added her dowry of 200,000 livres, exclusive of her expectations in the future.  Her name was Marie-Madeleine; she had a sister and two brothers:  her father, M. de Dreux d’Aubray; was civil lieutenant at the Chatelet de Paris.  At the age of twenty-eight the marquise was at the height of her beauty:  her figure was small but perfectly proportioned; her rounded face was charmingly pretty; her features, so regular that no emotion seemed to alter their beauty, suggested the lines of a statue miraculously endowed with life:  it was easy enough to mistake for the repose of a happy conscience the cold, cruel calm which served as a mask to cover remorse.

Sainte-Croix and the marquise loved at first sight, and she was soon his mistress.  The marquis, perhaps endowed with the conjugal philosophy which alone pleased the taste of the period, perhaps too much occupied with his own pleasure to see what was going on before his eyes, offered no jealous obstacle to the intimacy, and continued his foolish extravagances long after they had impaired his fortunes:  his affairs became so entangled that the marquise, who cared for him no longer, and desired a fuller liberty for the indulgence of her new passion, demanded and obtained a separation.  She then left her husband’s house, and henceforth abandoning all discretion, appeared everywhere in public with Sainte-Croix.  This behaviour, authorised as it was by the example of the highest nobility, made no impression upon the.  Marquis of Brinvilliers, who merrily pursued the road to ruin, without worrying about his wife’s behaviour.  Not so M. de Dreux d’Aubray:  he had the scrupulosity of a legal dignitary.  He was scandalised at his daughter’s conduct, and feared a stain upon his own fair name:  he procured a warrant for the arrest of Sainte-Croix wheresoever the bearer might chance to encounter him.  We have seen how it was put in execution when Sainte-Croix was driving in the carriage of the marquise, whom our readers will doubtless have recognised as the woman who concealed herself so carefully.

From one’s knowledge of the character of Sainte-Croix, it is easy to imagine that he had to use great self-control to govern the anger he felt at being arrested in the middle of the street; thus, although during the whole drive he uttered not a single word, it was plain to see that a terrible storm was gathering, soon to break.  But he preserved the same impossibility both at the opening and shutting of the fatal gates, which, like the gates of hell, had so often bidden those who entered abandon all hope on their threshold, and again when he replied to the formal questions put to him by the governor.  His voice was calm, and when they gave him they prison register he signed it with a steady hand.  At once a gaoler, taking his orders from the governor, bade him follow:  after traversing various corridors, cold and damp, where the daylight might sometimes enter but fresh air never, he opened a door, and Sainte-Croix had no sooner entered than he heard it locked behind him.