Suddenly the murmurs of the people ceased; lights moved in slow procession from the Châtelet, and the voices of monks could be heard chaunting a requiem. They advanced between lines of troops towards the scaffold, and then the criminal could be distinctly seen. He was not walking, however, between them, nor was he dragged on a sledge, but borne on a species of bier, raised on the shoulders of some of the soldiery; from which the spectators knew that the question had been undergone, and the rack had left its victim crippled, with dislocated limbs. By the men in masks he was lifted on to the platform, and then a yell from the vast multitude assembled broke the silence that had just reigned. It was a terrible cry of ferocity and denunciation.
Louise could scarcely speak; but she asked a female who was close to her the name of the criminal.
‘One of the poisoners,’ replied the woman; ‘his name is Lachaussée. He will make up for Sainte-Croix’s cheating us out of his execution. And the Marchioness of Brinvilliers will follow, when she is caught. Oh! these are brave times! I should like to have seen Sainte-Croix broken. They say he was handsome; and that he would have held out to the last. Hist!’
The noise of the multitude ceased as the priest advanced to the edge of the scaffold and addressed them. His words could only be heard by the few around him; but they were carried from one to the other, and were to the effect that the criminal had refused to confess, after having undergone the question both ordinary and extraordinary; that his own guilt had been sufficiently proved; but that none of his accomplices had been named, except his master and instructor, Monsieur Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, upon whom a just retribution had fallen. The last judgment of the law would now be carried into effect, but the coup de grace would be withheld until the criminal had confessed all that he was known to be acquainted with respecting his presumed accomplice, the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, now in sanctuary, as it was supposed, at a convent beyond the frontier.
There was an awful silence. The wretched man was seized by the other figures on the scaffold and placed upon the wheel, and the next minute the staff in the hands of one of the executioners was raised. It descended with a dull, heavy sound, distinctly audible at every part of the square, as was the sharp cry of agony that burst from the lips of the culprit. The priest stooped down, and appeared to commune with him; but in a few seconds he rose again, and the blow was repeated, followed by the same scream, but less piercing than before. Another and another followed, and then a conversation of greater length took place between the criminal and his confessor. The monk advanced again to the front of the scaffold, and waving his hand, stopped the murmur that was rising from the crowd as they commented on the proceedings.
‘The criminal Lachaussée has confessed,’ he said. ‘He acknowledges his guilt, and also that of Madame Marie-Marguerite d’Aubray, Marchioness of Brinvilliers, hitherto suspected, from whom he owns to have received the poisons with which her two brothers were murdered. The coup de grace may now be given.’
He held up a crucifix in sight of the writhing object of his speech, and directed the chief executioner to despatch his victim. The man again raised the bar, and it descended upon the breast of Lachaussée, crushing all before it. No cry followed the blow this time: the death of the wretched man was instantaneous.
The multitude remained silent for a few seconds, as if they were listening for another cry. But voices were at length heard, first one and then another, gradually spreading, until the murmur broke forth into one savage roar of exultation, when they knew that the criminal had ceased to exist. A clue had been found to the mystery in which the deaths by poison had long been involved; and now that one of the participators in the horrible deeds, that had so long baffled the keenest vigilance of the authorities, had expiated his offence before their eyes, their satisfaction knew no bounds. And when they had thus vented their approval of the sight they had just witnessed, they turned away from the carrefour, and began to leave the spot by the different outlets.
Louise, who had been scarcely able to sustain herself through the ghastly scene, was hurried on by the breaking up of the crowd, until she contrived to get within a porte-cochère, meaning to let them pass. But she had not been there an instant before she was recognised by a man in the throng, who had been a servant of François d’Aubray.
‘Ho!’ cried the fellow, as he saw her by the light of a cresset, ‘here is another of them. I saw her with Madame de Brinvilliers the night that her brothers were murdered. She is an empoisonneuse. To prison with the witch!’