“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 last—­I 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 to-day passes against me, far from complaining of the prosecutor who has demanded it, I thank them both most humbly, for my salvation depends upon it.”

The doctor was about to answer, encouraging her, when the door opened:  it was dinner coming in, for it was now half-past 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 to-day.  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.  To-morrow 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 fellow-guests 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.  “To-morrow 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.”