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

“And so, my father,” she replied, “I feel no resentment towards them, and I desire to meet in Paradise those who have been chiefly instrumental in taking me and bringing me here.”

“Madame,” said the doctor, “what mean you by this?  Such words are used by some when they desire people’s death.  Explain, I beg, what you mean.”

“Heaven forbid,” cried the marquise, “that you should understand me thus!  Nay, may God grant them long prosperity in this world and infinite glory in the next!  Dictate a new letter, and I will write just what you please.”

When a fresh letter had been written, the marquise would attend to nothing but her confession, and begged the doctor to take the pen for her.  “I have done so many wrong thing’s,” she said, “that if I only gave you a verbal confession, I should never be sure I had given a complete account.”

Then they both knelt down to implore the grace of the Holy Spirit.  They said a ‘Veni Creator’ and a ‘Salve Regina’, and the doctor then rose and seated himself at a table, while the marquise, still on her knees, began a Confiteor and made her whole confession.  At nine o’clock, Father Chavigny, who had brought Doctor Pirot in the morning, came in again.  The marquise seemed annoyed, but still put a good face upon it.  “My father,” said she, “I did not expect to see you so late; pray leave me a few minutes longer with the doctor.”  He retired.  “Why has he come?” asked the marquise.

“It is better for you not to be alone,” said the doctor.

“Then do you mean to leave me?” cried the marquise, apparently terrified.

“Madame, I will do as you wish,” he answered; “but you would be acting kindly if you could spare me for a few hours.  I might go home, and Father Chavigny would stay with you.”

“Ah!” she cried, wringing her hands, “you promised you would not leave me till I am dead, and now you go away.  Remember, I never saw you before this morning, but since then you have become more to me than any of my oldest friends.”

“Madame,” said the good doctor, “I will do all I can to please you.  If I ask for a little rest, it is in order that I may resume my place with more vigour to-morrow, and render you better service than I otherwise could.  If I take no rest, all I say or do must suffer.  You count on the execution for tomorrow; I do not know if you are right; but if so, to-morrow will be your great and decisive day, and we shall both need all the strength we have.  We have already been working for thirteen or fourteen hours for the good of your salvation; I am not a strong man, and I think you should realise, madame, that if you do not let me rest a little, I may not be able to stay with you to the end.”

“Sir,” said the marquise, “you have closed my mouth.  To-morrow is for me a far more important day than to-day, and I have been wrong:  of course you must rest to-night.  Let us just finish this one thing, and read over what we have written.”