“A flush of triumph passed over her face as she led Sainte-Croix from the grotto,” etc.
By the death of her father the Marchioness hoped, not only to have freed herself and her lover from an ever-recurring obstacle to their intercourse, but also to have inherited a much-needed sum of money—no less than “one hundred and fifty thousand livres were to have been the legacy to his daughter, Madame de Brinvilliers—and, what was more, her absolute freedom to act as she pleased. The money had passed to her brothers, in trust for her, and she was left entirely under their surveillance.
“‘This must be altered,’ said the Chevalier Sainte-Croix in an interview with the alter ego of an Italian vendor of poisons named Exili.’”
This man undertakes the “alteration,” or, in other words, the murder, of the two brothers for a “consideration” in the form of “one-fifth of whatever may fall to the Marchioness thereupon.
“‘Of course, there is a barrier between the brothers of Madame de Brinvilliers and myself,’ said Sainte-Croix to his accomplice, ‘that must for ever prevent our meeting. I will provide the means, and you their application.’”
Sainte-Croix had the right to claim the merit of this scheme for enriching the Marchioness, and at the same time relieving her from a guardianship that was impenetrable by her lover. The murder of her brothers seemed a trifling affair after the poisoning of her father, and she readily consented to assist in procuring a situation for the poisoner’s assistant—a man named Lechaussée—in the household of her brothers, who happened, very fortunately, to be in want of a servant at the moment. How this wretch administered the poison to the two brothers, who died instantly from its effect, the curious reader may ascertain—together with the other dramatic particulars—by consulting Mr. Albert Smith’s book, in which the incidents are told with great force and skill.
By eavesdropping in somewhat improbable places—notably at a grand fête at the Hôtel de Cluny, given by the Marquis de Lauzan, the Italian poisoner Exili becomes master of the guilty pair’s secrets. The Marchioness’s jealousy had been aroused during the evening by Sainte-Croix’s attention to an actress; and she left the great salon, and retired with her friend to a cabinet, in which, after the usual denial and reconciliation, secure, as they thought, from interruption, they discussed their demoniacal schemes. As they were about to pass from the room, “a portion of a large bookcase, masking a door, was thrown open, and Exili stood before them.”
The somewhat theatrical character that Leech gives to the figure of Sainte-Croix is much less apparent in this powerful drawing; and in the figures of Exili and the Marchioness there is not a trace of it. Though the Brinvilliers is masked according to a habit of the time, we feel that the mask conceals a beautiful face, distorted by fear, no doubt, but still lovely. The Italian is altogether excellent.
Exili loses no time in turning his information to account, and in reply to Sainte-Croix, who asks him what he wants, he replies that his trade as a sorcerer is failing, and as a poisoner he is in “a yet worse position, thanks to the Lieutenant of Police, M. de la Regnie.