ed, felt much surprised, and wishing to try her, said that the
affection was not reciprocated, as her husband had abandoned her the
whole time of the trial. The marquise interrupted him:

"My father, we must not judge things too quickly or merely by
appearances. M. de Brinvilliers has always concerned himself with me,
and has only failed in doing what it was impossible to do. Our
interchange of letters never ceased while I was out of the kingdom; do
not doubt but that he would have come to Paris as soon as he knew I was
in prison, had the state of his affairs allowed him to come safely. But
you must know that he is deeply in debt, and could not appear in Paris
without being arrested. Do not suppose that he is without feeling for
me."

She then began to write, and when her letter was finished she handed it
to the doctor, saying, "You, sir, are the lord and master of all my
sentiments from now till I die; read this letter, and if you find
anything that should be altered, tell me."

This was the letter--

"When I am on the point of yielding up my soul to God, I wish to assure
you of my affection for you, which I shall feel until the last moment of
my life. I ask your pardon for all that I have done contrary to my duty.
I am dying a shameful death, the work of my enemies: I pardon them with
all my heart, and I pray you to do the same. I also beg you to forgive
me for any ignominy that may attach to you herefrom; but consider that we
are only here for a time, and that you may soon be forced to render an
account to God of all your actions, and even your idle words, just as I
must do now. Be mindful of your worldly affairs, and of our children,
and give them a good example; consult Madame Marillac and Madame Couste.
Let as many prayers as possible be said for me, and believe that in my
death I am still ever yours, D'AUBRAY."

The doctor read this letter carefully; then he told her that one of her
phrases was not right--the one about her enemies. "For you have no other
enemies," said he, "than your own crimes. Those whom you call your
enemies are those who love the memory of your father and brothers, whom
you ought to have loved more than they do."

"But those who have sought my death," she replied, "are my enemies, are
they not, and is it not a Christian act to forgive them?"

"Madame," said the doctor, "they are not your enemies, but you are the
enemy of the human race: nobody can think without, horror of you