Noble Blood - The Arsenic Wife (Part 1)

Episode Date: September 19, 2023

In 1840, the trial of Marie Lafarge scandalized France. Marie was a woman from noble birth, raised in all of the right social circles in Paris, who ended up married to an iron-master, heavily in debt. When he died less than a year later, his family suspected his new bride of sprinkling arsenic into his food. Support Noble Blood: — Bonus episodes, stickers, and scripts on Patreon — Merch! — Order Dana's book, 'Anatomy: A Love Story' and its sequel 'Immortality: A Love Story'See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an I-heart podcast. Guaranteed Human. What's up, everyone? I'm Ago Vodam. My next guest, it's Will Ferrell. Woo, woo, woo, woo. My dad gave me the best advice ever. He goes, just give it a shot.

But if you ever reach a point where you're banging your head against the wall and it doesn't feel fun anymore, it's okay to quit. If you saw it written down, it would not be an inspiration. It would not be on a calendar of, you know, The cat, just hang in there. Yeah, it would not be. Right, it wouldn't be that. There's a lot of luck.

Listen to Thanks, Dad, on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome to Noble Blood, a production of IHeart Radio and grim and mild from Aaron Manky. Listener discretion advised. In the early 1800s, the specter of arsenic poisoning was everywhere. Arsenic was scary, and for good reason. It was a deadly poison that could odorlessly be dissolved into food or drink, and it was something with a number of legitimate uses, like rat poison, agriculture, even some medical treatments,

which meant that arsenic was widely available in apothecaries. But something else made arsenic uniquely frightening among the bourgeois, on class. Arsenic was available from apothecaries, but it was only permitted to be sold to, quote, well-known people, which meant it wasn't being sold to, quote, indigence, prostitutes, beggars, or visibly destitute people. And quote, arsenic was being used for murder, then, by the type of person that society didn't perceive to be a murderer. It's little wonder that the poison was sometimes referred to by the morbid little nickname, Inheritance Powder.

Another thing that made arsenic terrifying was there was no real way of testing for it. It killed someone with vague symptoms that could be ascribed to a number of fairly common diseases. And even as late as the 1830s, evidence that something contained arsenic could be as inexact as whether it emitted a garlic-like smell when burned. People were getting away with murder. And what made it scary, those people getting away with murder could look like anyone. The nice young man with wealthy parents. The pretty widow who always said hello to you at the apothecary.

That was the problem that faced Scottish chemist James Marsh, when he was trying to identify arsenic in the case of a man named John Bottle, who was accused of killing his grandfather by stirring arsenic into his coffee. The procedure Marsh was using to try to find arsenic in the coffee and the grandfather's remains was using a hydrogen sulfide to bubble through the material, and if the material contained arsenic, it would produce yellow, arsenous sulfide, which could be reduced into a yellow precipitate. But the method was more reliable with liquid than it was with organic matter, and though Marsh was able to identify

arsenic in the coffee that Bottles' grandfather had drank, Marsh couldn't find arsenic in the dead body's stomach. But even Marsh's coffee evidence was fairly insignificant in court. That yellow precipitate was inexact and it decomposed fairly quickly. The jury declared John Bottle innocent. It frustrated James Marsh, and then it made him furious years later when John Bottle confessed that he actually did kill his grandfather with arsenic in his coffee. And so Marsh was determined to make a better test, to find a way so that Arson, arsenic poisoners could be held accountable to justice with actual evidence. In 1836, James Marsh created the Marsh test. I'm not a chemist, so forgive me if I get any details wrong, but this is my

incredibly basic understanding of how the Marsh test works. If arsenic is combined with hydrogen, it creates arsine gas. And so, a sample that possibly contained arsenic is combined with zinc and sulfuric acid to make hydrogen, and then if arsenic is present, the arsine gas is led through a heated glass tube, which then decomposes into shiny arsenic metal. That arsenic metal is collected on a thin porcelain plate,

and even the tiniest trace of arsenic becomes visible. The Marsh test was nothing short of a breakthrough. The pharmaceutical journal wrote that arsenic poisoning, that, quote, most excurable of crimes was happily banished from the world. Marsh was honored by the Society of Arts with their award of the, quote, large gold medal, capital L, capital G, capital M, which I'm sure is a lovely and incredibly high honor, but does read to modern eyes as being awarded a large gold star. In 1837, the Marsh Test was translated into French and made its way

onto the continent, but it wouldn't be until 1840, and the notorious case of a woman named Marie LaFarge, where it would be put to the, well, test, in its most public and famous application. Marie LaFarge was a glamorous woman with raven hair, who was raised in all of the right social circles in Paris, and she was accused of slipping arsenic into her husband's food. Her trial surely would have been a public spectacle no matter what, but for the first time in France, the Marsh test would be used and used publicly to determine scientifically whether Marie's husband, Charles, had had arsenic in his body when he died. Modern forensic toxicology was being invented in real time. In 1841, an English magazine wrote,

quote, we confess to having been singularly interested in the trial of Madame LaFarge for the murder of her husband. As a romance of real life, it strongly exemplified the adage that truth is stranger than fiction. For certainly, no living dramatist could have invented such a plot, or such characters, or such scenes as as occurred in its progress. No extravagant German tale ever presented a wilder mixture of the revolting, the horrible, and the loot. It resembled one of our own terrific melodramas, end quote. In short, a perfect episode of Noble Blood. The Marsh Test offered the public a shiny, new thrill,

the promise that justice could be scientifically exact. But even today, with nearly two centuries of scientific advancement since the trial of Madame LaFarge, Court cases aren't simple matters of science, and finding the truth in Marie LaFarge's guilt or her innocence was a matter far more complicated than a chemical reaction. Chemistry might be scientific, but plenty of other evidence is a matter of who you choose to believe. Justice is sometimes a matter of perspective, a matter of a story that someone tells you. I'm Dana Schwartz, and this is Noble Blood. Murray LaFarge was born into the privileges of upper-class 19th century French society. Her grandmother was a baroness and an illegitimate daughter of Louis-Philippe II, the Duke of Orleans.

Marie LaFarge had an aunt married to a Prussian diplomat, and another married to the Secretary-General of the Bank of France. Her father was a military officer, said to be a favorite of Napoleon. All in all, Marie was on the path to a perfectly respectable life, rubbing elbows with the well-heeled and well-connected. But then a twist of fate like the beginning of a tragic fairy tale. Marie's father died in a hunting accident, and her mother died a few years later when Marie was 18, which led her to being sent off to live under the supervision of one of her aunts.

Though Marie went to the right schools and socialized in the right circles, she was all too aware that she was something of a poor relation. I have not. She watched as one of her closest friends, a woman also named Marie, married a Viscount and became the Viscontes de Lyotou, while Marie Lafarge remained unmarried. Her dowry was 90,000 francs, which all things considered was very respectable,

but was nothing compared to the heiresses in Marie's social circles, especially because, as Marie remarked of herself, she was no great beauty. She was considered average, with an average dowry that made her feel downright mediocre compared to her friends. Marie visited her friend the Viscontess at her beautiful new chateau and thought, how easy it must be.

The Viscontess had a drawer of diamond necklaces that she treated so casually she wouldn't even notice if they went missing. Marie, at age 23, was already aware that she was becoming a burden to her family. Marie's uncle, eager to make a match for her, came home one day and announced that he, had found her a husband, the son of a postmaster. Marie recoiled. She knew it was a marriage of convenience, but the job was just so common. Was that all her aunt and uncle thought of her? In her memoir, Marie writes a little heartbreakingly of the disillusionment in realizing her aunt actually did not harbor the maternal feelings for her that she had so hoped for. The postmaster's son marriage fell through, but soon enough Marie's uncle had another match, the owner of an iron

forge. This time, both Marie and her aunt burst out laughing. Where are you discovering this mine of husbands? Marie asked her uncle jokingly. Her uncle's face was stony. He had met the iron master through a mutual friend, a rich merchant. Marie's uncle's reaction told her. everything she needed to know. Her options were limited. The Iron Master's name was Charles Lafarge. He was 28 years old. Marie was told that he owned one of the finest estates in the region of Limoussin, a grand manner known as Le Glendier, and that in addition to the large income he brought in from his ironworks, he had 200,000 francs in land and capital. For a marriage of convenience, Marie could do a lot worse.

And so it was arranged for Marie and Charles LaFarge to meet at a private concert, where Marie's uncle would introduce Charles as a friend in the interest of social decorum. Charles didn't make a very good first impression. As Marie wrote in her memoir, Monsieur Lefarge was extremely ugly. His form and features were the most

business-looking conceivable. He spoke to me a good deal, but the noisy harmony of the orchestra drowned out his words. But still, he was wealthy, and they said that his house, La Glendier, was a lovely place to live in a large park with wonderful views. And so Marie and Charles were married in a small ceremony, and Marie set off with her new husband on a journey to return to his home and to Marie's new life. It didn't take long for any optimism Marie might have felt about her new marriage to dissolve. The journey back to Limassant would take a few days by carriage, and they had stopped at an inn for the night.

Marie was taking a bath when her husband knocked hard on her door. Wait ten minutes, Marie shouted, and I'll be dressed. Charles replied, it is precisely. because you are undressed that I want to come in now. Do you take me for a fool or think I am to be driven off forever by your damned Parisian modesty? Marie was stunned, not by the marital act, which she understood would take place eventually, but by the brutishness of her new husband. Now Marie's maid spoke up. Surely Monsieur will be polite the first day, the maid said. open the door, Charles said, or I will break it open.

Marie refused, and according to her memoir, Charles responded with, quote, a storm of obscene imprecations that I should shudder to write before departing in a furious mood without making good on that threat to break the door down. But now Marie understood what sort of man her husband was. He wasn't the gentleman she had dreamed of. This was a rough man from the country who resented her wealthy Parisian upbringing, and their marriage was going to be a challenging one. The next morning, Charles Lafarge greeted Marie more kindly, almost apologetically. He asked how she was feeling, and as Murray wrote, he embraced me and became kind and attentive as before.

Still, Marie couldn't shake her unpleasant feeling. the misery she sensed was awaiting her in a marriage she was now trapped in. I was unable to eat at dinner, she wrote, and having taken a cup of tea, I spent an hour in a balcony, feeling the horrors of the abyss yawning at my feet, but dreading the thoughts of coolly measuring its depth. Even Marie couldn't have predicted what would be waiting for her at Le Glendier when she finally arrived. Perhaps the reason Charles had been so aggressive at the inn was because he knew that if there was a chance he was going to get to enjoy his wife carnally, it was going to be before they made it back to his estate.

When the couple finally made it back, things would go from merely unpleasant to abysmal. That abyss, Marie imagined, was no longer just at her feet. it was about to swallow her hole. The town outside La Gladié was squalid, small and miserable, with dirty narrow streets, populated by suspicious and cruel faces. LaGlondier itself was worse. Charles LaFarge was not a wealthy iron master

with a sizable property and generous income. He was broke and heavily in debt, and his estate was a crumbling ruin, dripping with damp and mold, walls wheezing with the cold and squeaking with rats. And Marie was met upon their arrival with a scene out of a gothic horror novel, where she was welcomed into the crumbling estate by her new mother-in-law and sister-in-law, both of whom viewed Charles' new bride with skepticism verging on derision. Who was this young, privileged Parisian society girl who deigned to come out to their

country home and judge them? Close to tears, Marie made some excuse to retire to her room with her maid, and she found that her bedroom was threadbare, barely furnished. When she asked for an inkstand so that she might write a letter, she was given a broken sweetmeat's jar with gray water swirling inside. She had been tricked, deceived, and was now legally married and stuck here for the rest of her life in this miserable place. La Gladié was built on the ruins of a former monastery, and Marie's mother-in-law would tell Marie that once she had forgotten to make the sign of the cross in front of her daughter's cradle, and the devil himself had overturned the baby's bassinet and left long blue scars, the mark of his black nails, on the baby's neck.

But Marie didn't need to be told that this place was haunted. She could feel it, and the fact that you would need to spend a single night here, let alone the rest of her life, was almost beyond comprehension. The thought of writing to her friends in Paris, of telling them about her terrible deception was humiliation. And even if she did write them, she was a hundred leagues away from Paris, from help, from people who cared about her. Marie was all alone, the new lady of a house that came with a collection of in-laws who resented her supposed city heirs, and with a brutish husband who was getting impatient to consummate their marriage. Marie articulated her despair in her memoir, saying, quote, the gray color of the heavens, darkening as night approached, added to the indignation

which filled me at the deceit I suffered from, the greater and more repugnant fear of the nocturnal tte-a-tete, which I dreaded so much and could no longer shun. I have never known hatred, but when my heart is wounded, I am powerless to master my indignation. At that moment, I should have sickened if Monsieur Lafarge had kissed my hand. In his arms, I should have perished. With her maid guarding the door and using the broken jar as an inkwell, Marie frantically wrote a note to her new husband, begging him to release her from the marriage.

Get two horses ready. I will ride to Bordeaux and then take the ship to Smyrna. I will leave you all of my possessions. May God turn them to your advantage. Let no one know I have ever existed. I will take arsenic. I have some. Spare me.

Be the guardian angel of a poor orphan girl. Or, if you choose, slay me and say I have killed myself. To his credit, it seems that Charles responded pretty well to the distraught young woman dericating herself in her room and threatening suicide. He read the note Marie shoved beneath the door without. anger or defensiveness. And when Marie was well enough to come out, he kissed her hand and began weeping himself. He told Marie, unfortunately, he could not release her from the marriage. One, because he needed her dowry, and two, because she actually wasn't permitted to dispose of

her own dowry without the permission of her family. But wait a few days, he promised, please let me show you how much I adore you, and in the meantime, live here merely as my sister, without sharing a bed until I can prove my love and make you happy. Charles apologized profusely for the state of the house and assured Marie that he would do everything in his power to begin to repair Le Glendier until it became a place up to her standards. From that point on, well, I don't think Marie fell madly in love with Charles, but things started to get much better. The two seemed to get along. Marie began using her money and her connections to help Charles get ahead in business. She had some money that she invested

in the forge, and she put Charles in touch with some of her contacts who might be able to get him loans. And though things remained frosty with Marie's mother-in-law, Marie and Charles began to have a pretty decent marital relationship. In a letter to a friend, Marie wrote, I have accepted my position although it is difficult. But with a little strength of mind, with patience and my husband's love, I may grow contented. Charles adores me and I cannot but be touched by the caresses lavished on me. Again, it's worth remembering she is writing that in a letter to a friend. Her pride had already been wounded by the fact that she was sent away to endure the situation in the first place, and her letter might be read as the 19th century equivalent of carefully curating photos to post on Instagram

so that your life looks more enviable to your friends than it actually is. But according to Marie and the way she writes in her memoir, her relationship with Charles continued to develop from a genuine friendship to a slowly blossoming romance, to the point that in autumn, when Charles was taking a business trip to Paris to try to make arrangements for loans, Marie thought it would be romantic to send along a miniature portrait of herself. It's a pretty funny section in Marie's memory's memory. The portrait comes back and Marie is horrified at how ugly it looks, and her mother-in-law and their housekeeper Mademoiselle Braun do an incredibly passive-aggressive, classic mean-girl move.

What a perfect like this! She really captured you! In the memoir, quote, Madame LaFarge, mother-in-law, was so enthusiastic at the sight of my portrait, and Mademoiselle Braun regarded it near and at distance with a smile of some of some. such proud satisfaction that I believed with a sigh that my vanity had diluted me, and that I was quite as ugly as my picture. In the package to Paris, Marie also included some small local chestnuts and some little cakes baked by Charles' mother, quote, whose reputation for pastry was colossal,

and who was not accustomed to concede to anyone the grand work of making side dishes. I imagine it's the same type of situation as your mother-in-law being famous for making pie, so it would be an insult come Thanksgiving for anyone else to Dane make dessert. And so the package with the portrait, the chestnuts, and the little cakes was tied with courting and sent to Paris, along with a note Marie sent, telling her husband that it might be romantic if he ate a cake at midnight in Paris, and she ate a cake at midnight in La Glendier, so that even though they were distant, they would both be eating cake at the same time.

A sweet thought. Two days earlier, Marie had written to an apothecary. I am devoured by rats. I have tried plaster and nux vomica to rid myself of them, but they do no good. Will you and can you let me have a little arsenic? You can rely upon my prudence. It is to put in a closet where I keep my linen.

Charles received his care package in Paris, but here is where some unverified sources spin a slightly different story. The problem with this particular podcast episode is that the Lafarge case had become such a media sensation that magazines and newspapers wrote about it with a, let's say, tabloid-esque sense of abandon. And so sometimes we get contemporary sources making conflicting

claims. And sometimes aspects of the case are adopted into the story, repeated over and over again, without ever having been really verified, or at least verified in a way that I can trace in the first place. And so one of those aspects of the story is that when Charles received his care package, it wasn't secured with cords the way it had been when it was sent off, it was tied with ropes. And there weren't a number of small cakes inside, but rather one large cake. Well, no matter, Charles thought, he cut himself a slice and went about his evening. It wasn't long, though, before Charles became incredibly ill, too sick to leave his bed.

A doctor saw him in Paris and said that based on his own, symptoms, he was suffering from cholera. Eventually, in January of 1840, Charles was well enough to come back home to La Glendier, where he would be cared for by his mother, his sister, the housekeeper Mademoiselle Brun, Marie, and a cousin named Emma. The family doctor was brought around at once, and he corroborated what the doctor in Paris had thought. Colora. What Charles needed was bed rest. lots of good food and good sleep. Marie was at her husband's bedside every day, and he often complained about the scurrying of rats in the walls,

in the floors, in the ceilings, making noise that made it hard for him to sleep. The bit of arsenic that she had bought the month prior hadn't worked evidently, and the rats had expanded their territory, making their way into Marie's closet and chewing at her linen. Marie asked her husband's clerk, a Monsieur Dainé, to go to the apothecary with a note Marie wrote and bring home rat traps and arsenic. Marie showed what Deney had brought back to her

husband. Surely this amount of arsenic will take care of the rats, she said. Charles agreed. But try as the women around Charles LaFarge did, the Iron Master's condition did not improve. One morning, Mademoiselle Brun noticed Marie stirring something into Charles's chicken broth. Before Marie could feed it to Charles, Brun stole the bowl and secretly hid it until the doctor came by. See, Brun said, showing the chicken broth to the doctor, there were white flecks, undissolved on the surface. Doesn't this look like arsenic? The doctor shrugged. He said it looked like a bit of sealing plaster had fallen into the bowl, and to be fair, that was the type of thing that happened at Le Glendier. But Brun's suspicions weren't abated, and neither were the

suspicions of Marie's mother and sister-in-law. They were convinced it was arsenic, and they tried in their unscientific ways to prove it. They boiled samples of the food over small flames and leaned in close to see if they could smell garlic. Do you smell that? They asked each other. Garlic, right? They kept Marie away from Charles and from his food, closing doors if she passed by and avoiding her glances.

When Charles's condition was still not improved, the family called yet another doctor to LaGlandier to examine him. The doctor was en route, but he arrived too late. Just a few hours after the doctor was called, Charles died. It was Emma, the cousin, the only one in the family still loyal to Marie at all, who approached her with a pale face and trembling voice. Marie, she said, they say you have poisoned him. They say you have killed Charles to wed another.

Marie was aghast. At least according to her memoir, she was genuinely shocked by the accusation. Emma continued. They say you put arsenic into his chicken broth, that they saw white powder floating in his soup. Marie blinked. She had put something in his suit. Gum Arabic.

She kept it in this small Malachite box here, see? She herself took it often. It was good for you. But it was too late for explanations. Charles' family was convinced that Marie was a murderer, and the local magistrate was summoned. The Justice of the Peace was a man named Moran, and he arrived to La Glendier on January 15th.

He listened patiently to Charles' family, as they told him how Marie had poisoned her husband, and Moran accepted the samples of soup and various drinks that Charles' family had set aside, convinced Marie had tampered with them. A gardener pointed out the various spots around the house that Marie had set up arsenic paste to poison the rats. Rats haven't touched it, he said, shrugging. Maybe she used the real arsenic for something else.

The Justice of the Peace had his men search the house. They took Marie's letters and her Malachite box of powder that she claimed was gum Arabic. They questioned the servants. And that was how, under interrogation, one of the servants told the men that he had buried a stash of arsenic in the garden. Marie told him to, the servant said. The Justice of the Peace dug, and just as the servant boy had said, there was a bag of arsenic hidden away, presumably so the magistrates wouldn't have been able to find it. The alleged murder of Charles Lafarge by his rich Parisian wife made the newspapers, and when the vicomte de Lyototou read them, he turned to his wife. Wasn't this the woman you were friends with?

The woman we had visited our home? Come to think of it, wasn't it right after she visited that your diamonds went missing? The Viscontes concurred. Yes, that was her old friend Marie, and, yes, her diamonds had gone missing, but she hadn't thought to accuse her friend, even though, yes, her friend was poorer than they were, and did probably covet her diamonds. The vicomte wrote to the Justice of the Peace and had him search Marie's room at La Glendier. Sure enough, there they were.

The exact diamonds that had gone missing from the vicomte's, so Marie LaFarge wasn't just a murderess, but a thief as well. In the meantime, the local experts in Breve attempted to analyze the food samples and Charles' stomach for arsenic. They had never heard of the marsh test, but they knew the old-fashioned method, and though there were a few minor snafus with the equipment, they identified the distinct yellow precipitate as it formed. They knew what that yellow precipitate meant. arsenic, a lot of arsenic, in the chicken broth and in Marie's small box and in Charles LaFarge's digestive track. Crowds of people were already gathered outside the prison where Marie LaFarge would be kept before her trial. They jeered and shouted at her as she was escorted from her carriage and

into the prison, Marie LaFarge stepped over the threshold and the door was bolted behind her with a loud, echoing thud. That's the end of part one of the story of Marie LaFarge. Next week we'll get into her trial, but keep listening after a brief sponsor break to hear a little bit about how the legacy of Marie LaFarge inspired literature. Everyone, I'm Ego Wadam. My next guest, you know from Step Brothers Anchorman, Saturday Night Live, and the Big Money Players Network. It's Will Ferrell. Woo, woo, woo, woo.

My dad gave me the best advice ever. I went and had lunch with them one day, and I was like, and dad, I think I want to really give this a shot. I don't know what that means, but I just know the groundlings. I'm working my way up through, and I know it's a place they come look for up and coming talent. He said, if it was based solely on talent, I wouldn't worry about you. which is really sweet. Yeah. He goes, but there's so much luck involved.

And he's like, just give it a shot. He goes, but if you ever reach a point where you're banging your head against the wall and it doesn't feel fun anymore, it's okay to quit. If you saw it written down, it would not be an inspiration. It would not be on a calendar of, you know, the cat. Just hang in there. Yeah, it would not be. Right, it wouldn't be that.

There's a lot of luck. Yeah. Listen to Thanks Dad on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. What's up, everyone? I'm Ago Vodam. My next guest, you know from Step Brothers Anchorman, Saturday Night Live, and the Big Money Players Network. It's Will Ferrell. Woo.

Woo. My dad gave me the best advice ever. I went and had lunch with them one day, and I was like, and Dad, I think I want to really give this a shot. I don't know what that means, but I just know the groundlings. I'm working my way up through, and I know it's a place that come look for up and coming talent. He said, if it was based solely on talent, I wouldn't worry about you, which is really sweet. Yeah. He goes, but there's so much luck involved.

And he's like, just give it a shot. He goes, but if you ever reach a point where you're banging your head against the wall and it doesn't feel fun anymore, it's okay to quit. If you saw it written down, it would not be an inspiration. It would not be on a calendar. of, you know, the cat just hang in there. Yeah, it would not be... Right, it wouldn't be that. There's a lot of luck.

Listen to Thanks, Dad, on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Earlier this summer, on August 4th, 2023, there was a final Jeopardy question that stumped all three very smart contestants. It was a really hard one. even in a category, 19th century literature characters, that I would have thought I would have nailed. The question, or rather the answer, was, this character from an 1859 novel, symbolizes the fates, who in mythology spin the web of life, measure it, and cut it off. Give up.

The correct response was, Who is Madame Defarge, the villainess from Charles. Dickens' tale of two cities. In the book, Madame Defarge is an ardent supporter of the radical Jacobines and the reign of terror during the French Revolution, and as the noblemen and women are going to their deaths at the guillotine, Madame Defarge is there placidly knitting, hence the web of life fate's symbolism connection. But to me, the name Defarge seems an echo of another famous woman from the middle of the 19th century. Marie LaFarge, a woman who Charles Dickens certainly would have been very familiar with, a woman who became famous in tabloids and newspapers for the question

of whether she was a murderess, a woman who controlled life and death in her hands with the flick of her wrist and the sprinkle of powder. The fictional Madame Defarge, I want to say, did absolutely take things a little far. But if you've read a tale of two cities, I think you can agree that misguided and vengeful as she was, she did have a pretty good reason to want revenge in the first place. Come back next week for the conclusion of Madame LaFarge's episode. Noble Blood is a production of IHeart Radio and Grimm and Mild from Aaron Manky. Noble Blood is created and hosted by me, Dana Schwartz, with additional writing and researching by Hannah Johnston, Hannah Zwick,

Mira Hayward, Courtney Sender, and Lori Goodman. The show is edited and produced by Noamie Griffin and Rima Il Kali, with supervising producer Josh Thane, and executive producers Aaron Manke, Alex Williams, and Matt Frederick. For more podcasts from IHeartRadio, visit the iartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows. What's up, everyone? I'm Ago Vodam. My next guest, it's Will Ferrell. Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo. My dad gave me the best advice ever. He goes, just give it a shot.

But if you ever reach a point where you're banging your head against the wall and it doesn't feel fun anymore, it's okay to quit. If you saw it written down, it would not be an inspiration. It would not be on a calendar. of, you know, the cat, just hang in there. Yeah, it would not be. Right, it wouldn't be that. There's a lot of luck. Listen to Thanks, Dad, on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This is an IHeart podcast, guaranteed human.