The marquise rose with the doctor’s aid, for she could scarcely stand; tottering, she stepped forward between him and the executioner, who took charge of her immediately after the sentence was read, and was not allowed to leave her before it was completely carried out.  They all three entered the chapel and went into the choir, where the doctor and the marquise knelt in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.  At that moment several persons appeared in the nave, drawn by curiosity.  They could not be turned out, so the executioner, to save the marquise from being annoyed, shut the gate of the choir, and let the patient pass behind the altar.  There she sat down in a chair, and the doctor on a seat opposite; then he first saw, by the light of the chapel window, how greatly changed she was.  Her face, generally so pale, was inflamed, her eyes glowing and feverish, all her body involuntarily trembling.  The doctor would have spoken a few words of consolation, but she did not attend.  “Sir,” she said, “do you know that my sentence is an ignominious one?  Do you know there is fire in the sentence?”

The doctor gave no answer; but, thinking she needed something, bade the gaoler to bring her wine.  A minute later he brought it in a cup, and the doctor handed it to the marquise, who moistened her lips and then gave it back.  She then noticed that her neck was uncovered, and took out her handkerchief to cover it, asking the gaoler for a pin to fasten it with.  When he was slow in finding a pin, looking on his person for it, she fancied that he feared she would choke herself, and shaking her head, said, with a smile, “You have nothing to fear now; and here is the doctor, who will pledge his word that I will do myself no mischief.”

“Madame,” said the gaoler, handing her the pin she wanted, “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting.  I swear I did not distrust you; if anyone distrusts you, it is not I.”

Then kneeling before her, he begged to kiss her hand.  She gave it, and asked him to pray to God for her.  “Ah yes,” he cried, sobbing, “with all my heart.”  She then fastened her dress as best she could with her hands tied, and when the gaoler had gone and she was alone with the doctor, said:—­

“Did you not hear what I said, sir?  I told you there was fire in my sentence.  And though it is only after death that my body is to be burnt, it will always be a terrible disgrace on my memory.  I am saved the pain of being burnt alive, and thus, perhaps, saved from a death of despair, but the shamefulness is the same, and it is that I think of.”

“Madame,” said the doctor, “it in no way affects your soul’s salvation whether your body is cast into the fire and reduced to ashes or whether it is buried in the ground and eaten by worms, whether it is drawn on a hurdle and thrown upon a dung-heap, or embalmed with Oriental perfumes and laid in a rich man’s tomb.  Whatever may be your end, your body will arise on the appointed day, and if Heaven so will, it will come forth from its ashes more glorious than a royal corpse lying at this moment in a gilded casket.  Obsequies, madame, are for those who survive, not for the dead.”