TWENTY-FOUR
“Who would ever believe it?” said La Reynie, shaking his head. “She is related to half the judicial families in Paris…with her birth, her beauty, her delicacy…this—” Before him on his desk lay the only evidence against the Marquise de Brinvilliers: a little red coffer containing a few family papers and several vials of white arsenic and the written confession, signed by her own hand, that Desgrez had brought back from the convent in Liège. Randomly, he picked up a page and perused the catalogue of crimes it contained. The midsummer heat lay oppressive in the dark, paneled office. Sweat ran beneath La Reynie’s collar and trickled down the back of his neck beneath his heavy wig. It stained the neck and underarms of Desgrez’s blue jacket, as he stood before the desk of his seated chief.
“Apart from this, Desgrez, we have nothing. After three months’ interrogation, she still denies everything. Sometimes I think from the reports that she is a complete lunatic. Abbé Pirot has been with her for the last twenty-four hours, and look at this report.” Desgrez took the sheet that La Reynie handed him and read from it:
“‘The marquise maintains a cold and arrogant front, but there are moments when her eyes glow like a demon’s, and another voice snarls from her throat. She has still confessed nothing to me, though I have assured her it will guarantee her salvation—’” Desgrez broke off reading. “I suppose, Monsieur de La Reynie, that she has had her fill of abbés these days,” he added. La Reynie’s hard face remained unchanged at the little joke. He leafed again through the pages of the confession, checking again some notes he had taken in his little red leather-bound notebook.
“You needn’t worry that she will escape the executioner, Monsieur de La Reynie,” Desgrez observed.
“It is not that which worries me,” answered La Reynie in a preoccupied voice. “It is the unanswered questions that consume me. Who supplied her with the poisons she used? Whom else did her supplier supply? What other people have shared in these appalling crimes? Paris is full of rumors. We may only have grasped the tail of a much larger conspiracy. And yet she will not talk, and tomorrow she will be beyond all answers.”
“Then I may assume that you will conduct the question extraordinaire personally?”
“It is Louvois’s express wish. His Majesty takes a personal interest. I have prepared a list of questions myself from this…document…you acquired so brilliantly.”
Deep below ground level, the stone walls oozed damp. Even in July, the room was perpetually cold. A fire burned on the hearth, and next to it was a mattress on which to revive a failing victim for the next round of questioning. A physician sat ready with brandy and restoratives on the bench next to the table at which the clerk made the official transcript of the interrogation.
“Troisième coin,” ordered La Reynie in a passionless voice, and the executioner’s assistant poured the third immense jug of water through a funnel into the marquise’s mouth. Stripped and stretched across a trestle, she was already bloated beyond recognition.
“Your lover, Saint-Croix—to whom else did he supply poisons?” asked the Lieutenant General of Police. The clerk’s pen scratched as he took down the question. The Marquise de Brinvilliers groaned. The physician took her pulse.
“Continue,” he said.
“What other persons, male or female, did he supply with poison?” persisted La Reynie.
“How should I know? I only know that he loved me alone. Oh, dozens. Yes, dozens. But he is dead. He never told me.”
“You know the names. Give me the names.”
“You’ll burst me. So many pots of water for my small body. You disgrace my rank. For that I will never forgive you, canaille.” Her voice was weak. La Reynie leaned close to hear her response.
“The names, Madame.”
“Oh, I know so many,” she whispered. “I could drag half of Paris down with me, if I wanted to. But I’ll not give you the names. You police live only to bring your betters down. I’ll never give you the satisfaction. Do you know who I am? I am a d’Aubray!” Her eyes lit for a moment with insane fury.
“Quatrième coin,” ordered the chief of police, his face hard.
By the huitième coin, the marquise had still revealed nothing.