milk in the morning, and on the first

"Admonished to say if she could add anything further, she said she had now told everything; and if they

"More water was given; she writhed a little, and said she was dead, but nothing more.

"Yet again water was given; writhing and twisting, she said, with a deep groan, 'O my God, I am killed!' but

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

"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

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

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

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,

"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

"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 dungheap, 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,

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

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

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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

"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

"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

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

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

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

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

"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

"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

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 whichis 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

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 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 NotreDame, could see nothing but the headdress of the marquise as she was

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

"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

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

But, slowly as it moved, the tumbril steadily advanced, and at last reached the place of NotreDame. 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

"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

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

"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."

"Repeat these words in a loud voice," said the doctor, "so that everybody may hear."

After this declaration, they were going to drive the tumbril nearer to the scaffold, but the crowd was so dense

that the assistant could not force a way through, though he struck out on every side with his whip. So they

had to stop a few paces short. The executioner had already got down, and was adjusting the ladder. In this

terrible moment of waiting, the marquise looked calmly and gratefully at the doctor, and when she felt that

the tumbril had stopped, said, "Sir, it is not here we part: you promised not to leave me till my head is cut off.

"To be sure I will," the doctor replied; "we shall not be separated before the moment of your death: be not

"I looked for this kindness," she said, "and your promise was too solemn for you to think for one moment of

failing me. Please be on the scaffold and be near me. And now, sir, I would anticipate the final farewell,for

all the things I shall have to do on the scaffold may distract me,so let me thank you here. If I am prepared

to suffer the sentence of my earthly judge, and to hear that of my heavenly judge, I owe it to your care for me,

and I am deeply grateful. I can only ask your forgiveness for the trouble I have given you." Tears choked the

doctor's speech, and he could not reply. "Do you not forgive me?" she repeated. At her words, the doctor tried

to reassure her; but feeling that if he opened his mouth he must needs break into sobs, he still kept silent. The

marquise appealed to him a third time. "I entreat you, sir, forgive me; and do not regret the time you have

passed with me. You will say a De Profundus at the moment of my death, and a mass far me tomorrow: will

"Yes, madame," said the doctor in a choking voice; "yes, yes, be calm, and I will do all you bid me."

The executioner hereupon removed the board, and helped the marquise out of the tumbril; and as they

advanced the few steps towards the scaffold, and all eyes were upon them, the doctor could hide his tears for

a moment without being observed. As he was drying his eyes, the assistant gave him his hand to help him

down. Meanwhile the marquise was mounting the ladder with the executioner, and when they reached the

platform he told her to kneel down in front of a block which lay across it. Then the doctor, who had mounted

with a step less firm than hers, came and knelt beside her, but turned in the other direction, so that he might

whisper in her earthat is, the marquise faced the river, and the doctor faced the Hotel de Ville. Scarcely

had they taken their place thus when the man took down her hair and began cutting it at the back and at the

sides, making her turn her head this way and that, at times rather roughly; but though this ghastly toilet lasted

almost half an hour, she made no complaint, nor gave any sign of pain but her silent tears. When her hair was

cut, he tore open the top of the shirt, so as to uncover the shoulders, and finally bandaged her eyes, and lifting

her face by the chin, ordered her to hold her head erect. She obeyed, unresisting, all the time listening to the

doctor's words and repeating them from time to time, when they seemed suitable to her own condition.

Meanwhile, at the back of the scaffold, on which the stake was placed, stood the executioner, glancing now

and again at the folds of his cloak, where there showed the hilt of a long, straight sabre, which he had

carefully concealed for fear Madame de Brinvilliers might see it when she mounted the scaffold. When the

doctor, having pronounced absolution, turned his head and saw that the man was not yet armed, he uttered

these prayers, which she repeated after him: "Jesus, Son of David and Mary, have mercy upon me; Mary,

daughter of David and Mother of Jesus, pray for me; my God, I abandon my body, which is but dust, that

men may burn it and do with it what they please, in the firm faith that it shall one day arise and be reunited

with my soul. I trouble not concerning my body; grant, O God, that I yield up to Thee my soul, that it may

enter into Thy rest; receive it into Thy bosom; that it may dwell once more there, whence it first descended;

from Thee it came, to Thee returns; Thou art the source and the beginning; be thou, O God, the centre and the

The marquise had said these words when suddenly the doctor heard a dull stroke like the sound of a chopper

chopping meat upon a block: at that moment she ceased to speak. The blade had sped so quickly that the

doctor had not even seen a flash. He stopped, his hair bristling, his brow bathed in sweat; for, not seeing the

head fall, he supposed that the executioner had missed the mark and must needs start afresh. But his fear was

shortlived, for almost at the same moment the head inclined to the left, slid on to the shoulder, and thence

backward, while the body fell forward on the crossway block, supported so that the spectators could see the

neck cut open and bleeding. Immediately, in fulfilment of his promise, the doctor said a De Profundis.

When the prayer was done and the doctor raised his head, he saw before him the executioner wiping his face.

"Well, sir," said he, "was not that a good stroke? I always put up a prayer on these occasions, and God has

always assisted me; but I have been anxious for several days about this lady. I had six masses said, and I felt

strengthened in hand and heart." He then pulled out a bottle from under his cloak, and drank a dram; and

taking the body under one arm, all dressed as it was, and the head in his other hand, the eyes still bandaged,

"The next day," says Madame de Sevigne, "people were looking for the charred bones of Madame de

In 1814, M. d'Offemont, father of the present occupier of the castle where the Marquise de Brinvilliers

poisoned her father, frightened at the approach of all the allied troops, contrived in one of the towers several

hidingplaces, where he shut up his silver and such other valuables as were to be found in this lonely country

in the midst of the forest of Laigue. The foreign troops were passing backwards and forwards at Offemont,

and after a three months' occupation retired to the farther side of the frontier.

Then the owners ventured to take out the various things that had been hidden; and tapping the walls, to make

sure nothing had been overlooked, they detected a hollow sound that indicated the presence of some

unsuspected cavity. With picks and bars they broke the wall open, and when several stones had come out they

found a large closet like a laboratory, containing furnaces, chemical instruments, phials hermetically sealed

full of an unknown liquid, and four packets of powders of different colours. Unluckily, the people who made

these discoveries thought them of too much or too little importance; and instead of submitting the ingredients

to the tests of modern science, they made away with them all, frightened at their probably deadly nature.

Thus was lost this great opportunityprobably the lastfor finding and analysing the substances which

About the end of the reign of the Emperor Paul Ithat is to say, towards the middle of the first year of the

nineteenth centuryjust as four o'clock in the afternoon was sounding from the church of St. Peter and St.

Paul, whose gilded vane overlooks the ramparts of the fortress, a crowd, composed of all sorts and conditions

of people, began to gather in front of a house which belonged to General Count Tchermayloff, formerly

military governor of a fairsized town in the government of Pultava. The first spectators had been attracted

by the preparations which they saw had been made in the middle of the courtyard for administering torture

with the knout. One of the general's serfs, he who acted as barber, was to be the victim.

Although this kind of punishment was a common enough sight in St. Petersburg, it nevertheless attracted all

passersby when it was publicly administered. This was the occurrence which had caused a crowd, as just

The spectators, even had they been in a hurry, would have had no cause to complain of being kept waiting,

for at halfpast four a young man of about fiveandtwenty, in the handsome uniform of an aidedecamp,

his breast covered with decorations, appeared on the steps at the farther end of the courtyard in front of the

house. These steps faced the large gateway, and led to the general's apartments.

Arrived on the steps, the young aidedecamp stopped a moment and fixed his eyes on a window, the closely

drawn curtains of which did not allow him the least chance of satisfying his curiosity, whatever may have

been its cause. Seeing that it was useless and that he was only wasting time in gazing in that direction, he

made a sign to a bearded man who was standing near a door which led to the servants' quarters. The door was

immediately opened, and the culprit was seen advancing in the middle of a body of serfs and followed by the

executioner. The serfs were forced to attend the spectacle, that it might serve as an example to them. The

culprit was the general's barber, as we have said, and the executioner was merely the coachman, who, being

used to the handling of a whip, was raised or degraded, which you will, to the office of executioner every

time punishment with the knout was ordered. This duty did not deprive him of either the esteem or even the

friendship of his comrades, for they well knew that it was his arm alone that punished them and that his heart

was not in his work. As Ivan's arm as well as the rest of his body was the property of the general, and the

latter could do as he pleased with it, no one was astonished that it should be used for this purpose. More than

that, correction administered by Ivan was nearly always gentler than that meted out by another; for it often

happened that Ivan, who was a goodnatured fellow, juggled away one or two strokes of the knout in a

dozen, or if he were forced by those assisting at the punishment to keep a strict calculation, he manoeuvred so

that the tip of the lash struck the deal plank on which the culprit was lying, thus taking much of the sting out

of the stroke. Accordingly, when it was Ivan's turn to be stretched upon the fatal plank and to receive the

correction he was in the habit of administering, on his own account, those who momentarily played his part

as executioner adopted the same expedients, remembering only the strokes spared and not the strokes

received. This exchange of mutual benefits, therefore, was productive of an excellent understanding between

Ivan and his comrades, which was never so firmly knit as at the moment when a fresh execution was about to

take place. It is true that the first hour after the punishment was generally so full of suffering that the knouted

was sometimes unjust to the knouter, but this feeling seldom outlasted the evening, and it was rare when it

held out after the first glass of spirits that the operator drank to the health of his patient.

The serf upon whom Ivan was about to exercise his dexterity was a man of five or sixandthirty, red of hair

and beard, a little above average height. His Greek origin might be traced in his countenance, which even in

its expression of terror had preserved its habitual characteristics of craft and cunning.

When he arrived at the spot where the punishment was to take place, the culprit stopped and looked up at the

window which had already claimed the young aidedecamp's attention; it still remained shut. With a glance

round the throng which obstructed the entrance leading to the street, he ended by gazing, with a

horrorstricken shudder upon the plank on which he was to be stretched. The shudder did not escape his

friend Ivan, who, approaching to remove the striped shirt that covered his shoulders, took the opportunity to

"You remember your promise?" replied the culprit, with an indefinable expression of entreaty.

"Not for the first lashes, Gregory; do not count on that, for during the first strokes the aidedecamp will be

watching; but among the later ones be assured I will find means of cheating him of some of them."

"Wait, wait one moment, your high origin," cried poor Gregory, addressing the young captain as though he

had been a colonel, "Vache Vousso Korodie," in order to flatter him. "I believe that the lady Vaninka's

The young captain glanced eagerly towards the spot which had already several times claimed his attention,

but not a fold of the silken curtains, which could be seen through the panes of the window, had moved.

"You are mistaken, you rascal," said the aidedecamp, unwillingly removing his eyes from the window, as

though he also had hoped to see it open," you are mistaken; and besides, what has your noble mistress to do

"Pardon, your excellency," continued Gregory, gratifying the aidede camp with ,yet higher

rank,"pardon, but it is through her orders I am about to suffer. Perhaps she might have pity upon a

"Enough, enough; let us proceed," said the captain in an odd voice, as though he regretted as well as the

"Immediately, immediately, noble sir," said Ivan; then turning to Gregory, he continued, "Come, comrade;

Gregory sighed heavily, threw a last look up at the window, and seeing that everything remained the same

there, he mustered up resolution enough to lie down on the fatal plank. At the same time two other serfs,

chosen by Ivan for assistants, took him by the arms and attached his wrists to two stakes, one at either side of

him, so that it appeared as though he were stretched on a cross. Then they clamped his neck into an iron

collar, and seeing that all was in readiness and that no sign favourable to the culprit had been made from the

still closely shut window, the young aidedecamp beckoned with his hand, saying, "Now, then, begin!"

"Patience, my lord, patience," said Ivan, still delaying the whipping, in the hope that some sign might yet be

made from the inexorable window. "I have a knot in my knout, and if I leave it Gregory will have good right

The instrument with which the executioner was busying himself, and which is perhaps unknown to our

readers, was a species of whip, with a handle about two feet long. A plaited leather thong, about four feet

long and two inches broad, was attached to this handle, this thong terminating in an iron or copper ring, and

to this another band of leather was fastened, two feet long, and at the beginning about one and a half inches

thick: this gradually became thinner, till it ended in a point. The thong was steeped in milk and then dried in

the sun, and on account of this method of preparation its edge became as keen and cutting as a knife; further,

the thong was generally changed at every sixth stroke, because contact with blood softened it.

However unwillingly and clumsily Ivan set about untying the knot, it had to come undone at last. Besides, the

bystanders were beginning to grumble, and their muttering disturbed the reverie into which the young

aidedecamp had fallen. He raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast, and cast a last look towards

the window; then with a peremptory sign; and in a voice which admitted of no delay, he ordered the

Nothing could put it off any longer: Ivan was obliged to obey, and he did not attempt to find any new pretext

for delay. He drew back two paces, and with a spring he returned to his place, and standing on tiptoe, he

whirled the knout above his head, and then letting it suddenly fall, he struck Gregory with such dexterity that

the lash wrapped itself thrice round his victim's body, encircling him like a serpent, but the tip of the thong

struck the plank upon which Gregory was lying. Nevertheless, in spite of this precaution, Gregory uttered a

At the shriek, the young aidedecamp again turned towards the window; but it was still shut, and

mechanically his eyes went back to the culprit, and he repeated the word " One."

The knout had traced three blue furrows on Gregory's shoulders. Ivan took another spring, and with the same

skill as before he again enveloped the culprit's body with the hissing thong, ever taking care that the tip of it

should not touch him. Gregory uttered another shriek, and Ivan counted " Two." The blood now began to

At the third stroke several drops of blood appeared; at the fourth the blood spurted out; at the fifth some drops

spattered the young officer's face; he drew back, and wiped them away with his handkerchief. Ivan profited

by his distraction, and counted seven instead of six: the captain took no notice. At the ninth stroke Ivan

stopped to change the lash, and in the hope that a second fraud might pass off as luckily as the first, he

At that moment a window opposite to Vaninka's opened, and a man about fortyfive or fifty in general's

uniform appeared. He called out in a careless tone, "Enough, that will do," and closed the window again.

Immediately on this apparition the young aidedecamp had turned towards his general, saluting, and during

the few seconds that the general was present he remained motionless. When the window had been shut again,

he repeated the general's words, so that the raised whip fell without touching the culprit.

"Thank his excellency, Gregory," said Ivan, rolling the knout's lash round his hand, "for having spared you

two strokes;" and he added, bending down to liberate Gregory's hand, "these two with the two I was able to

miss out make a total of eight strokes instead of twelve. Come, now, you others, untie his other hand."

But poor Gregory was in no state to thank anybody; nearly swooning with pain, he could scarcely stand.

Two moujiks took him by the arms and led him towards the serfs' quarters, followed by Ivan. Having reached

the door, however, Gregory stopped, turned his head, and seeing the aidedecamp gazing pitifully at him,

"Oh sir," he cried, "please thank his excellency the general for me. As for the lady Vaninka," he added in a

"What are you muttering between your teeth?" cried the young officer, with an angry movement; for he

"Nothing, sir, nothing," said Ivan. "The poor fellow is merely thanking you, Mr. Foedor, for the trouble you

have taken in being present at his punishment, and he says that he has been much honoured, that is all."

"That is right," said the young man, suspecting that Ivan had somewhat altered the original remarks, but

evidently not wishing to be better informed. "If Gregory wishes to spare me this trouble another time, let him

drink less vodka; or else, if he must get drunk, let him at least remember to be more respectful."

Ivan bowed low and followed his comrades, Foedor entered the house again, and the crowd dispersed, much

dissatisfied that Ivan's trickery and the general's generosity had deprived them of four strokes of the

Now that we have introduced our readers to some of the characters in this history, we must make them better

acquainted with those who have made their appearance, and must introduce those who are still behind the

General Count Tchermayloff, as we have said, after having been governor of one of the most important towns

in the environs of Pultava, had been recalled to St. Petersburg by the Emperor Paul, who honoured him with

his particular friendship. The general was a widower, with one daughter, who had inherited her mother's

fortune, beauty, and pride. Vaninka's mother claimed descent from one of the chieftains of the Tartar race,

who had invaded Russia, under the leadership of D'Gengis, in the thirteenth century. Vaninka's naturally

haughty disposition had been fostered by the education she had received. His wife being dead, and not having

time to look after his daughter's education himself, General Tchermayloff had procured an English governess

for her. This lady, instead of suppressing her pupil's scornful propensities, had encouraged them, by filling

her head with those aristocratic ideas which have made the English aristocracy the proudest in the world.

Amongst the different studies to which Vaninka devoted herself, there was one in which she was specially

interested, and that one was, if one may so call it, the science of her own rank. She knew exactly the relative

degree of nobility and power of all the Russian noble familiesthose that were a grade above her own, and

those of whom she took precedence. She could give each person the title which belonged to their respective

rank, no easy thing to do in Russia, and she had the greatest contempt for all those who were below the rank

of excellency. As for serfs and slaves, for her they did not exist: they were mere bearded animals, far below

her horse or her dog in the sentiments which they inspired in her; and she would not for one instant have

Like all the women of distinction in her nation, Vaninka was a good musician, and spoke French, Italian,

Her features had developed in harmony with her character. Vaninka was beautiful, but her beauty was

perhaps a little too decided. Her large black eyes, straight nose, and lips curling scornfully at the corners,

impressed those who saw her for the first time somewhat unpleasantly. This impression soon wore off with

her superiors and equals, to whom she became merely an ordinary charming woman, whilst to subalterns and

such like she remained haughty and inaccessible as a goddess. At seventeen Vaninka's education was

finished, and her governess who had suffered in health through the severe climate of St. Petersburg, requested

permission to leave. This desire was granted with the ostentatious recognition of which the Russian nobility

are the last representatives in Europe. Thus Vaninka was left alone, with nothing but her father's blind

adoration to direct her. She was his only daughter, as we have mentioned, and he thought her absolutely

Things were in this state in thegeneral's house when he received a letter, written on the deathbed of one of

the friends of his youth. Count Romayloff had been exiled to his estates, as a result of some quarrel with

Potemkin, and his career had been spoilt. Not being able to recover his forfeited position, he had settled down

about four hundred leagues from St. Petersburg; brokenhearted, distressed probably less on account of his

own exile and misfortune than of the prospects of his only son, Foedor. The count feeling that he was leaving

this son alone and friendless in the world, commended the young man, in the name of their early friendship,

to the general, hoping that, owing to his being a favourite with Paul I, he would be able to procure a

lieutenancy in a regiment for him. The general immediately replied to the count that his son should find a

second father in himself; but when this comforting message arrived, Romayloff was no more, and Foedor

himself received the letter and carried it back with him to the general, when he went to tell him of his loss and

to claim the promised protection. So great was the general's despatch, that Paul I, at his request, granted the

young man a sublieutenancy in the Semonowskoi regiment, so that Foedor entered on his duties the very

Although the young man had only passed through the general's house on his way to the barracks, which were

situated in the Litenoi quarter, he had remained there long enough for him to have seen Vaninka, and she had

produced a great impression upon him. Foedor had arrived with his heart full of primitive and noble feelings;

his gratitude to his protector, who had opened a career for him, was profound, and extended to all his family.

These feelings caused him perhaps to have an exaggerated idea of the beauty of the young girl who was

presented to him as a sister, and who, in spite of this title, received him with the frigidity and hauteur of a

queen. Nevertheless, her appearance, in spite of her cool and freezing manner, had left a lasting impression

upon the young man's heart, and his arrival in St. Petersburg had been marked by feelings till then never

As for Vaninka, she had hardly noticed Foedor; for what was a young sublieutenant, without fortune or

prospects, to her? What she dreamed of was some princely alliance, that would make her one of the most

powerful ladies in Russia, and unless he could realise some dream of the Arabian Nights, Foedor could not

Some time after this first interview, Foedor came to take leave of the general. His regiment was to form part

of a contingent that FieldMarshal Souvarow was taking to Italy, and Foedor was about to die, or show

This time, whether on account of the elegant uniform that heightened Foedor's natural good looks, or because

his imminent departure, glowing with hope and enthusiasm, lent a romantic interest to the young man,

Vaninka was astonished at the marvellous change in him, and deigned, at her father's request, to give him her

hand when he left. This was more than Foedor had dared to hope. He dropped upon his knee, as though in the

presence of a queen, and took Vaninka's between his own trembling hands, scarcely daring to touch it with

his lips. Light though the kiss had been, Vaninka started as though she had been burnt; she felt a thrill run

through her, and she blushed violently. She withdrew her hand so quickly, that Foedor, fearing this adieu,

respectful though it was, had offended her, remained on his knees, and clasping his hands, raised his eyes

with such an expression of fear in them, that Vaninka, forgetting her hauteur, reassured him with a smile.

Foedor rose, his heart filled with inexplicable joy, and without being able to say what had caused this feeling,

he only knew that it had made him absolutely happy, so that, although he was just about to leave Vaninka, he

The young man left dreaming golden dreams; for his future, be it gloomy or bright, was to be envied. If it

ended in a soldier's grave, he believed he had seen in Vaninka's eyes that she would mourn him; if his future

was glorious, glory would bring him back to St. Petersburg in triumph, and glory is a queen, who works

The army to which the young officer belonged crossed Germany, descended into Italy by the Tyrolese

mountains, and entered Verona on the 14th of April 1799. Souvarow immediately joined forces with General

Melas, and took command of the two armies. General Chasteler next day suggested that they should

reconnoitre. Souvarow, gazing at him with astonishment, replied, "I know of no other way of reconnoitring

As a matter of fact Souvarow was accustomed to this expeditious sort of strategy: through it he had defeated

the Turks at Folkschany and Ismailoff; and he had defeated the Poles, after a few days' campaign, and had

taken Prague in less than four hours. Catherine, out of gratitude, had sent her victorious general a wreath of

oakleaves, intertwined with precious stones, and worth six hundred thousand roubles, a heavy gold

fieldmarshal's baton encrusted with diamonds; and had created him a fieldmarshal, with the right of

choosing a regiment that should bear his name from that time forward. Besides, when he returned to Russia,

she gave him leave of absence, that he might take a holiday at a beautiful estate she had given him, together

What a splendid example for Foedor! Souvarow, the son of a humble Russian officer, had been educated at

the ordinary cadets' training college, and had left it as a sublieutenant like himself. Why should there not be

Souvarow arrived in Italy preceded by an immense reputation; religious, strenuous, unwearied, impassible,

loving with the simplicity of a Tartar and fighting with the fury of a Cossack, he was just the man required to

continue General Melas's successes over the soldiers of the Republic, discouraged as they had been by the

The AustroRussian army of one hundred thousand men was opposed by only twentynine or thirty thousand

French. Souvarow began as usual with a thundering blow. On 20th April he appeared before Brescia, which

made a vain attempt at resistance; after a cannonade of about half an hour's duration, the Preschiera gate was

forced, and the Korsakow division, of which Foedor's regiment formed the vanguard, charged into the town,

pursuing the garrison, which only consisted of twelve hundred men, and obliged them to take refuge in the

citadel. Pressed with an impetuosity the French were not accustomed to find in their enemies, and seeing that

the scaling ladders were already in position against the ramparts, the captain Boucret wished to come to

terms; but his position was too precarious for him to obtain any conditions from his savage conquerors, and

Souvarow was experienced enough to know how best to profit by victory; hardly master of Brescia, the rapid

occupation of which had discouraged our army anew, he ordered General Kray to vigorously press on the

siege of Preschiera. General Kray therefore established his headquarters at Valeggio, a place situated at an

equal distance between Preschiera and Mantua, and he extended from the Po to the lake of Garda, on the

Meanwhile the commanderinchief had advanced, accompanied by the larger part of his forces, and had

crossed the Oglio in two columns: he launched one column, under General Rosenberg, towards Bergamo, and

the other, with General Melas in charge, towards the Serio, whilst a body of seven or eight thousand men,

commanded by General Kaim and General Hohenzollern, were directed towards Placentia and Cremona, thus

occupying the whole of the left bank of the Po, in such a manner that the AustroRussian army advanced

In view of the forces which were advancing, and which were three times as large as his own, Scherer beat a

retreat all along the line. He destroyed the bridges over the Adda, as he did not consider that he was strong

enough to hold them, and, having removed his headquarters to Milan, he awaited there the reply to a despatch

which he had sent to the Directory, in which, tacitly acknowledging his incapacity, he tendered his

resignation. As the arrival of his successor was delayed, and as Souvarow continued to advance, Scherer,

more and more terrified by the responsibility which rested upon him, relinquished his command into the

hands of his most able lieutenant. The general chosen by him was Moreau, who was again about to fight

Moreau's unexpected nomination was proclaimed amidst the acclamation of the soldiers. He had been called

the French Fabius, on account of his magnificent campaign on the Rhine. He passed his whole army in

review, saluted by the successive acclamations of its different divisions, which cried, "Long live Moreau!

Long live the saviour of the army of Italy!" But however great this enthusiasm, it did not blind Moreau to the

terrible position in which he found himself. At the risk of being outflanked, it was necessary for him to

present a parallel line to that of the Russian army, so that, in order to face his enemy, he was obliged to

extend his line from Lake Lecco to Pizzighitonethat is to say, a distance of fifty miles. It is true that he

might have retired towards Piedmont and concentrated his troops at Alexandria, to await there the

reinforcements the Directory had promised to send him. But if he had done this, he would have compromised

the safety of the army at Naples, and have abandoned it, isolated as it was, to the mercy of the enemy. He

therefore resolved to defend the passage of the Adda as long as possible, in order to give the division under

Dessolles, which was to be despatched to him by Massena, time to join forces with him and to defend his left,

whilst Gauthier, who had received orders to evacuate Tuscany and to hasten with forced marches to his aid,

should have time to arrive and protect his right. Moreau himself took the centre, and personally defended the

fortified bridge of Cassano; this bridge was protected by the Ritorto Canal, and he also defended it with a

great deal of artillery and an entrenched vanguard. Besides, Moreau, always as prudent as brave, took every

precaution to secure a retreat, in case of disaster, towards the Apennines and the coast of Genoa. Hardly were

his dispositions completed before the indefatigable Souvarow entered Triveglio. At the same time as the

Russian commanderin chief arrived at this last town, Moreau heard of the surrender of Bergamo and its

The same day the Russian general divided his troops into three strong columns, corresponding to the three

principal points in the French line, each column numerically more than double the strength of those to whom

they were opposed. The right column, led by General Wukassowich, advanced towards Lake Lecco, where

General Serrurier awaited it. The left column, under the command of Melas, took up its position in front of

the Cassano entrenchments; and the Austrian division, under Generals Zopf and Ott, which formed the centre,

concentrated at Canonia, ready at a given moment to seize Vaprio. The Russian and Austrian troops

That evening, Foedor, who with his regiment formed part of Chasteler's division, wrote to General

"We are at last opposite the French, and a great battle must take place tomorrow morning; tomorrow

Next morning, 26th April, cannon resounded at break of day from the extremities of the lines; on our left

Prince Bagration's grenadiers attacked us, on our right General Seckendorff, who had been detached from the

These two attacks met with very different success. Bagration's grenadiers were repulsed with terrible loss,

whilst Seckendorff, on the contrary, drove the French out of Crema, and pushed forward towards the bridge

of Lodi. Foedor's predictions were falsified: his portion of the army did nothing the whole day; his regiment

Souvarow's arrangements were not yet quite complete, the night was needed for him to finish them. During

the night, Moreau, having heard of Seckendorff's success on his extreme right, sent an order to Serrurier

commanding him to leave at Lecco, which was an easy post to defend, the 18th light brigade and a

detachment of dragoons only, and to draw back with the rest of his troops towards the centre. Serrurier

received this order about two o'clock in the morning, and executed it immediately.

On their side the Russians had lost no time, profiting by the darkness of the night. General Wukassowich had

repaired the bridge at Brevio, which had been destroyed by the French, whilst General Chasteler had built

another bridge two miles below the castle of Trezzo. These two bridges had been, the one repaired and the

other built, without the French outposts having the slightest suspicion of what was taking place.

Surprised at two o'clock in the morning by two Austrian divisions, which, concealed by the village of San

Gervasio, had reached the right bank of the Adda without their being discovered, the soldiers defending the

castle of Trezzo abandoned it and beat a retreat. The Austrians pursued them as far as Pozzo, but there the

French suddenly halted and faced about, for General Serrurier was at Pozzo, with the troops he had brought

from Lecco. He heard the cannonade behind him, immediately halted, and, obeying the first law of warfare,

he marched towards the noise and smoke. It was therefore through him that the garrison of Trezzo rallied and

resumed the offensive. Serrurier sent an aidedeCamp to Moreau to inform him of the manoeuvre he had

The battle between the French and Austrian troops raged with incredible fury. Bonaparte's veterans, during

their first Italian campaigns, had adopted a custom which they could not renounce: it was to fight His

Imperial Majesty's subjects wherever they found them. Nevertheless, so great was the numerical superiority

of the allies, that our troops had begun to retreat, when loud shouts from the rearguard announced that

reinforcements had arrived. It was General Grenier, sent by Moreau, who arrived with his division at the

One part of the new division reinforced the centre column, doubling its size; another part was extended upon

the left to envelop the enemy. The drums beat afresh down the whole line, and our grenadiers began again to

reconquer this battle field already twice lost and won. But at this moment the Austrians were reinforced by

the Marquis de Chasteler and his division, so that the numerical superiority was again with the enemy.

Grenier drew back his wing to strengthen the centre, and Serrurier, preparing for retreat in case of disaster,

fell back on Pozzo, where he awaited the enemy. It was here that the battle raged most fiercely: thrice the

village of Pozzo was taken and retaken, until at last, attacked for the fourth time by a force double their own

in numbers, the French were obliged to evacuate it. In this last attack an Austrian colonel was mortally

wounded, but, on the other hand, General Beker, who commanded the French rearguard, refused to retreat

with his soldiers, and maintained his ground with a few men, who were slain as they stood; he was at length

obliged to give up his sword to a young Russian officer of the Semenofskoi regiment, who, handing over his

The two French generals had fixed on the village of Vaprio as a rallyingplace, but at the moment when our

troops were thrown into disorder through the evacuation of Pozzo, the Austrian cavalry charged heavily, and

Serrurier, finding himself separated from his colleague, was obliged to retire with two thousand five hundred

men to Verderio, whilst Grenier, having reached the appointed place, Vaprio, halted to face the enemy afresh.

During this time a terrible fight was taking place in the centre. Melas with eighteen to twenty thousand men

had attacked the fortified posts at the head of the bridge of Cassano and the Ritorto Canal. About seven

o'clock in the morning, when Moreau had weakened himself by despatching Grenier and his division, Melas,

leading three battalions of Austrian grenadiers, had attacked the fortifications, and for two hours there was

terrible carnage; thrice repulsed, and leaving more than fifteen hundred men at the base of the fortifications,

the Austrians had thrice returned to the attack, each time being reinforced by fresh troops, always led on and

encouraged by Melas, who had to avenge his former defeats. At length, having been attacked for the fourth

time, forced from their entrenchments, and contesting the ground inch by inch, the French took shelter behind

their second fortifications, which defended the entrance to the bridge itself: here they were commanded by

Moreau in person. There, for two more hours, a handtohand struggle took place, whilst the terrible artillery

belched forth death almost muzzle to muzzle. At last the Austrians, rallying for a last time, advanced at the

point of the bayonet, and; lacking either ladders or fascines, piled the bodies of their dead comrades against

the fortifications, and succeeded in scaling the breastworks. There was not a moment to be lost. Moreau

ordered a retreat, and whilst the French were recrossing the Adda, he protected their passage in person with a

single battalion of grenadiers, of whom at the end of half an hour not more than a hundred and twenty men

remained; three of his aides decamp were killed at his side. This retreat was accomplished without

disorder, and then Moreau himself retired, still fighting the enemy, who set foot on the bridge as soon as he

reached the other bank. The Austrians immediately rushed forward to capture him, when suddenly a terrible

noise was heard rising above the roar of the artillery; the second arch of the bridge was blown into the air,

carrying with it all those who were standing on the fatal spot. The armies recoiled, and into the empty space

between them fell like rain a debris of stones and human beings. But at this moment, when Moreau had

succeeded in putting a momentary obstacle between himself and Melas, General Grenier's division arrived in

disorder, after having been forced to evacuate Vaprio, pursued by the AustroRussians under Zopf, Ott, and

Chasteler. Moreau ordered a change of front, and faced this new enemy, who fell upon him when he least

expected them; he succeeded in rallying Grenier's troops and in reestablishing the battle. But whilst his back

was turned Melas repaired the bridge and crossed the river; thus Moreau found himself attacked frontally, in

the rear, and on his two flanks, by forces three times larger than his own. It was then that all the officers who

surrounded him begged him to retreat, for on the preservation of his person depended the preservation of Italy

for France. Moreau refused for some time, for he knew the awful consequences of the battle he had just lost,

and he did not wish to survive it, although it had been impossible for him to win it. At last a chosen band

surrounded him, and, forming a square, drew back, whilst the rest of the army sacrificed themselves to cover

his retreat; for Moreau's genius was looked upon as the sole hope that remained to them.

The battle lasted nearly three hours longer, during which the rearguard of the army performed prodigies of

valour. At length Melas, seeing that the enemy had escaped him, and believing that his troops, tired by the

stubborn fight, needed rest, gave orders that the fighting should cease. He halted on the left bank of the Adda,

encamping his army in the villages of Imago, Gorgonzola, and Cassano, and remained master of the

battlefield, upon which we had left two thousand five hundred dead, one hundred pieces of cannon, and

That night Souvarow invited General Becker to supper with him, and asked him by whom he had been taken

prisoner. Becker replied that it was a young officer belonging to the regiment which had first entered Pozzo.

Souvarow immediately inquired what regiment this was, and discovered that it was the Semenofskoi; he then

ordered that inquiries should be made to ascertain the young officer's name. Shortly afterwards

SubLieutenant Foedor Romayloff was announced. He presented General Becker's sword to Souvarow, who

Next day Foedor wrote to his protector: "I have kept my word. I am a lieutenant, and FieldMarshal

Souvarow has requested his Majesty Paul I to bestow upon me the order of Saint Vladimir."

On 28th of April, Souvarow entered Milan, which Moreau had just abandoned in order to retreat beyond

Tesino. The following proclamation was by his order posted on all the walls of the capital; it admirably paints

"The victorious army of the Apostolical and Roman Emperor is here; it has fought solely for the restoration

of the Holy Faith,the clergy, nobility, and ancient government of Italy. People, join us for God and the

The dearly bought victories of Trebia and Novi succeeded that of Cassano, and left Souvarow so much

weakened that he was unable to profit by them. Besides, just when the Russian general was about to resume

his march, a new plan of campaign arrived, sent by the Aulic Council at Vienna. The Allied Powers had

decided upon the invasion of France, and had fixed the route each general must follow in order to accomplish

this new project. It way decided that Souvarow should invade France by Switzerland, and that the archduke

The troops with which Souvarow was to operate against Massena from this time were the thirty thousand

Russians he had with him, thirty thousand others detached from the reserve army commanded by Count

Tolstoy in Galicia, who were to be led to join him in Switzerland by General Korsakoff, about thirty thousand

Austrians under General Hotze, and lastly, five or six thousand French emigrants under the Prince de Conde

in all, an army of ninety or ninetyfive thousand men. The Austrians were to oppose Moreau and Macdonald.

Foedor had been wounded when entering Novi, but Souvarow had rewarded him with a second cross, and the

rank of captain hastened his convalescence, so that the young officer, more happy than proud of the new rank

he had received, was in a condition to follow the army, when on 13th September it moved towards Salvedra

So far all had gone well, and as long as they remained in the rich and beautiful Italian plains, Suovarow had

nothing but praise for the courage and devotion of his soldiers. But when to the fertile fields of Lombardy,

watered by its beautiful river, succeeded the rough ways of the Levantine, and when the lofty summits of the

St. Gothard, covered with the eternal snows, rose before them, their enthusiasm was quenched, their energy

disappeared, and melancholy forebodings filled the hearts of these savage children of the North.

Unexpected grumblings ran through the ranks; then suddenly the vanguard stopped, and declared that it

would go no farther. In vain Foedor, who commanded a company, begged and entreated his own men to set

an example by continuing the march: they threw down their arms, and lay down beside them. Just as they had

given this proof of insubordination, fresh murmurs, sounding like an approaching storm, rose from the rear of

the army: they were caused by the sight of Souvarow, who was riding from the rear to the vanguard, and who

arrived at the front accompanied by this terrible proof of mutiny and insubordination. When he reached the

Then Souvarow addressed his soldiers with that savage eloquence to which he owed the miracles he had

effected with them, but cries of "Retreat! Retreat!" drowned his voice. Then he chose out the most mutinous,

and had them thrashed until they were overcome by this shameful punishment: But the thrashings had no

more influence than the exhortation, and the shouts continued. Souvarow saw that all was lost if he did not

employ some powerful and unexpected means of regaining the mutineers. He advanced towards Foedor.

"Captain," said he, "leave these fools here, take eight noncommissioned officers and dig a grave." Foedor,

astonished, gazed at his general as though demanding an explanation of this strange order. "Obey orders,"

Foedor obeyed, and the eight men set to work; and ten minutes later the grave was dug, greatly to the

astonishment of the whole army, which had gathered in a semicircle on the rising slopes of the two hills

Souvarow dismounted from his horse, broke his sword in two and threw it into the grave, detached his

epaulets one by one and threw them after his sword, dragged off the decorations which covered his breast and

cast these after the sword and epaulets, and then, stripping himself naked, he lay down in the grave himself,

"Cover me with earth! Leave your general here. You are no longer my children, and I am no longer your

At these strange words, which were uttered in so powerful a voice that they were heard by the whole army,

the Russian grenadiers threw themselves weeping into the grave, and, raising their general, asked pardon of

Not cries but yells of joy greeted his words. Souvarav dressed himself again, and whilst he was dressing the

leaders of the mutiny crept in the dust to kiss his feet. Then, when his epaulets were replaced on his

shoulders, and when his decorations again shone on his breast, he remounted his horse, followed by the army,

the soldiers swearing with one voice that they would all die rather than abandon their father.

The same day Souvarow attacked Aerolo; but his luck had turned: the conqueror of Cassano, Trebia, and

Novi had left his goodfortune behind in the plains of Italy. For twelve hours six hundred French opposed

three thousand Russian grenadiers beneath the walls of the town, and so successfully that night fell without

Souvarow being able to defeat them. Next day he marched the whole of his troops against this handful of

brave men, but the sky clouded over and the wind. blew a bitter rain into the faces of the Russians; the French

profited by this circumstance to beat a retreat, evacuating the valley of Ursern, crossing the Reuss, and taking

up their position on the heights of the Furka and Grimsel. One portion of the Russian army's design had been

achieved, they were masters of the St. Gothard. It is true that as soon as they marched farther on, the French

would retake it and cut off their retreat; but what did this matter to Souvarow? Did he not always march

He marched on, then, without worrying about that which was behind him, reached Andermatt, cleared Trou

d'Ury, and found Lecourbe guarding the defile of the Devil's Bridge with fifteen hundred men. There the

struggle began again; for three days fifteen hundred Frenchmen kept thirty thousand Russians at bay.

Souvarow raged like a lion trapped in a snare, for he could not understand this change of fortune. At last, on

the fourth day, he heard that General Korsakoff, who had preceded him and who was to rejoin him later, had

been beaten by Molitor, and that Massena had recaptured Zurich and occupied the canton of Glaris.

Souvarow now gave up the attempt to proceed up the valley of the Reuss, and wrote to Korsakoff and

Jallachieh, "I hasten to retrieve your losses; stand firm as ramparts: you shall answer to me with your heads

for every step in retreat that you take." The aidedecamp was also charged to communicate to the Russian

and Austrian generals a verbal plan of battle. Generals Linsken and Jallachieh were to attack the French

troops separately and then to join the forces in the valley of Glaris, into which Souvarow himself was to

Souvarow was so sure that this plan would be successful, that when he arrived on the borders of the lake of

KlonThal, he sent a bearer with a flag of truce, summoning Molitor to surrender, seeing that he was

Molitor replied, to the fieldmarshal that his proposed meeting with his generals had failed, as he had beaten

them one after the other, and driven them back into the Grisons, and that moreover, in retaliation, as Massena

was advancing by Muotta, it was he, Souvarow, who was between two fires, and therefore he called upon him

On hearing this strange reply, Souvarow thought that he must be dreaming, but soon recovering himself and

realising the danger of his position in the defiles, he threw himself on General Molitor, who received him at

the point of the bayonet, and then closing up the pass with twelve hundred men, the French succeeded in

holding fifteen to eighteen thousand Russians in check for eight hours. At length night came, and Molitor

evacuated the Klon Thal, and retired towards the Linth, to defend the bridges of Noefels and Mollis.

The old fieldmarshal rushed like a torrent over Glaris and Miltodi; there he learnt that Molitor had told him

the truth, and that Jallachieh and Linsken had been beaten and dispersed, that Massena was advancing on

Schwitz, and that General Rosenberg, who had been given the defence of the bridge of Muotta, had been

forced to retreat, so that he found himself in the position in which he had hoped to place Molitor.

No time was to be lost in retreating. Souvarow hurried through the passes of Engi, Schwauden, and Elm. His

flight was so hurried that he was obliged to abandon his wounded and part of his artillery. Immediately the

French rushed in pursuit among the precipices and clouds. One saw whole armies passing over places where

chamois hunters took off their shoes and walked barefoot, holding on by their hands to prevent themselves

from falling. Three nations had come from three different parts to a meetingplace in the home of the eagles,

as if to allow those nearest God to judge the justice of their cause. There were times when the frozen

mountains changed into volcanoes, when cascades now filled with blood fell into the valleys, and avalanches

of human beings rolled down the deepest precipices. Death reaped such a harvest there where human life had

never been before, that the vultures, becoming fastidious through the abundance, picked out only the eyes of

the corpses to carry to their youngat least so says the tradition of the peasants of these mountains.

Souvarow was able to rally his troops at length in the neighbourhood of Lindau. He recalled Korsakoff, who

still occupied Bregenz; but all his troops together did not number more than thirty thousand men all that

remained of the eighty thousand whom Paul had furnished as his contingent in the coalition. In fifteen days

Massena had defeated three separate armies, each numerically stronger than his own. Souvarow, furious at

having been defeated by these same Republicans whom he had sworn to exterminate, blamed the Austrians

for his defeat, and declared that he awaited orders from his emperor, to whom he had made known the

Paul's answer was that he should immediately return to Russia with his soldiers, arriving at St. Petersburg as

The same ukase declared that Souvarow should be quartered in the imperial palace for the rest of his life, and

lastly that a monument should be raised to him in one of the public places of St. Petersburg.

Foedor was thus about to see Vaninka once more. Throughout the campaign, where there was a chance of

danger, whether in the plains of Italy, in the defiles of Tesino, or on the glaciers of Mount Pragal, he was the

first to throw himself into it, and his name had frequently been mentioned as worthy of distinction. Souvarow

was too brave himself to be prodigal of honours where they were not merited. Foedor was returning, as he

had promised, worthy of his noble protector's friendship, and who knows, perhaps worthy of Vaninka's love.

FieldMarshal Souvarow had made a friend of him, and none could know to what this friendship might not

But no one could rely upon Paul, for his character was made up of extreme impulses. Without having done

anything to offend his master, and without knowing the cause of his disgrace, Souvarow, on arriving at Riga,

received a private letter which informed him, in the emperor's name, that, having tolerated an infraction of the

laws of discipline among his soldiers, the emperor deprived him of all the honours with which he had been

Such tidings fell like a thunderbolt upon the old warrior, already embittered by his reverses: he was

In consequence of this order, he assembled all his officers in the marketplace of Riga, and took leave of

them sorrowfully, like a father taking leave of his family. Having embraced the generals and colonels, and

having shaken hands with the others, he said goodbye to them once more, and left them free to continue

Souvarow took a sledge, and, travelling night and day, arrived incognito in the capital, which he was to have

entered in triumph, and was driven to a distant suburb, to the house of one of his nieces, where he died of a

On his own account, Foedor travelled almost as rapidly as his general, and entered St. Petersburg without

having sent any letter to announce his arrival. As he had no parent in the capital, and as his entire existence

was concentrated in one person, he drove direct to the general's house, which was situated in the Prospect of

Having arrived there, he sprang out of his carriage, entered the courtyard, and bounded up the steps. He

opened the antechamber door, and precipitated himself into the midst of the servants and subordinate

household officers. They cried out with surprise upon seeing him: he asked them where the general was; they

replied by pointing to the door of the diningroom; he was in there, breakfasting with his daughter.

Then, through a strange reaction, Foedor felt his knees failing him, and he was obliged to lean against a wall

to prevent himself from falling. At this moment, when he was about to see Vaninka again, this soul of his

soul, for whom alone he had done so much, he dreaded lest he should not find her the same as when he had

left her. Suddenly the diningroom door opened, and Vaninka appeared. Seeing the young man, she uttered a

cry, and, turning to the general, said, "Father, it is Foedor"; and the expression of her voice left no doubt of

Foedor did not know whether to throw himself at the feet of Vaninka or into the arms of her father. He felt

that his first recognition ought to be devoted to respect and gratitude, and threw himself into the general's

arms. Had he acted otherwise, it would have been an avowal of his love, and he had no right to avow this love

Foedor then turned, and as at parting, sank on his knee before Vaninka; but a moment had sufficed for the

haughty girl to banish the feeling she had shown. The blush which had suffused her cheek had disappeared,

and she had become again cold and haughty like an alabaster statuea masterpiece of pride begun by nature

and finished by education. Foedor kissed her hand; it was trembling but cold he felt his heart sink, and

"Why, Vaninka," said the general"why are you so cool to a friend who has caused us so much anxiety and

Foedor rose entreatingly, but waited motionless, that another permission might confirm that of the general.

"Did you not hear my father?" said Vaninka, smiling, but nevertheless possessing sufficient selfcontrol to

Foedor stooped to kiss Vaninka, and as he held her hands it seemed to him that she lightly pressed his own

with a nervous, involuntary movement. A feeble cry of joy nearly escaped him, when, suddenly looking at

The general made Foedor sit down at the table: Vaninka took her place again, and as by chance she was

Breakfast passed in relating and listening to an account of this strange campaign which began under the

burning sun of Italy and ended in the glaciers of Switzerland. As there are no journals in St. Petersburg which

publish anything other than that which is permitted by the emperor, Souvarow's successes were spread

abroad, but his reverses were ignored. Foedor described the former with modesty and the latter with

One can imagine, the immense interest the general took in Foedor's story. His two captain's epaulets and the

decorations on his breast proved that the young man had modestly suppressed his own part in the story he had

told. But the general, too courageous to fear that he might share in Souvarow's disgrace, had already visited

the dying fieldmarshal, and had heard from him an account of his young protege's bravery. Therefore, when

Foedor had finished his story, it was the general's turn to enumerate all the fine things Foedor had done in a

campaign of less than a year. Having finished this enumeration, he added that he intended next day to ask the

emperor's permission to take the young captain for his aidedecamp. Foedor hearing this wished to throw

himself at the general's feet, but he received him again in his arms, and to show Foedor how certain he was

that he would be successful in his request, he fixed the rooms that the young man was to occupy in the house

The next day the general returned from the palace of St. Michel with the pleasant news that his request had

Foedor was overwhelmed with joy: from this time he was to form part of the general's family. Living under

the same roof as Vaninka, seeing her constantly, meeting her frequently in the rooms, seeing her pass like an

apparition at the end of a corridor, finding himself twice a day at the same table with her, all this was more

than Foedor had ever dared hope, and he thought for a time that he had attained complete happiness.

For her part, Vaninka, although she was so proud, at the bottom of her heart took a keen interest in Foedor.

He had left her with the certainty that he loved her, and during his absence her woman's pride had been

gratified by the glory he had acquired, in the hope of bridging the distance which separated them. So that,

when she saw him return with this distance between them lessened, she felt by the beating of her heart that

gratified pride was changing into a more tender sentiment, and that for her part she loved Foedor as much as

She had nevertheless concealed these feelings under an appearance of haughty indifference, for Vaninka was

made so: she intended to let Foedor know some day that she loved him, but until the time came when it

pleased her to reveal it, she did not wish the young man to discover her love. Things went on in this way for

several months, and the circumstances which had at first appeared to Foedor as the height of happiness soon

To love and to feel his heart ever on the point of avowing its love, to be from morning till night in the

company of the beloved one, to meet her hand at the table, to touch her dress in a narrow corridor, to feel her

leaning on his arm when they entered a salon or left a ballroom, always to have ceaselessly to control every

word, look, or movement which might betray his feelings, no human power could endure such a struggle.

Vaninka saw that Foedor could not keep his secret much longer, and determined to anticipate the avowal

One day when they were alone, and she saw the hopeless efforts the young man was making to hide his

feelings from her, she went straight up to him, and, looking at him fixedly, said:

"Oh, what do you mean?" cried Foedor. "Do you mean that if your father will bestow your hand upon me,

"Are you not both noble in heart and by birth, Foedor? You are not wealthy, it is true, but then I am rich

"Forgive me!" said Foedor. "What am I doing? You have but to order: I have no wish apart from you. I dread

"My father, whatever his answer, must never know that I have consented to your making this application to

him; no one must know that you are following my instructions; the world must remain ignorant of the

confession I have just made to you; and, lastly, you must not ask me, whatever happens, to help you in any

"Whatever you please. I will do everything you wish me to do. Do you not grant me a thousand times more

than I dared hope, and if your father refuses me, do I not know myself that you are sharing my grief?" cried

"Yes; but that will not happen, I hope," said Vaninka, holding out her hand to the young officer, who kissed it

"Now be hopeful and take courage;" and Vaninka retired, leaving the young man a hundred times more

The same day Foedor asked for an interview with the general. The general received his aidedecamp as

usual with a genial and smiling countenance, but with the first words Foedor uttered his face darkened.

However, when he heard the young man's description of the love, so true, constant, and passionate, that he

felt for Vaninka, and when he heard that this passion had been the motive power of those glorious deeds he

had praised so often, he held out his hand to Foedor, almost as moved as the young soldier.

And then the general told him, that while he had been away, and ignorant of his love for Vaninka, in whom

he had observed no trace of its being reciprocated, he had, at the emperor's desire, promised her hand to the

son of a privy councillor. The only stipulation that the general had made was, that he should not be separated

from his daughter until she had attained the age of eighteen. Vaninka had only five months more to spend

under her father's roof. Nothing more could be said: in Russia the emperor's wish is an order, and from the

moment that it is expressed, no subject would oppose it, even in thought. However, the refusal had imprinted

such despair on the young man's face, that the general, touched by his silent and resigned sorrow, held out his

Then the general questioned him about his daughter, and Foedor answered, as he had promised, that Vaninka

was ignorant of everything, and that the proposal came from him alone, without her knowledge. This

assurance calmed the general: he had feared that he was making two people wretched.

At dinnertime Vaninka came downstairs and found her father alone. Foedor had not enough courage to be

present at the meal and to meet her again, just when he had lost all hope: he had taken a sleigh, and driven out

During the whole time dinner lasted Vaninka and the general hardly exchanged a word, but although this

silence was so expressive, Vaninka controlled her face with her usual power, and the general alone appeared

That evening, just when Vaninka was going downstairs, tea was brought to her room, with the message that

the general was fatigued and had retired. Vaninka asked some questions about the nature of his indisposition,

and finding that it was not serious, she told the servant who had brought her the message to ask her father to

send for her if he wanted anything. The general sent to say that he thanked her, but he only required quiet and

Hardly had he left the room when Vaninka ordered Annouschka, her fostersister, who acted as her maid, to

At eleven o'clock the gate of the mansion opened: Foedor got out of his sleigh, and immediately went up to

his room. He threw himself upon a sofa, overwhelmed by his thoughts. About midnight he heard someone

tapping at the door: much astonished, he got up and opened it. It was Annouschka, who came with a message

from her mistress, that Vaninka wished to see him immediately. Although he was astonished at this message,

He found Vaninka seated, dressed in a white robe, and as she was paler than usual he stopped at the door, for

Foedor approached, drawn by her voice like steel to a magnet. Annouschka shut the door behind him.

Foedor told her all that had happened. The young girl listened to his story with an unmoved countenance, but

her lips, the only part of her face which seemed to have any colour, became as white as the dressinggown

she was wearing. Foedor, on the contrary, was consumed by a fever, and appeared nearly out of his senses.

"Now, what do you intend to do?" said Vaninka in the same cold tone in which she had asked the other

"You ask me what I intend to do, Vaninka? What do you wish me to do? What can I do, but flee from St.

Petersburg, and seek death in the first corner of Russia where war may break out, in order not to repay my

"You are a fool," said Vaninka, with a mixed smile of triumph and contempt; for from that moment she felt

her superiority over Foedor, and saw that she would rule him like a queen for the rest of her life.

"Yes; only women and children will thus confess themselves beaten at the first blow: a man, if he be worthy

"Who suggested that you should contend against my father? It is against events that you must strive; for the

generality of men do not govern events, but are carried away by them. Appear to my father as though you

were fighting against your love, and he will think that you have mastered yourself. As I am supposed to be

ignorant of your proposal, I shall not be suspected. I will demand two years' more freedom, and I shall obtain

them. Who knows what may happen in the course of two years? The emperor may die, my betrothed may die,

"Force me!" interrupted Vaninka, and a deep flush rose to her cheek and immediately disappeared again.

"And who will force me to do anything? Father? He loves me too well. The emperor? He has enough worries

in his own family, without introducing them into another's. Besides, there is always a last resource when

every other expedient fails: the Neva only flows a few paces from here, and its waters are deep."

Foedor uttered a cry, for in the young girl's knit brows and tightly compressed lips there was so much

resolution that he understood that they might break this child but that they would not bend her. But Foedor's

heart was too much in harmony with the plan Vaninka had proposed; his objections once removed, he did not

seek fresh ones. Besides, had he had the courage to do so; Vaninka's promise to make up in secret to him for

the dissimulation she was obliged to practise in public would have conquered his last scruples.

Vaninka, whose determined character had been accentuated by her education, had an unbounded influence

over all who came in contact with her; even the general, without knowing why, obeyed her. Foedor submitted

like a child to everything she wished, and the young girl's love was increased by the wishes she opposed and

It was some days after this nocturnal decision that the knouting had taken place at which our readers have

assisted. It was for some slight fault, and Gregory had been the victim; Vaninka having complained to her

father about him. Foedor, who as aidedecamp had been obliged to preside over Gregory's punishment, had

Ivan, the coachman, who after having been executioner had become surgeon, had applied compresses of salt

and water to heal up the scarred shoulders of his victim. Gregory had remained three days in the infirmary,

and during this time he had turned over in his mind every possible means of vengeance. Then at the end of

three days, being healed, he had returned to his duty, and soon everyone except he had forgotten the

punishment. If Gregory had been a real Russian, he would soon have forgotten it all; for this punishment is

too familiar to the rough Muscovite for him to remember it long and with rancour. Gregory, as we have said,

had Greek blood in his veins; he dissembled and remembered. Although Gregory was a serf, his duties had

little by little brought him into greater familiarity with the general than any of the other servants. Besides, in

every country in the world barbers have great licence with those they shave; this is perhaps due to the fact

that a man is instinctively more gracious to another who for ten minutes every day holds his life in his hands.

Gregory rejoiced in the immunity of his profession, and it nearly always happened that the barber's daily

operation on the general's chin passed in conversation, of which he bore the chief part.

One day the general had to attend a review: he sent for Gregory before daybreak, and as the barber was

passing the razor as gently as possible over his master's cheek, the conversation fell, or more likely was led,

on Foedor. The barber praised him highly, and this naturally caused his master to ask him, remembering the

correction the young aidedecamp had superintended, if he could not find some fault in this model of

perfection that might counterbalance so many good qualities. Gregory replied that with the exception of pride

"Pride?" asked the astonished general. "That is a failing from which I should have thought him most free."

"Ambition!" said the general. "It does not seem to me that he has given much proof of ambition in entering

my service; for after his achievements in the last campaign he might easily have aspired to the honour of a

"Oh yes, he is ambitious," said Gregory, smiling. "One man's ambition is for high position, another's an

illustrious alliance: the former will owe everything to himself, the latter will make a steppingstone of his

"What do you mean to suggest?" said the general, beginning to see what Gregory was aiming at.

"I mean, your excellency," replied Gregory, "there are many men who, owing to the kindness shown them by

others, forget their position and aspire to a more exalted one; having already been placed so high, their heads

"Gregory," cried the general, "believe me, you are getting into a scrape; for you are making an accusation,

"By St. Basilius, general, it is no scrape when you have truth on your side; for I have said nothing I am not

"Then," said the general, "you persist in declaring that Foedor loves my daughter?"

"Ah! I have not said that: it is your excellency. I have not named the lady Vaninka," said Gregory, with the

"When the lady Vaninka returns late, and when perchance Mr. Foedor has not accompanied you, whatever

"Foedor attends me, it is his duty," said the general, beginning to believe that the serf's suspicions were

founded on slight grounds. "He waits for me," he, continued, "because when I return, at any hour of the day

"Not a day passes without Mr. Foedor going into my lady Vaninka's room, although such a favour is not

"At night!" cried the general, rising to his feet, and turning so pale that, after a moment, he was forced to lean

"Yes, at night, your excellency," answered Gregory quietly; "and since, as you say, I have begun to mix

myself up in a bad business, I must go on with it; besides, even if there were to result from it another

punishment for me, even more terrible than that I have already endured, I should not allow so good, a master

"Be very careful about what you are going to say, slave; for I know the men of your nation. Take care, if the

accusation you are making by way of revenge is not supported by visible, palpable, and positive proofs, you

"I do not say that I have seen him enter it, your excellency. I say that I have seen him come out."

"This is not our agreement, your excellency," said the slave, drawing back. "I am only to be punished if I fail

"The first time that Mr. Foedor is in my lady Vaninka's room after midnight, I shall come to find your

excellency, and then you can judge for yourself if I lie; but up to the present, your excellency, all the

"Well, if I fail to give proofs, I am to be treated as an infamous slanderer; but if I give them, what advantage

"That is a bargain, then, your excellency," replied Gregory quietly, replacing the razors on the general's

toilettable, "and I hope that before a week has passed you will be more just to me than you are now."

With these words the slave left the room, leaving the general convinced by his confidence that some dreadful

>From this time onward, as might be expected, the general weighed every word and noticed every gesture

which passed between Vaninka and Foedor in his presence; but he saw nothing to confirm his suspicions on

the part of the aidedecamp or of his daughter; on the contrary, Vaninka seemed colder and more reserved

A week passed in this way. About two o'clock in the morning of the ninth day, someone knocked at the

"If your excellency will go into your daughter's room," said Gregory, "you will find Mr. Foedor there."

The general turned pale, dressed himself without uttering a word, and followed the slave to the door of

Vaninka's room. Having arrived there, with a motion of his hand he dismissed the informer, who, instead of

retiring in obedience to this mute command, hid himself in the corner of the corridor.

When the general believed himself to be alone, he knocked once; but all was silent. This silence, however,

proved nothing; for Vaninka might be asleep. He knocked a second time, and the young girl, in a perfectly

"Annouschka!" said the girl to her fostersister, who slept in the adjoining room, "open the door to my father.

Forgive me, father," she continued; "but Annouschka is dressing, and will be with you in a moment."

The general waited patiently, for he could discover no trace of emotion in his daughter's voice, and he hoped

In a few moments the door opened, and the general went in, and cast a long look around him; there was no

Vaninka was in bed, paler perhaps than usual, but quite calm, with the loving smile on her lips with which

"To what fortunate circumstance," asked the young girl in her softest tones, "do I owe the pleasure of seeing

"I wished to speak to you about a very important matter," said the general, "and however late it was, I thought

"My father will always be welcome in his daughter's room, at whatever hour of the day or night he presents

The general cast another searching look round, and was convinced that it was impossible for a man to be

"Yes, but we are not alone," replied the general, "and it is important that no other ears should hear what I

"That makes no difference," said the general, going candle in hand into the next room, which was somewhat

smaller than his daughter's. "Annouschka," said he, "watch in the corridor and see that no one overhears us."

As he spoke these words, the general threw the same scrutinizing glance all round the room, but with the

Annouschka obeyed, and the general followed her out, and, looking eagerly round for the last time,

reentered his daughter's room, and seated himself on the foot of her bed. Annouschka, at a sign from her

mistress, left her alone with her father. The general held out his hand to Vaninka, and she took it without

"My child," said the general, "I have to speak to you about a very important matter."

"You will soon be eighteen," continued the general, "and that is the age at which the daughters of the Russian

nobility usually marry." The general paused for a moment to watch the effect of these words upon Vaninka,

but her hand rested motionless in his. "For the last year your hand has been engaged by me," continued the

"To the son of the CouncillorinOrdinary," replied the general. "What is your opinion of him?"

"He is a worthy and noble young man, I am told, but I can have formed no opinion except from hearsay. Has

"But if circumstances demanded the breaking of this vow, and made the celebration of this marriage

"I know that," said Vaninka, with as little emotion as if the question did not concern her.

"Ah!" said the general, drawing a deep breath of relief, "you are a noble girl, Vaninka, and I grant you what

you asktwo years more. But remember it is the emperor who has decided upon this marriage."

"My father will do me the justice to believe that I am too submissive a daughter to be a rebellious subject."

"Excellent, Vaninka, excellent," said the general. "So, then, poor Foedor has told you all?"

"And he consented to leave you? He is a good and noble young man, who shall always be under my

protection wherever he goes. Oh, if my word had not been given, I love him so much that, supposing you did

"That is spoken like my daughter," said the general, embracing her. "Farewell, Vaninka ; I do not ask if you

With these words, he rose and left the room. Annouschka was in the corridor; the general signed to her that

she might go in again, and went on his way. At the door of his room he found Gregory waiting for him.

"Well," said the general, "you are both right and wrong. Foedor loves my daughter, but my daughter does not

love him. He went into my daughter's room at eleven o'clock, but at midnight he left her for ever. No matter,

come to me tomorrow, and you shall have your thousand roubles and your liberty."

Meanwhile, Annouschka had reentered her mistress's room, as she had been ordered, and closed the door

Vaninka immediately sprang out of bed and went to the door, listening to the retreating footsteps of the

general. When they had ceased to be heard, she rushed into Annouschka's room, and both began to pull aside

a bundle of linen, thrown down, as if by accident, into the embrasure of a window. Under the linen was a

large chest with a spring lock. Annouschka pressed a button, Vaninka raised the lid. The two women uttered a

loud cry: the chest was now a coffin; the young officer, stifled for want of air, lay dead within.

For a long time the two women hoped it was only a swoon. Annouschka sprinkled his face with water;

Vaninka put salts to his nose. All was in vain. During the long conversation which the general had had with

his daughter, and which had lasted more than half an hour, Foedor, unable to get out of the chest, as the lid

was closed by a spring, had died for want of air. The position of the two girls shut up with a corpse was

frightful. Annouschka saw Siberia close at hand; Vaninka, to do her justice, thought of nothing but Foedor.

Both were in despair. However, as the despair of the maid was more selfish than that of her mistress, it was

Annouschka who first thought of a plan of escaping from the situation in which they were placed.

"My lady," she cried suddenly, "we are saved." Vaninka raised her head and looked at her attendant with her

"Listen now," said Annouschka: "your position is terrible, I grant that, and your grief is great; but your grief

could be greater and your position more terrible still. If the general knew this."

"What difference would it make to me?" said Vaninka. "I shall weep for him before the whole world."

"Yes, but you will be dishonoured before the whole world! Tomorrow your slaves, and the day after all St.

Petersburg, will know that a man died of suffocation while concealed in your chamber. Reflect, my lady:

"You are right," said Vaninka, shaking her head, as if to disperse the gloomy thoughts that burdened her

"Of what are you thinking?" cried Vaninka. "To confide in a man? A man, do I say? A serf! a slave!"

"The lower the position of the serf and slave, the safer will our secret be, since he will have everything to

"That is true," said Annouschka; " but where will you find a slave who is not? My brother gets drunk less

than most, and is therefore more to be trusted than the others. Besides, in the position in which we are we

"You are right," said Vaninka, recovering her usual resolution, which always grew in the presence of danger.

"We can do nothing this morning," said Annouschka, drawing back the window curtains. "Look, the dawn is

"It must remain hidden where it is all day, and this evening, while you are at the Court entertainment, my

"True," murmured Vaninka in a strange tone, "I must go to Court this evening; to stay away would arouse

Vaninka turned deadly pale, but, spurred on by the danger, she went resolutely up to the body of her lover;

then, lifting it by the shoulders, while her maid raised it by the legs, she laid it once more in the chest. Then

Annouschka shut down the lid, locked the chest, and put the key into her breast. Then both threw back the

linen which had hidden it from the eyes of the general. Day dawned, as might be expected, ere sleep visited

She went down, however, at the breakfast hour; for she did not wish to arouse the slightest suspicion in her

father's mind. Only it might have been thought from her pallor that she had risen from the grave, but the

general attributed this to the nocturnal disturbance of which he had been the cause.

Luck had served Vaninka wonderfully in prompting her to say that Foedor had already gone; for not only did

the general feel no surprise when he did not appear, but his very absence was a proof of his daughter's

innocence. The general gave a pretext for his aide decamp's absence by saying that he had sent him on a

mission. As for Vaninka, she remained out of her room till it was time to dress. A week before, she had been

Vaninka might have excused herself from accompanying her father by feigning some slight indisposition, but

two considerations made her fear to act thus: the first was the fear of making the general anxious, and perhaps

of making him remain at home himself, which would make the removal of the corpse more difficult; the

second was the fear of meeting Ivan and having to blush before a slave. She preferred, therefore, to make a

superhuman effort to control herself; and, going up again into her room, accompanied by her faithful

Annouschka, she began to dress with as much care as if her heart were full of joy. When this cruel business

was finished, she ordered Annouschka to shut the door; for she wished to see Foedor once more, and to bid a

last farewell to him who had been her lover. Annouschka obeyed; and Vaninka, with flowers in her hair and

Annouschka again opened the chest, and Vaninka, without shedding a tear, without breathing a sigh, with the

profound and deathlike calm of despair, leant down towards Foedor and took off a plain ring which the

young man had on his finger, placed it on her own, between two magnificent rings, then kissing him on the

At this moment she heard steps approaching. It was a groom of the chambers coming from the general to ask

if she were ready. Annouschka let the lid of the chest fall, and Vaninka going herself to open the door,

Such was her trust in her fostersister that she left her to accomplish the dark and terrible task with which she

A minute later, Annouschka saw the carriage containing the general and his daughter leave by the main gate

She let half an hour go by, and then went down to look for Ivan. She found him drinking with Gregory, with

whom the general had kept his word, and who had received the same day one thousand roubles and his

liberty. Fortunately, the revellers were only beginning their rejoicings, and Ivan in consequence was sober

Ivan followed Annouschka into the chamber of her mistress. There she reminded him of all that Vaninka,

haughty but generous, had allowed his sister to do for him. The, few glasses of brandy Ivan had already

swallowed had predisposed him to gratitude (the drunkenness of the Russian is essentially tender). Ivan

protested his devotion so warmly that Annouschka hesitated no longer, and, raising the lid of the chest,

showed him the corpse of Foedor. At this terrible sight Ivan remained an instant motionless, but he soon

began to calculate how much money and how many benefits the possession of such a secret would bring him.

He swore by the most solemn oaths never to betray his mistress, and offered, as Annouschka had hoped, to

The thing was easily done. Instead of returning to drink with Gregory and his comrades, Ivan went to prepare

a sledge, filled it with straw, and hid at the bottom an iron crowbar. He brought this to the outside gate, and

assuring himself he was not being spied upon, he raised the body of the dead man in his arms, hid it under the

straw, and sat down above it. He had the gate of the hotel opened, followed Niewski Street as far as the

Zunamenie Church, passed through the shops in the Rejestwenskoi district, drove the sledge out on to the

frozen Neva, and halted in the middle of the river, in front of the deserted church of Ste. Madeleine. There,

protected by the solitude and darkness, hidden behind the black mass of his sledge, he began to break the ice,

which was fifteen inches thick, with his pick. When he had made a large enough hole, he searched the body

of Foedor, took all the money he had about him, and slipped the body head foremost through the opening he

had made. He then made his way back to the hotel, while the imprisoned current of the Neva bore away the

corpse towards the Gulf of Finland. An hour after, a new crust of ice had formed, and not even a trace of the

At midnight Vaninka returned with her father. A hidden fever had been consuming her all the evening: never

had she looked so lovely, and she had been overwhelmed by the homage of the most distinguished nobles and

courtiers. When she returned, she found Annouschka in the vestibule waiting to take her cloak. As she gave it

to her, Vaninka sent her one of those questioning glances that seem to express so much. "It is done," said the

girl in a low voice. Vaninka breathed a sigh of relief, as if a mountain had been removed from her breast.

Great as was her selfcontrol, she could no longer bear her father's presence, and excused herself from

remaining to supper with him, on the plea of the fatigues of the evening. Vaninka was no sooner in her room,

with the door once closed, than she tore the flowers from her hair, the necklace from her throat, cut with

scissors the corsets which suffocated her, and then, throwing herself on her bed, she gave way to her grief.

Annouschka thanked God for this outburst; her mistress's calmness had frightened her more than her despair.

The first crisis over, Vaninka was able to pray. She spent an hour on her knees, then, yielding to the entreaties

of her faithful attendant, went to bed. Annouschka sat down at the foot of the bed.

Neither slept, but when day came the tears which Vaninka had shed had calmed her.

Annouschka was instructed to reward her brother. Too large a sum given to a slave at once might have

aroused suspicion, therefore Annouschka contented herself with telling Ivan that when he had need of money

Gregory, profiting by his liberty and wishing to make use of his thousand roubles, bought a little tavern on

the outskirts of the town, where, thanks to his address and to the acquaintances he had among the servants in

the great households of St. Petersburg, he began to develop an excellent business, so that in a short time the

Red House (which was the name and colour of Gregory's establishment) had a great reputation. Another man

took over his duties about the person of the general, and but for Foedor's absence everything returned to its

Two months went by in this way, without anybody having the least suspicion of what had happened, when

one morning before the usual breakfasthour the general begged his daughter to come down to his room.

Vaninka trembled with fear, for since that fatal night everything terrified her. She obeyed her father, and

collecting all her strength, made her way to his chamber, The count was alone, but at the first glance Vaninka

saw she had nothing to fear from this interview: the general was waiting for her with that paternal smile

which was the usual expression of his countenance when in his daughter's presence.

She approached, therefore, with her usual calmness, and, stooping down towards the general, gave him her

He motioned to her to sit down, and gave her an open letter. Vaninka looked at him for a moment in surprise,

It contained the news of the death of the man to whom her hand had been promised: he had been killed in a

The general watched the effect of the letter on his daughter's face, and great as was Vaninka's selfcontrol, so

many different thoughts, such bitter regret, such poignant remorse assailed her when she learnt that she was

now free again, that she could not entirely conceal her emotion. The general noticed it, and attributed it to the

love which he had for a long time suspected his daughter felt for the young aidedecamp.

"Yes, certainly return. We shall be most unfortunate," continued the general, smiling, "if we cannot find

someone in the house who knows where he is. Come, Vaninka, tell me the place of his exile, and I will

"Nobody knows where Foedor is," murmured Vaninka in a hollow voice; "nobody but God, nobody!"

Vaninka shook her head in denial. She was so heartbroken that she could not speak.

The general in his turn became gloomy. "Do you fear some misfortune, then?" said he.

"I fear that I shall never be happy again on earth," cried Vaninka, giving way under the pressure of her grief;

then she continued at once, "Let me retire, father; I am ashamed of what I have said."

The general, who saw nothing in this exclamation beyond regret for having allowed the confession of her

love to escape her, kissed his daughter on the brow and allowed her to retire. He hoped that, in spite of the

mournful way in which Vaninka had spoken of Foedor, that it would be possible to find him. The same day

he went to the emperor and told him of the love of Foedor for his daughter, and requested, since death had

freed her from her first engagement, that he might dispose of her hand. The emperor consented, and the

general then solicited a further favour. Paul was in one of his kindly moods, and showed himself disposed to

grant it. The general told him that Foedor had disappeared for two months; that everyone, even his daughter,

was ignorant of his whereabouts, and begged him to have inquiries made. The emperor immediately sent for

Six weeks went by without any result. Vaninka, since the day when the letter came, was sadder and more

melancholy than ever. Vainly from time to time the general tried to make her more hopeful. Vaninka only

But it was not the same among the household. The young aidedecamp had been popular with the servants,

and, with the exception of Gregory, there was not a soul who wished him harm, so that, when it became

known that he had not been sent on a mission, but had disappeared, the matter became the constant subject of

conversation in the antechamber, the kitchen, and the stables. There was another place where people busied

>From the day when he heard of Foedor's mysterious departure Gregory had his suspicions. He was sure that

he had seen Foedor enter Vaninka's room, and unless he had gone out while he was going to seek the general,

he did not understand why the latter had not found him in his daughter's room. Another thing occupied his

mind, which it seemed to him might perhaps have some connection with this eventthe amount of money

Ivan had been spending since that time, a very extraordinary amount for a slave. This slave, however, was the

brother of Vaninka's cherished fostersister, so that, without being sure, Gregory already suspected the

source from whence this money came. Another thing confirmed him in his suspicions, which was that Ivan,

who had not only remained his most faithful friend, but had become one of his best customers, never spoke of

Foedor, held his tongue if he were mentioned in his presence, and to all questions, however pressing they

In the meantime the Feast of Kings arrived. This is a great day in St. Petersburg, for it is also the day for

As Vaninka had been present at the ceremony, and was fatigued after standing for two hours on the Neva, the

general did not go out that evening, and gave Ivan leave to do so. Ivan profited by the permission to go to the

There was a numerous company there, and Ivan was welcomed; for it was known that he generally came with

full pockets. This time he did not belie his reputation, and had scarcely arrived before he made the

At this warning sound Gregory hastened up with all possible deference, a bottle of brandy in each hand; for

he knew that when Ivan summoned him he gained in two ways, as innkeeper and as boon companion. Ivan

did not disappoint these hopes, and Gregory was invited to share in the entertainment. The conversation

turned on slavery, and some of the unhappy men, who had only four days in the year of respite from their

eternal labour, talked loudly of the happiness Gregory had enjoyed since he had obtained his freedom.

"Bah!" said Ivan, on whom the brandy had begun to take effect, "there are some slaves who are freer than

"Why difficult? Our masters, the moment they are born, are put into the hands of two or three pedants, one

French, another German, and a third English, and whether they like them or not, they must be content with

their society till they are seventeen, and whether they wish to or not, must learn three barbarous languages, at

the expense of our noble Russian tongue, which they have sometimes completely forgotten by the time the

others are acquired. Again, if one of them wishes for some career, he must become a soldier: if he is a

sublieutenant, he is the slave of the lieutenant; if he is a lieutenant, he is the slave of the captain, and the

captain of the major, and so on up to the emperor, who is nobody's slave, but who one fine day is surprised at

the table, while walking, or in his bed, and is poisoned, stabbed, or strangled. If he chooses a civil career, it is

much the same. He marries a wife, and does not love her; children come to him he knows not how, whom he

has to provide for; he must struggle incessantly to provide for his family if he is poor, and if he is rich to

prevent himself being robbed by his steward and cheated by his tenants. Is this life? While we, gentlemen, we

are born, and that is the only pain we cost our mothersall the rest is the master's concern. He provides for

us, he chooses our calling, always easy enough to learn if we are not quite idiots. Are we ill? His doctor

attends us gratis; it is a loss to him if we die. Are we well? We have our four certain meals a day, and a good

stove to sleep near at night. Do we fall in love? There is never any hindrance to our marriage, if the woman

loves us; the master himself asks us to hasten our marriage, for he wishes us to have as many children as

possible. And when the children are born, he does for them in their turn all he has done for us. Can you find

"All this is true," said Gregory, pouring him out another glass of brandy; "but, after all, you are not free."

"Free as air, I tell you; for I have good masters, and above all a good mistress," continued Ivan, with a

"What! if after having got drunk here today, you asked to come back tomorrow to get drunk again?" said

Gregory, who in his challenge to Ivan did not forget his own interests,"if you asked that?"

"The fact is, Ivan is our young lady's favourite," said another of the count's slaves who was present, profiting

"It is all the same," said Gregory; "for supposing such permission were given you, money would soon run

"Never!" said Ivan, swallowing another glass of brandy, "never will Ivan want for money as long as there is a

"Oh, you forget, my friend; you know well she does not reckon with her friends: remember the strokes of the

"I have no wish to speak about that," said Gregory. "I know that she is generous with blows, but her money is

"Well, would you like to see the colour of mine?" said Ivan, getting more and more drunk. "See here, here are

kopecks, sorokkopecks, blue notes worth five roubles, red notes worth twenty five roubles, and tomorrow,

if you like, I will show you white notes worth fifty roubles. A health to my lady Vaninka!" And Ivan held out

"But does money," said Gregory, pressing Ivan more and more,"does money make up for scorn?"

"Scorn!" said Ivan,"scorn! Who scorns me? Do you, because you are free? Fine freedom! I would rather be

"The fact is," said the two slaves in reply, who both belonged to the general's household, "Ivan must certainly

"Because he is Annouschka's brother," said Gregory, "and Annouschka is my lady's fostersister."

"For that reason or for some other," said Ivan; "but, in short, that is the case."

"If my sister should die, that would be a pity, for she is a good girl. I drink to her health! But if she should

die, that would make no difference. I am respected for myself; they respect me because they fear me."

"Fear my lord Ivan!" said Gregory, with a loud laugh. "It follows, then, that if my lord Ivan were tired of

"He said 'perhaps,' repeated Gregory, laughing louder than ever,"he said 'perhaps.' Did you hear him?"

"Yes," said the slaves, who had drunk so much that they could only answer in monosyllables.

"Oh, I should like to see that," said Gregory; "I would give something to see that."

"Well, send away these fellows, who are getting drunk like pigs, and for nothing, you will find."

"For nothing?" said Gregory. "You are jesting. Do you think I should give them drink for nothing?"

"Well, we shall see. How much would be their score, for your atrocious brandy, if they drank from now till

"Friends," said Gregory, taking out his watch as if to look at the time, "it is just upon midnight; you know the

governor's orders, so you must go." The men, habituated like all Russians to passive obedience, went without

a murmur, and Gregory found himself alone with Ivan and the two other slaves of the general.

"Well, what would you say," replied Ivan, "if in spite of the late hour and the cold, and in spite of the fact that

we are only slaves, my lady were to leave her father's house and come to drink our healths?"

"I would say that you ought to take advantage of it," said Gregory, shrugging his shoulders, "and tell her to

bring at the same time a bottle of brandy. There is probably better brandy in the general's cellar than in mine."

"There is better," said Ivan, as if he was perfectly sure of it, "and my lady shall bring you a bottle of it."

"They are included," said Ivan, "and in consideration of them we will reduce the time to six months. Is that

The two who were making the wager shook hands, and the agreement was perfected. Then, with an air of

confidence, assumed to confound the witnesses of this strange scene, Ivan wrapped himself in the fur coat

The three tipplers looked at one another in amazement, but Ivan quietly returned to his place in the middle of

"To my lady's health! It is the least we can do when she is kind enough to come and join us on so cold a

"Annouschka," said a voice outside, "knock at this door and ask Gregory if he has not some of our servants

Gregory and the two other slaves looked at one another, stupefied: they had recognised Vaninka's voice. As

for Ivan, he flung himself back in his chair, balancing himself with marvellous impertinence.

Annouschka opened the door, and they could see, as Ivan had said, that the snow was falling heavily.

"My friends," said she, with a strange smile, "I am told that you were drinking my health, and I have come to

bring you something to drink it again. Here is a bottle of old French brandy which I have chosen for you from

Gregory and the slaves obeyed with the slowness and hesitation of astonishment, while Ivan held out his

Vaninka filled them to the brim herself, and then, as they hesitated to drink, "Come, drink to my health,

"Hurrah!" cried the drinkers, reassured by the kind and familiar tone of their noble visitor, as they emptied

Vaninka at once poured them out another glass; then putting the bottle on the table, "Empty the bottle, my

friends," said she, "and do not trouble about me. Annouschka and I, with the permission 2668 of the master of

Gregory tried to rise and place stools near the stove, but whether he was quite drunk or whether some

narcotic had been mixed with the brandy, he fell back on his seat, trying to stammer out an excuse.

"It is all right," said Vaninka: "do not disturb yourselves; drink, my friends, drink."

The revellers profited by this permission, and each emptied the glass before him. Scarcely had Gregory

The two moujiks followed the example of the master of the house, and fell down side by side on the ground.

Ivan was left struggling against sleep, and trying to sing a drinking song; but soon his tongue refused to obey

him, his eyes closed in spite of him, and seeking the tune that escaped him, and muttering words he was

Immediately Vaninka rose, fixed them with flashing eyes, and called them by name one after another. There

Then she clapped her hands and cried joyfully, "The moment has come!" Going to the back of the room, she

brought thence an armful of straw, placed it in a corner of the room, and did the same in the other corners.

She then took a flaming brand from the stove and set fire in succession to the four corners of the room.

"Your brother is a wretch who has betrayed me, and we are lost if we do not destroy him."

"You can die with him if you like," said Vaninka, accompanying the proposal with a smile which showed she

would not have been sorry if Annouschka had carried sisterly affection to that length.

"Let us go, then," said Vaninka; and, dragging out the heartbroken girl, she locked the door behind her and

"In the name of Heaven," said Annouschka, "let us go home quickly: I cannot gaze upon this awful sight!"

"No, let us stay here!" said Vaninka, holding her back with a grasp of almost masculine strength. "Let us stay

until the house falls in on them, so that we may be certain that not one of them escapes."

"Oh, my God!" cried Annouschka, falling on her knees, "have mercy upon my poor brother, for death will

"Yes, yes, pray; that is right," said Vaninka. "I wish to destroy their bodies, not their souls."

Vaninka stood motionless, her arms crossed, brilliantly lit up by the flames, while her attendant prayed. The

fire did not last long: the house was wooden, with the crevices filled with oakum, like all those of Russian

peasants, so that the flames, creeping out at the four corners, soon made great headway, and, fanned by the

wind, spread rapidly to all parts of the building. Vaninka followed the progress of the fire with blazing eyes,

fearing to see some halfburnt spectral shape rush out of the flames. At last the roof fell in, and Vaninka,

relieved of all fear, then at last made her way to the general's house, into which the two women entered

without being seen, thanks to the permission Annouschka had to go out at any hour of the day or night.

The next morning the sole topic of conversation in St. Petersburg was the fire at the Red House. Four

halfconsumed corpses were dug out from beneath the ruins, and as three of the general's slaves were

missing, he had no doubt that the unrecognisable bodies were those of Ivan, Daniel, and Alexis: as for the

The cause of the fire remained a secret from everyone: the house was solitary, and the snowstorm so violent

that nobody had met the two women on the deserted road. Vaninka was sure of her maid. Her secret then had

perished with Ivan. But now remorse took the place of fear: the young girl who was so pitiless and inflexible

in the execution of the deed quailed at its remembrance. It seemed to her that by revealing the secret of her

crime to a priest, she would be relieved of her terrible burden. She therefore sought a confessor renowned for

his lofty charity, and, under the seal of confession, told him all. The priest was horrified by the story. Divine

mercy is boundless, but human forgiveness has its limits. He refused Vaninka the absolution she asked. This

refusal was terrible: it would banish Vaninka from the Holy Table; this banishment would be noticed, and

could not fail to be attributed to some unheardof and secret crime. Vaninka fell at the feet of the priest, and

in the name of her father, who would be disgraced by her shame, begged him to mitigate the rigour of this

The confessor reflected deeply, then thought he had found a way to obviate such consequences. It was that

Vaninka should approach the Holy Table with the other young girls; the priest would stop before her as

before all the others, but only say to her, "Pray and weep"; the congregation, deceived by this, would think

that she had received the Sacrament like her companions. This was all that Vaninka could obtain.

This confession took place about seven o'clock in the evening, and the solitude of the church, added to the

darkness of night, had given it a still more awful character. The confessor returned home, pale and trembling.

His wife Elizabeth was waiting for him alone. She had just put her little daughter Arina, who was eight years

old, to bed in an adjoining room. When she saw her husband, she uttered a cry of terror, so changed and

haggard was his appearance. The confessor tried to reassure her, but his trembling voice only increased her

alarm. She asked the cause of his agitation; the confessor refused to tell her. Elizabeth had heard the evening

before that her mother was ill; she thought that her husband had received some bad news. The day was

Monday, which is considered an unlucky day among the Russians, and, going out that day, Elizabeth had met

a man in mourning; these omens were too numerous and too strong not to portend misfortune.

The priest in vain tried to reassure her by telling her that his agitation was not due to that. The poor woman,

dominated by one idea, made no response to his protestations but this everlasting cry, "My mother is dead!"

Then, to bring her to reason, the confessor told her that his emotion was due to the avowal of a crime which

he had just heard in the confessional. But Elizabeth shook her head: it was a trick, she said, to hide from her

the sorrow which had fallen upon her. Her agony, instead of calming, became more violent; her tears ceased

to flow, and were followed by hysterics. The priest then made her swear to keep the secret, and the sanctity of

Little Arina had awakened at Elizabeth's cries, and being disturbed and at the same time curious as to what

The day for the Communion came; the church of St. Simeon was crowded. Vaninka came to kneel at the

railing of the choir. Behind her was her father and his aidesdecamp, and behind them their servants.

Arina was also in the church with her mother. The inquisitive child wished to see Vaninka, whose name she

had heard pronounced that terrible night, when her father had failed in the first and most sacred of the duties

imposed on a priest. While her mother was praying, she left her chair and glided among the worshippers,

But when she had arrived there, she was stopped by the group of the general's servants. But Arina had not

come so far to be, stopped so easily: she tried to push between them, but they opposed her; she persisted, and

one of them pushed her roughly back. The child fell, struck her head against a seat, and got up bleeding and

crying, "You are very proud for a slave. Is it because you belong to the great lady who burnt the Red House?"

These words, uttered in a loud voice, in the midst of the silence which preceded, the sacred ceremony, were

heard by everyone. They were answered by a shriek. Vaninka had fainted. The next day the general, at the

feet of Paul, recounted to him, as his sovereign and judge, the whole terrible story, which Vaninka, crushed

by her long struggle, had at last revealed to him, at night, after the scene in the church.

The emperor remained for a moment in thought at the end of this strange confession; then, getting up from

the chair where he had been sitting while the miserable father told his story, he went to a bureau, and wrote

"The priest having violated what should have been inviolable, the secrets of the confessional, is exiled to

Siberia and deprived of his priestly office. His wife will follow him: she is to be blamed for not having

respected his character as a minister of the altar. The little girl will not leave her parents.

"Annouschka, the attendant, will also go to Siberia for not having made known to her master his daughter's

"I preserve all my esteem for the general, and I mourn with him for the deadly blow which has struck him.

"As for Vaninka, I know of no punishment which can be inflicted upon her. I only see in her the daughter of a

brave soldier, whose whole life has been devoted to the service of his country. Besides, the extraordinary way

in which the crime was discovered, seems to place the culprit beyond the limits of my severity. I leave her

punishment in her own hands. If I understand her character, if any feeling of dignity remains to her, her heart

Paul handed the paper open to the general, ordering him to take it to Count Pahlen, the governor of St.

Vaninka went into a convent, where towards the end of the same year she died of shame and grief.

Toward the close of the year 1657, a very plain carriage, with no arms painted on it, stopped, about eight

o'clock one evening, before the door of a house in the rue Hautefeuille, at which two other coaches were

already standing. A lackey at once got down to open the carriage door; but a sweet, though rather tremulous

Then a head, muffled so closely in a black satin mantle that no feature could be distinguished, was thrust

from one of the carriage windows, and looking around, seemed to seek for some decisive sign on the house

front. The unknown lady appeared to be satisfied by her inspection, for she turned back to her companion.

As a result of this certainty, the carriage door was opened, the two women alighted, and after having once

more raised their eyes to a strip of wood, some six or eight feet long by two broad, which was nailed above

the windows of the second storey, and bore the inscription, "Madame Voison, midwife," stole quickly into a

passage, the door of which was unfastened, and in which there was just so much light as enabled persons

passing in or out to find their way along the narrow winding stair that led from the ground floor to the fifth

storey. The two strangers, one of whom appeared to be of far higher rank than the other, did not stop, as

might have been expected, at the door corresponding with the inscription that had guided them, but, on the

Here, upon the landing, was a kind of dwarf, oddly dressed after the fashion of sixteenthcentury Venetian

buffoons, who, when he saw the two women coming, stretched out a wand, as though to prevent them from

"Come in and wait," returned the dwarf, lifting a panel of tapestry and ushering the two women into a

The women obeyed, and remained for about half an hour, seeing and hearing nothing. At last a door,

concealed by the tapestry, was suddenly opened; a voice uttered the word "Enter," and the two women were

introduced into a second room, hung with black, and lighted solely by a threebranched lamp that hung from

the ceiling. The door closed behind them, and the clients found themselves face to face with the sibyl.

She was a woman of about twentyfive or twentysix, who, unlike other women, evidently desired to appear

older than she was. She was dressed in black; her hair hung in plaits; her neck, arms, and feet were bare; the

belt at her waist was clasped by a large garnet which threw out sombre fires. In her hand she held a wand, and

she was raised on a sort of platform which stood for the tripod of the ancients, and from which came acrid

and penetrating fumes; she was, moreover, fairly handsome, although her features were common, the eyes

only excepted, and these, by some trick of the toilet, no doubt, looked inordinately large, and, like the garnet

When the two visitors came in, they found the soothsayer leaning her forehead on her hand, as though

absorbed in thought. Fearing to rouse her from her ecstasy, they waited in silence until it should please her to

change her position. At the end of ten minutes she raised her head, and seemed only now to become aware

"What is wanted of me again?" she asked, "and shall I have rest only in the grave?"

"Silence!" said the sibyl, in a solemn voice. "I will not know your affairs. It is to the spirit that you must

address yourself; he is a jealous spirit, who forbids his secrets to be shared; I can but pray to him for you, and

At these words, she left her tripod, passed into an adjoining room, and soon returned, looking even paler and

more anxious than before, and carrying in one hand a burning chafing dish, in the other a red paper. The three

flames of the lamp grew fainter at the same moment, and the room was left lighted up only by the chafing

dish; every object now assumed a fantastic air that did not fail to disquiet the two visitors, but it was too late

The soothsayer placed the chafing dish in the middle of the room, presented the paper to the young woman

The woman took the paper with a steadier hand than might have been expected, seated herself at a table, and

"Shall I marry, or marry again? Shall I live long, or shall I die young? This is for the future."

"Roll that letter around this ball," answered the other, handing to the unknown a little ball of virgin wax.

"Both ball and letter will be consumed in the flame before your eyes; the spirit knows your secrets already. In

The unknown did as the sibyl bade her; then the latter took from her hands the ball and the paper in which it

The stranger left a purse upon the table, and followed Comus. He conducted her and her companion, who was

only a confidential maid, down a back staircase, used as an exit, and leading into a different street from that

by which the two women had come in; but the coachman, who had been told beforehand of this circumstance,

was awaiting them at the door, and they had only to step into their carriage, which bore them rapidly away in

Three days later, according to the promise given her, the fair unknown, when she awakened, found on the

table beside her a letter in an unfamiliar handwriting; it was addressed "To the beautiful Provencale," and

"You will marry again; you will die young, and by a violent death. This is for the future. THE SPIRIT."

The answer was written upon a paper like that upon which the questions had been set down.

The marquise turned pale and uttered a faint cry of terror; the answer was so perfectly correct in regard to the

past as to call up a fear that it might be equally accurate in regard to the future.

The truth is that the unknown lady wrapped in a mantle whom we have escorted into the modern sibyl's

cavern was no other than the beautiful Marie de Rossan, who before her marriage had borne the name of

Mademoiselle de Chateaublanc, from that of an estate belonging to her maternal grandfather, M. Joannis de

Nocheres, who owned a fortune of five to six hundred thousand livres. At the age of thirteenthat is to say,

in 1649she had married the Marquis de Castellane, a gentleman of very high birth, who claimed to be

descended from John of Castille, the son of Pedro the Cruel, and from Juana de Castro, his mistress. Proud of

his young wife's beauty, the Marquis de Castellane, who was an officer of the king's galleys, had hastened to

present her at court. Louis XIV, who at the time of her presentation was barely twenty years old, was struck

by her enchanting face, and to the great despair of the famous beauties of the day danced with her three times

in one evening. Finally, as a crowning touch to her reputation, the famous Christina of Sweden, who was then

at the French court, said of her that she had never, in any of the kingdoms through which she had passed, seen

anything equal to "the beautiful Provencale." This praise had been so well received, that the name of "the

beautiful Provencale" had clung to Madame de Castellane, and she was everywhere known by it.

This favour of Louis XIV and this summing up of Christina's had been enough to bring the Marquise de

Castellane instantly into fashion; and Mignard, who had just received a patent of nobility and been made

painter to the king, put the seal to her celebrity by asking leave to paint her portrait. That portrait still exists,

and gives a perfect notion of the beauty which it represents; but as the portrait is far from our readers' eyes,

we will content ourselves by repeating, in its own original words, the one given in 1667 by the author of a

pamphlet published at Rouen under the following title: True and Principal Circumstances of the Deplorable

[Note: It is from this pamphlet, and from the Account of the Death of Madame the Marquise de Ganges,

formerly Marquise de Castellane, that we have borrowed the principal circumstances of this tragic story. To

these documents we ,must addthat we may not be constantly referring our readers to original sourcesthe

Celebrated Trials by Guyot de Pitaval, the Life of Marie de Rossan, and the Lettres galantes of Madame

"Her complexion, which was of a dazzling whiteness, was illumined by not too brilliant a red, and art itself

could not have arranged more skilfully the gradations by which this red joined and merged into the whiteness

of the complexion. The brilliance of her face was heightened by the decided blackness of her hair, growing,

as though drawn by a painter of the finest taste, around a well proportioned brow; her large, well opened eyes

were of the same hue as her hair, and shone with a soft and piercing flame that rendered it impossible to gaze

upon her steadily; the smallness, the shape, the turn of her mouth, and, the beauty of her teeth were

incomparable; the position and the regular proportion of her nose added to her beauty such an air of dignity,

as inspired a respect for her equal to the love that might be inspired by her beauty; the rounded contour of her

face, produced by a becoming plumpness, exhibited all the vigour and freshness of health; to complete her

charms, her glances, the movements of her lips and of her head, appeared to be guided by the graces; her

shape corresponded to the beauty of her face; lastly, her arms, her hands, her bearing, and her gait were such

that nothing further could be wished to complete the agreeable presentment of a beautiful woman."

[Note: All her contemporaries, indeed, are in agreement as to her marvellous beauty; here is a second portrait

of the marquise, delineated in a style and manner still more characteristic of that period:

"You will remember that she had a complexion smoother and finer than a mirror, that her whiteness was so

well commingled with the lively blood as to produce an exact admixture never beheld elsewhere, and

imparting to her countenance the tenderest animation; her eyes and hair were blacker than jet; her eyes, I say,

of which the gaze could scarce, from their excess of lustre, be supported, which have been celebrated as a

miracle of tenderness and sprightliness, which have given rise, a thousand times, to the finest compliments of

the day, and have been the torment of many a rash man, must excuse me, if I do not pause longer to praise

them, in a letter; her mouth was the feature of her face which compelled the most critical to avow that they

had seen none of equal perfection, and that, by its shape, its smallness, and its brilliance, it might furnish a

pattern for all those others whose sweetness and charms had been so highly vaunted; her nose conformed to

the fair proportion of all her features; it was, that is to say, the finest in the world; the whole shape of her face

was perfectly round, and of so charming a fullness that such an assemblage of beauties was never before seen

together. The expression of this head was one of unparalleled sweetness and of a majesty which she softened

rather by disposition than by study; her figure was opulent, her speech agreeable, her step noble, her

demeanour easy, her temper sociable, her wit devoid of malice, and founded upon great goodness of heart."]

It is easy to understand that a woman thus endowed could not, in a court where gallantry was more pursued

than in any other spot in the world, escape the calumnies of rivals; such calumnies, however, never produced

any result, so correctly, even in the absence of her husband, did the marquise contrive to conduct herself; her

cold and serious conversation, rather concise than lively, rather solid than brilliant, contrasted, indeed, with

the light turn, the capricious and fanciful expressions employed by the wits of that time; the consequence was

that those who had failed to succeed with her, tried to spread a report that the marquise was merely a

beautiful idol, virtuous with the virtue of a statue. But though such things might be said and repeated in the

absence of the marquise, from the moment that she appeared in a drawingroom, from the moment that her

beautiful eyes and sweet smile added their indefinable expression to those brief, hurried, and sensible words

that fell from her lips, the most prejudiced came back to her and were forced to own that God had never

She was thus in the enjoyment of a triumph that backbiters failed to shake, and that scandal vainly sought to

tarnish, when news came of the wreck of the French galleys in Sicilian waters, and of the death of the

Marquis de Castellane, who was in command. The marquise on this occasion, as usual, displayed the greatest

piety and propriety: although she had no very violent passion for her husband, with whom she had spent

scarcely one of the seven years during which their marriage had lasted, on receipt of the news she went at

once into retreat, going to live with Madame d'Ampus, her motherinlaw, and ceasing not only to receive

Six months after the death of her husband, the marquise received letters from her grandfather, M. Joannis de

Nocheres, begging her to come and finish her time of mourning at Avignon. Having been fatherless almost

from childhood, Mademoiselle de Chateaublanc had been brought up by this good old man, whom she loved

dearly; she hastened accordingly to accede to his invitation, and prepared everything for her departure.

This was at the moment when la Voisin, still a young woman, and far from having the reputation which she

subsequently acquired, was yet beginning to be talked of. Several friends of the Marquise de Castellane had

been to consult her, and had received strange predictions from her, some of which, either through the art of

her who framed them, or through some odd concurrence of circumstances, had come true. The marquise

could not resist the curiosity with which various tales that she had heard of this woman's powers had inspired

her, and some days before setting out for Avignon she made the visit which we have narrated. What answer

The marquise was not superstitious, yet this fatal prophecy impressed itself upon her mind and left behind a

deep trace, which neither the pleasure of revisiting her native place, nor the affection of her grandfather, nor

the fresh admiration which she did not fail to receive, could succeed in removing; indeed, this fresh

admiration was a weariness to the marquise, and before long she begged leave of her grandfather to retire into

It was in that place, and it was with the warmth of these poor cloistered maidens, that she heard a man spoken

of for the first time, whose reputation for beauty, as a man, was equal to her own, as a woman. This favourite

of nature was the sieur de Lenide, Marquis de Ganges, Baron of Languedoc, and governor of SaintAndre, in

the diocese of Uzes. The marquise heard of him so often, and it was so frequently declared to her that nature

seemed to have formed them for each other, that she began to allow admission to a very strong desire of

seeing him. Doubtless, the sieur de Lenide, stimulated by similar suggestions, had conceived a great wish to

meet the marquise; for, having got M. de Nocheres who no doubt regretted her prolonged retreatto entrust

him with a commission for his granddaughter, he came to the convent parlour and asked for the fair recluse.

She, although she had never seen him, recognised him at the first glance; for having never seen so handsome

a cavalier as he who now presented himself before her, she thought this could be no other than the Marquis de

That which was to happen, happened: the Marquise de Castellane and the Marquis de Ganges could not look

upon each other without loving. Both were young, the marquis was noble and in a good position, the

marquise was rich; everything in the match, therefore, seemed suitable: and indeed it was deferred only for

the space of time necessary to complete the year of mourning, and the marriage was celebrated towards the

beginning of the year 1558. The marquis was twenty years of age, and the marquise twentytwo.

The beginnings of this union were perfectly happy; the marquis was in love for the first time, and the

marquise did not remember ever to have been in love. A son and a daughter came to complete their

happiness. The marquise had entirely forgotten the fatal prediction, or, if she occasionally thought of it now,

it was to wonder that she could ever have believed in it. Such happiness is not of this world, and when by

chance it lingers here a while, it seems sent rather by the anger than by the goodness of God. Better, indeed,

The Marquis de Ganges was the first to weary of this happy life. Little by little he began to miss the pleasures

of a young man; he began to draw away from the marquise and to draw nearer to his former friends. On her

part, the marquise, who for the sake of wedded intimacy had sacrificed her habits of social life, threw herself

into society, where new triumphs awaited her. These triumphs aroused the jealousy of the marquis; but he

was too much a man of his century to invite ridicule by any manifestation; he shut his jealousy into his soul,

and it emerged in a different form on every different occasion. To words of love, so sweet that they seemed

the speech of angels, succeeded those bitter and biting utterances that foretell approaching division. Before

long, the marquis and the marquise only saw each other at hours when they could not avoid meeting; then, on

the pretext of necessary journeys, and presently without any pretext at all, the marquis would go away for

threequarters of a year, and once more the marquise found herself widowed. Whatever contemporary

account one may consult, one finds them all agreeing to declare that she was always the samethat is to say,

full of patience, calmness, and becoming behaviourand it is rare to find such a unanimity of opinion about

About this time the marquis, finding it unendurable to be alone with his wife during the short spaces of time

which he spent at home, invited his two brothers, the chevalier and the abbe de Ganges, to come and live with

him. He had a third brother, who, as the second son, bore the title of comte, and who was colonel of the

Languedoc regiment, but as this gentleman played no part in this story we shall not concern ourselves with

The abbe de Ganges, who bore that title without belonging to the Church, had assumed it in order to enjoy its

privileges: he was a kind of wit, writing madrigals and 'boutsrimes' [Boutsrimes are verses written to a

given set of rhymes.] on occasion, a handsome man enough, though in moments of impatience his eyes would

take a strangely cruel expression; as dissolute and shameless to boot, as though he had really belonged to the

The chevalier de Ganges, who shared in some measure the beauty so profusely showered upon the family,

was one of those feeble men who enjoy their own nullity, and grow on to old age inapt alike for good and

evil, unless some nature of a stronger stamp lays hold on them and drags them like faint and pallid satellites

in its wake. This was what befell the chevalier in respect of his brother: submitted to an influence of which he

himself was not aware, and against which, had he but suspected it, he would have rebelled with the obstinacy

of a child, he was a machine obedient to the will of another mind and to the passions of another heart, a

machine which was all the more terrible in that no movement of instinct or of reason could, in his case, arrest

Moreover, this influence which the abbe had acquired over the chevalier extended, in some degree also, to the

marquis. Having as a younger son no fortune, having no revenue, for though he wore a Churchman's robes he

did not fulfil a Churchman's functions, he had succeeded in persuading the marquis, who was rich, not only in

the enjoyment of his own fortune, but also in that of his wife, which was likely to be nearly doubled at the

death of M. de Nocheres, that some zealous man was needed who would devote himself to the ordering of his

house and the management of his property; and had offered himself for the post. The marquis had very gladly

accepted, being, as we have said, tired by this time of his solitary home life; and the abbe had brought with

him the chevalier, who followed him like his shadow, and who was no more regarded than if he had really

The marquise often confessed afterwards that when she first saw these two men, although their outward

aspect was perfectly agreeable, she felt herself seized by a painful impression, and that the fortune teller's

prediction of a violent death, which she had so long forgotten, gashed out like lightning before her eyes. The

effect on the two brothers was not of the same kind: the beauty of the marquise struck them both, although in

different ways. The chevalier was in ecstasies of admiration, as though before a beautiful statue, but the

impression that she made upon him was that which would have been made by marble, and if the chevalier

had been left to himself the consequences of this admiration would have been no less harmless. Moreover, the

chevalier did not attempt either to exaggerate or to conceal this impression, and allowed his sisterinlaw to

see in what manner she struck him. The abbe, on the contrary, was seized at first sight with a deep and violent

desire to possess this womanthe most beautiful whom he had ever met; but being as perfectly capable of

mastering his sensations as the chevalier was incapable, he merely allowed such words of compliment to

escape him as weigh neither with him who utters nor her who hears them; and yet, before the close of this

first interview, the abbe had decided in his irrevocable will that this woman should be his.

As for the marquise, although the impression produced by her two brothersinlaw could never be entirely

effaced, the wit of the abbe, to which he gave, with amazing facility, whatever turn he chose, and the

complete nullity of the chevalier brought her to certain feelings of less repulsion towards them: for indeed the

marquise had one of those souls which never suspect evil, as long as it will take the trouble to assume any

veil at all of seeming, and which only recognise it with regret when it resumes its true shape.

Meanwhile the arrival of these two new inmates soon spread a little more life and gaiety through the house.

Furthermore; greatly to the astonishment of the marquise, her husband, who had so long been indifferent to

her beauty, seemed to remark afresh that she was too charming to be despised; his words accordingly began

little by little to express an affection that had long since gradually disappeared from them. The marquise had

never ceased to love him; she had suffered the loss of his love with resignation, she hailed its return with joy,

and three months elapsed that resembled those which had long ceased to be more to the poor wife than a

Thus she had, with the supreme facility of youth, always ready to be happy, taken up her gladness again,

without even asking what genius had brought back to her the treasure which she had thought lost, when she

received an invitation from a lady of the neighbourhood to spend some days in her country house. Her

husband and her two brothersin law, invited with her, were of the party, and accompanied her. A great

hunting party had been arranged beforehand, and almost immediately upon arriving everyone began to

The abbe, whose talents had made him indispensable in every company, declared that for that day he was the

marquise's cavalier, a title which his sisterinlaw, with her usual amiability, confirmed. Each of the

huntsmen, following this example, made choice of a lady to whom to dedicate his attentions throughout the

day; then, this chivalrous arrangement being completed, all present directed their course towards the place of

That happened which almost always happens the dogs hunted on their own account. Two or three sportsmen

only followed the dogs; the rest got lost. The abbe, in his character of esquire to the marquise, had not left her

for a moment, and had managed so cleverly that he was alone with heran opportunity which he had been

seeking for a month previously with no less carethan the marquise had been using to avoid it. No sooner,

therefore, did the marquise believe herself aware that the abbe had intentionally turned aside from the hunt

than she attempted to gallop her horse in the opposite direction from that which she had been following; but

the abbe stopped her. The marquise neither could nor would enter upon a struggle; she resigned herself,

therefore, to hearing what the abbe had to say to her, and her face assumed that air of haughty disdain which

women so well know how to put on when they wish a man to understand that he has nothing to hope from

"Madame," said he, "I ask your pardon for having used this means to speak to you alone; but since, in spite of

my rank of brotherinlaw, you did not seem inclined to grant me that favour if I had asked it, I thought it

"If you have hesitated to ask me so simple a thing, monsieur," replied the marquise, "and if you have taken

such precautions to compel me to listen to you, it must, no doubt, be because you knew beforehand that the

words you had to say to me were such as I could not hear. Have the goodness, therefore, to reflect, before you

open this conversation, that here as elsewhere I reserve the rightand I warn you of itto interrupt what

"As to that, madame," said the abbe, "I think I can answer for it that whatever it may please me to say to you,

you will hear to the end; but indeed the matters are so simple that there is no need to make you uneasy

beforehand: I wished to ask you, madame, whether you have perceived a change in the conduct of your

"Yes, monsieur," replied the marquise, "and no single day has passed in which I have not thanked Heaven for

"And you have been wrong, madame," returned the abbe, with one of those smiles that were peculiar to

himself; "Heaven has nothing to do with it. Thank Heaven for having made you the most beautiful and

charming of women, and that will be enough thanksgiving without despoiling me of such as belong to my

"Well, I will make myself comprehensible, my dear sisterinlaw. I am the worker of the miracle for which

you are thanking Heaven; to me therefore belongs your gratitude. Heaven is rich enough not to rob the poor."

"You are right, monsieur: if it is really to you that I owe this return, the cause of which I did not know, I will

thank you in the first place; and then afterwards I will thank Heaven for having inspired you with this good

"Yes," answered the abbe, "but Heaven, which has inspired me with a good thought, may equally well inspire

me with a bad one, if the good thought does not bring me what I expect from it."

"That there has never been more than one will in the family, and that will is mine; that the minds of my two

brothers turn according to the fancy of that will like weathercocks before the wind, and that he who has

"Well, then, my dear sisterinlaw, since you are pleased not to understand me, I will explain myself more

clearly. My brother turned from you through jealousy; I wished to give you an idea of my power over him,

and from extreme indifference I have brought him back, by showing him that he suspected you wrongly, to

the ardours of the warmest love. Well, I need only tell him that I was mistaken, and fix his wandering

suspicions upon any man whatever, and I shall take him away from you, even as I have brought him back. I

need give you no proof of what I say; you know perfectly well that I am speaking the truth."

"To prove to you, madame, that at my will I can cause you to be sad or joyful, cherished or neglected, adored

"You insult me, monsieur!" cried the marquise, trying to withdraw the bridle of her horse from the abbe's

"No fine words, my dear sisterinlaw; for, with me, I warn you, they will be lost. To tell a woman one loves

her is never an insult; only there are a thousand different ways of obliging her to respond to that love. The

error is to make a mistake in the way that one employsthat is the whole of the matter."

"And may I inquire which you have chosen?" asked the marquise, with a crushing smile of contempt.

"The only one that could succeed with a calm, cold, strong woman like you, the conviction that your interest

"Since you profess to know me so well," answered the marquise, with another effort, as unsuccessful as the

former, to free the bridle of her horse, "you should know how a woman like me would receive such an

overture; say to yourself what I might say to you, and above all, what I might say to my husband."

"Oh, as to that," he returned, "you can do as you please, madame. Tell your husband whatever you choose;

repeat our conversation word for word; add whatever your memory may furnish, true or false, that may be

most convincing against me; then, when you have thoroughly given him his cue, when you think yourself

sure of him, I will say two words to him, and turn him inside out like this glove. That is what I had to say to

you, madame I will not detain you longer. You may have in me a devoted friend or a mortal enemy. Reflect."

At these words the abbe loosed his hold upon the bridle of the marquise's horse and left her free to guide it as

she would. The marquise put her beast to a trot, so as to show neither fear nor haste. The abbe followed her,

The abbe had spoken truly. The marquise, notwithstanding the threat which she had made, reflected upon the

influence which this man had over her husband, and of which she had often had proof she kept silence,

therefore, and hoped that he had made himself seem worse than he was, to frighten her. On this point she was

The abbe, however, wished to see, in the first place, whether the marquise's refusal was due to personal

antipathy or to real virtue. The chevalier, as has been said, was handsome; he had that usage of good society

which does instead of mind, and he joined to it the obstinacy of a stupid man; the abbe undertook to persuade

him that he was in love with the marquise. It was not a difficult matter. We have described the impression

made upon the chevalier by the first sight of Madame de Ganges; but, owing beforehand the reputation of

austerity that his sisterinlaw had acquired, he had not the remotest idea of paying court to her. Yielding,

indeed, to the influence which she exercised upon all who came in contact with her, the chevalier had

remained her devoted servant; and the marquise, having no reason to mistrust civilities which she took for

signs of friendliness, and considering his position as her husband's brother, treated him with less

The abbe sought him out, and, having made sure they were alone, said, "Chevalier, we both love the same

woman, and that woman is our brother's wife; do not let us thwart each other: I am master of my passion, and

can the more easily sacrifice it to you that I believe you are the man preferred; try, therefore, to obtain some

assurance of the love which I suspect the marquise of having for you; and from the day when you reach that

point I will withdraw, but otherwise, if you fail, give up your place civilly to me, that I may try, in my turn,

The chevalier had never thought of the possibility of winning the marquise; but from the moment in which

his brother, with no apparent motive of personal interest, aroused the idea that he might be beloved, every

spark of passion and of vanity that still existed in this automaton took fire, and he began to be doubly

assiduous and attentive to his sister law. She, who had never suspected any evil in this quarter, treated the

chevalier at first with a kindliness that was heightened by her scorn for the abbe. But, before long, the

chevalier, misunderstanding the grounds of this kindliness, explained himself more clearly. The marquise,

amazed and at first incredulous, allowed him to say enough to make his intentions perfectly clear; then she

stopped him, as she had done the abbe, by some of those galling words which women derive from their

At this check, the chevalier, who was far from possessing his brother's strength and determination, lost all

hope, and came candidly to own to the latter the sad result of his attentions and his love. This was what the

abbe had awaited, in the first place for the satisfaction of his own vanity, and in the second place for the

means of carrying out his schemes. He worked upon the chevalier's humiliation until he had wrought it into a

solid hatred; and then, sure of having him for a supporter and even for an accomplice, he began to put into

The consequence was soon shown in a renewal of alienation on the part of M. de Ganges. A young man

whom the marquise sometimes met in society, and to whom, on account of his wit, she listened perhaps a

little more willingly than to others, became, if not the cause, at least the excuse of a fresh burst of jealousy.

This jealousy was exhibited as on previous occasions, by quarrels remote from the real grievance; but the

marquise was not deceived: she recognised in this change the fatal hand of her brotherinlaw. But this

certainty, instead of drawing her towards him, increased her repulsion; and thenceforward she lost no

opportunity of showing him not only that repulsion but also the contempt that accompanied it.

Matters remained in this state for some months. Every day the marquise perceived her husband growing

colder, and although the spies were invisible she felt herself surrounded by a watchfulness that took note of

the most private details of her life. As to the abbe and the chevalier, they were as usual; only the abbe had

hidden his hate behind a smile that was habitual, and the chevalier his resentment behind that cold and stiff

dignity in which dull minds enfold themselves when they believe themselves injured in their vanity.

In the midst of all this, M. Joannis de Nocheres died, and added to the already considerable fortune of his

This additional wealth became, on accruing to the marquise, what was then called, in countries where the

Roman law prevailed, a 'paraphernal' estate that is to say that, falling in, after marriage? it was not included in

the dowry brought by the wife, and that she could dispose freely both of the capital and the income, which

might not be administered even by her husband without a power of attorney, and of which she could dispose

at pleasure, by donation or by will. And in fact, a few days after the marquise had entered into possession of

her grandfather's estate, her husband and his brothers learned that she had sent for a notary in order to be

instructed as to her rights. This step betokened an intention of separating this inheritance from the common

property of the marriage; for the behaviour of the marquis towards his wifeof which within himself he

About this time a strange event happened. At a dinner given by the marquise, a cream was served at dessert:

all those who partook of this cream were ill; the marquis and his two brothers, who had not touched it, felt no

evil effects. The remainder of this cream, which was suspected of having caused illness to the guests, and

particularly to the marquise, who had taken of it twice, was analysed, and the presence of arsenic in it

demonstrated. Only, having been mixed with milk, which is its antidote, the poison had lost some of its

power, and had produced but half the expected effect. As no serious disaster had followed this occurrence,

the blame was thrown upon a servant, who was said to have mistaken arsenic for sugar, and everybody forgot

The marquis, however, seemed to be gradually and naturally drawing nearer again to his wife; but this time

Madame de Ganges was not deceived by his returning kindness. There, as in his alienation, she saw the

selfish hand of the abbe: he had persuaded his brother that seven hundred thousand livres more in the house

would make it worth while to overlook some levities of behaviour; and the marquis, obeying the impulse

given, was trying, by kind dealing, to oppose his wife's still unsettled intention of making a will.

Towards the autumn there was talk of going to spend that season at Ganges, a little town situated in Lower

Languedoc, in the diocese of Montpellier, seven leagues from that town, and nineteen from Avignon.

Although this was natural enough, since the marquis was lord of the town and had a castle there, the marquise

was seized by a strange shudder when she heard the proposal. Remembrance of the prediction made to her

returned immediately to her mind. The recent and ill explained attempt to poison her, too, very naturally

Without directly and positively suspecting her brothersinlaw of that crime, she knew that in them she had

two implacable enemies. This journey to a little town, this abode in a lonely castle, amid new, unknown

neighbours, seemed to her of no good omen; but open opposition would have been ridiculous. On what

grounds, indeed, could she base resistance? The marquise could only own her terrors by accusing her

husband and her brothersinlaw. And of what could she accuse them? The incident of the poisoned cream

was not a conclusive proof. She resolved accordingly to lock up all her fears in her heart, and to commit

Nevertheless, she would not leave Avignon without signing the will which she had contemplated making ever

since M. de Nocheres' death. A notary was called in who drew up the document. The Marquise de Ganges

made her mother, Madame de Rossan, her sole inheritor, and left in her charge the duty of choosing between

the testatrix's two children as to which of them should succeed to the estate. These two children were, one a

boy of six years old, the other a girl of five. But this was not enough for the marquise, so deep was her

impression that she would not survive this fatal journey; she gathered together, secretly and at night, the

magistrates of Avignon and several persons of quality, belonging to the first families of the town, and there,

before them, verbally at first, declared that, in case of her death, she begged the honourable witnesses whom

she had assembled on purpose, not to recognise as valid, voluntary, or freely written anything except the will

which she had signed the day before, and affirmed beforehand that any later will which might be produced

would be the effect of fraud or of violence. Then, having made this verbal declaration, the marquise repeated

it in writing, signed the paper containing it, and gave the paper to be preserved by the honour of those whom

she constituted its guardians. Such a precaution, taken with such minute detail, aroused the lively curiosity of

her hearers. Many pressing questions were put to the marquise, but nothing could be extracted from her

except that she had reasons for her action which she could not declare. The cause of this assemblage

remained a secret, and every person who formed part of it promised the marquise not to reveal it.

On the next day, which was that preceding her departure for Ganges, the marquise visited all the charitable

institutions and religious communities in Avignon; she left liberal alms everywhere, with the request that

prayers and masses should be said for her, in order to obtain from God's grace that she should not be suffered

to die without receiving the sacraments of the Church. In the evening, she took leave of all her friends with

the affection and the tears of a person convinced that she was bidding them a last farewell; and finally she

spent the whole night in prayer, and the maid who came to wake her found her kneeling in the same spot

The family set out for Ganges; the journey was performed without accident. On reaching the castle, the

marquise found her motherin law there; she was a woman of remarkable distinction and piety, and her

presence, although it was to be but temporary, reassured the poor fearful marquise a little. Arrangements had

been made beforehand at the old castle, and the most convenient and elegant of the rooms had been assigned

to the marquise; it was on the first floor, and looked out upon a courtyard shut in on all sides by stables.

On the first evening that she was to sleep here, the marquise explored the room with the greatest attention.

She inspected the cupboards, sounded the walls, examined the tapestry, and found nothing anywhere that

could confirm her terrors, which, indeed, from that time began to decrease. At the end of a certain time;

however, the marquis's mother left Ganges to return to Montpellier. Two, days after her departure, the

marquis talked of important business which required him to go back to Avignon, and he too left the castle.

The marquise thus remained alone with the abbe, the chevalier, and a chaplain named Perette, who had been

attached for fiveandtwenty years to the family of the marquis. The rest of the household consisted of a few

The marquise's first care, on arriving at the castle, had been to collect a little society for herself in the town.

This was easy: not only did her rank make it an honour to belong to her circle, her kindly graciousness also

inspired at firstsight the desire of having her for a friend. The marquise thus endured less dulness than she

had at first feared. This precaution was by no means uncalled for; instead of spending only the autumn at

Ganges, the marquise was obliged, in consequence of letters from her husband, to spend the winter there.

During the whole of this time the abbe and the chevalier seemed to have completely forgotten their original

designs upon her, and had again resumed the conduct of respectful, attentive brothers. But with all this, M. de

Ganges remained estranged, and the marquise, who had not ceased to love him, though she began to lose her

One day the abbe entered her room suddenly enough to surprise her before she had time to dry her tears; the

secret being thus half surprised, he easily obtained a knowledge of the whole. The marquise owned to him

that happiness in this world was impossible for her so long as her husband led this separate and hostile life.

The abbe tried to console her; but amid his consolations he told her that the grief which she was suffering had

its source in herself; that her husband was naturally wounded by her distrust of hima distrust of which the

will, executed by her, was a proof, all the more humiliating because public, and that, while that will existed,

she could expect no advances towards reconciliation from her husband. For that time the conversation ended

Some days later, the abbe came into the marquise's room with a letter which he had just received from his

brother. This letter, supposed confidential, was filled with tender complaints of his wife's conduct towards

him, and showed, through every sentence, a depth of affection which only wrongs as serious as those from

which the marquis considered himself to be feeling could counterbalance. The marquise was, at first, very

much touched by this letter; but having soon reflected that just sufficient time had elapsed since the

explanation between herself and the abbe for the marquis to be informed of it, she awaited further and

>From day to day, however, the abbe, under the pretext of reconciling the husband and wife, became more

pressing upon the matter of the will, and the marquise, to whom this insistence seemed rather alarming, began

to experience some of her former fears. Finally, the abbe pressed her so hard as to make her reflect that since,

after the precautions which she had taken at Avignon, a revocation could have no result, it would be better to

seem to yield rather than irritate this man, who inspired her with so great a fear, by constant and obstinate

refusals. The next time that he returned to the subject she accordingly replied that she was ready to offer her

husband this new proof of her love if it would bring him back to her, and having ordered a notary to be sent

for, she made a new will, in the presence of the abbe and the chevalier, and constituted the marquis her

residuary legatee. This second instrument bore date the 5th of May 1667. The abbe and the chevalier

expressed the greatest joy that this subject of discord was at last removed, and offered themselves as

guarantees, on their brother's behalf, of a better future. Some days were passed in this hope, which a letter

from the marquis came to confirm; this letter at the same time announced his speedy return to Ganges.

On the 16th of May; the marquise, who for a month or two had not been well, determined to take medicine;

she therefore informed the chemist of what she wanted, and asked him to make her up something at his

discretion and send it to her the next day. Accordingly, at the agreed hour in the morning, the draught was

brought to the marquise; but it looked to her so black and so thick that she felt some doubt of the skill of its

compounder, shut it up in a cupboard in her room without saying anything of the matter, and took from her

dressing case some pills, of a less efficacious nature indeed, but to which she was accustomed, and which

The hour in which the marquise was to take this medicine was hardly over when the abbe and the chevalier

sent to know how she was. She replied that she was quite well, and invited them to a collation which she was

giving about four o'clock to the ladies who made up her little circle. An hour afterwards the abbe and the

chevalier sent a second time to inquire after her; the marquise, without paying particular attention to this

excessive civility, which she remembered afterwards, sent word as before that she was perfectly well. The

marquise had remained in bed to do the honours of her little feast, and never had she felt more cheerful. At

the hour named all her guests arrived; the abbe and the chevalier were ushered in, and the meal was served.

Neither one nor the other would share it; the abbe indeed sat down to table, but the chevalier remained

leaning on the foot of the bed. The abbe appeared anxious, and only roused himself with a start from his

absorption; then he seemed to drive away some dominant idea, but soon the idea, stronger than his will,

plunged him again into a reverie, a state which struck everyone the more particularly because it was far from

his usual temper. As to the chevalier, his eyes were fixed constantly upon his sisterinlaw, but in this there

was not, as in his brother's behaviour, anything surprising, since the marquise had never looked so beautiful.

The meal over, the company took leave. The abbe escorted the ladies downstairs; the chevalier remained with

the marquise; but hardly had the abbe left the room when Madame de Ganges saw the chevalier turn pale and

drop in a sitting positionhe had been standing on the foot of the bed. The marquise, uneasy, asked what

was the matter; but before he could reply, her attention was called to another quarter. The abbe, as pale and as

disturbed as the chevalier, came back into the room, carrying in his hands a glass and a pistol, and double

locked the door behind him. Terrified at this spectacle, the marquise half raised herself in her bed, gazing

voiceless and wordless. Then the abbe approached her, his lips trembling; his hair bristling and his eyes

blazing, and, presenting to her the glass and the pistol, "Madame," said he, after a moment of terrible silence,

"choose, whether poison, fire, or"he made a sign to the chevalier, who drew his sword" or steel."

The marquise had one moment's hope: at the motion which she saw the chevalier make she thought he was

coming to her assistance; but being soon undeceived, and finding herself between two men, both threatening

"What have I done," she cried, "oh, my God? that you should thus decree my death, and after having made

yourselves judges should make yourselves executioners? I am guilty of no fault towards you except of having

Then seeing that it was vain to continue imploring the abbe, whose looks and gestures spoke a mind made up,

"And you too, brother," said she, "oh, God, God! you, too! Oh, have pity on me, in the name of Heaven!"

But he, stamping his foot and pressing the point of his sword to her bosom, answered

"Enough, madam, enough; take your choice without delay; for if you do not take it, we will take it for you."

The marquise turned once again to the abbe, and her forehead struck the muzzle of the pistol. Then she saw

that she must die indeed, and choosing of the three forms of death that which seemed to her the least terrible,

With these words she took the glass, but the thick black liquid of which it was full aroused such repulsion

that she would have attempted a last appeal; but a horrible imprecation from the abbe and a threatening

movement from his brother took from her the very last gleam of hope. She put the glass to her lips, and

murmuring once more, "God! Saviour! have pity on me!" she swallowed the contents.

As she did so a few drops of the liquid fell upon her breast, and instantly burned her skin like live coals;

indeed, this infernal draught was composed of arsenic and sublimate infused in aquafortis; then, thinking

The marquise was mistaken: the abbe picked it up, and observing that all the sediment had remained at the

bottom, he gathered together on a silver bodkin all that had coagulated on the sides of the glass and all that

had sunk to the bottom, and presenting this ball, which was about the size of a nut, to the marquise, on the

end of the bodkin, he said, "Come, madame, you must swallow the holywater sprinkler."

The marquise opened her lips, with resignation; but instead of doing as the abbe commanded, she kept this

remainder of the poison in her mouth, threw herself on the bed with a scream, and clasping the pillows, in her

pain, she put out the poison between the sheets, unperceived by her assassins; and then turning back to them,

folded her hands in entreaty and said, "In the name of God, since you have killed my body, at least do not

Cruel though the abbe and the chevalier were, they were no doubt beginning to weary of such a scene;

moreover, the mortal deed was accomplishedafter what she had drunk, the marquise could live but a few

minutes; at her petition they went out, locking the door behind them. But no sooner did the marquise find

herself alone than the possibility of flight presented itself to her. She ran to the window: this was but

twentytwo feet above the ground, but the earth below was covered with stones and rubbish. The marquise,

being only in her nightdress, hastened to slip on a silk petticoat; but at the moment when she finished tying it

round her waist she heard a step approaching her room, and believing that her murderers were returning to

make an end of her, she flew like a madwoman to the window. At the moment of her setting foot on the

window ledge, the door opened: the marquise, ceasing to consider anything, flung herself down, head first.

Fortunately, the newcomer, who was the castle chaplain, had time to reach out and seize her skirt. The skirt,

not strong enough to bear the weight of the marquise, tore; but its resistance, slight though it was, sufficed

nevertheless to change the direction of her body: the marquise, whose head would have been shattered on the

stones, fell on her feet instead, and beyond their being bruised by the stones, received no injury. Half stunned

though she was by her fall, the marquise saw something coming after her, and sprang aside. It was an

enormous pitcher of water, beneath which the priest, when he saw her escaping him, had tried to crush her;

but either because he had ill carried out his attempt or because the marquise had really had time to move

away, the vessel was shattered at her feet without touching her, and the priest, seeing that he had missed his

As for the marquise, she had hardly touched the ground, when with admirable presence of mind she pushed

the end of one of her long plaits so far down her throat as to provoke a fit of vomiting; this was the more

easily done that she had eaten heartily of the collation, and happily the presence of the food had prevented the

poison from attacking the coats of the stomach so violently as would otherwise have been the case. Scarcely

had she vomited when a tame boar swallowed what she had rejected, and falling into a convulsion, died

As we have said, the room looked upon an enclosed courtyard; and the marquise at first thought that in

leaping from her room into this court she had only changed her prison; but soon perceiving a light that

flickered from an upper window of ore of the stables, she ran thither, and found a groom who was just going

"In the name of Heaven, my good man," said she to him, "save me! I am poisoned! They want to kill me! Do

not desert me, I entreat you! Have pity on me, open this stable for me; let me get away! Let me escape!"

The groom did not understand much of what the marquise said to him; but seeing a woman with disordered

hair, half naked, asking help of him, he took her by the arm, led her through the stables, opened a door for

her, and the marquise found herself in the street. Two women were passing; the groom put her into their

hands, without being able to explain to them what he did not know himself. As for the marquise, she seemed

able to say nothing beyond these words: "Save me! I am poisoned! In the name of Heaven, save me!"

All at once she escaped from their hands and began to run like a mad woman; she had seen, twenty steps

away, on the threshold of the door by which she had come, her two murderers in pursuit of her.

Then they rushed after her; she shrieking that she was poisoned, they shrieking that she was mad; and all this

happening amid a crowd which, not knowing what part to take, divided and made way for the victim and the

murderers. Terror gave the marquise superhuman strength: the woman who was accustomed to walk in silken

shoes upon velvet carpets, ran with bare and bleeding feet over stocks and stones, vainly asking help, which

none gave her; for, indeed, seeing her thus, in mad flight, in a nightdress, with flying hair, her only garment a

tattered silk petticoat, it was difficult not tothink that this woman was, as her brothersinlaw said, mad.

At last the chevalier came up with her, stopped her, dragged her, in spite of her screams, into the nearest

house, and closed the door behind them, while the abbe, standing at the threshold with a pistol in his hand,

The house into which the chevalier and the marquise had gone belonged to one M. Desprats, who at the

moment was from home, and whose wife was entertaining several of her friends. The marquise and the

chevalier, still struggling together, entered the room where the company was assembled: as among the ladies

present were several who also visited the marquise, they immediately arose, in the greatest amazement, to

give her the assistance that she implored; but the chevalier hastily pushed them aside, repeating that the

marquise was mad. To this reiterated accusationto which, indeed, appearances lent only too great a

probabilitythe marquise replied by showing her burnt neck and her blackened lips, and wringing her hands

in pain, cried out that she was poisoned, that she was going to die, and begged urgently for milk, or at least

for water. Then the wife of a Protestant minister, whose name was Madame Brunel, slipped into her hand a

box of orvietan, some pieces of which she hastened to swallow, while another lady gave her a glass of water;

but at the instant when she was lifting it to her mouth, the chevalier broke it between her teeth, and one of the

pieces of glass cut her lips. At this, all the women would have flung themselves upon the chevalier; but the

marquise, fearing that he would only become more enraged, and hoping to disarm him, asked, on the

contrary, that she might be left alone with him: all the company, yielding to her desire, passed into the next

Scarcely were they alone, when the marquise, joining her hands, knelt to him and said in the gentlest and

most appealing voice that it was possible to use, "Chevalier, my dear brother, will you not have pity upon me,

who have always had so much affection for you, and who, even now, would give my blood for your service?

You know that the things I am saying are not merely empty words; and yet how is it you are treating me,

though I have not deserved it? And what will everyone say to such dealings? Ah, brother, what a great

unhappiness is mine, to have been so cruelly treated by you! And yetyes, brotherif you will deign to

have pity on me and to save my life, I swear, by my hope of heaven, to keep no remembrance of what has

All at once the marquise rose with a great cry and clasped her hand to her right side. While she was speaking,

and before she perceived what he was doing, the chevalier had drawn his sword, which was very short, and

using it as a dagger, had struck her in the breast; this first blow was followed by a second, which came in

contact with the shoulder blade, and so was prevented from going farther. At these two blows the marquise

rushed towards the door, of the room into which the ladies had retired, crying, "Help! He is killing me!"

But during the time that she took to cross the room the chevalier stabbed her five times in the back with his

sword, and would no doubt have done more, if at the last blow his sword had not broken; indeed, he had

struck with such force that the fragment remained embedded in her shoulder, and the marquise fell forward

on the floor, in a pool of her blood, which was flowing all round her and spreading through the room.

The chevalier thought he had killed her, and hearing the women running to her assistance, he rushed from the

room. The abbe was still at the door, pistol in hand; the chevalier took him by the arm to drag him away, and

The chevalier and the abbe had taken a few steps in the street when a window opened and the women who

had found the marquise expiring called out for help: at these cries the abbe stopped short, and holding back

"What was it you said, chevalier? If they are calling help, is she not dead, after all?"

"'Ma foi', go and see for yourself," returned the chevalier. "I have done enough for my share; it is your turn

"'Pardieu', that is quite my opinion," cried the abbe; and rushing back to the house, he flung himself into the

room at the moment when the women, lifting the marquise with great difficulty, for she was so weak that she

could no longer help herself, were attempting to carry her to bed. The abbe pushed them away, and arriving at

the marquise, put his pistol to her heart; but Madame Brunel, the same who had previously given the

marquise a box of orvietan, lifted up the barrel with her hand, so that the shot went off into the air, and the

bullet instead of striking the marquise lodged in the cornice of the ceiling. The abbe then took the pistol by

the barrel and gave Madame Brunet so violent a blow upon the head with the butt that she staggered and

almost fell; he was about to strike her again, but all the women uniting against him, pushed him, with

thousands of maledictions, out of the room, and locked the door behind him. The two assassins, taking

advantage of the darkness, fled from Ganges, and reached Aubenas, which is a full league away, about ten in

Meanwhile the women were doing all they could for the marquise. Their first intention, as we have already

said, was to put her to bed, but the broken sword blade made her unable to lie down, and they tried in vain to

pull it out, so deeply had it entered the bone. Then the marquise herself showed Madame Brunei what method

to take: the operating lady was to sit on the bed, and while the others helped to hold up the marquise, was to

seize the blade with both hands, and pressing herknees against the patient's back, to pull violently and with

a great jerk. This plan at last succeeded, and the marquise was able to get to bed; it was nine in the evening,

The magistrates of Ganges, being informed of what had happened, and beginning to believe that it was really

a case of murder, came in person, with a guard, to the marquise. As soon as she saw them come in she

recovered strength, and raising herself in bed, so great was her fear, clasped her hands and besought their

protection; for she always expected to see one or the other of her murderers return. The magistrates told her

to reassure herself, set armed men to guard all the approaches to the house, and while physicians and

surgeons were, summoned in hot haste from Montpellier, they on their part sent word to the Baron de Trissan,

provost of Languedoc, of the crime that had just been committed, and gave him the names and the description

of the murderers. That official at once sent people after them, but it was already too late: he learned that the

abbe and the chevalier had slept at Aubenas on the night of the murder, that there they had reproached each

other for their unskilfulness, and had come near cutting each other's throats, that finally they had departed

before daylight, and had taken a boat, near Agde, from a beach called the "Gras de Palaval."

The Marquis de Ganges was at Avignon, where he was prosecuting a servant of his who had robbed him of

two hundred crowns; when he heard news of the event. He turned horribly pale as he listened to the

messenger's story, then falling into a violent fury against his brothers, he swore that they should have no

executioners other than himself. Nevertheless, though he was so uneasy about the marquise's condition, he

waited until the next day in the afternoon before setting forth, and during the interval he saw some of his

friends at Avignon without saying anything to them of the matter. He did not reach Ganges until four days

after the murder, then he went to the house of M. Desprats and asked to see his wife, whom some kind priests

had already prepared for the meeting; and the marquise, as soon as she heard of his arrival, consented to

receive him. The marquis immediately entered the room, with his eyes full of tears, tearing his hair, and

The marquise receivers her husband like a forgiving wife and a dying Christian. She scarcely even uttered

some slight reproaches about the manner in which he had deserted her; moreover, the marquis having

complained to a monk of these reproaches, and the monk having reported his complaints to the marquise, she

called her husband to her bedside, at a moment when she was surrounded by people, and made him a public

apology, begging him to attribute the words that seemed to have wounded him to the effect of her sufferings,

and not to any failure in her regard for him. The marquis, left alone with his wife, tried to take advantage of

this reconciliation to induce her to annul the declaration that she had made before the magistrates of Avignon;

for the vicelegate and his officers, faithful to the promises made to the marquise, had refused to register the

fresh donation which she had made at Ganges, according to the suggestions of the abbe, and which the latter

had sent off, the very moment it was signed, to his brother. But on this point the marquise was immovably

resolute, declaring that this fortune was reserved for her children and therefore sacred to her, and that she

could make no alteration in what had been done at Avignon, since it represented her genuine and final

wishes. Notwithstanding this declaration, the marquis did not cease toremain beside his wife and to bestow

Two days later than the Marquis de Ganges arrived Madame de Rossan great was her amazement, after all the

rumours that were already in circulation about the marquis, at finding her daughter in the hands of him whom

she regarded as one of her murderers. But the marquise, far from sharing that opinion, did all she could, not

only to make her mother feel differently, but even to induce her to embrace the marquis as a son. This

blindness on the part of the marquise caused Madame de Rossan so much grief that notwithstanding her

profound affection for her daughter she would only stay two days, and in spite of the entreaties that the dying

woman made to her, she returned home, not allowing anything to stop her. This departure was a great grief to

the marquise, and was the reason why she begged with renewed entreaties to be taken to Montpellier. The

very sight of the place where she had been so cruelly tortured continually brought before her, not only the

remembrance of the murder, but the image of the murderers, who in her brief moments of sleep so haunted

her that she sometimes awoke suddenly, uttering shrieks and calling for help. Unfortunately, the physician

considered her too weak to bear removal, and declared that no change of place could be made without

Then, when she heard this verdict, which had to be repeated to her, and which her bright and lively

complexion and brilliant eyes seemed to contradict, the marquise turned all her thoughts towards holy things,

and thought only of dying like a saint after having already suffered like a martyr. She consequently asked to

receive the last sacrament, and while it was being sent for, she repeated her apologies to her husband and her

forgiveness of his brothers, and this with a gentleness that, joined to her beauty, made her whole personality

appear angelic. When, however, the priest bearing the viaticum entered, this expression suddenly changed,

and her face presented every token of the greatest terror. She had just recognised in the priest who was

bringing her the last consolations of Heaven the infamous Perette, whom she could not but regard as an

accomplice of the abbe and the chevalier, since, after having tried to hold her back, he had attempted to crush

her beneath the pitcher of water which he had thrown at her from the window, and since, when he saw her

escaping, he had run to warn her assassins and to set them on her track. She recovered herself quickly,

however, and seeing that the priest, without any sign of remorse, was drawing near to her bedside, she would

not cause so great a scandal as would have been caused by denouncing him at such a moment. Nevertheless,

bending towards him, she said, "Father, I hope that, remembering what has passed, and in order to dispel

fears thatI may justifiably entertain, you will make no difficulty of partaking with me of the consecrated

wafer; for I have sometimes heard it said that the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, while remaining a token of

So the marquise communicated thus, taking a sacrament that she shared with one of her murderers, as an

evidence that she forgave this one like the others and that she prayed God to forgive them as she herself did.

The following days passed without any apparent increase in her illness, the fever by which she was consumed

rather enhancing her beauties, and imparting to her voice and gestures a vivacity which they had never had

before. Thus everybody had begun to recover hope, except herself, who, feeling better than anyone else what

was her true condition, never for a moment allowed herself any illusion, and keeping her son, who was seven

years old, constantly beside her bed, bade him again and again look well at her, so that, young as he was, he

might remember her all his life and never forget her in his prayers. The poor child would burst into tears and

promise not only to remember her but also to avenge her when he was a man. At these words the marquise

gently reproved him, telling him that all vengeance belonged to the king and to God, and that all cares of the

On the 3rd of June, M. Catalan, a councillor, appointed as a commissioner by the Parliament of Toulouse,

arrived at Ganges, together with all the officials required by his commission; but he could not see the

marquise that night, for she had dozed for some hours, and this sleep had left a sort of torpor upon her mind,

which might have impaired the lucidity of her depositions. The next morning, without asking anybody's

opinion, M. Catalan repaired to the house of M. Desprats, and in spite of some slight resistance on the part of

those who were in charge of her, made his way to the presence of the marquise. The dying woman received

him with an admirable presence of mind, that made M. Catalan think there had been an intention the night

before to prevent any meeting between him and the person whom he was sent to interrogate. At first the

marquise would relate nothing that had passed, saying that she could not at the same time accuse and forgive;

but M. Catalan brought her to see that justice required truth from her before all things, since, in default of

exact information, the law might go astray, and strike the innocent instead of the guilty. This last argument

decided the marquise, and during the hour and a half that he spent alone with her she told him all the details

of this horrible occurrence. On the morrow M. Catalan was to see her again; but on the morrow the marquise

was, in truth, much worse. He assured himself of this by his own eyes, and as he knew almost all that he

Indeed, from that day forward, such atrocious sufferings laid hold upon the marquise, that notwithstanding

the firmness which she had always shown, and which she tried to maintain to the end, she could not prevent

herself from uttering screams mingled with prayers. In this manner she spent the whole day of the 4th and

part of the 5th. At last, on that day, which was a Sunday, towards four o'clock in the afternoon, she expired.

The body was immediately opened, and the physicians attested that the marquise had died solely from the

power of the poison, none of the seven sword cuts which she had received being, mortal. They found the

stomach and bowels burned and the brain blackened. However, in spite of that infernal draught, which, says

the official report, "would have killed a lioness in a few hours," the marquise struggled for nineteen days, so

much, adds an account from which we have borrowed some of these details, so much did nature lovingly

M. Catalan, the very moment he was informed of the marquise's death, having with him twelve guards

belonging to the governor, ten archers, and a poqueton,despatched them to the marquis's castle with orders

to seize his person, that of the priest, and those of all the servants except the groom who had assisted the

marquise in her flight. The officer in command of this little squad found the marquis walking up and down,

melancholy and greatly disturbed, in the large hall of the castle, and when he signified to him the order of

which he was the bearer, the marquis, without making any resistance, and as though prepared for what was

happening to him, replied that he was ready to obey, and that moreover he had always intended to go before

the Parliament to accuse the murderers of his wife. He was asked for the key of his cabinet, which he gave

up, and the order was given to conduct him, with the other persons accused, to the prisons of Montpellier. As

soon as the marquis came into that town, the report of his arrival spread with incredible rapidity from street to

street. Then, as it was dark, lights came to all the windows, and people corning out with torches formed a

torchlight procession, by means of which everybody could see him. He, like the priest, was mounted on a

sorry hired horse, and entirely surrounded by archers, to whom, no doubt, he owed his life on this occasion;

for the indignation against him was so great that everyone was egging on his neighbours to tear him limb

from limb, which would certainly have come to pass had he not been so carefully defended and guarded.

Immediately upon receiving news of her daughter's death, Madame de Rossan took possession of all her

property, and, making herself a party to the case, declared that she would never desist from her suit until her

daughter's death was avenged. M. Catalan began the examination at once, and the first interrogation to which

he submitted the marquis lasted eleven hours. Then soon afterwards he and the other persons accused were

conveyed from the prisons of Montpellier to those of Toulouse. A crushing memorial by Madame de Rossan

followed them, in which she demonstrated with absolute clearness that the marquis had participated in the

The marquis's defence was very simple: it was his misfortune to have had two villains for brothers, who had

made attempts first upon the honour and then upon the life of a wife whom he loved tenderly; they had

destroyed her by a most atrocious death, and to crown his evil fortune, he, the innocent, was accused of

having had a hand in that death. And, indeed, the examinations in the trial did not succeed in bringing any

evidence against the marquis beyond moral presumptions, which, it appears, were insufficient to induce his

A verdict was consequently given, upon the 21st of August, 1667, which sentenced the abbe and the chevalier

de Ganges to be broken alive on the wheel, the Marquis de Ganges to perpetual banishment from the

kingdom, his property to be confiscated to the king, and himself to lose his nobility and to become incapable

of succeeding to the property of his children. As for the priest Perette, he was sentenced to the galleys for life,

after having previously been degraded from his clerical orders by the ecclesiastical authorities.

This sentence made as great a stir as the murder had done, and gave rise, in that period when "extenuating

circumstances" had not been invented, to long and angry discussions. Indeed, the marquis either was guilty of

complicity or was not: if he was not, the punishment was too cruel; if he was, the sentence was too light.

Such was the opinion of Louis XIV., who remembered the beauty of the Marquis de Ganges; for, some time

afterwards, when he was believed to have forgotten this unhappy affair, and when he was asked to pardon the

Marquis de la Douze, who was accused of having poisoned his wife, the king answered, "There is no need for

a pardon, since he belongs to the Parliament of Toulouse, and the Marquis de Ganges did very well without

It may easily be supposed that this melancholy event did not pass without inciting the wits of the day to write

a vast number of verses and boutsrimes about the catastrophe by which one of the most beautiful women of

the country was carried off. Readers who have a taste for that sort of literature are referred to the journals and

Now, as our readers, if they have taken any interest at all in the terrible tale just narrated, will certainly ask

what became of the murderers, we will proceed to follow their course until the moment when they

The priest Perette was the first to pay his debt to Heaven: he died at the oar on the way from Toulouse to

The chevalier withdrew to Venice, took service in the army of the Most Serene Republic, then at war with

Turkey, and was sent to Candia, which the Mussulmans had been besieging for twenty years; he had scarcely

arrived there when, as he was walking on the ramparts of the town with two other officers, a shell burst at

their feet, and a fragment of it killed the chevalier without so much as touching his companions, so that the

As for the abbe, his story is longer and stranger. He parted from the chevalier in the neighbourhood of Genoa,

and crossing the whole of Piedmont, part of Switzerland, and a corner of Germany, entered Holland under the

name of Lamartelliere. After many hesitations as to the place where he would settle, he finally retired to

Viane, of which the Count of Lippe was at that time sovereign; there he made the acquaintance of a

The count, even in this first conversation, found that the foreigner who had come to seek safety in his

dominions possessed not only great intelligence but a very solid sort of intelligence, and seeing that the

Frenchman was conversant with letters and with learning, proposed that he should undertake the education of

his son, who at that time was nine years old. Such a proposal was a stroke of fortune for the abbe de Ganges,

The abbe de Ganges was one of those men who have great mastery over themselves: from the moment when

he saw that his interest, nay, the very safety of his life required it, he concealed with extreme care whatever

bad passions existed within him, and only allowed his good qualities to appear. He was a tutor who

supervised the heart as sharply as the mind, and succeeded in making of his pupil a prince so accomplished in

both respects, that the Count of Lippe, making use of such wisdom and such knowledge, began to consult the

tutor upon all matters of State, so that in course of time the socalled Lamartelliere, without holding any

The countess had a young relation living with her, who though without fortune was of a great family, and for

whom the countess had a deep affection; it did not escape her notice that her son's tutor had inspired this poor

young girl with warmer feelings than became her high station, and that the false Lamartelliere, emboldened

by his own growing credit, had done all he could to arouse and keep up these feelings. The countess sent for

her cousin, and having drawn from her a confession of her love, said that she herself had indeed a great

regard for her son's governor, whom she and her husband intended to reward with pensions and with posts for

the services he had rendered to their family and to the State, but that it was too lofty an ambition for a man

whose name was Lamartelliere, and who had no relations nor family that could be owned, to aspire to the

hand of a girl who was related to a royal house; and that though she did not require that the man who married

her cousin should be a Bourbon, a Montmorency, or a Rohan, she did at least desire that he should be

The Countess of Lippe's young kinswoman went and repeated this answer, word for word, to her lover,

expecting him to be overwhelmed by it; but, on the contrary, he replied that if his birth was the only obstacle

that opposed their union, there might be means to remove it. In fact, the abbe, having spent eight years at the

prince's court, amid the strongest testimonies of confidence and esteem, thought himself sure enough of the

He therefore asked an audience of the countess, who immediately granted it. Bowing to her respectfully, he

said, "Madame, I had flattered myself that your Highness honoured me with your esteem, and yet you now

oppose my happiness: your Highness's relative is willing to accept me as a husband, and the prince your son

authorises my wishes and pardons my boldness; what have I done to you, madame, that you alone should be

against me? and with what can you reproach me during the eight years that I have had the honour of serving

"I have nothing to reproach you with, monsieur," replied the countess: "but I do not wish to incur reproach on

my own part by permitting such a marriage: I thought you too sensible and reasonable a man to need

reminding that, while you confined yourself to suitable requests and moderate ambitions, you had reason to

be pleased with our gratitude. Do you ask that your salary shall be doubled? The thing is easy. Do you desire

important posts? They shall be given you; but do not, sir, so far forget yourself as to aspire to an alliance that

"But, madame," returned the petitioner, "who told you that my birth was so obscure as to debar me from all

"Why, you yourself, monsieur, I think," answered the countess in astonishment; "or if you did not say so,

"And if that name is not mine, madame?" said the abbe, growing bolder; "if unfortunate, terrible, fatal

circumstances have compelled me to take that name in order to hide another that was too unhappily famous,

"Monsieur," replied the countess, " you have said too much now not to go on to the end. Who are you? Tell

me. And if, as you give me to understand, you are of good birth, I swear to you that want of fortune shall not

"Alas, madame," cried the abbe, throwing himself at her feet, "my name, I am sure, is but too familiar to your

Highness, and I would willingly at this moment give half my blood that you had never heard it uttered; but

you have said it, madame, have gone too far to recede. Well, then, I am that unhappy abbe de Ganges whose

"The abbe de Ganges!" cried the countess in horror,"the abbe de Ganges! You are that execrable abbe de

Ganges whose very name makes one shudder? And to you, to a man thus infamous, we have entrusted the

education of our only son? Oh, I hope, for all our sakes, monsieur, that you are speaking falsely; for if you

were speaking the truth I think I should have you arrested this very instant and taken back to France to

undergo your punishment. The best thing you can do, if what you have said to me is true, is instantly to leave

not only the castle, but the town and the principality; it will be torment enough for the rest of my life

The abbe would have replied; but the countess raised her voice so much, that the young prince, who had been

won over to his tutor's interests and who was listening at his mother's door, judged that his protege's business

was taking an unfavourable turn; and went in to try and put things right. He found his mother so much

alarmed that she drew him to her by an instinctive movement, as though to put herself under his protection,

and beg and pray as he might; he could only obtain permission for his tutor to go away undisturbed to any

country of the world that he might prefer, but with an express prohibition of ever again entering the presence

The abbe de Ganges withdrew to Amsterdam, where he became a teacher of languages, and where his

ladylove soon after came to him and married him: his pupil, whom his parents could not induce, even when

they told him the real name of the false Lamartelliere, to share their horror of him, gave him assistance as

long as he needed it; and this state of things continued until upon his wife attaining her majority he entered

into possession of some property that belonged to her. His regular conduct and his learning, which had been

rendered more solid by long and serious study, caused him to be admitted into the Protestant consistory;

there, after an exemplary life, he died, and none but God ever knew whether it was one of hypocrisy or of

As for the Marquis de Ganges, who had been sentenced, as we have seen, to banishment and the confiscation

of his property, he was conducted to the frontier of Savoy and there set at liberty. After having spent two or

three years abroad, so that the terrible catastrophe in which he had been concerned should have time to be

hushed up, he came back to France, and as nobodyMadame de Rossan being now deadwas interested in

prosecuting him, he returned to his castle at Ganges, and remained there, pretty well hidden. M. de Baville,

indeed, the Lieutenant of Languedoc, learned that the marquis had broken from his exile; but he was told, at

the same time, that the marquis, as a zealous Catholic, was forcing his vassals to attend mass, whatever their

religion might be: this was the period in which persons of the Reformed Church were being persecuted, and

the zeal of the marquis appeared to M. de Baville to compensate and more than compensate for the peccadillo

of which he had been accused; consequently, instead of prosecuting him, he entered into secret

communication with him, reassuring him about his stay in France, and urging on his religious zeal; and in this

During this time the marquise's young son, whom we saw at his mother's deathbed, had reached the age of

twenty, and being rich in his father's possessionswhich his uncle had restored to himand also by his

mother's inheritance, which he had shared with his sister, had married a girl of good family, named

Mademoiselle de Moissac, who was both rich and beautiful. Being called to serve in the royal army, the count

brought his young wife to the castle of Ganges, and, having fervently commended her to his father, left her in

The Marquis de Ganges was fortytwo veers old, and scarcely seemed thirty; he was one of the handsomest

men living; he fell in love with his daughterinlaw and hoped to win her love, and in order to promote this

design, his first care was to separate from her, under the excuse of religion, a maid who had been with her

This measure, the cause of which the young marquise did not know, distressed her extremely. It was much

against her will that she had come to live at all in this old castle of Ganges, which had so recently been the

scene of the terrible story that we have just told. She inhabited the suite of rooms in which the murder had

been committed; her bedchamber was the same which had belonged to the late marquise; her bed was the

same; the window by which she had fled was before her eyes; and everything, down to the smallest article of

furniture, recalled to her the details of that savage tragedy. But even worse was her case when she found it no

longer possible to doubt her fatherinlaw's intentions; when she saw herself beloved by one whose very

name had again and again made her childhood turn pale with terror, and when she was left alone at all hours

of the day in the sole company of the man whom public rumour still pursued as a murderer. Perhaps in any

other place the poor lonely girl might have found some strength in trusting herself to God; but there, where

God had suffered one of the fairest and purest creatures that ever existed to perish by so cruel a death, she

She waited, therefore, in growing terror; spending her days, as much as she could, with the women of rank

who lived in the little town of Ganges, and some of whom, eyewitnesses of her motherinlaw's murder,

increased her terrors by the accounts which they gave of it, and which she, with the despairing obstinacy of

fear, asked to hear again and again. As to her nights, she spent the greater part of them on her knees, and fully

dressed, trembling at the smallest sound; only breathing freely as daylight came back, and then venturing to

At last the marquis's attempts became so direct and so pressing, that the poor young woman resolved to

escape at all costs from his hands. Her first idea was to write to her father, explain to him her position and ask

help; but her father had not long been a Catholic, and had suffered much on behalf of the Reformed religion,

and on these accounts it was clear that her letter would be opened by the marquis on pretext of religion, and

thus that step, instead of saving, might destroy her. She had thus but one resource: her husband had always

been a Catholic; her husband was a captain of dragoons, faithful in the service of the king and faithful in the

service of God; there could be no excuse for opening a letter to him; she resolved to address herself to him,

explained the position in which she found herself, got the address written by another hand, and sent the letter

The young marquis was at Metz when he received his wife's missive. At that instant all his childish memories

awoke; he beheld himself at his dying mother's bedside, vowing never to forget her and to pray daily for her.

The image presented itself of this wife whom he adored, in the same room, exposed to the same violence,

destined perhaps to the same fate; all this was enough to lead him to take positive action: he flung himself

into a postchaise, reached Versailles, begged an audience of the king, cast himself, with his wife's letter in

his hand, at the feet of Louis XIV, and besought him to compel his father to return into exile, where he swore

upon has honour that he would send him everything he could need in order to live properly.

The king was not aware that the Marquis do Ganges had disobeyed the sentence of banishment, and the

manner in which he learned it was not such as to make him pardon the contradiction of his laws. In

consequence he immediately ordered that if the Marquis de Ganges were found in France he should be

Happily for the marquis, the Comte de Ganges, the only one of his brothers who had remained in France, and

indeed in favour, learned the king's decision in time. He took post from Versailles, and making the greatest

haste, went to warn him of the danger that was threatening; both together immediately left Ganges, and

withdrew to Avignon. The district of Venaissin, still belonging at that time to the pope and being governed by

a vicelegate, was considered as foreign territory. There he found his daughter, Madame d'Urban, who did all

she could to induce him to stay with her; but to do so would have been to flout Louis XIV's orders too

publicly, and the marquis was afraid to remain so much in evidence lest evil should befall him; he

accordingly retired to the little village of l'Isle, built in a charming spot near the fountain of Vaucluse; there

he was lost sight of; none ever heard him spoken of again, and when I myself travelled in the south of France

in 1835, I sought in vain any trace of the obscure and forgotten death which closed so turbulent and stormy an

As, in speaking of the last adventures of the Marquis de Ganges, we have mentioned the name of Madame

d'Urban, his daughter, we cannot exempt ourselves from following her amid the strange events of her life,

scandalous though they may be; such, indeed, was the fate of this family, that it was to occupy the attention

On the death of the marquise, her daughter, who was barely six years old, had remained in the charge of the

dowager Marquise de Ganges, who, when she had attained her twelfth year, presented to her as her husband

the Marquis de Perrant, formerly a lover of the grandmother herself. The marquis was seventy years of age,

having been born in the reign of Henry IV; he had seen the court of Louis XIII and that of Louis XIV's youth,

and he had remained one of its most elegant and favoured nobles; he had the manners of those two periods,

the politest that the world has known, so that the young girl, not knowing as yet the meaning of marriage and

having seen no other man, yielded without repugnance, and thought herself happy in becoming the Marquise

The marquis, who was very rich, had quarrelled With his younger brother, and regarded him with such hatred

that he was marrying only to deprive his brother of the inheritance that would rightfully accrue to him, should

the elder die childless. Unfortunately, the marquis soon perceived that the step which he had taken, however

efficacious in the case of another man, was likely to be fruitless in his own. He did not, however, despair, and

waited two or three years, hoping every day that Heaven would work a miracle in his favour; but as every day

diminished the chances of this miracle, and his hatred for his brother grew with the impossibility of taking

revenge upon him, he adopted a strange and altogether antique scheme, and determined, like the ancient

The marquis did not need to seek long for the man who should give him his revenge: he had in his house a

young page, some seventeen or eighteen years old, the son of a friend of his, who, dying without fortune, had

on his deathbed particularly commended the lad to the marquis. This young man, a year older than his

mistress, could not be continually about her without falling passionately in love with her; and however much

he might endeavour to hide his love, the poor youth was as yet too little practised in dissimulation to succeed

iii concealing it from the eyes of the marquis, who, after having at first observed its growth with uneasiness,

began on the contrary to rejoice in it, from the moment when he had decided upon the scheme that we have

The marquis was slow to decide but prompt to execute. Having taken his resolution, he summoned his page,

and, after having made him promise inviolable secrecy, and having undertaken, on that condition, to prove

his gratitude by buying him a regiment, explained what was expected of him. The poor youth, to whom

nothing could have been more unexpected than such a communication, took it at first for a trick by which the

marquis meant to make him own his love, and was ready to throw himself at his feet and declare everything;

but the marquis seeing his confusion, and easily guessing its cause, reassured him completely by swearing

that he authorised him to take any steps in order to attain the end that the marquis had in view. As in his

inmost heart the aim of the young man was the same, the bargain was soon struck: the page bound himself by

the most terrible oaths to keep the secret; and the marquis, in order to supply whatever assistance was in his

power, gave him money to spend, believing that there was no woman, however virtuous, who could resist the

combination of youth, beauty, and fortune: unhappily for the marquis, such a woman, whom he thought

The page was so anxious to obey his master, that from that very day his mistress remarked the alteration that

arose from the permission given himhis prompt obedience to her orders and his speed in executing them,

in order to return a few moments the sooner to her presence. She was grateful to him, and in the simplicity of

her heart she thanked him. Two days later the page appeared before her splendidly dressed; she observed and

remarked upon his improved appearance, and amused herself in conning over all the parts of his dress, as she

might have done with a new doll. All this familiarity doubled the poor young man's passion, but he stood

before his mistress, nevertheless, abashed and trembling, like Cherubino before his fair godmother. Every

evening the marquis inquired into his progress, and every evening the page confessed that he was no farther

advanced than the day before; then the marquis scolded, threatened to take away his fine clothes, to withdraw

his own promises, and finally to address himself to some other person. At this last threat the youth would

again call up his courage, and promise to be bolder tomorrow; and on the morrow would spend the day in

making a thousand compliments to his mistress's eyes, which she, in her innocence, did not understand. At

last, one day, Madame de Perrant asked him what made him look at her thus, and he ventured to confess his

love; but then Madame de Perrant, changing her whole demeanour, assumed a face of sternness and bade him

The poor lover obeyed, and ran, in despair, to confide his grief to the husband, who appeared sincerely to

share it, but consoled him by saying that he had no doubt chosen his moment badly; that all women, even the

least severe, had inauspicious hours in which they would not yield to attack, and that he must let a few days

pass, which he must employ in making his peace, and then must take advantage of a better opportunity, and

not allow himself to be rebuffed by a few refusals; and to these words the marquis added a purse of gold, in

Guided thus by the older experience of the husband, the page began to appear very much ashamed and very

penitent; but for a day or two the marquise, in spite of his apparent humility, kept him at a distance: at last,

reflecting no doubt, with the assistance of her mirror and of her maid, that the crime was not absolutely

unpardonable, and after having reprimanded the culprit at some length, while he stood listening with eyes

cast down, she gave a him her hand, forgave him, and admitted him to her companionship as before.

Things went on in this way for a week. The page no longer raised his eyes and did not venture to open his

mouth, and the marquise was beginning to regret the time in which he used to look and to speak, when, one

fine day while she was at her toilet, at which she had allowed him to be present, he seized a moment when the

maid had left her alone, to cast himself at her feet and tell her that he had vainly tried to stifle his love, and

that, even although he were to die under the weight of her anger, he must tell her that this love was immense,

eternal, stronger than his life. The marquise upon this wished to send him away, as on the former occasion,

but instead of obeying her, the page, better instructed, took her in his arms. The marquise called, screamed,

broke her bellrope; the waitingmaid, who had been bought over, according to the marquis's advice, had

kept the other women out of the way, and was careful not to come herself. Then the marquise, resisting force

by force, freed herself from the page's arms, rushed to her husband's room, and there, barenecked, with

floating hair, and looking lovelier than ever, flung herself into his arms and begged his protection against the

insolent fellow who had just insulted her. But what was the amazement of the marquise, when, instead of the

anger which she expected to see break forth, the marquis answered coldly that what she was saying was

incredible, that he had always found the young man very well behaved, and that, no doubt, having taken up

some frivolous ground of resentment against him, she was employing this means to get rid of him; but, he

added, whatever might be his love for her, and his desire to do everything that was agreeable to her, he

begged her not to require this of him, the young man being his friend's son, and consequently his own

adopted child. It was now the marquise who, in her turn, retired abashed, not knowing what to make of such a

reply, and fully resolving, since her husband's protection failed her, to keep herself well guarded by her own

Indeed, from that moment the marquise behaved to the poor youth with so much prudery, that, loving her as

he did, sincerely, he would have died of grief, if he had not had the marquis at hand to encourage and

strengthen him. Nevertheless, the latter himself began to despair, and to be more troubled by the virtue of his

wife than another man might have been by the levity of his. Finally, he resolved, seeing that matters remained

at the same point and that the marquise did not relax in the smallest degree, to take extreme measures. He hid

his page in a closet of his wife's bedchamber, and, rising during her first sleep, left empty his own place

beside her, went out softly, doublelocked the door, and listened attentively to hear what would happen.

He had not been listening thus for ten minutes when he heard a great noise in the room, and the page trying in

vain to appease it. The marquis hoped that he might succeed, but the noise increasing, showed him that he

was again to be disappointed; soon came cries for help, for the marquise could not ring, the bellropes having

been lifted out of her reach, and no one answering her cries, he heard her spring from her high bed, run to the

door, and finding it locked rush to the window, which she tried to open: the scene had come to its climax.

The marquis decided to go in, lest some tragedy should happen, or lest his wife's screams should reach some

belated passerby, who next day would make him the talk of the town. Scarcely did the marquise behold him

"Yes, madame," replied the marquis; "for this insolent wretch has been acting for the last three months not

The marquise remained stupefied. Then the marquis, without sending away the page, gave his wife an

explanation of all that had passed, and besought her to yield to his desire of obtaining a successor, whom he

would regard as his own child, so long as it was hers; but young though she was, the marquise answered with

a dignity unusual at her age, that his power over her had the limits that were set to it by law, and not those

that it might please him to set in their place, and that however much she might wish to do what might be his

pleasure, she would yet never obey him at the expense of her soul and her honour.

So positive an answer, while it filled her husband with despair, proved to him that he must renounce the hope

of obtaining an heir; but since the page was not to blame for this, he fulfilled the promise that he had made,

bought him a regiment, and resigned himself to having the most virtuous wife in France. His repentance was

not, however, of long duration; he died at the end of three months, after having confided to his friend, the

The Marquis d'Urban had a son of marriageable age; he thought that he could find nothing more suitable for

him than a wife whose virtue had come triumphantly through such a trial: he let her time of mourning pass,

and then presented the young Marquis d'Urban, who succeeded in making his attentions acceptable to the

beautiful widow, and soon became her husband. More fortunate than his predecessor, the Marquis d'Urban

had three heirs to oppose to his collaterals, when, some two years and a half later, the Chevalier de Bouillon

The Chevalier de Bouillon was a typical rake of the period, handsome, young, and wellgrown; the nephew

of a cardinal who was influential at Rome, and proud of belonging to a house which had privileges of

suzerainty. The chevalier, in his indiscreet fatuity, spared no woman; and his conduct had given some scandal

in the circle of Madame de Maintenon, who was rising into power. One of his friends, having witnessed the

displeasure exhibited towards him by Louis XIV, who was beginning to become devout, thought to do him a

service by warning him that the king "gardait une dent" against him. [ Translator's note."Garder une dent,"

"Pardieu!" replied the chevalier, "I am indeed unlucky when the only tooth left to him remains to bite me."

This pun had been repeated, and had reached Louis XIV, so that the chevalier presently heard, directly

enough this time, that the king desired him to travel for some years. He knew the danger of neglectingsuch

intimations, and since he thought the country after all preferable to the Bastille, he left Paris, and arrived at

Avignon, surrounded by the halo of interest that naturally attends a handsome young persecuted nobleman.

The virtue of Madame d'Urban was as much cried up at Avignon as the illbehaviour of the chevalier had

been reprobated in Paris. A reputation equal to his own, but so opposite in kind, could not fail to be very

offensive to him, therefore he determined immediately upon arriving to play one against the other.

Nothing was easier than the attempt. M. d'Urban, sure of his wife's virtue, allowed her entire liberty; the

chevalier saw her wherever he chose to see her, and every time he saw her found means to express a growing

passion. Whether because the hour had come for Madame d'Urban, or whether because she was dazzled by

the splendour of the chevalier's belonging to a princely house, her virtue, hitherto so fierce, melted like snow

in the May sunshine; and the chevalier, luckier than the poor page, took the husband's place without any

As all the chevalier desired was public triumph, he took care to make the whole town acquainted at once with

his success; then, as some infidels of the neighbourhood still doubted, the chevalier ordered one of his

servants to wait for him at the marquise's door with a lantern and a bell. At one in the morning, the chevalier

came out, and the servant walked before him, ringing the bell. At this unaccustomed sound, a great number of

townspeople, who had been quietly asleep, awoke, and, curious to see what was happening, opened their

windows. They beheld the chevalier, walking gravely behind his servant, who continued to light his master's

way and to ring, 276I along the course of the street that lay between Madame d'Urban's house and his own.

As he had made no mystery to anyone of his love affair, nobody took the trouble even to ask him whence he

came. However, as there might possibly be persons still unconvinced, he repeated this same jest, for his own

satisfaction, three nights running; so that by the morning of the fourth day nobody had any doubts left.

As generally happens in such cases, M. d'Urban did not know a word of what was going on until the moment

when his friends warned him that he was the talk of the town. Then he forbade his wife to see her lover again.

The prohibition produced the usual results: on the morrow, as, soon as M. d'Urban had gone out, the marquise

sent for the chevalier to inform him of the catastrophe in which they were both involved; but she found him

far better prepared than herself for such blows, and he tried to prove to her, by reproaches for her imprudent

conduct, that all this was her fault; so that at last the poor woman, convinced that it was she who had brought

these woes upon them, burst into tears. Meanwhile, M. d'Urban, who, being jealous for the first time, was the

more seriously so, having learned that the chevalier was with his wife, shut the doors, and posted himself in

the antechamber with his servants, in order to seize him as he came out. But the chevalier, who had ceased

to trouble himself about Madame d'Urban's tears, heard all the preparations, and, suspecting some ambush,

opened the window, and, although it was one o'clock in the afternoon and the place was full of people,

jumped out of the window into the street, and did not hurt himself at all, though the height was twenty feet,

The same evening, the chevalier, intending to relate his new adventure in all its details, invited some of his

friends to sup with him at the pastrycook Lecoq's. This man, who was a brother of the famous Lecoq of the

rue Montorgueil, was the cleverest eatinghouse keeper in Avignon; his own unusual corpulence

commended his cookery, and, when he stood at the door, constituted an advertisement for his restaurant. The

good man, knowing with what delicate appetites he had to deal, did his very best that evening, and that

nothing might be wanting, waited upon his guests himself. They spent the night drinking, and towards

morning the chevalier and his companions, being then drunk, espied their host standing respectfully at the

door, his face wreathed in smiles. The chevalier called him nearer, poured him out a glass of wine and made

him drink with them; then, as the poor wretch, confused at such an honour, was thanking him with many

This strange proposition was received as men would receive it who were drunk and accustomed by their

position to impunity. The unfortunate pastrycook was seized, bound down upon the table, and died under

their treatment. The vicelegate being informed of the murder by one of the waiters, who had run in on

hearing his master's shrieks, and had found him, covered with blood, in the hands of his butchers, was at first

inclined to arrest the chevalier and bring him conspicuously to punishment. But he was restrained by his

regard for the Cardinal de Bouillon, the chevalier's uncle, and contented himself with warning the culprit that

unless he left the town instantly he would be put into the hands of the authorities. The chevalier, who was

beginning to have had enough of Avignon, did not wait to be told twice, ordered the wheels of his chaise to

be greased and horses to be brought. In the interval before they were ready the fancy took him to go and see

As the house of the marquise was the very last at which, after the manner of his leaving it the day before, the

chevalier was expected at such an hour, he got in with the greatest ease, and, meeting a lady'smaid, who was

in his interests, was taken to the room where the marquise was. She, who had not reckoned upon seeing the

chevalier again, received him with all the raptures of which a woman in love is capable, especially when her

love is a forbidden one. But the chevalier soon put an end to them by announcing that his visit was a visit of

farewell, and by telling her the reason that obliged him to leave her. The marquise was like the woman who

pitied the fatigue of the poor horses that tore Damien limb from limb; all her commiseration was for the

chevalier, who on account of such a trifle was being forced to leave Avignon. At last the farewell had to be

uttered, and as the chevalier, not knowing what to say at the fatal moment, complained that he had no

memento of her, the marquise took down the frame that contained a portrait of herself corresponding with

one of her husband, and tearing out the canvas, rolled, it up and gave it to the chevalier. The latter, so far

from being touched by this token of love, laid it down, as he went away, upon a piece of furniture, where the

marquise found it half an hour later. She imagined that his mind being so full of the original, he had forgotten

the copy, and representing to herself the sorrow which the discovery of this forgetfulness would cause him,

she sent for a servant, gave him the picture, and ordered him to take horse and ride after the chevalier's

chaise. The man took a posthorse, and, making great speed, perceived the fugitive in the distance just as the

latter had finished changing horses. He made violent signs and shouted loudly, in order to stop the postillion.

But the postillion having told his fare that he saw a man coming on at full speed, the chevalier supposed

himself to be pursued, and bade him go on as fast as possible. This order was so well obeyed that the

unfortunate servant only came up with the chaise a league and a half farther on; having stopped the postillion,

he got off his horse, and very respectfully presented to the chevalier the picture which he had been bidden to

bring him. But the chevalier, having recovered from his first alarm, bade him go about his business, and take

back the portraitwhich was of no use to himto the sender. The servant, however, like a faithful

messenger, declared that his orders were positive, and that he should not dare go back to Madame d'Urban

without fulfilling them. The chevalier, seeing that he could not conquer the man's determination, sent his

postillion to a farrier, whose house lay on the road, for a hammer and four nails, and with his own hands

nailed the portrait to the back of his chaise; then he stepped in again, bade the postillion whip up his horses,

and drove away, leaving Madame d'Urban's messenger greatly astonished at the manner in which the

At the next stage, the postillion, who was going back, asked for his money, and the chevalier answered that

he had none. The postillion persisted; then the chevalier got out of his chaise, unfastened Madame d'Urban's

portrait, and told him that he need only put it up for sale in Avignon and declare how it had come into his

possession, in order to receive twenty times the price of his stage; the postillion, seeing that nothing else was

to be got out of the chevalier, accepted the pledge, and, following his instructions precisely, exhibited it next

morning at the door of a dealer in the town, together with an exact statement of the story. The picture was

As may be supposed, the adventure was much talked of throughout the town. Next day, Madame d'Urban

disappeared, no one knew whither, at the very time when the relatives of the marquis were met together and

had decided to ask the king for a 'lettredecachet'. One of the gentlemen present was entrusted with the duty

of taking the necessary steps; but whether because he was not active enough, or whether because he was in

Madame d'Urban's interests, nothing further was heard in Avignon of any consequences ensuing from such

steps. In the meantime, Madame d'Urban, who had gone to the house of an aunt, opened negotiations with her

husband that were entirely successful, and a month after this adventure she returned triumphantly to the

Two hundred pistoles, given by the Cardinal de Bouillon, pacified the family of the unfortunate pastrycook,

who at first had given notice of the affair to the police, but who soon afterwards withdrew their complaint,

and gave out that they had taken action too hastily on the strength of a story told in joke, and that further

Thanksto this declaration, which exculpated the Chevalier de Bouillon in the eyes of the king, he was

allowed, after travelling for two years in Italy and in Germany, to return undisturbed to France.

Thus ends, not the family of Ganges, but the commotion which the family made in the world. From time to

time, indeed, the playwright or the novelist calls up the pale and bloodstained figure of the marquise to

appear either on the stage or in a book; but the evocation almost always ceases at her, and many persons who

have written about the mother do not even know what became of the children. Our intention has been to fill

this gap; that is why we have tried to tell what our predecessors left out, and try offer to our readers what the