“Yes, I am sure of that,” replied the marquise, after a moment of silent thought; “and though I will not admit that I am guilty, I promise, if I am guilty, to weigh your words.  But one question, sir, and pray take heed that an answer is necessary.  Is there not crime in this world that is beyond pardon?  Are not some people guilty of sins so terrible and so numerous that the Church dares not pardon them, and if God, in His justice, takes account of them, He cannot for all His mercy pardon them?  See, I begin with this question, because, if I am to have no hope, it is needless for me to confess.”

“I wish to think, madame,” replied the doctor, in spite of himself half frightened at the marquise, “that this your first question is only put by way of a general thesis, and has nothing to do with your own state.  I shall answer the question without any personal application.  No, madame, in this life there are no unpardonable sinners, terrible and numerous howsoever their sins may be.  This is an article of faith, and without holding it you could not die a good Catholic.  Some doctors, it is true, have before now maintained the contrary, but they have been condemned as heretics.  Only despair and final impenitence are unpardonable, and they are not sins of our life but in our death.”

“Sir,” replied the marquise, “God has given me grace to be convinced by what you say, and I believe He will pardon all sins—­that He has often exercised this power.  Now all my trouble is that He may not deign to grant all His goodness to one so wretched as I am, a creature so unworthy of the favours already bestowed on her.”

The doctor reassured her as best he could, and began to examine her attentively as they conversed together.  “She was,” he said, “a woman naturally courageous and fearless; naturally gentle and good; not easily excited; clever and penetrating, seeing things very clearly in her mind, and expressing herself well and in few but careful words; easily finding a way out of a difficulty, and choosing her line of conduct in the most embarrassing circumstances; light-minded and fickle; unstable, paying no attention if the same thing were said several times over.  For this reason,” continued the doctor, “I was obliged to alter what I had to say from time to time, keeping her but a short time to one subject, to which, however, I would return later, giving the matter a new appearance and disguising it a little.  She spoke little and well, with no sign of learning and no affectation, always, mistress of herself, always composed and saying just what she intended to say.  No one would have supposed from her face or from her conversation that she was so wicked as she must have been, judging by her public avowal of the parricide.  It is surprising, therefore—­and one must bow down before the judgment of God when He leaves mankind to himself—­that a mind evidently of some grandeur, professing fearlessness in the most untoward and unexpected events, an immovable