“Madame,” said the doctor, “you will probably have all the time before nightfall to compose yourself and think what remains for you to do.”
“Ah, sir,” she replied, with a smile, “do not think they will show so much consideration for a poor wretch condemned to be burnt. That does not depend on ourselves; but as soon as everything is ready, they will let us know, and we must start.”
“Madame,” said the doctor, “I am certain that they will give you the time you need.”
“No, no,” she replied abruptly and feverishly, “no, I will not keep them waiting. As soon as the tumbril is at this door, they have only to tell me, and I go down.”
“Madame,” said he, “I would not hold you back if I found you prepared to stand before the face of God, for in your situation it is right to ask for no time, and to go when the moment is come; but not everyone is so ready as Christ was, who rose from prayer and awaked His disciples that He might leave the garden and go out to meet His enemies. You at this moment are weak, and if they come for you just now I should resist your departure.”
“Be calm; the time is not yet come,” said the executioner, who had heard this talk. He knew his statement must be believed, and wished as far as possible to reassure the marquise. “There is no hurry, and we cannot start for another two of three hours.”
This assurance calmed the marquise somewhat, and she thanked the man. Then turning to the doctor, she said, “Here is a rosary that I would rather should not fall into this person’s hands. Not that he could not make good use of it; for, in spite of their trade, I fancy that these people are Christians like ourselves. But I should prefer to leave this to somebody else.”
“Madame,” said the doctor, “if you will tell me your wishes in this matter, I will see that they are carried out.”
“Alas!” she said, “there is no one but my sister; and I fear lest she, remembering my crime towards her, may be too horrified to touch anything that belonged to me. If she did not mind, it would be a great comfort to me to think she would wear it after my death, and that the sight of it would remind her to pray for me; but after what has passed, the rosary could hardly fail to revive an odious recollection. My God, my God! I am desperately wicked; can it be that you will pardon me?”
“Madame,” replied the doctor, “I think you are mistaken about Mlle, d’Aubray. You may see by her letter what are her feelings towards you, and you must pray with this rosary up to the very end. Let not your prayers be interrupted or distracted, for no guilty penitent must cease from prayer; and I, madame, will engage to deliver the rosary where it will be gladly received.”