At the same moment one of the varlets approached with a dark object in
his hand, which even in my dream filled me with a vague feeling of
familiarity. It was a leathern filler. With horrible energy he thrust
it—but I could stand no more. My hair stood on end with horror. I
writhed, I struggled, I broke through the bonds of sleep, and I burst
with a shriek into my own life, and found myself lying shivering with
terror in the huge library, with the moonlight flooding through the
window and throwing strange silver and black traceries upon the opposite
wall. Oh, what a blessed relief to feel that I was back in the
nineteenth century—back out of that medieval vault into a world where
men had human hearts within their bosoms. I sat up on my couch,
trembling in every limb, my mind divided between thankfulness and
horror. To think that such things were ever done—that they _could_ be
done without God striking the villains dead. Was it all a fantasy, or
did it really stand for something which had happened in the black, cruel
days of the world’s history? I sank my throbbing head upon my shaking
hands. And then, suddenly, my heart seemed to stand still in my bosom,
and I could not even scream, so great was my terror. Something was
advancing toward me through the darkness of the room. It is a horror coming upon a horror which breaks a man’s spirit. I could
not reason, I could not pray; I could only sit like a frozen image, and
glare at the dark figure which was coming down the great room. And then
it moved out into the white lane of moonlight, and I breathed once more. It was Dacre, and his face showed that he was as frightened as myself. “Was that you? For God’s sake what’s the matter?” he asked in a husky
voice. “Oh, Dacre, I am glad to see you! I have been down into hell. It was
dreadful.”

“Then it was you who screamed?”

“I dare say it was.”

“It rang through the house. The servants are all terrified.” He struck a
match and lit the lamp. “I think we may get the fire to burn up again,”
he added, throwing some logs upon the embers. “Good God, my dear chap,
how white you are! You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“So I have—several ghosts.”

“The leather funnel has acted, then?”

“I wouldn’t sleep near the infernal thing again for all the money you
could offer me.”

Dacre chuckled. “I expected that you would have a lively night of it,” said he. “You
took it out of me in return, for that scream of yours wasn’t a very
pleasant sound at two in the morning. I suppose from what you say that
you have seen the whole dreadful business.”

“What dreadful business?”

“The torture of the water—the ‘Extraordinary Question,’ as it was called
in the genial days of ‘Le Roi Soleil.’ Did you stand it out to the end?”

“No, thank God, I awoke before it really began.”

“Ah! it is just as well for you. I held out till the third bucket. Well,
it is an old story, and they are all in their graves now anyhow, so what
does it matter how they got there. I suppose that you have no idea what
it was that you have seen?”

“The torture of some criminal. She must have been a terrible malefactor
indeed if her crimes are in proportion to her penalty.”

“Well, we have that small consolation,” said Dacre, wrapping his
dressing-gown round him and crouching closer to the fire. “They _were_
in proportion to her penalty. That is to say, if I am correct in the
lady’s identity.”

“How could you possibly know her identity?”

For answer Dacre took down an old vellum-covered volume from the shelf. “Just listen to this,” said he; “it is in the French of the seventeenth
century, but I will give a rough translation as I go. You will judge for
yourself whether I have solved the riddle or not. “The prisoner was brought before the Grand Chambers and Tournelles
    of Parliament, sitting as a court of justice, charged with the
    murder of Master Dreux d’Aubray, her father, and of her two
    brothers, MM. d’Aubray, one being civil lieutenant, and the other
    a counsellor of Parliament. In person it seemed hard to believe
    that she had really done such wicked deeds, for she was of a mild
    appearance, and of short stature, with a fair skin and blue eyes. Yet the Court, having found her guilty, condemned her to the
    ordinary and to the extraordinary question in order that she might
    be forced to name her accomplices, after which she should be
    carried in a cart to the Place de Grève, there to have her head
    cut off, her body being afterwards burned and her ashes scattered
    to the winds.”

The date of this entry is July 16, 1676.”

“It is interesting,” said I, “but not convincing. How do you prove the
two women to be the same?”

“I am coming to that. The narrative goes on to tell of the woman’s
behaviour when questioned. ‘When the executioner approached her she
recognized him by the cords which he held in his hands, and she at once
held out her own hands to him, looking at him from head to foot without
uttering a word.’ How’s that?”

“Yes, it was so.”

“‘She gazed without wincing upon the wooden horse and rings which had
twisted so many limbs and caused so many shrieks of agony. When her eyes
fell upon the three pails of water, which were all ready for her, she
said with a smile, “All that water must have been brought here for the
purpose of drowning me, Monsieur. You have no idea, I trust, of making a
person of my small stature swallow it all.”’ Shall I read the details of
the torture?”

“No, for Heaven’s sake, don’t.”

“Here is a sentence which must surely show you that what is here
recorded is the very scene which you have gazed upon to-night: ‘The good
Abbé Pirot, unable to contemplate the agonies which were suffered by his
penitent, had hurried from the room.’ Does that convince you?”

“It does entirely. There can be no question that it is indeed the same
event. But who, then, is this lady whose appearance was so attractive
and whose end was so horrible?”

For answer Dacre came across to me, and placed the small lamp upon the
table which stood by my bed. Lifting up the ill-omened filler, he turned
the brass rim so that the light fell full upon it. Seen in this way the
engraving seemed clearer than on the night before. “We have already agreed that this is the badge of a marquis or of a
marquise,” said he. “We have also settled that the last letter is B.”

“It is undoubtedly so.”

“I now suggest to you that the other letters from left to right are, M,
M, a small d, A, a small d, and then the final B.”

“Yes, I am sure that you are right. I can make out the two small d’s
quite plainly.”

“What I have read to you to-night,” said Dacre, “is the official record
of the trial of Marie Madeleine d’Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers, one
of the most famous poisoners and murderers of all time.”

I sat in silence, overwhelmed at the extraordinary nature of the
incident, and at the completeness of the proof with which Dacre had
exposed its real meaning.