Croix, who let him a room in the name of
his steward, Martin de Breuille, a room situated in the blind, alley off
the Place Maubert, owned by a woman called Brunet.

It is not known whether Sainte-Croix had an opportunity of seeing the
Marquise de Brinvilliers during his sojourn in the Bastille, but it is
certain that as soon as he was a free man the lovers were more attached
than ever. They had learned by experience, however, of what they had
to fear; so they resolved that they would at once make trial of
Sainte-Croix's newly acquired knowledge, and M. d'Aubray was selected
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