projects were in her heart.  With this mask she one evening offered him some soup that was poisoned.  He took it; with her eyes she saw him put it to his lips, watched him drink it down, and with a brazen countenance she gave no outward sign of that terrible anxiety that must have been pressing on her heart.  When he had drunk it all, and she had taken with steady hands the cup and its saucer, she went back to her own room, waited and listened....

The effect was rapid.  The marquise heard her father moan; then she heard groans.  At last, unable to endure his sufferings, he called out to his daughter.  The marquise went to him.  But now her face showed signs of the liveliest anxiety, and it was for M. d’Aubray to try to reassure 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.