When M. Pirot came before the marquise, she had just left the dock, where she had been for three hours without confessing anything, or seeming in the least touched by what the president said, though he, after acting the part of judge, addressed her simply as a Christian, and showing her what her deplorable position was, appearing now for the last time before men, and destined so soon to appear before God, spoke to her such moving words that he broke down himself, and the oldest and most obdurate judges present wept when they heard him.  When the marquise perceived the doctor, suspecting that her trial was leading her to death, she approached him, saying: 

“You have come, sir, because——­”

But Father Chavigny, who was with M. Pirot; interrupted her, saying: 

“Madame, we will begin with a prayer.”

They all fell on their knees invoking the Holy Spirit; then the marquise asked them to add a prayer to the Virgin, and, this prayer finished, she went up to the doctor, and, beginning afresh, said: 

“Sir, no doubt the president has sent you to give me consolation:  with you I am to pass the little life I have left.  I have long been eager to see you.”

“Madame,” the doctor replied, “I come to render you any spiritual office that I can; I only wish it were on another occasion.”

“We must have resolution, sir,” said she, smiling, “for all things.”

Then turning to Father Chavigny, she said: 

“My father, I am very grateful to you for bringing the doctor here, and for all the other visits you have been willing to pay me.  Pray to God for me, I entreat you; henceforth I shall speak with no one but the doctor, for with him I must speak of things that can only be discussed tete-a-tete.  Farewell, then, my father; God will reward you for the attention you have been willing to bestow upon me.”

With these words the father retired, leaving the marquise alone with the doctor and the two men and one woman always in attendance on her.  They were in a large room in the Montgomery tower extending, throughout its whole length.  There was at the end of the room a bed with grey curtains for the lady, and a folding-bed for the custodian.  It is said to have been the same room where the poet Theophile was once shut up, and near the door there were still verses in his well-known style written by his hand.

As soon as the two men and the woman saw for what the doctor had come, they retired to the end of the room, leaving the marquise free to ask for and receive the consolations brought her by the man of God.  Then the two sat at a table side by side.  The marquise thought she was already condemned, and began to speak on that assumption; but the doctor told her that sentence was not yet given, and he did not know precisely when it would be, still less what it would be; but at these words the marquise interrupted him.

“Sir,” she said, “I am not troubled about the future.  If my sentence is not given yet, it soon will be.  I expect the news this morning, and I know it will be death:  the only grace I look for from the president is a delay between the sentence and its execution; for if I were executed to-day I should have very little time to prepare, and I feel I have need for more.”