The Fortunate Feint ("L’Heureuse Feinte")

"Pick your death! Bullet or poison?"

The maniacal husband held out a glass of squeezed lemon in one hand, a pistola in the other. Before him, Madame de Guissac recoiled in horror on her couch.

After a moment’s desperate pleading—which, by the by, fell on deaf, blood-red ears—she chose the cup, doffing its contents down to the bitter dregs.

Then came the coup de grâce.

"You won't die alone, my dear," he said coldly. "Better rotting in my tomb than dishonored in my marriage."

And with that, he drained what little remained. Arsenic, you understand, does not require much.

What had sparked this little domestic theater? A few flirtatious letters. One in particular—addressed to Baron d’Aumelas—had been intercepted.

Women like his wife believed, foolishly, that as long as no one was rolling about in the marriage bed, a bit of written flirtation was a harmless indulgence.

Alas. In this, she was—if you’ll forgive the pun—dead wrong.

The Marquise begged to see her parents and a confessor, certain her time had come. She delivered a weeping confession, cataloging every sin and indiscretion of her life—except anything concerning the Baron.

At that, the husband—until now sprawled theatrically on the floor—rose up, laughing lustily.

“No death, my dear. But let this be a lesson: not even the suggestion of scandal should ever overshadow your honor. Or mine.”

And with that, the curtain fell.

They went on to live another thirty years married. Not another letter was sent.