our at which Grandier expired, Surgeon Mannouri drew his last breath.

We have still to tell of M. de Laubardemont. All we know is thus related
in the letters of M. de Patin:--

"On the 9th inst., at nine o'clock in the evening, a carriage was
attacked by robbers; on hearing the noise the townspeople ran to the
spot, drawn thither as much by curiosity as by humanity. A few shots
were exchanged and the robbers put to flight, with the exception of one
man belonging to their band who was taken prisoner, and another who lay
wounded on the paving-stones. This latter died next day without having
spoken, and left no clue behind as to who he was. His identity was,
however, at length made clear. He was the son of a high dignitary named
de Laubardemont, who in 1634, as royal commissioner, condemned Urbain
Grandier, a poor, priest of Loudun, to be burnt alive, under the pretence
that he had caused several nuns of Loudun to be possessed by devils.
These nuns he had so tutored as to their behaviour that many people
foolishly believed them to be demoniacs. May we not regard the fate of
his son as a chastisement inflicted by Heaven on this unjust judge--an
expiation exacted for the pitilessly cruel death inflicted on his victim,
whose blood still cries unto the Lord from the ground?"

Naturally the persecution of Urbain Grandier attracted the attention
not only of journalists but of poets. Among the many poems which
were inspired by it, the following is one of the best. Urbain
speaks:--

"From hell came the tidings that by horrible sanctions
I had made a pact with the devil to have power over women:
Though not one could be found to accuse me.
In the trial which delivered me to torture and the stake,
The demon who accused me invented and suggested the crime,

And his testimony was the only proof against me.

The English in their rage burnt the Maid alive;
Like her, I too fell a victim to revenge;
We were both accused falsely of the same crime;
In Paris she is adored, in London abhorred;
In Loudun some hold me guilty of witchcraft,
Some believe me innocent; some halt between two minds.

Like Hercules, I loved passionately;
Like him, I was consumed by fire;
But he by death became a god.
The injustice of my death was so well concealed
That no one can judge whether the flames saved or destroyed me;
Whether they blackened me for hell,