“Ah, well, we shall be there,” and d’Argenson smiled, “and I fancy we shall have a little surprise for M. Ribaut and M. Briquet. I do not think that Mère Fouchon, or Mme. Basarge, will ever trouble you again, Monsieur. Her hour has struck.” CHAPTER XV TO THE CHURCH OF ST. LANDRY THERE was a tone in his voice that made me tremble. I realized that this man could be terrible, inexorable upon occasion. I had good cause to hate the woman, but, God knows, I pitied her now. “Her hour has struck,” repeated d’Argenson. “She has lived fifteen years too long already. She has cheated the gallows, but the gallows will claim its own.” I questioned him with my eyes. “She called it a mistake, you told me--that was a gentle name for it. I remember it very well, for this mistake was one of the most horrible of the first year of my administration. The police was not organized then as it is now, or she would not have escaped us.” “And what was this mistake, Monsieur?” I questioned. “It is a pretty story,” he said musingly. “There is not time to tell it now as it should be told--but, in a word, this woman, after she left Ribaut, secured a place with a pastry-cook named Durand, in the Rue Auxerois. He was wealthy and she seems to have conceived a passion for him. One morning his wife was found dead in bed. He welcomed the release, perhaps, but he did not look twice at Madame Basarge. Instead, he married again, this time a pretty girl from Orleans, which had been his home. One day, the pastry-shop did not open. The neighbors became alarmed and burst in the door. They found Durand and his wife in bed. They had been dead for hours, and their purple flesh proved they had been poisoned. Madame Basarge was missing. So was Durand’s little daughter. We found out afterwards that the woman had learned her infamous art from one of the disciples of the Widow Montvoisin.” He paused, and his face grew stern. “You can conceive, Monsieur, how I searched for that woman. I had just come to the office. I felt personally responsible--my reputation seemed at stake. But we found not a trace of her. She descended into depths from which even the police recoiled. But I have waited. I knew that fate would deliver her to me. I am prepared.” He turned to a case of papers at his side, and after a moment’s search, drew out one, opened it, and glanced over it. “There was no question of her guilt,” he continued, after a moment, “and a decree of death was issued against her. I hold it here in my hand. There need be no further delay in its execution.” He folded the paper again, and sat for a time, tapping it against the table.