It was done, and the doctor would have retired; but the supper came in, and the marquise would not let him go without taking something.  She told the concierge to get a carriage and charge it to her.  She took a cup of soup and two eggs, and a minute later the concierge came back to say the carriage was at the door.  Then the marquise bade the doctor good-night, making him promise to pray for her and to be at the Conciergerie by six o’clock the next morning.  This he promised her.

The day following, as he went into the tower, he found Father Chavigny, who had taken his place with the marquise, kneeling and praying with her.  The priest was weeping, but she was calm, and received the doctor in just the same way as she had let him go.  When Father Chavigny saw him, he retired.  The marquise begged Chavigny to pray for her, and wanted to make him promise to return, but that he would not do.  She then turned to the doctor, saying, “Sir, you are punctual, and I cannot complain that you have broken your promise; but oh, how the time has dragged, and how long it has seemed before the clock struck six!”

“I am here, madame,” said the doctor; “but first of all, how have you spent the night?”

“I have written three letters,” said the marquise, “and, short as they were, they took a long time to write:  one was to my sister, one to Madame de Marillac, and the third to M. Couste.  I should have liked to show them to you, but Father Chavigny offered to take charge of them, and as he had approved of them, I could not venture to suggest any doubts.  After the letters were written, we had some conversation and prayer; but when the father took up his breviary and I my rosary with the same intention, I felt so weary that I asked if I might lie on my bed; he said I might, and I had two good hours’ sleep without dreams or any sort of uneasiness; when I woke we prayed together, and had just finished when you came back.”

“Well, madame,” said the doctor, “if you will, we can pray again; kneel down, and let us say the ’Veni Sancte Spiritus’.”

She obeyed, and said the prayer with much unction and piety.  The prayer finished, M. Pirot was about to take up the pen to go on with the confession, when she said, “Pray let me submit to you one question which is troubling me.  Yesterday you gave me great hope of the mercy of God; but I cannot presume to hope I shall be saved without spending a long time in purgatory; my crime is far too atrocious to be pardoned on any other conditions; and when I have attained to a love of God far greater than I can feel here, I should not expect to be saved before my stains have been purified by fire, without suffering the penalty that my sins have deserved.  But I have been told that the flames of purgatory where souls are burned for a time are just the same as the flames of hell where those who are damned burn through all eternity tell me, then, how can a soul awaking in purgatory at the moment of separation from this body be sure that she is not really in hell? how can she know that the flames that burn her and consume not will some day cease?  For the torment she suffers is like that of the damned, and the flames wherewith she is burned are even as the flames of hell.  This I would fain know, that at this awful moment I may feel no doubt, that I may know for certain whether I dare hope or must despair.”