“Then,” replied the doctor, “the crime you are accused of is poisoning.  If you are guilty, as is believed, you cannot hope that God will pardon you unless you make known to your judges what the poison is, what is its composition and what its antidote, also the names of your accomplices.  Madame, we must lay hands on all these evil-doers without exception; for if you spared them, they would be able to make use of your poison, and you would then be guilty of all the murders committed by them after your death, because you did not give them over to the judges during your life; thus one might say you survive yourself, for your crime survives you.  You know, madame, that a sin in the moment of death is never pardoned, and that to get remission for your crimes, if crimes you have, they must die when you die:  for if you slay them not, be very sure they will slay you.”

“Yes, I am sure of that,” replied the marquise, after a moment of silent thought; “and though I will not admit that I am guilty, I promise, if I am guilty, to weigh your words.  But one question, sir, and pray take heed that an answer is necessary.  Is there not crime in this world that is beyond pardon?  Are not some people guilty of sins so terrible and so numerous that the Church dares not pardon them, and if God, in His justice, takes account of them, He cannot for all His mercy pardon them?  See, I begin with this question, because, if I am to have no hope, it is needless for me to confess.”

“I wish to think, madame,” replied the doctor, in spite of himself half frightened at the marquise, “that this your first question is only put by way of a general thesis, and has nothing to do with your own state.  I shall answer the question without any personal application.  No, madame, in this life there are no unpardonable sinners, terrible and numerous howsoever their sins may be.  This is an article of faith, and without holding it you could not die a good Catholic.  Some doctors, it is true, have before now maintained the contrary, but they have been condemned as heretics.  Only despair and final impenitence are unpardonable, and they are not sins of our life but in our death.”

“Sir,” replied the marquise, “God has given me grace to be convinced by what you say, and I believe He will pardon all sins—­that He has often exercised this power.  Now all my trouble is that He may not deign to grant all His goodness to one so wretched as I am, a creature so unworthy of the favours already bestowed on her.”

The doctor reassured her as best he could, and began to examine her attentively as they conversed together.  “She was,” he said, “a woman naturally courageous and fearless; naturally gentle and good; not easily excited; clever and penetrating, seeing things very clearly in her mind, and expressing herself well and in few but careful words; easily finding a way out of a difficulty, and choosing her line of conduct in the most embarrassing circumstances; light-minded