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 Sainte-Croix, who brought her some more in a few days’ time.

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 Sainte-Croix 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 get efficient help before the rapid action of the poison had made it useless.

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 Christ—­who though He had no children had a father’s heart—­loved 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