“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 to-morrow, if I have two fresh eggs to take after the question.”

“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 without feeling for me.”

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 should be altered, tell me.”

This was the letter—­

“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 said for me, and believe that in my death I am still ever yours, D’AUBRAY.”