marry her if she were free, she attempted to poison her
husband. Sainte Croix, not reciprocating her desire, administered an
antidote, and thus saved the poor Marquis's life.

And now, all is over. The Brinvilliers is no more. Judgment was given
yesterday and this morning her sentence was read to her--she was to make
a public confession in front of Notre Dame, after which she was to be
executed, her body burnt and her ashes scattered to the winds. She was
threatened with torture, but said it was unnecessary and that she would
tell all. Accordingly she recounted the history of her whole life, which
was even more horrible than anyone had imagined, and I could not hear of
it without shuddering.

At six in the morning she was led out, barefoot, and clad only in one
loose garment, with a halter round her neck. From Notre Dame she was
carried back in the same Tumbril, in which I saw her lying on straw,
with the Doctor on one side of her and the executioner on the other; the
sight of her struck me with horror. I am told that she mounted the
scaffold with a firm step, and died as she had lived, resolutely, and
without fear or emotion.

She asked her confessor to place the executioner so that she need not
gaze on Degrais, who, you _will remember_, tracked her to England, and
ultimately arrested her at Liege. After she had mounted the ladder to
the scaffold she was exposed to the public for a quarter of an hour,
while the executioner arranged her for execution. This raised a murmur
of disapproval among the people, and it was a great cruelty. It seems
that some say she was a saint; and after her body had been burned, the
people crowded near to search for bones as relics, but little was to be
found, as her ashes were thrown into the fire. And, it may be supposed,
that we now inhale what remains of her. It is to be hoped that we shall
not inhale her murderous instincts also.

She had two confessors, of whom one counselled her to tell everything,
the other nothing. She laughed, and said, "I may in conscience do what
pleases me best."

I was pleased to hear what you think of this horrible woman; it is not
possible that she should be in Paradise; her vile soul must be separated
from others.

_Devotion_

You ask me if I am devout. Alas! No, which is a sorrow to me; but I am
in a way detached from what is called the world. Old age, and a little
sickness give one time to reflect. But, my dear child, what I do not
give to the