eassure her
about himself! He thought it was only a trifling indisposition, and was
not willing that a doctor should be disturbed. But then he was seized by
a frightful vomiting, followed by such unendurable pain that he yielded
to his daughter's entreaty that she should send for help. A doctor
arrived at about eight o'clock in the morning, but by that time all that
could have helped a scientific inquiry had been disposed of: the doctor
saw nothing, in M. d'Aubray's story but what might be accounted for by
indigestion; so he dosed him, and went back to Compiegne.

All that day the marquise never left the sick man. At night she had a
bed made up in his room, declaring that no one else must sit up with him;
thus she, was able to watch the progress of the malady and see with her
own eyes the conflict between death and life in the body of her father.
The next day the doctor came again: M. d'Aubray was worse; the nausea had
ceased, but the pains in the stomach were now more acute; a strange fire
seemed to burn his vitals; and a treatment was ordered which necessitated
his return to Paris. He was soon so weak that he thought it might be
best to go only so far as Compiegne, but the marquise was so insistent as
to the necessity for further and better advice than anything he could get
away from home, that M. d'Aubray decided to go. He made the journey in
his own carriage, leaning upon his daughter's shoulder; the behaviour of
the marquise was always the same: at last M. d'Aubray reached Paris. All
had taken place as the marquise desired; for the scene was now changed:
the doctor who had witnessed the symptoms would not be present at the
death; no one could discover the cause by studying the progress of the
disorder; the thread of investigation was snapped in two, and the two
ends were now too distant to be joined again. In spite, of every
possible attention, M. d'Aubray grew continually worse; the marquise was
faithful to her mission, and never left him for an hour. At list, after
four days of agony, he died in his daughter's arms, blessing the woman
who was his murderess. Her grief then broke forth uncontrolled. Her
sobs and tears were so vehement that her brothers' grief seemed cold
beside hers. Nobody suspected a crime, so no autopsy was held; the tomb
was closed, and not the slightest suspicion had approached her.

But the marquise had only gained half her purpose. She had now more
freedom for her love affairs, b