# Hoffmann's Strange Stories/Chapter 8

CARDILLAC, THE JEWELLER.
CHAPTER I.
In the Rue St. Honoré in Paris, during the reign of Louis XIV. was situated a small house, inhabited by Magdalene de Scuderi, the celebrated poetess, well known to the public, both through her literary productions, and the distinctions conferred on her by the King, and the gay Marchioness de Maintenon.
Very late one night, (it might be the autumn of the year 1680,) there was heard at the door of this house a violent knocking, which echoed through the whole corridor. Baptiste, a man-servant, who, in the small establishment of the lady, represented cook, valet, and porter, had, by her permission, gone into the country to attend his sister's wedding, and thus it happened that de Scuderi's waiting maid, la Martiniere, was alone, and the only person who now kept watch in the mansion. She heard the knocking repeated after a short silence, and suddenly the painful reflection came on her mind, that Baptiste was absent, and that she and her lady were left quite defenceless against any wicked intruder. All the stories of house-breaking, theft, and above all murder, which were then so frequent in Paris, crowded at once on her remembrance, and she became almost convinced that some band of assassins, aware of their lonely situation, were the cause of this disturbance. If rashly admitted, they would doubtless perpetrate some horrible outrage; so she staid in her room, ​terrified and trembling, at the same time wishing in her heart Baptiste (or rather his sister and her wedding party) au diable.
Meanwhile the knocking continued to thunder on; and it seemed as if she distinguished a voice at intervals, crying out "Open the door, pour l'amour de Dieu,—open the door!—At last, in great agitation, Martiniere siezed the candle, and ran out into the corridor, where she plainly heard the stranger's voice, repeating anxiously and vehemently, "For God's sake open the door!" In truth," thought Martiniere, "no robber would speak in this manner; who knows whether it may not be some poor persecuted man, who seeks protection from my lady, knowing that she is ever inclined to succor the distressed? But let us be cautious." She now drew up a window that looked into the street, and called out, "Who is there, at such unseasonable hours, thundering at the gate, and rousing every one from sound sleep?" At the same time she endeavored to give as much as possible of a manly tone to her voice, which was naturally none of the weakest.
By the gleam of the moonlight, which just then broke through the clouds, she perceived a tall slim figure, attired in a light grey-colored mantle, and with a broad hat slouched over his features. Thinking to intimidate him, she called out within the house, but loudly, so that the stranger might hear her, "Baptiste—Claude—Pierre! rouse, and see what is the matter. Here is a good for nothing vagabond, who has been knocking as if he would break down the house about our ears." Then from without she was answered by the tones of a soft and plaintive voice. "Martiniere," said the stranger, "I know very well that it is you, however you may try to disguise your accents. I know too that Baptiste has gone into the country, and that you are alone in the house with your lady. Be not afraid, but open the door for me. You have nothing to apprehend; but I must absolutely speak with Mademoiselle de Scuderi, and this without a moment's delay." "What art, thou thinking of?" answered Martiniere, angrily; "thou wouldst speak with my lady, forsooth, in the middle of ​the night? Shouldst thou not recollect, that she must be long since asleep, and that I would not for the world disturb her rest, which, at her time of life, is so needful?"
"On the contrary," said the man from below, "I know very well that at this moment your lady has only just now laid aside the manuscript of her new romance, on which she labors night and day; and that she is employed in writing some verses, which, at to-morrow's levee, she intends reading to the Marquise de Maintenon. In short, I am certain that she is still awake, and I implore of you, Martiniere, have compassion, and open the door, for, mark you! on this interview depends the rescue of an unfortunate man from utter destruction. His honor, liberty, and life are at stake, and must be forever lost, if he cannot speak with your mistress directly. Reflect, too, that the noble lady would never forgive you if she learned that by your obstinacy an unhappy being was sent from her door, who in his distress came to beg assistance."
"But for what reason," said Martiniere, "would you appeal to my lady's compassion at this dead hour of the night? Come back to-morrow at a proper time, and we shall then see what maybe done." "How?" said the stranger; "will misfortune, then, which strikes us, poor mortals, with the unexpected rapidity of lightning, be regulated by hours and minutes? Even, if in one moment the possibility of rescue may be lost, should, then, assistance be delayed because it happens to be mid-night, instead of mid-day? Open the door, and fear nothing from un pauvre miserable, who now, forsaken by the world, and overwhelmed by his cruel destiny, would implore your lady's protection from the dangers that threaten him?" Martiniere perceived that the man's voice faltered at these words,—that he even moaned and sobbed; moreover, his tones were those of a mere youth. Her heart became at last so far softened, that without further reflection she ran for the keys.
No sooner had she opened the door, than the strange figure, ​disguised in a long mantle, rushed in, and stepping past Martiniere, called out with a loud voice in the corridor, "Bring me directly into your lady's presence!" Martiniere, much alarmed, held up the candle, to try if she could recognize his features, and the light fell upon the deadly pale and agitated countenance of a very young man; but she had almost fallen to the ground in her terror, when he suddenly threw aside his mantle, and the glittering hilt of a stiletto was visible in his bosom. The youth's eyes seemed to flash fire on the poor waiting-maid, and in a voice wilder than ever he repeated, "Lead me, I say, to your mistress!" Martiniere was now fully persuaded that her lady was in the most imminent danger, and her attachment to the noble demoiselle, whom she looked up to with even filial respect and veneration, was such, that it got the better of her own fears, and gave her a degree of firmness of which she would otherwise have been quite incapable. Suddenly she closed the door of her apartment, took her station before it, and, in a strong steady voice, "In truth," said she, "your mad behavior here suits ill with your humble complaints and entreaties, by which I so rashly allowed myself to be persuaded. As to my lady, you shall certainly not speak with her in this mood, nor have you any right to make such a demand; for if your intentions are really blameless, there is no need that you should be afraid of the daylight. Therefore come to-morrow, and you shall be listened to; but for the present, not a word more; but get out of the house. Pack up, and begone!"
The strange youth heaved a long deep sigh, fixed a frightful look on Martiniere, and grasped the hilt of his stiletto.—The femme de chambre thought her last hour was come; and silently recommended herself to Heaven. However, she stood firm, and boldly looked the young man in the face, drawing herself up more closely against the door of the apartment, through which it was necessary to pass in order to arrive at that of de Scuderi. "Let me go to your lady, I tell you once more!" said the stranger, "or you may have reason bitterly to repent your conduct when it is too late."
​"Do what you will," said Martiniere, "I shall not stir from this place. Fulfil the wicked intentions for which you came; though, remember, you and your accomplices will one day die for them a shameful death on the scaffold."—"Ha, truly," cried the young man in a frightful tone, "you are in the right, Martiniere!—the fate that awaits me is, indeed, dark and disgraceful; but, as to my accomplice, he remains yet safe, and unsuspected." With these words, casting terrific glances on the poor girl, he drew out the stiletto. "Heaven have mercy!" cried she, expecting that it was to be plunged into her heart; but, at that moment, the clang of arms was heard in the street, and the trampling of horses. "The Marechaussee—Marechaussee!—Help—help!"—screamed la Martiniere. "Cruel woman," said the stranger, "thou art resolved on my utter destruction. Now, all is over, and the opportunity lost. But, take this, and give it to your lady to-night, if possible, or to-morrow morning, if you will; for to me, indeed, the time is now indifferent." In speaking these words, rather in a low voice, the man had taken the candlestick from la Martiniere, extinguished the light, and forced a small casket into her hands. "On your hopes of salvation," said he, "I conjure you, Martiniere, that you will deliver this box to your lady." Then he abruptly threw away the candlestick, turned round, and sprang out at the door. Martiniere, meanwhile, was so terrified, not knowing what he intended to do, that she had fallen, half fainting, on the floor. With difficulty she raised herself, and, in the dark, groped her way back to the room, where, quite confused and exhausted, she sank into her arm-chair. From this stupor she was suddenly awoke, by the harsh creaking noise made by turning the key, which, in her fright, she had left in the lock of the house door. Afterwards she heard it firmly closed, and cautious steps, as of some one groping the way to her chamber. Her consternation was now greater than ever; and she sat motionless, expecting some horrible event, till the door opened, and by the glimmer of her night-lamp, she rec​ognized the honest Baptiste, who looked deadly pale, and was in great agitation.
"For the love of all the saints," he began, "tell me, Mam'selle Martiniere, what has happened?—Oh, the terror that I have suffered!—I know not rightly what could be the reason, but my own apprehension absolutely drove me away from the wedding to-night; so I set out earlier than any one else, on the road homeward, and at length arrived in our street. Now, thinks I to myself, Martiniere is very easily awoke; she will hear me for certain, and let me in if I knock softly and cautiously at the house door. But, ere I had come so far, behold there appears against me the whole posse of the watch, cavalry forsooth, and infantry, armed up to the teeth. They directly take me prisoner, and, notwithstanding all my expostulations, will not let me go; but luckily, Desgrais is among them, who knows me very well. As they were holding their lanterns up to my nose, he says, 'How, now, Baptiste, whither are you wandering now in the dark? You should rather stay at home, like a careful man, and keep watch over the house. In truth, it is by no means convenient for you, or any one else to be on the streets to-night. We are resolved to let no individual pass whom we do not know, and think ourselves sure of one prisoner at least, before daybreak.' You can easily imagine, Martiniere, how much I was alarmed by these words, as I was thus assured that some new and atrocious crimes must have been discovered. But now, as I was going to tell you, I had come almost to the threshold of our own house, and, there a man, disguised in a long grey mantle, rushes out with a drawn dagger in his hand; I could mark him well, for he passed and repassed me. On my entrance, I find the house door left open, the key still in the lock;—tell me, what is the meaning of all this?"
Martiniere being now somewhat tranquillized, described to him all that had happened. She and Baptiste went together to reconnoitre in the corridor, where they only found the candlestick on the floor, as it had been thrown down by the ​strange man, when he made his escape. "From your account," said Baptiste, "it is but too certain that my lady was to have been robbed, and probably murdered. The man, as you tell me, knew that you were with her quite unprotected,—nay, that she was awake, and employed on her writings. No doubt, he was one of these accursed miscreants who force themselves into the interior of houses, and make themselves acquainted with every circumstance which may be serviceable for the execution of their devilish plans. And, as for the little casket, Mam'selle, we should, in my opinion, throw it into the deepest pool of the Seine. For, who can tell whether some wicked monster has not designs against the life of our lady, and that, when she opens the box, she may not drop down dead, like the old Marquis de Tournay, when he broke open the seal of a letter which he had received from an unknown hand?"
After long consultation, the two faithful domestics at last resolved that they would describe to their lady all that had occurred; and also deliver into her hands the mysterious box, which certainly might be opened, though not without regular precautions. After maturely reflecting on every circumstance attending the stranger's appearance, they agreed that the matter was of far too much consequence for them to decide upon, and that they must leave the unravelling of this mystery to the wise and learned demoiselle.
Before proceeding any farther with our story, we must here observe, that Martiniere's dread of assassination, and Baptiste's apprehension of poison being concealed in the casket, were by no means without foundation. Exactly at this period, Paris was the scene of the most horrible atrocities, and perhaps the most diabolical inventions that ever entered a human brain, supplied unprincipled people with the means of gratifying their passions. One Glaser, or Glazier, a German apothecary, who was the best operative chemist of his time, had long busied himself (as usual with people of his ​profession,) in endeavors to find out the transmutation of metals, and the elixir vitæ. He had taken into partnership an Italian, named Exili, who, for some time, also bore a good character, but to him, at last, the art of making gold only served as a pretext for following out the most abominable of all designs. While Glazier thought merely of discovering the philosopher's stone, the Italian was secretly employed in the constant mixing, distilling, and subliming of poisons, which at last he brought to such perfection, that he could produce death in many different ways, and either without any trace of such operation left in the body, or with symptoms so new and unheard of, that the physicians were completely deceived; and, not suspecting this kind of assassination, ascribed the patient's death to some inscrutable decree of Providence.
Cautiously as Exili went to work, he was at last suspected as a vender of poison, and was thrown into the Bastile.—Soon afterwards, he had an opportunity of becoming acquainted during his confinement with a certain Captain de St. Croix, a man of infamous character, who had long lived with the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, under circumstances which brought disgrace on all her connections, till at last, as the Marquis seemed to care nothing about his wife's conduct, her father Dreux d'Aubray was necessitated to separate the criminals by an arrestment, which he carried into execution against St. Croix.
Wholly unprincipled as this man was, and (though counterfeiting piety!) inclined from his earliest youth to every species of vice; jealous—revengeful, even to madness, he could not have met with any discovery more welcome and congenial to his disposition, than the diabolical contrivances of Exili, which seemed to give him the power of annihilating all his enemies. He became, therefore, a zealous scholar of the Italian, and was soon equally skilful with his master, whose imprisonment continued, but St. Croix being soon after liberated, was in a condition to carry on this infernal trade.
​Of course be betook himself again, though cautiously and in secret, to his former mistress, and de Brinvilliers, who was only a depraved woman, became, with the help of St. Croix, an absolute monster. Gradually she was led on to poison her own father with whom she lived, hypocritically pretending to nurse him in his old age, and in like manner, her brothers and sisters were sacrificed. Against her father, she was instigated only by revenge, because he had interposed his authority to deprive her of her paramour; but as to the rest, she had other motives, for by their deaths she succeeded to a very rich inheritance.
From various examples of such assassins, we may prove the horrible truth, that the inclination towards crimes of this description becomes at last an absolute ruling passion, without any other object but the unnatural pleasure they derive from it, (as the alchemist makes experiments for his own diversion.) Such dealers in poison have often destroyed individuals, whose life or death must have been to them, in other respects, perfectly indifferent. The sudden and almost simultaneous death of many poor prisoners at the Hotel Dieu, afterwards raised the suspicion that the bread was poisoned which de Brinvilliers used to share out among them, in order to acquire a reputation as a model of piety and benevolence.
However this might be, it is historically certain, that she many times poisoned the dishes at her own table, especially Perigord pies, and placed them before the distinguished guests that were invited to her house, so that the Chevalier de Guet, and several other persons of eminence, fell victims to those demoniacal banquets. Notwithstanding all these practices, however, St. Croix, de Brinvilliers, and a female assistant named la Chaussee, were able for a long time to keep their crimes under an impenetrable veil. There was, at all events, no sufficient proof against them, nor could their physicians always decide that their victims had died by poison; but whatever may be the cunning and hypocrisy of such wretches, Divine justice never fails, sooner or later, to overtake the guilty.
​The poisons which St. Croix compounded were of a nature so fine and subtle, that if the greatest caution were not observed in preparing the powder, (since named by the Parisians poudre de succession,) a single chance inhalation might cause the instant death of the artist. St. Croix, therefore, when engaged in his operations, wore a mask, principally made of glass, and with the nostrils covered with silk; but this happened to fall off one day, when he was in the act of shaking a powder, just prepared, into a phial, and in an instant, (being already almost suffocated for want of breath,) having inhaled some of the fine dust which flew about him, he fell down and almost immediately expired.
As he had died without heirs, the officers of the law hastened to his apartments to take charge of his effects. There they found, shut up in a box. the whole arsenal of poisons, by means of which St. Croix had carried on his work of destruction; and besides this, there were found many letters of de Brinvilliers, which left no doubts as to her guilt. She fled accordingly to a convent at Liege; but Desgrais, the principal officer of police, was sent after her. Disguised as a monk, he appeared in the convent, where she had taken refuge, and (his features luckily being unknown to her,) he succeeded in drawing this abominable woman into an intrigue, and persuaded her to make an assignation with him in a retired garden beyond the town walls. Immediately on her arrival there, she was surrounded by the catch-poles of Desgrais; the amorous monk transformed himself into a police officer, and forced her into a carriage that stood ready near the garden, when, with a guard of cavalry, they drove off directly for Paris. La Chaussee had by this time been brought to the block; de Brinvilliers soon suffered the same death, after which her body was burned, and her ashes strewn to the wind.
The Parisians felt themselves greatly relieved, when these monsters were taken from the world, who could, unpunished and unsuspected, direct their machinations against friend and foe; but soon afterwards it was proved, that though the town ​might be rid of St. Croix and his accomplices, yet their art had not disappeared along with them. Like an invisible demon, the same horrid guilt of assassination continued to make its way even into the bosom of families, breaking through the most confidential circles that love and friendship could frame. He who had been to-day in the utmost bloom of health, might be found to-morrow tottering about in the most wretched state of decline; and no skill of the physician could rescue such victims from a certain death. Riches, a comfortable place in the legislature, a young and handsome wife—any such advantages were sufficient to direct against their possessors the relentless malice of these invisible assassins. Cruel distrust and suspicion dissolved the most sacred ties among relations. Husband and wife, father and son, sister and brother, were alienated by the terror which they felt one of another. At the social banquet, food and wine often remained untouched, while, instead of indulging in innocent mirth, the party, with pale and confused looks, were trying to find out the concealed murderer. At length fathers of families might be seen timidly purchasing provisions in remote districts, and dressing the food thus obtained, in some neighboring boutique, fearing the treachery that might lurk under their own roofs. Yet in many instances all these precautions were used in vain.
The king, in order as much as possible to stem this torrent of iniquity, established a peculiar court of justice, to which he gave exclusively the commission to search into, and punish these crimes. This was the institution named the Chambre Ardente, which held its sittings under the Bastile, and of which la Regnie was the president. For a considerable time, this man's endeavors, zealously as they were carried on, proved in vain; it was reserved for the cunning Desgrais to trace out the guilty, even in the most obscure hiding places. In the Faubourg de St. Germain, there lived an old woman named la Voisin, who employed herself in conjuration and fortune-telling, and who, with the help of two confederates, le Sage and la Vigoureux, had been able to excite the fear and as​tonishment, even of persons who were not generally to be considered weak or credulous. But she did more than this,—having had an opportunity, like St. Croix, of obtaining lessons from Exili, she also prepared, in like manner, that fine undiscoverable poison, by means of which she assisted reckless, mercenary sons to arrive, before the due time, at their inheritance, and depraved wives to get younger husbands. Desgrais, however, found means to pluck the veil from all her mysteries, and consequently she was brought to trial, and made a full confession. The Chambre Ardente sentenced her to be burned at the Place de Greve, where she was executed accordingly.
There was found among her papers a list of all the persons who had availed themselves of her art, so that one execution was rapidly followed by another; and very serious suspicions were entertained even against people of the highest rank.—Among other examples, it was alleged that Cardinal Bronzy had obtained from her means of bringing to an untimely end all the persons to whom, as Bishop of Narbonne, he was under the necessity of paying yearly pensions. In like manner, the Duchess de Bouillon, and the Countess de Soissons, whose names were on the list, were accused with having dealt with the infernal sorceress; and even Francis Henri de Montmorenci, Duke of Luxemburg, marshal and peer of the realm, was not spared. He gave himself to imprisonment in the Bastile, where, through the hatred of Louvois and la Regnie, he was confined to a cell only six feet square, and months past away before the means were found to prove that the Duke's misdemeanor had not been such as to deserve punishment. He had only been foolish enough, on one occasion, to have his horoscope drawn and calculated by le Sage. There can be no doubt that it was principally the blindness of over-zeal, by which the president la Regnie was led to such acts of cruelty and vengeance: however, his tribunal now assumed altogether the character of a Catholic inquisition, and the slightest suspicions were sufficient grounds for prosecution ​and imprisonment, while it was often left to mere chance to prove the innocence of persons accused of capital crimes.—Besides, la Regnie was both hideous in appearance, and naturally spiteful in temper, so that he soon drew on himself the hatred of that public whose tranquillity he had been chosen to protect. The Duchess de Bouillon being interrogated by him, whether, at her meeting with the sorceress, she had seen the devil; she answered, "no; but methinks I see him now."
CHAPTER II.
During that frightful period when the blood of the suspected and guilty flowed in torrents upon the scaffold, so that at length the secret murders by poison had become more rare of occurrence, a new disturbance arose, which more than ever filled the city with terror and astonishment. Some mysterious band of miscreants seemed in league together, for the purpose of bringing into their own possession all the finest jewelry in Paris. No sooner had a rich ornament been purchased, than, however carefully it had been locked up, it vanished immediately, in a manner the most inconceivable. It was far more intolerable, however, that every one who ventured out at night with jewels on his person, was attacked on the streets, (or in dark courts and alleys,) and robbed of his property, while, though some escaped with life, scarcely a week passed away, in which several murders were not committed. Those who were fortunate enough to survive such an attack, deponed that they had been knocked down by a blow on the head, as resistlessly as if it had been a thunderbolt, and that on awakening from their stupefaction, they had found themselves robbed, and lying in a situation quite different from that where they had first received the blow. On the other hand, the person who had been murdered, and some of whom were found almost every second morning upon the streets, or in the dark entrances to houses, had all one and the same ​deadly wound; namely, a stab in the heart, which, according to the opinion of the surgeons, must kill so instantaneously, that the victim so struck would, without a scream or groan, fall instantly lifeless to the ground.
Now, at the luxurious and gay court of Louis XIV. what young nobleman was there to be found, who had not some amorous intrigue, and who did not glide through the dark streets at a late hour, bearing oftentimes rich jewels as a present to his mistress?—As if the murderers had been aided by some direct intercourse with the devil, they knew exactly where and when any opportunity of this kind was to occur. Frequently the unfortunate man was not allowed to reach the scene of his love adventures; at other times he was struck dead on the threshold of the house, or at the chamber door of his mistress, who with horror discovered on the following morning the ghastly corpse.
In vain did Argenson, the police minister, order every individual to be arrested who seemed in any degree suspicious; in vain did the passionate la Regnie foam with rage, and endeavor by torture to force out confession; in vain, too, were the watchmen doubled in number; no trace of the criminals could be discovered. Only the precaution of going fully armed, and employing torch-bearers, seemed to have some effect, and yet there were instances, when the attendants, if not sufficiently numerous, were brought into confusion by large stones being thrown at them; while, at the same time, their master, as it usually happened, was robbed and murdered. It was especially wondered at, that, notwithstanding the minutest inquiries in every place where the traffic in jewels could be practicable, no evidence was to be found that any of the stolen goods had been offered for sale; in short, all the ordinary means of justice to bring about discovery were completely baffled.
Desgrais, the principal police officer, was furiously enraged that the miscreants should have been able to escape from his cunning and contrivance. Indeed, that quarter of the town, ​(commonly thought the most unquiet,) in which he was stationed, was, for the most part, spared; while, in other districts where no one apprehended any outrage, the robbers and assassins failed not almost every night to find out new victims. Under these circumstances, Desgrais bethought himself of a good ruse de guerre, viz.: to multiply his own personal identity; in plainer words, to dress up different individuals, so exactly like himself, and who resembled him so much in gait, voice, figure, and features, that even the catchpoles and patrol did not know which was the true Desgrais. Meanwhile, he used to watch quite alone, at the risk of his life, in the most retired lanes -and courts, from which he would at times emerge, and cautiously follow any individual who seemed, by his appearance, likely to bear about his person property of value. The person so followed remained always unmolested, so that, of this contrivance, too, the assassins must have been fully instructed, and Desgrais fell into absolute despair.
At length he came one morning to the President la Regnie, pale, disordered, and, indeed, quite beside himself. "What's the matter now?" said the President, "what news? Have you found any trace?" "Ha! your Excellence," stammering in his agitation,—"your Excellence,—last night, not far from the Louvre, the Marquis de la Fare was attacked in my presence." "Heaven and earth!" shouted la Regnie, "then we have them at last!"—"Oh, hear only," said Desgrais, with a bitter smile; "hear only, in the first place, how it happened. I was standing at the Louvre, and with feelings that could scarcely be envied, even by the damned, waiting for those demons that have so long mocked at our endeavors. Then, with steps rather unsteady, and always turning his head, as if to watch some one behind, there comes up a passenger, who went by without observing me. By the moonlight I recognized that this was the Marquis de la Fare; I could keep watch over him from the place where I stood, and I knew very well whence and whither he was going. Scarcely ​had he proceeded ten or twelve paces farther, when a man started up, as if he had risen out of the earth, attacked the Marquis, and knocked him down. Without reflection, and overcome by the impulse of the moment, which promised to give the murderer at once into my hands, I shouted aloud, and thought that with one vehement bound I could dart from my hiding-place, and seize upon him. But, as ill luck would have it, there I entangle myself in the skirts of my mantle, and fall down. I see the man hastening away swift as the wind. I scramble up, run after him, and, in running, blow my trumpet. In an instant I am answered by the whistles of the patrol;—all is in commotion;—from all quarters is heard the clang of arms, or trampling of horses. "Here—here!" cried I in my loudest tone, "Desgrais! Desgrais!" till the streets re-echoed to my voice. Still, by the clear moonlight, I could see the man moving before me, and keep a strict watch on all the turnings that he makes to elude me. We come at last into the Rue de la Nicaise, where his strength in running appeared completely to fail him. I, of course, exert myself with double energy. At that time he had got before me only, at the utmost, fifteen paces——"
"You overtake him—you sieze him—the patrol comes up?" roared la Regnie, with glaring eyes, and catching Desgrais by the arm, as if he had been the flying murderer. "Fifteen steps," repeated Desgrais in a hollow voice, and so much agitated that he could scarely breathe; "fifteen steps or thereabouts, distant before me, the man starts away out of the moonlight into the dark shade, and vanishes through the wall——!"
"Are you mad?" said la Regnie, indignant and disappointed. "From this hour onwards," said Desgrais, rubbing his brows, "your excellency may call me a madman,—an insane visionary, if you will; but the truth is neither more nor less than I have narrated. I stood staring at the wall, almost petrified with astonishment, when several of the patrol came up, and with them the Marquis de la Fare, who had recovered ​his senses, and now appeared sword in hand. We had our torches lighted, and examined the place with the greatest care; but there was no trace to be found of a door or window, or, in short, of any opening whatever. It is a strong stone wall of a court, adjoining to a house in which people are living, to whom not the slightest suspicion is attached. Even this very day, by sunlight, I have examined the whole premises with the most scrupulous care, and, doubtless, it must be the very devil himself who mocks at us in this manner."
Desgrais's narrative was soon made known all over Paris. People's heads were full of the sorceries, incantations, compacts with the devil, &c, attributed to la Voisin, la Vigoreux, and other renowned disciples of le Sage, and the mob are always ready to carry to an extreme their belief in the marvellous,—that which Desgrais had said in a fit of passion was now circulated through the town as the mere truth. Every one alleged that the devil himself was protecting in this world those wicked mortals who had sold him their souls, and as might be expected, Desgrais's story received many embellishments. A kind of popular romance was rapidly got up on this foundation, with a frontispiece representing the police-officer staring at a hideous figure of the devil, who was in the act of sinking before his astonished eyes into the earth. This book alone was enough to terrify the people, and even to take all courage from the watchmen, who now in the night season wandered through the streets terrified and desponding, hung with amulets and drenched with holy water.
Argenson soon perceived that the Chambre Ardente would completely lose its character, and applied to the king, recommending the establishment of a new court of justice, destined exclusively for the discovery and punishment of these midnight assassinations. But the king, conscious that he had already given too much power to the Chambre Ardente, and in horror at the numberless executions which were forced on by the blood-thirsty la Regnie, entirely rejected this proposal. It was requisite, therefore, to form some other plan, by which ​Louis might be led into this arrangement. Accordingly, at the apartments of the Marquis de Maintenon, where he used to spend his afternoons, and even to hold councils with his ministers till late in the night, a poem was one day handed to him, purporting to be the joint production of certain perplexed lovers, and complaining that where gallantry dictated they should carry a rich present to some favorite lady, they must now-a-days always risk their lives in the undertaking. It was, no doubt, as they alleged, a delight as well as a duty to encounter all dangers for the sake of a beloved and beautiful mistress, at a knightly tournament—but it was quite a different affair as to the malicious and cowardly attack of an assassin, against whom one could not always be armed, nor have any fair chance. But king Louis, forsooth, was the gleaming pole-star of gallantry and knighthood,—whose rays were to break through the nocturnal darkness, and bring to light these mysterious crimes which had been so long concealed. Moreover, this idolized hero, who had crushed his enemies to the earth, would now, too, brandish his victorious sword, and like Hercules with the Lernæan serpent, or Theseus with the Minotaur, would oppose the horrid demon of assassination which destroyed all the raptures of mutual love, and changed all innocent delights into sorrow and hopeless lamentation.
Such, for the most part, was the overstrained and absurd style of the poem, which, however, was just as praiseworthy as French heroics generally are. Serious as the matter might seem, there was yet no want of humorous delineation, how the lovers, gliding cautiously and in secret to the habitations of their mistresses, were unavoidably subjected to the influence of fear and apprehension, and how they came pale and trembling into her presence, before whom they should only have appeared bold and buoyant in spirit. There was here, also, a good spicing of double entendre, and when, over and above these merits, the whole was rounded off with a high-flown panegyric on King Louis, nothing less could be expected, but that he would, at all events, read it through with satisfaction. ​This happened accordingly; he even read it over aloud to the Marchioness de Maintenon, and then, with a good humored smile, asked her what she thought of this petition?
De Maintenon, who always kept up a becoming gravity of demeanor, and who was not without pretensions (however ill founded) to piety and devotion, replied, that the robbers and assassins, no doubt, should, if possible, be discovered and brought to punishment, but as for those idle libertines, who, of their own accord, exposed themselves to danger,—walking by stealth, and in the dark, they did not, in her opinion, deserve any particular protection. The king, not satisfied with this vague answer, folded up the paper, and was on the point of returning to the secretary of State, who was at work in the adjoining room, when his eye lighted by chance on our heroine, de Scuderi, who had taken her place not far from the Marchioness. To the former he now betook himself, and the smile, which had vanished on his features, was again renewed. "The Marchioness," said he, "is determined not to countenance the goings-on of our young gallants, and will not meet me on ground which she considers forbidden. "But I appeal to you, Mademoiselle, as a poetess, what is your opinion of this rhyming supplication?" A fleeting blush, like the twilight of an evening sky, coursed over the pale cheeks of the venerable lady. She rose respectfully from her chair, dropped a low courtesy, and, with downcast eyes replied,
"Un amant qui craint des voleurs,
N'est point digne d'amour."
The chivalrous spirit of these few words was admirably suited to the disposition of Louis XIV. and instantly effaced from his mind all the prolix tirades of the poem. His eyes sparkled, and he exclaimed, with great vivacity, "By St. Denis, Mademoiselle, you are in the right! No blind ordinance of Justice, that strikes the innocent along with the guilty, shall afford protection to cowardice. Let Argenson and la Regnie play their own parts as well as they can, but we shall not give ourselves any farther trouble!"
CHAPTER III.
Now to return, (after this long digression,) to our story; all the horrors of this eventful period weighed on Martiniere's mind, when, on the following morning, she related to her mistress what had happened in the night, and, with fear and trembling, delivered up the mysterious casket. On this occasion both she and Baptiste, who stood pale as death, twirling and plaiting his cap in a corner, became almost speechless with anxiety. However, they begged of their Lady by no means to open the box without the utmost possible foresight and precaution. "You are both very childish," said she, calmly weighing it in her hand; "that I am not rich,—that I have no concealed treasure in my possession, that would be worth the trouble of a murder, is known doubtless to these street assassins, just as well as to you or me.—You think that attempts are made against my life; but to whom could the death of an old woman of seventy-three be of importance, especially one who never expressed enmity or resentment against any mortal, except the robbers and peace-breakers in her own romances? One, moreover, who cannot excite envy, having no other merit of distinction, than that of composing very middling verses,—and who has no estate to leave behind her except the parure of an antiquated demoiselle, who was obliged to appear at court, and a few dozen books in gilt binding. In short, Martiniere, you may describe this man in the most frightful colors that you can invent, but, for my part, I cannot believe that he had any evil intentions. So then,"—— With these words she prepared to open the box. Martiniere, who had little doubt that the contents were poisoned, started back, and Baptiste, with a groan, almost fell on his knees, when he saw his Lady press on a steel button that served in place of a lock, and the lid flew open with a rattling noise. How was de Scuderi astonished, when she saw glittering, on a red velvet lining, a magnificent necklace ​made of the rarest jewels, finely set in gold, and a pair of bracelets of the same description!
She took out the necklace, admiring its fine workmanship, while Martiniere, having gained courage, was ogling the rich bracelets, and insisting that the proud Duchess de Montespan herself did not possess such ornaments. "But what means this?" said de Scuderi, perceiving a small nicely-folded billet among the jewels. "What has this letter to say?" She justly expected to find here some explanation of the mystery; but no sooner had she perused the billet, than she let it drop, clasped her hands in consternation, and then, almost fainting, sank back into her chair. "Oh, this insult!" cried she; "must the reproach be reserved for me in my old age, of having behaved with thoughtless levity, like a young silly girl? Good Heaven! Are words thrown out in jest capable of such frightful interpretation? And am I, who, from childhood, up to the present hour, have been constant in all the exercises of devotion, to be looked upon as almost an accomplice in this devilish conspiracy?"
De Scuderi now held her handkerchief to her eyes, and even sobbed so violently, that Martiniere and Baptiste, in their anxiety and terror, were quite confounded, and knew not what to do. The waiting-maid at length took up the fatal billet, at the commencement of which was written these words:
"Un amant qui craint des voleurs,
N'est point digne d'amour."
The rest was as follows. "Have the goodness, Mademoiselle, to accept, from some unknown friends, the accompanying jewels. Of late, we had fallen into great danger from an intolerable persecution, though our only crime is, that, exercising the natural rights of the strong over the weak, we appropriate to ourselves treasures that would otherwise be unworthily squandered;—but, by your wit and talents, we have been rescued from the fate that awaited us. As a proof of our respect and gratitude, we have sent you this necklace, and the accompanying ornaments, which, however unworthy ​of you, are the most valuable that we have for a long time been able to meet with. We trust that you will not withdraw from us your friendship and kind remembrance.
"Is it possible," said de Scuderi, when she had in some degree recovered, that any human beings can keep up such a system of shameless wickedness and depravity?" The sun was now shining bright through the window curtains, which were of red silk, and the brilliants which lay on the table gleamed and sparkled in the deep-colored light. De Scuderi happening to look at them, turned away with abhorrence, and ordered Martiniere to remove those frightful objects, which seemed to her imagination stained with the blood of some murdered victim. The waiting-maid having put the jewels into the box, was of opinion, that it would be best to deliver them up to the minister of police, and confide to him the whole story of the young man's nocturnal visit, and his having left the casket in her house. De Scuderi rose and walked slowly to and fro through the chamber, reflecting for the first time what was best to be done. At length she ordered Baptiste to call a sedan chair, and Martiniere to dress her as soon as possible, as she would go directly to the Marquis de Maintenon. Accordingly, she was carried to the house of that lady, exactly at the hour when the latter, as de Scuderi expected, was alone in her apartments, and, of course, she took with her the casket containing the mysterious jewels.
Doubtless the Marchioness must have been much astonished when she saw the lady de Scuderi (who, at other times, notwithstanding her advanced age, had been the very beau ideal of grace and dignity,) now enter the room, pale, confused, awkward, and tottering. "What, for the love of all the saints, has happened to you?" said she, while the poor demoiselle, quite beside herself, and ready to faint, only tried, as soon as possible, to reach an arm-chair, which the Marchioness offered to her. At last, when she was again able to speak, de Scuderi described, with great eloquence, the gross and indelible ​insult and disgrace which had been brought on her, in consequence of the thoughtless badinage with which, in the king's presence, she had answered the supplication of the perplexed lovers. The Marchioness, when she had heard the whole story, was of opinion that de Scuderi took this occurrence too deeply to heart, and that the insolence and depravity of wretches like these, ought never to disturb the tranquillity of a noble and elevated mind. The jewels were then produced, and as soon as the Marchioness beheld them, she could not help uttering an exclamation of delight and approval. She took out the necklace and carried it to the window, where she alternately held the brilliants at a distance to mark how they glittered in the sun, and drew them nearer, in order to examine the fine workmanship of the gold, admiring with what exquisite art every link of the chain was elaborated. Having ended her scrutiny, the Marchioness turned to de Scuderi, and said, "Do you know, mademoiselle, that no one could have made this necklace or the bracelets but the celebrated Rene Cardillac?"
At that time Rene Cardillac was, without one exception, the best goldsmith in Paris, and besides, celebrated as one of the most ingenious and singular men of the age. Rather of low stature, but, broad-shouldered, and of Herculean strength, Cardillac, though now more than fifty years of age, had still the full strength and activity of youth. This uncommon energy was still farther betokened by his thickly-curled reddish hair, and the resolute expression of his compressed glistening visage, while, if he had not been known through all Paris as one of the most honorable and correct of citizens, disinterested, candid, and ready to help those who are in distress, the strange aspect of his deep-sunk, small and twinkling eyes might have brought on him the imputation of concealed malice and cunning.
Cardillac was not only, as above mentioned, the greatest master of his art in all Paris, but, generally speaking, of the era in which he lived. Intimately acquainted with the ​nature of precious stones, he knew how to treat them, and set them off to such advantage, that an ornament which had before been looked upon as tarnished and useless, came out of his workshop in dazzling lustre, and better than it had been for many years before. Almost every commission that fell in his way he undertook with the utmost ardor, and was contented with a price, which seemed to bear no proportion to the excellence of his workmanship, and the time that it had cost. Night and day he was heard hammering in his workshop, and often when a ring or necklace was neatly completed, he became suddenly discontented with the pattern, or doubtful as to the finishing of some minute ornament—which was with him quite a sufficient reason for throwing the whole into the crucible, and beginning de novo.
Thus every one of his performances became a masterpiece of art, by which the person who gave the commission was astonished; but it became at last almost impossible to get any work out of his hands. Under a thousand pretexts, he used to put off his customers from week to week, and from month to month. In vain did people offer him double payment; he would not take a single louis d'or beyond the price for which he had bargained. If at last obliged to yield to the urgency of his employer, and give up the jewels, this he could not do without betraying all symptoms of vexation, and even ungovernable rage. Especially, for example, if he were called on to render up some article of consequence which, on account of the gold and diamonds, might be worth a thousand louis d'ors, he was known frequently to run and stamp about the streets, like a madman, cursing aloud, and denouncing himself, his trade, and all the world. At such times, however, if it happened that a new customer plucked him by the sleeve, and said, Rene Cardillac, will you not make up a beautiful necklace for my bride, bracelets for my mistress, or so forth, then he would turn briskly round, his small eyes twinkled, and he would ask, "What have you got then?" The customer would perhaps pull out a little casket, and say, "Here ​are jewels; they are not worth much, perhaps—mere common trumpery—but in your hands, Mons. l'Artiste"——Cardillac, without letting him finish his speech, snatches the box, takes out the jewels, which in reality perhaps are of little or no value, holds them to the light, and exclaims with rapture, "Ho! ho! common trumpery do you say? By no means; fine rubies—good emeralds; only let me have them, and if you do not mind a handful of louis d'ors, I shall add a few brilliants to the rest, that will gleam like the very sun in heaven!" The other of course answers, "Master Rene, I leave all to your own discretion, and will pay whatever you are pleased to demand." Without making any distinction whether his customer be only a rich citizen, or a man of high rank, Cardillac then embraces him with the utmost ardor, exclaiming that he is again quite happy, and that the work will be finished in eight days.
After this, he runs headlong, as if possessed, towards his own house, goes into his private study and sets to work, hammering away, and, according to his promise, there is a masterpiece of art completed in eight days. Yet, whenever the bridegroom or lover, by whom that order had been given, comes rejoicing, to pay the small sum that had been agreed on, and take home the jewels, Cardillac becomes all at once rude, obstinate, and is hardly on any terms to be spoken with. "But, good master Rene," says the customer, "to-morrow is my wedding-day, and——" "What the devil do I care for your wedding-day?" says Cardillac,—"Call again in a fortnight hence." "But the necklace is finished; here is the price agreed on, and I must have it!" "And, I tell you," says the goldsmith, "that I must yet alter many things in this necklace, and that I shall by no means give it to you to-day." "And I tell you," thunders the other, that, if you will not readily, and in good humor, give up the necklace, which is now ready, and for which I am willing even to pay you double, I shall in half an hour, bring Desgrais with a troop of gens d'armes, to force them out of your hands!" "Well, may the devil himself, ​and all his imps torment you with a thousand pairs of red-hot pincers, and hang three hundred weight on your necklace, so that your bride may be strangled!" With these, or such like words, Cardillac slams the ornament into the breast pocket of his customer, seizes him by the arms, and turns him out of doors with such violence, that he falls headlong down the staircase. The goldsmith then runs to the window, and laughs like a demon, when he sees how the poor devil of a lover limps, with a bloody nose, and quite confounded, away from the house.
Such conduct, indeed, durst not be repeated often; but adventures had several times occurred precisely such as we have here described. It was, moreover, quite extraordinary and inexplicable, how Cardillac, after he had undertaken a work with enthusiasm, would, all of a sudden, change his mind, and in the greatest agitation, and with moving entreaties, even sobs and tears, conjure his employer for the love of the blessed Virgin, and all the saints, that he might be released from the fulfilment of his task.
Notwithstanding the readiness with which he generally took orders, there were several persons of the highest respectability, both at Court and in the city, who had in vain offered Cardillac large sums, in order to procure from him the smallest piece of workmanship. As to the King, the goldsmith threw himself at his Majesty's feet, and implored the favor that he might be excused from working for him. In like manner, he refused every commission from the Marchioness de Maintenon; nay, with an expression of aversion and horror, rejected an order that she gave him, to make up a small ring, with emblematic ornaments, which she wished to have given as a present to Racine.
"I would lay any bet," said the Marchioness to de Scuderi, "that if I should send for Cardillac, to learn for whom he made these ornaments, he would refuse to come, fearing that I want to give him a commission, for he is firmly determined never to make anything for me;—and yet it has been ​alleged, that his obstinacy has rather decreased of late—it is said he labors more industriously than ever, and delivers his work immediately, though not without making hideous faces, and showing as much irritability as before." De Scuderi, who was extremely anxious that the ornament should come into the hands of the proper owner, thought it would only be requisite to inform the strange professor of rings and bracelets, that no task was required of him, farther than his valuation of certain jewels. To this the Marchioness agreed; Cardillac was sent for, and, as if he had been already on the way, but a short time elapsed when he made his appearance.
As soon as he perceived de Scuderi, he seemed like one struck and confounded by some sudden impression; and forgetting for the moment the rules of good breeding, he made, in the first place, a low obeisance to the poetess before he took any notice of the noble lady of the mansion. The latter then asked him, abruptly, whether the necklace (which lay glittering on the green cover of the card table,) was of his workmanshp? Cardillac scarcely deigned to cast a single glance at the jewels, but, keeping his eyes fixed on the Marchioness, packed both necklace and bracelets hastily into the box,—and pushed it hastily aside; then, with a ghastly grin on his visage, he said, "In truth, my lady Marchioness, one must have little experience in jewels, who believes even for a moment that these could have come from the hands of any other goldsmith in the world but Rene Cardillac. In short, they are my workmanship." "This is absolutely inexplicable," said the Marchioness. "For whom were these ornaments made?" "For myself alone," answered Cardillac; but perceiving that his auditors listened to him with distrust and suspicion,—"Aye," said he, "your ladyship may think this very strange, but the fact is just what I have stated. Merely for the sake of exemplifying a fine pattern in jewelry, I collected my best stones together, and worked for my own pleasure, more industriously and carefully than I had ever done for other people. Not long ago the jewels which I had made up in this ​manner, vanished inconceivably out of my workshop."—"Then, thank heaven!" said de Scuderi, "my troubles are at an end, and Master Rene, you will receive back from my hands the property of which you had been robbed by these unknown miscreants."
She then repeated the circumstances under which the box had come into her possession, to all which Cardillac listened with his eyes fixed on the ground, and without making any answer, only now and then he exhibited strange gestures, uttering also divers interjections. "Ho—ho!—aye—aye! and, so—so!"—but when de Scuderi had ended, it seemed as if he were struggling vehemently with some new fantasies, which had risen upon him in the course of the narrative, and which held him in a state of suspense and irresolution. He rubbed his forehead, and sighed deeply,—drew his hand over his eyes as if he wept,—at length took the box which de Scuderi held out to him,—slowly and solemnly knelt before her, and said, "To you, noble lady, destiny has assigned these jewels. Moreover, I recollect now, for the first time, that when I was employed on them, I thought of you—nay, that I was absolutely working, not for myself alone, as I said before, but for your sake. Do not disdain then to receive from me, and to wear this ornament,—which is, in truth, the best that for a long time I have been able to finish."
"Eh bien!" answered de Scuderi, "what are you thinking of, Master Rene?—Would it become one at my time of life, to trick herself out with diamonds and emeralds like these? And for what reason would you bestow gifts so lavishly upon me?—If I were handsome and young like the Marchioness de Fontanges, and rich to boot, I should certainly not let such ornaments out of my hands. But of what use would bracelets be to these withered arms, and why should I wear a necklace, when my neck is never uncovered?" Cardillac, while she spoke thus, had risen from his kneeling posture, and with wild looks, as if half distracted, still holding the box to Mademoiselle de Scuderi, he said, "Have ​compassion on me, lady! Do me this one favor, and accept of the jewels. You have yet no idea how deep is the veneration which I entertain for your virtue and talents. Take, I implore of you, my trifling present, only as an humble token of my sincere respect and devotion!"——
As de Scuderi would on no account touch the box, de Maintenon at last took it out of Cardillac's hands. "Nay, Mademoiselle," said she "you speak always of your advanced age; but what have you and I to do with years, if our shoulders are yet unbent by their load? Are you not now rather acting like a young coquette, who would willingly, if she durst, seize on the forbidden fruit, provided it could be done without hands and fingers? Do not refuse to accept from good Master Rene, as a free gift, that which others would gladly possess, and yet cannot obtain, even by the highest offers in money, as well as earnest prayers and entreaties." De Maintenon had, with these words, forced the casket on de Scuderi, and now Cardillac again fell on his knees, kissed her hands, the hem of her garment, sighed, groaned, wept, sobbed,—started up, and finally overturned chairs and tables, so that glasses and china were broken into shivers, he ran headlong out of the house.
De Scuderi was now quite terrified. "For the love of heaven," said she, "what is the matter with the man?" "Tell me then," said de Maintenon, "for whom was it that you made up in a very lively humor, approaching to a vein of irony, which her character seldom exhibited. She laughed aloud, and said, "Now we have it, Mademoiselle! Master Rene Cardillac has fallen desperately in love with you, and, according to established form and usage, begins his attack upon your heart with a storm of rich presents." De Maintenon persisted in her raillery, till at length the gravity of her guest was overcome. She admonished de Scuderi not to be too cruel to her despairing lover; and the poetess, giving the reins to her native humor, was at length led into the same strain of badinage. She allowed, that if the siege were really ​to be carried on in this vehement manner, she could not escape being at last conquered, and affording to the world the extraordinary or unique example, of a goldsmith's bride, seventy-three years old, and of untarnished nobility. De Maintenon offered herself as bridesmaid, also to instruct her friend in the duties of good housewifery, which it was impossible that such un petit enfant of a girl could possibly know much about.
At last, when de Scuderi rose to take leave, (notwithstanding all these jokes,) she became once more very grave, and hesitated, when de Maintenon placed the jewel-box in her hands. "My lady Marchioness," said she, "I shall never be able to make any use of these ornaments. At one time or another, in whatever way it may have happened, they have been in the possession of that accursed band of outlaws, who, with the insolent assurance of the very devil himself, if not actually in league with him, commit robbery and murder in every street of the city. I cannot look on these glittering diamonds, without seeming to behold at the same time, the bleeding spectral form of the poor victim from whom they have been taken; for as to Cardillac's story, I place no reliance whatever upon his words, and in his behavior throughout, there appears to me somewhat frightful and mysterious. No doubt there are insurmountable difficulties in my way, if I should accuse master Rene of any share in the crimes by which every one is now so much alarmed; since he has always been considered as the very model of an honest, conscientious, though half crazy citizen; but I cannot conquer the apprehension, that, behind all his eccentricity, real or pretended, there lurks some horrid mystery. At all events, I shall certainly never wear the jewels." The Marchioness insisted that this was carrying scruples too far; but when de Scuderi begged of her seriously, and on her word of honor, to say how she would act in the same situation, de Maintenon answered firmly, and resolutely, that she would far rather throw the ornaments into the Seine than ever wear them.
​Afterwards, as Scuderi, who, notwithstanding the time that she bestowed on her long romances, had a propensity to make rhymes on every chance occurrence of the day, turned the whole adventure, with the goldsmith, into very good mock heroics, which, on the following evening, she read over to the lung at the chambers of de Maintenon. As might be supposed, she contrived, at Cardillac's expense, such a ridiculous picture of the goldsmith and his noble bride, aged seventy-three, that every one was highly diverted;—suffice it, that the king laughed with all his might, and swore that Boileau himself had met with a rival, on which account de Scuderi's poem was, of course, set down as the wittiest that had ever appeared in the world. So the matter seemed at an end and was forgotten.
CHAPTER IV.
Several months had passed away, when it chanced that de Scuderi was one day driving along the Pont Neuf, in the glass-coach of the Duchess de Montausier. At this time, the invention of coaches with glass-windows was so new, that a crowd always collected when an equipage of that kind passed along the streets. So it happened in the present instance, that the gaping populace surrounded de Montausier's coach in such manner, that the horses could hardly get forward.—Suddenly, de Scuderi heard a great uproar on the bridge, and perceived a young man, who, by the dint of thrusts and fisty-cuffs, was making his way forcibly through the crowd. On his approach nearer, she was painfully struck by the deadly pale countenance of the youth, whose features, though naturally fine, were now distorted by grief and anxiety. His eyes were constantly fixed on her during the whole tumult, while, with continued violence, he cleared the way before him, till at length he arrived at the door of the carriage, which, the glass being drawn up, he impetuously forced open; then ​threw a billet into the lap of de Scuderi, and again de(illegible text) out, and receiving curses and blows on all sides, he vanished fighting his way as he had come.
It should have been already noticed, however, that as soon as the man had reached the coach-door, Martiniere, the waiting-maid, who was now in attendance on her mistress, fell back with a scream of terror, and hid her face on the cushion.—In vain did the lady de Scuderi pull the cord, and call to the coachman to stop. As if possessed by the devil, he lashed away at his horses, who foamed and snorted, reared and were restive, but, at last, in a brisk trot, thundered away across the bridge. De Scuderi emptied a whole bottle of eau de Cologne over the forehead and temples of the fainting abigail, who at last opened her eyes, though trembling in every limb, and almost convulsively clung to her mistress. "The saints protect us," said she at last;—"what did the frightful man want?—Good heaven! It was he—it was the very same youth who came to us at midnight, terrified us out of our senses, and left the mysterious casket!" De Scuderi tried to pacify the poor girl, representing to her, that absolutely no mischief had been done; and that the only point in question, at present, was to know what the billet contained. Accordingly, she unfolded the paper, and read these words:
"An evil destiny which you might avert, threatened to plunge me into the very abyss of destruction. I conjure you, even as a son would respectfully implore of a mother, that you will give back the necklace and bracelets which you received from me, to the goldsmith Rene Cardillac. Let this be done under any pretext; but it may be best to say to him that some alteration is required in the arrangement of the jewels. Your own welfare—nay, your life depends upon this, and if you do not act according to my advice before the day after to-morrow, I shall force my way into your house; and, in my despair, will put myself to death in your sight."
"Now, it is certain," said de Scuderi, when she had read ​the note, "that if this person really belongs to the noted band of thieves and murderers, yet his intentions towards me at least are not evil. If he had only succeeded in speaking with me that night, who knows what strange mysteries might have been brought to light, as to which I cannot now form even the remotest guess; but whatever the truth may be, I shall certainly do what is required of me in this letter, were it for no other reason than to get rid of these abominable jewels, which appear to me like an absolute talisman of the devil, but which Cardillac, if we may judge by his past conduct, will not so easily let out of his possession, if he once gets them into his hands again."
On the very next day, de Scuderi intended to go with the necklace and bracelets to the goldsmith's house; but it seemed that morning as if all the beaux esprits in Paris had conspired to attack the lady with an absolute storm of verses, plays, and romances. Scarcely had la Chapelle finished reading a scene from one of his new tragedies, by which he hoped to beat Racine completely off the field, when the latter himself entered, and with a long pathetic speech from "Phedra," completely knocked his antagonist to the ground. Then Boileau was obliged to come forward, and cast some of his brilliant rays of wit and humor through the gloom of this tragic atmosphere—in order that he himself might not be tired to death by a discussion of architecture, and the colonnades of the Louvre, into which he had been forced by Dr. Perreault. At length it was past mid-day, and de Scuderi was forced to go to the Duchess de Montausier. Thus her visit to Cardillac was unavoidably put off to the following day; but meanwhile she suffered extraordinary disquietude of mind. The figure of the strange young man was constantly before her; it seemed that she had long ere now been acquainted with the features, though she could not tell how nor where; and yet these dim recollections appeared always ready to start forward into strength and reality. Her sleep, too, was disturbed by frightful dreams. She saw the unhappy man ​clinging to the brink of a frightful precipice, or struggling in dark stormy waters, whence he stretched up his hands imploring her compassion. She thought, even, that it might perhaps have been in her power to prevent some enormous crime, of which the plot would have been revealed, if she had heard his confessions. Therefore, as soon as the morning broke, she summoned Martiniere, made her toilette in haste, and, provided with the casket of jewels, drove away to the house of the goldsmith.
On arriving in the Rue de la Nicase, near Cardillac's habitation, she was astonished to find the street crowded with people, all pressing forward with one intent to the same place, among whom, men, women, and children, shouted, screamed, and raged, as if determined to force their way, and with difficulty held back by the gens d'armes, who now surrounded the house. In this unaccountable hubbub, voices were heard calling aloud—"Tear him in pieces!—tear him limb from limb, the accursed treacherous murderer!" At length Desgrais made his appearance with a numerous posse, and forced a passage through the thick of the multitude. Then, after some interval the house-door breaks open, the figure of a man loaded with chains is brought out, and dragged away, followed by frightful execrations from the raging mob.
At the same moment when de Scuderi, almost overcome with terror and dark apprehensions, perceived this event, a shrill cry of distress struck on his ears. "Drive on—drive on!" cried she to the coachman, who, with a quick and clever turn of his horses, contrived to divide the thick mass of people, and to stop right before the door of Cardillac. There, on the threshold, she finds Desgrais, and at his feet a young girl of extraordinary beauty—with her dress in disorder, her hair dishevelled, and the wildness of despair in her countenance. She clings to the police-officer's knees, and, in a tone of the most heart-rending anguish, exclaims, "he is innocent—he is innocent!" In vain he and her attendants try to stop her cries and raise her from the ground. A ​strong uncouth fellow at last laid hold of her arms, violently forcing her away from Desgrais; stumbling awkwardly, and let the poor girl fall, who, without uttering another word, was precipitated down the stone steps of the staircase, till she lay as if dead on the street. De Scuderi could no longer remain silent. "In God's name," cried she, "what is the matter?—what is the cause of all this?" With her own hands she hastily opened the carriage-door, threw down the steps and alighted. Accordingly the people, with great respect, made room for the venerable lady, who, perceiving that some kind hearted bourgeoises had lifted up the unhappy girl and were rubbing her temples with eau de Cologne, turned to Desgrais, and with passionate eagerness, repeated her questions.—"Madame," answered the officer, "we have this morning discovered the most horrible crime which has been committed for many weeks. That worthy citizen, Rene Cardillac, has been found murdered, having been stabbed to the heart with a dagger; we have proved that his journeyman, Olivier Brusson, is the murderer, and he has just now been led away to prison."
"But the young beautiful girl?" said de Scuderi, in a tone of anxious inquiry. "The girl," answered Desgrais, "is Madelon, the daughter of Cardillac, and the murderer was her accepted lover. Now, she has been weeping and howling for an hour past, that Olivier is innocent; quite innocent. Doubtless, however, she is an accomplice in this deed, and perhaps in many others; but we shall have her immediately carried to the Conciergerie." In speaking these words Desgrais cast such an ironical and malicious glance on the poor Madelon, that de Scuderi involuntarily trembled at his aspect. Just then his unfortunate victim began to breathe perceptibly; but she lay with her eyes closed, and incapable of speech or motion; so that the people were perplexed, and knew not whether to carry her into the house, or keep her where she lay, until, by farther assistance, she was restored to her senses. Much agitated, and with her eyes swimming in ​tears, de Scuderi looked at the angelic countenance of the unfortunate girl, and her heart recoiled in horror from Desgrais and his associates. In a few moments after there was heard a sound of slow heavy steps on the staircase; the police-officers were bearing away the dead body of Cardillac, and de Scuderi, knowing that opportunity for interference would soon be lost, now came to a sudden determination. "I shall take the young woman home to my house," said she, "for she is now ill, and requires kindness and support after the distress that she has undergone. Her guilt remains to be proved, and I shall answer for her appearance when necessary; for the rest, you, Desgrais, will not fail to do your duty." These words being heard, a murmur of applause ran through the multitude. The women who stood nearest lifted up Madelon, and immediately hundreds of people thronged to the spot, wishing to render assistance, so that, as if floating in the air, the girl was borne along, and safely placed in the carriage. Meanwhile blessings were poured forth from the lips of all present on the venerable and dignified lady, who had thus rescued innocence from the fangs of the executioners.
By the kind attentions of Serons, the most celebrated physician in Paris, Madelon, who had long remained in a state of unconsciousness, was perfectly restored to recollection. De Scuderi herself completed what the physician had begun, endeavoring by all her arts of eloquence to kindle up rays of hope in the dark mind of her protegé; till at last the poor sufferer was relieved by a violent burst of tears, and she was enabled, though her voice was often choked by sobs, to relate in her own way, all that had occurred.
About midnight, she had been awoke by knocking at the door of her bedroom, and had heard the voice of Olivier Brusson, conjuring her to rise up immediately, for her father was dying. In great agitation she had started up, and opened the door, when she found Olivier waiting for her; but his features were pale and disfigured; the perspiration was dropping from his forehead, and his limbs tottered so that he could ​hardly support himself. He led the way to her father's work-room, whither she followed him. and where she found Cardillac lying with his eyes fixed and staring; for he was already in the agony of death. With a loud shriek, she had thrown herself down by her father, and then, for the first time, remarked that his clothes were drenched in blood. Brusson drew her gently away, and then began, as well as he could, to wash with astringent balsam a frightful wound in Cardillac's left side, and to bind it up. During this operation, the unfortunate man was restored to consciousness; he breathed more freely, and had looked up expressively at her and Olivier. Finally, he had taken her hand, placed in it that of the young man, and frequently pressed them together. Both then fell on their knees beside the dying man, expecting that he was to give them his blessing; but, with a cry of anguish, he raised himself up on his couch, immediately fell back again, and uttering a long deep groan, he expired.
Now they had both given way to tears and lamentations.—Olivier, however, found words to inform her, that he had been ordered by his master to attend him about midnight,—that they had gone out together, and, that Cardillac had, in his presence, been attacked and stabbed by an assassin. Hoping that the wound was not mortal, he had, with excessive labor and exertion, taken the poor man on his shoulders, and carried him home.
As soon as the morning broke, the people of the house, who had been disturbed by the noise of weeping and lamentation through the night, came up to their room, and found them still disconsolate, kneeling in prayer beside the dead body. Now the alarm was given; the Marechaussee broke into the house, and dragged off Olivier to prison, as the murderer of his master. To all this, Madelon now added the most moving description, how piously and faithfully he had always conducted himself, affirming that he had always shown towards Cardillac the respect and obedience of a son towards a father, and that the latter had fully appreciated his worth, ​having chosen him, notwithstanding his poverty, for his son-in-law, and having proved that his cleverness as an artist, was only to be excelled by his steadiness, and excellent disposition. Every word uttered by Madelon seemed to bear the stamp of truth, and to be spoken from the heart. She concluded by declaring that if she had even beheld Olivier, in her own presence, inflict the death-wound on her father, she would rather have held this for a delusion of the devil, than have believed that her lover could have been guilty of such a horrible crime.
De Scuderi, deeply moved by the sufferings of Madelon, and now fully disposed to look on her lover as innocent, made farther inquiries, and found every thing confirmed that the poor girl had said, as to the domestic circumstances of the master and his journeyman. The people of the house, and in the neighborhood, universally praised Olivier as a model of regularity, devotion and industry. No one among them knew any evil action of which he had ever been guilty, and yet, when conversation turned on the murder, all shrugged their shoulders,—thought there was something here quite inconceivable and mysterious, so that it was impossible to say what conclusion should be drawn. Meanwhile, Olivier, when brought before the judges of the Chambre Ardente, denied, as Scuderi was informed, all participation in the deed. In this he persisted with the utmost constancy, and without any symptoms of embarrassment, affirming that his master had, in his presence, been attacked and knocked down, after which he had brought him home, where, being severely wounded, he had shortly afterwards expired. All this accorded precisely with the narrative of Madelon.
De Scuderi left no method untried, to obtain the most correct information. She inquired minutely whether there had lately been a quarrel between the master and his journeyman;—whether Olivier, though generally good-tempered, had not been subject to fits of passion,—that often mislead people into crimes, from which they would otherwise have recoiled with horror? But there was so much of the heartfelt inspi​ration of truth in Madelon's account of the quiet domestic happiness in which they all three lived together, that at length every shadow of suspicion against Brusson vanished wholly from her mind. Indeed, setting aside all the circumstances which so decidedly pleaded his innocence, de Scuderi was unable to discover any motive on his part for such a deed. On the contrary, it could, in every point of view, only tend to his own destruction, and the overthrow of his worldly hopes. "He is poor," reasoned de Scuderi, "but clever as an artist; he succeeds in acquiring the confidence of the most eminent jeweller in Paris;—falls in love with the only daughter of his master, who approves of their attachment; thus happiness and prosperity seem to be secured to him for his whole life to come. But, notwithstanding all this, supposing that Olivier had been overpowered by sudden passion, and excited to such madness as to make an attack on his benefactor, yet what supernatural hypocrisy he must profess, in order to manage the atrocious deed in such a manner, and pretend to be so much afflicted? "In short, with an almost perfect conviction of his innocence, de Scuderi formed the determination, to rescue the unfortunate young man, whatever trouble and exertion this might cost.
CHAPTER V.
Before applying to the king, which was indeed the dernier resort, she resolved, in the first place, to have some private conversation with the President la Regnie, to request his attention to all the circumstances which pleaded in favor of the young man, and thus awaken in the president's mind an interest in the fate of the accused, which, without infringing the strictness of legal and official duty, he might benevolently impart to the other judges. La Regnie, of course, received de Scuderi with the highest respect, to which the venerable lady, whom the king himself always addressed with deference, was so justly entitled. He listened quietly to all that she ​had to say of the domestic circumstances of Olivier and his excellent character; but to this she did not obtain one favorable word, or even interjection, in return. A slight and almost scornful smile, now and then threatening to change into a grin, was the only proof afforded by la Regnie, that the assertions, the earnest admonitions of de Scuderi did not fall on ears altogether deaf and inattentive. She insisted that every righteous judge must beware of being an enemy of the prisoner; on the contrary, he must give his attention even to the minutest particle of evidence that could be looked upon as exculpatory. At last, when the lady had exhausted all her arguments, and, with her handkerchief at her eyes, remained silent, la Regnie began:—"Doubtless, my lady, it is an admirable proof of your benevolence of heart, that you should have been thus moved by the tears and protestations of a young girl who is in love, and that you should have even believed all that she has asserted. Nay, it is hardly to be expected that a mind so constituted as yours should conceive the existence of a crime so horrible. But it is quite different with one who, in order to fulfil his painful duties as a judge, is obliged to tear off the mask from the basest cunning and hypocrisy. At the same time, you, my lady, must certainly perceive that it is no part of my business, nor even consistent with my duty, to develope and reveal to every one the manner in which a criminal process is carried through and decided. I fulfil my duty, and, being conscious of this, I am, as to the opinion of the world, wholly indifferent. It is absolutely requisite that the abandoned criminals, by whom we are now-a-days beset and tormented, should be made to tremble before the court of the Chambre Ardente, whose punishments are never mitigated, but consist only of death by the scaffold or by fire. In your presence, however, Mademoiselle, I would not willingly appear a monster of harshness and cruelty. Therefore, allow me, in as few words as possible, to place clearly and unequivocally before you the guilt of this young miscreant, on whom, God be thanked, the ​sword of just vengeance is about to fall. When you have heard my account of the evidence, your powerful understanding will then lead you to contemn that kind-hearted credulity which, though it may be praiseworthy in the lady de Scuderi, would, on my part as a judge, be wholly unbecoming, and, indeed, unpardonable.
"So, then, to commence: Rene Cardillac is one morning found murdered; as usual, in such cases, he has been stabbed to the heart with a stiletto. No one is beside him but his apprentice, Olivier Brusson, and his daughter. In the bed-chamber of Brusson, amongst other effects that were examined, is found a dagger covered with blood, still fresh, and which, on being tried, fits exactly into the wound." "Cardillac," says the young man, "was, in my presence, attacked and knocked down on the streets at midnight." "The villains then wished to rob him?" "That," says he, "I cannot tell." "But you were walking with him, and was it not possible for you to lay hold of the murderers, and call for help?" "My master," he answers, "was fifteen or twenty steps before me, and I followed him." "Wherefore, in the name of wonder, were you at such a distance?" "My master would have it so." "But what, in all the world, could the goldsmith, Cardillac, have to do at such an hour on the street?" "That again," answers he, "I cannot answer." "But, till now," says the Chambre Ardente, "he was never known to leave his own house after nine o'clock in the evening." At this remark, Olivier, instead of returning any direct answer, falters, grows confused, bursts into tears, then swears over again that Cardillac had actually gone out of his house on the night referred to, and had, consequently, been put to death.
"But your ladyship will please to observe, with attention, what now follows: It has been proved, even to an absolute certainty, that Cardillac did not, on that evening, leave his own house, and, of course, Olivier's story of the midnight walk is an infamous fabrication. The house-door is provided ​with a large and heavy lock, which, on opening and shutting, makes a loud grating noise. Then, too, the door itself creaks violently on its hinges, so that by the trials that have been made, we know that, from the garret to the cellar, it disturbs all the inhabitants. Besides, on the ground-floor of this building, and therefore, quite close to the outward door, lives an old gentleman, Monsieur Claude Patru, now in his eightieth year, but still in possession of all his faculties; and this old man is attended by a female servant. These people heard Rene Cardillac, on the night of the murder, come down stairs exactly at nine o'clock; close and bolt the outward gate with great noise; then return up stairs, read aloud a portion of the evening service; and at last retire to his bed-room, of which also, they heard him close the door with vehemence. This Monsieur Claude Patru, as it often happens to old persons, could hardly ever sleep, and, through this night particularly, he had not been able to close his eyes. Accordingly, the old woman who attends him, went, as she depones, about half-past ten o'clock, into the kitchen for light, trimmed the lamp, and replenished it with oil, then seated herself at a table beside Monsieur Patru, with a favorite book, which she read aloud, while the old gentleman, following out his own reveries, now seated himself in his arm-chair, now rose up and walked about, all for the sake of becoming wearied, and obtaining sleep.
"The whole house remained tranquil until after midnight. Then the woman suddenly heard heavy steps over her head, and a noise as if of some great weight falling to the ground. Immediately thereafter, she heard also hollow groans, and her old master became like herself alarmed and anxious. A mysterious foreboding of some horrid event passed through their minds, and the discovery of the morning proved that their suspicions were but too well grounded." "But," interrupted de Scuderi, "could you, from all the circumstances which have been stated on either side, find out any adequate motive for Olivier Brusson committing such an atrocious and unparal​leled crime?" "Humph!" answered la Regnie, with another ironical smile, "Cardillac was not poor; he was in the possession of admirable diamonds!" "Yet," said de Scuderi, "was not his daughter heiress of all that property? You forget that Olivier was to have been son-in-law to the goldsmith?" "That is no decisive proof," answered la Regnie; "we are not obliged to admit that Brusson committed the crime solely on his own account, though no doubt admitted to his share." "What means this talk of sharing and agency?" said de Scuderi. "Your ladyship will please to observe," answered la Regnie, "that Brusson would, long ere now, have been led to the scaffold, were it not that he is obviously connected with that horrid conspiracy, which has hitherto baffled our inquiries, and kept all Paris in suspense and agitation. It is suspected, indeed known, that this miscreant belonged to that band of robbers who have held in scorn and mockery all measures taken against them by the ministers of justice, and have continued to carry on their enormities securely and without punishment. Through his confessions, however, which we shall in due time extort, that mystery will no doubt be rendered clear. I should have observed, that Cardillac's wound is precisely similar to those which have been examined on the dead bodies of other victims, who were found murdered in the streets and courts, or corridors of houses. But the circumstance which we consider as of all the most decisive is, that, since Brusson's arrestment, these robberies and murders, which before happened almost every night, have entirely ceased, and one may now walk on the streets just as securely by night as by day. This alone affords sufficient presumptive proof, that Olivier must have been at the head of these assassins, and though, to this hour, he has persisted in asserting his innocence, yet we have means enough of forcing him to confess, however great his obstinacy may be."
"But then, as to Madelon," said de Scuderi, "the poor innocent girl!" "Ha, ha!" answered la Regnie, "who ​can give sufficient assurance that she has not been an accomplice? What does she care for her father's death? It is only for the murderer's sake that her tears flow so freely."—"What do you say?" cried de Scuderi, "it is impossible. Would this poor blameless child aim against her father's life?" "Oh, ho!" said Regnie, shrugging his shoulders, "your ladyship seems to have forgotten the conduct of la Brinvilliers. You will be so good as to forgive me, if I find myself, ere long, necessitated to drag this favorite from your protecting arms, and to lodge her in the Conciergerie."
At this horrible suggestion, a cold shuddering pervaded the whole frame of the kind-hearted de Scuderi. It seemed to her as if, in the presence of this abominable man, all truth and virtue were annihilated; that in every heart he could find out concealed propensities to the most diabolical crimes. "At all events, do not forget that even a judge ought to be humane!" said she, and these words were all that, with a faltering and suppressed voice, she was able to bring out.—When just on the point of descending the staircase to which the president, with ceremonious politeness, accompanied her, a sudden thought rose in her mind. "Would it be granted me," said she, "to speak with the unhappy youth in prison?" The president hearing this abrupt question, looked at her with an air of doubt and reflection; then his visage twisted itself into an ironical smile, which was to him quite peculiar. "Certainly," answered he, "this may be allowed. I perceive, my lady, that you are yet more inclined to trust to your own benevolent impulses, than to any legal proofs; and as you wish to try Brusson after your own manner, within two hours hence, the gates of the Conciergerie shall be opened, and this criminal ordered to attend you. Think, however, whether it will not be too abhorrent to your feelings to enter these dark abodes of profligacy and punishment, where you may encounter vice in its varied stages of suffering and degradation."
In truth, however, de Scuderi would by no means be con​vinced of the young man's guilt. Many evidences had doubtless been brought forward against him; and after such apparent proofs, perhaps no judge in the world could have acted otherwise than la Regnie had done. But then, the innocent looks and grief of Madelon, with the picture she had drawn of domestic happiness, acted as a complete counterbalance to every evil suspicion, and de Scuderi would rather admit the existence of some inexplicable and even supernatural mystery, than believe that at which her inmost heart revolted. She now determined, therefore, that she would make Olivier relate over again all that had happened on that fatal night; to watch whether his account corresponded exactly to that of Madelon, and, as far as possible, to reconcile those difficulties with which the judges would perhaps give themselves no farther trouble, as they considered the prisoner's guilt so clearly established.
On arriving at the Conciergerie, de Scuderi was conducted into a large and well lighted chamber, where the rattling of chains soon announced Brusson's approach; but no sooner had he crossed the threshold, than, to the astonishment of the attendants, de Scuderi trembled, grew deadly pale, and without uttering a word, sank fainting into a chair. When she recovered, the prisoner was no longer in the room, and she demanded impatiently that she should be led back to her carriage. She was determined not to remain another moment in this abode of crime and misery, for, alas! she had recognized in Brusson, at the very first glance, the young man who had thrown the billet into her carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who, (according to Martiniere's evidence,) had brought her the casket with the jewels. La Regnie's horrid suggestions were therefore too surely confirmed, and as Brusson belonged evidently to that band of midnight assassins, there could be little or no doubt that he was the murderer of his master.—But still, the beauty, youth, and apparent innocence of Madelon? Never having been till now so bitterly deceived by her own benevolent impulses, and forced to admit the existence ​of guilt, which she would before have thought impossible, she was reduced almost to utter despair, and it seemed to her, as if there were no longer any truth and virtue in the world!—As it usually happens that a powerful and active mind, if it once takes up an image or impression, always seeks and finds means to color it more forcibly and vividly, de Scuderi, when she reflected once more on the murder, and on every circumstance of Madelon's narrative, found much that tended to nourish her evil suspicions, till even these very points of evidence, which she had before received as proofs of the poor girl's innocence and purity, now seemed only manifestations of the basest hypocrisy and deception. That heart-rending grief, and those floods of tears, so piteous to hear and look upon, might have been extorted merely by the terror of seeing her lover bleed on the scaffold, or, indeed, of falling herself a victim to the same punishment. She determined at last that she should shake off at once and forever, the vile serpent whom she had intended so rashly to cherish in her bosom, and with this fixed resolution, she alighted from her carriage, on her return from la Regnie.
When she entered her own apartment Madelon was there, anxiously awaiting her arrival. She threw herself at the feet of her benefactress, and with uplifted eyes, and clasped hands, looking as innocent as an angel from heaven, she exclaimed in the most heart-rending tone, "Dearest lady! Oh, say that you have brought me hope and consolation!" De Scuderi, not without great effort, regaining self-possession, and endeavoring to give her voice as much gravity and calmness as possible, answered, "Go, go! Console yourself as well as you can for the fate of the murderer, whom a just punishment now awaits for the deeds of which he has been convicted.—God grant that the guilt of some such assassination may not also weigh on your conscience!" "Oh, heaven have mercy;" cried Madelon—"all now is lost!" and with a piercing shriek, she fell fainting on the ground. De Scuderi gave her in charge to la Martiniere, and retired into another room.
​Almost heart-broken, and utterly discontented with herself and every one else, de Scuderi scarcely wished to live any longer in a world haunted by such abominable deceit and hypocrisy. She complained bitterly of her capricious destiny, which had granted to her so many years, during which her reliance on her own judgment in distinguishing between vice and virtue had remained unshaken, and now, in her old age, had at once annihilated, as if in scorn and mockery, all the beautiful illusions by which her spirits had been hitherto supported; for with whom had she ever thought herself more secure than with this unfortunate girl? While she was thus occupied, it chanced that she overheard some conversation between Madelon and la Martiniere. She could distinguish that the former said, in a low, soft voice, "Alas! and she too has been deluded at last by the cruel men! Oh wretched Madelon!—Poor, unfortunate Olivier!" The tone in which these words were uttered struck de Scuderi to the heart, and again she felt, involuntarily, an apprehension that there might be some hidden mystery, which, if revealed, would completely prove Brusson's innocence; and, tormented by this conflict of impressions, she could not help exclaiming,—"What demon has involved me in this affair, which becomes so intolerable that it will actually cost me my life!"
Just then Baptiste came into the room, pale and trembling, with the intelligence that Desgrais was at the door, and demanded instant admittance. Since the trial of the abominable la Voisin, the appearance of this officer at any house was the sure sign of some criminal accusation, and on this account the faithful porter had been so terrified. De Scuderi, however, smiled very composedly. "What is the matter with you, Baptiste?" said she; "perhaps you think my name has been discovered on la Voisin's catalogue?" "God forbid," answered Baptiste; "how can your ladyship speak of such a thing? But, still, the horrible man, Desgrais, talks and looks so mysteriously, and he is so urgent, that it seems as if he had not a single moment to wait your leisure." "Well, then," answered ​de Scuderi, "bring the man to this room as soon as possible; for however horrible he appears in your estimation, his visit causes to me no anxiety whatever." Baptiste went accordingly, and soon returned, followed by this unwelcome guest.
"The President," said Desgrais, speaking all the way as he came into the room, as if to save time,—"the President la Regnie has sent me to your ladyship, with a request to which he could scarcely hope that you would agree, were it not that he is so well aware of your extraordinary courage, and your zeal for justice; moreover, were it not that the last and only means to unravel the mystery attending the assassination of Cardillac seem to rest in your hands. Besides, he informed me that you have already taken a lively interest in that criminal process, by which the whole attention of the Chambre Ardente is now occupied. Olivier Brusson, since the time when, as I am informed, he was permitted to see your ladyship at the Concergerie, has been half distracted. Before that interview, he seemed at times disposed to make a confession; but now again he swears by heaven and all the saints, that, as to the murder of Cardillac, he is perfectly innocent, though, for his other crimes, he indeed deserves punishment. You will observe, Mademoiselle, that this last clause points at some concealed guilt, of which the very existence was not yet suspected, and which may prove far more important than Cardillac's assassination; but our endeavors have been completely baffled as to extorting from him even a single word more. Even the threat of putting him on the rack seems not to have had any influence. Meanwhile he beset us with the most earnest prayers and supplications that we should grant him another meeting with you; for it is to the lady de Scuderi alone that he is willing to make a full confession. Our humble request is, that you will have the condescension and goodness to hear in private the deposition of Olivier Brusson."
"How is this?" cried de Scuderi, quite angrily; "am I then to serve as an agent of your criminal court? Am I to ​abuse the confidence reposed in me by an unhappy man, and endeavor to bring him to the scaffold? No, no, Desgrais!—Brusson may be a murderer, but I shall never act such a degrading part as you would have me to take against him.—Moreover, I have no wish to be acquainted with any of the mysteries which may weigh on his conscience, and which if they were entrusted to me, I should look upon as sacred, and never to be divulged."—"Perhaps," said Desgrais, in a sneering tone, "your ladyship's intentions in that respect might be changed, if you had once heard his confession. But have you not yourself earnestly enjoined the President to be humane? He now implicitly follows your advice, by giving way to the foolish requests of his criminal, and is willing to try the last possible means before having recourse to the torture, to which, in truth, Brusson should long ere this have been doomed." At these words de Scuderi could not help shuddering with apprehension. "Your ladyship will please to observe," added Desgrais, "that we should by no means wish you again to visit the gloomy chambers of the Concergerie, which may, no doubt, have inspired you with disgust and aversion. In the quiet of the night, when no notice will be taken of our proceedings, Brusson may be brought to your house, where, without being overheard, (though we shall doubtless keep a strict watch on the doors and windows,) he may, unconstrained and voluntarily, make his confession.—That your ladyship has nothing to fear from this unfortunate man, I am thoroughly convinced, and, on that point, could set my own life at stake. He speaks of you with the greatest respect and veneration, insisting too, that if his cruel destiny had not denied him an interview with the lady de Scuderi at the proper time, all his present misery would have been averted. Finally, it will remain completely at your choice, after the meeting, to repeat what Brusson has divulged, or to conceal it, as you may think proper."
De Scuderi remained for some time silent and lost in reflection. She would gladly have avoided this interview; yet ​it seemed as if Providence had chosen her as an agent to clear up this intricate mystery, and that it was impossible for her now to retreat. At length, having formed her resolution, she answered Desgrais with great dignity. "The task devolved on me is indeed painful and repugnant to my feelings; but Heaven will grant me patience and composure to undergo that which I know to be my duty. Bring the criminal hither this evening, and I shall speak with him as you desire."
CHAPTER VI.
Just as formerly, when Brusson came with the jewels, there was a knocking about midnight at the house-door, which Baptiste, who was forewarned of this visit, immediately opened. A shivering coldness pervaded every nerve in de Scuderi's frame, when, by the measured steps and hollow murmuring voices, she was aware that the gens d'armes, who had brought the prisoner, divided their forces, and took their stations to keep watch in different corners of the corridor, At last the door of her chamber was slowly opened. Desgrais stepped in, and behind him the criminal, who was now freed from his fetters, and well dressed. "Please your ladyship," said the police officer, "here is the prisoner;" and, according to promise, he retired, without another word, to his post in the corridor.
Brusson now fell on his knees before the venerable lady, elapsed his hands imploringly, and burst into tears,—while de Scuderi became very pale, and looked at him without being able to speak. Though his features were now changed and disfigured by the sufferings he had undergone, yet on his naturally fine countenance there was an expression of truth and honesty, which pleaded more than words could have done in his favor. Besides, the longer that de Scuderi observed him, the more forcibly there arose on her mind the idea of some person whom she had once known and loved, but whose ​name it was impossible for her to recall. By degrees, all her former feelings of aversion and terror declined away. She forgot that it was the murderer of Cardillac who knelt before her, and spoke to him in that graceful tone of quiet benevolence which was so peculiarly her own, asking him why he had requested this meeting, and what he had to disclose to her? The youth still remained in his suppliant posture, heaved a deep sigh, and answered, "Oh, my worthy benefactress, is it then possible that all remembrance of me has vanished from your mind?"
De Scuderi replied, that she had certainly found a resemblance between him, and some one that had been well known to her; moreover, that he was indebted solely to this likeness, if she could now get the better of her abhorrence, and quietly listen to the confession of an assassin. At these words Brusson was evidently much hurt; he rose indignantly, and retired a few paces, while his brows assumed a lowering and fixed expression. "It seems then," said he, "that your ladyship has forgotten Anne Guiot; but, however that may be, it is her son Olivier, the boy whom in his infancy you have so often held caressingly in your arms, who now stands before you."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed de Scuderi, and with both hands covering her face, she sank back on the sofa. There was, indeed, reasonable ground for the painful sensations by which she was now overpowered. Anne Guiot, the neglected daughter of a poor citizen, had been from childhood protected in de Scuderi's house, who had behaved to her with the utmost kindness and affection, even like a mother. After she had grown up to a woman's estate, it happened that there was a handsome young man, named Claude Brusson, who paid his addresses to the girl. As this youth was a very clever watch-maker, and as such would scarcely fail to gain a sufficient livelihood in Paris, de Scuderi knowing that Anne was much attached to him, had no hesitation in agreeing to their marriage. The young couple set up house for themselves, seemed ​to be quite happy in their domestic circumstances, and what added much to their felicity, was the birth of a beautiful boy, who was the perfect image of his mother.
De Scuderi made an absolute idol of the little Olivier, whom she used to keep whole days from his parents to play with, and caress;—the boy, of course, became accustomed to her, and staid with her just as willingly as he would have done with his own father and mother. Three years had passed away, when the envy and opposition of Brusson's professional brethren had such influence against him, that his business every day decreased, and he was at last reduced to the danger of actual want. Under these circumstances he was seized with an ardent longing to visit his native city of Geneva, and, consequently, his family was removed thither, notwithstanding the objections of De Scuderi, who wished that Brusson should remain at Paris, and promised him all the support in her power. From Switzerland, Anne wrote several affectionate letters, and seemed as before quite contented; then, all at once, without assigning any reason, she became silent, and de Scuderi could only conclude that the life she led at Geneva, was so happy and prosperous, that it had effaced from her mind all recollection of her former circumstances in Paris.—Since the date of the watchmaker's removal and establishment in Switzerland, there had passed an interval of twenty-three years, so that de Scuderi had almost forgotten him and his affairs—nor had the surname of Brusson ever been familiar to her.
"Oh, horrible!" cried she, forcing herself to look up, "Thou art Olivier, the son of my beloved Anne Guiot,—and now?"—"Indeed," said Olivier, "you could never have anticipated, that the boy whom you had so often caressed with all a mother's fondness, would one day appear before you as a man accused of the most horrible crimes. I am, indeed, not guiltless; and there are errors which the Chambre Ardente may justly charge against me. But I swear most solemnly, even by my hopes of heaven's mercy in my last moments, ​that I am guiltless of every assassination. It was not by my hand, nor through any connivance of mine, that the unhappy Cardillac met his fate." Olivier's voice faltered, and de Scuderi pointed to a chair, on which, trembling, as if unable to support himself, he now took his place."
"I have had time enough," said he, "to prepare myself for this conversation, which I look upon as the last favor which can be granted to me in this world, by that righteous Providence with whom I have already made my peace. I have at least acquired sufficient composure and self-possession to give a distinct narrative of my unparalleled misfortunes, to which I entreat that you will listen with patience, however much you may be shocked and surprised by the discovery of a secret, such as could never have been guessed at, and which may seem almost incredible.
"Would to heaven my poor father had never left Paris!—My earliest recollections of Geneva present to me only the tears and lamentations of my unfortunate parents, with whom I also wept bitterly, without knowing wherefore. Afterwards, as I grew up to boyhood, I became aware, by my own sad experience, of the poverty and privations under which they now lived, for my father found himself deceived and disappointed in every hope which he had cherished on coming to his native country, till, at length, quite overcome, and worn out by his afflictions, he died, just as he had succeeded in placing me with a goldsmith, as a journeyman apprentice.—My mother often spoke of the noble minded and benevolent Mademoiselle de Scuderi, and wished to write to you of her distresses. Many letters were begun; but then she was too soon overcome by that sickly cowardice and apathy, which so often accompany misfortune. This feeling, and, perhaps, too, a false shame that often preys on a wounded spirit, prevented her from coming to any effectual resolution, and, finally, within a few months of my father's death, my mother followed him to the grave.
"Poor unfortunate Anne!" cried de Scuderi, again over​come by her feelings. "But, I thank heaven, that she is removed from this wicked world, and has not lived to see the day, when her son, branded with ignominy, is to fall by the hands of the executioners." At these words, Olivier uttered a groan of anguish, and raised his eyes with a wild unnatural glare. There was a noise, too, outside the door, of steps moving rapidly backwards and forwards. "Ho, ho!" said Olivier, with a bitter smile, and recovering his self-possession; "Desgrais keeps his comrades on the alert, as if, forsooth, I could here, or any where else, escape from their clutches!
"But let me proceed. I was severely, and, indeed, cruelly treated by my new master, although I soon proved myself a good workman, and even excelled my instructor. It happened, one day, that there came a stranger to our wareroom, who wished to buy some articles of jewelry. Looking at a very handsome necklace, which was of my workmanship, he clapped me familiarly on the shoulder, and said, 'Ha! my young friend, this is, indeed, admirably finished! I know not any man who could excel you, unless it were Rene Cardillac, who is, out of sight, the best goldsmith in the world. You should, in my opinion, betake yourself to him, for he would probably be very glad to receive you into his house as an assistant; and, on the other hand, it is only from him that you could yet learn to improve in your handicraft.'
"The words of this stranger made a deep impression on me. I could no longer be contented in Geneva, but cherished a vehement desire of returning to my native France. At last, I succeeded in getting rid of my engagements to my master, and, in due time, arrived in Paris, where I inquired for Rene Cardillac, by whom I was received with such coldness and harshness of manner, that an inexperienced youth might well have been utterly discouraged. I would not give up my purpose, however, and insisted that he should give me some employment, however trifling and insignificant,—so that I was, at last, ordered to make up, and finish in my best manner, a small ring. When I brought him my workman​ship, he fixed on me his keen penetrating eyes, as if he would look me through and through. At last, he said, 'Brusson, thou art, in truth, an excellent clever fellow. Thou shalt henceforth live in my house, and assist me in the workshop. I shall allow thee a good salary, and thou shalt have no reason to be dissatisfied with thy place.'
"Cardillac kept his word. I was received kindly at our next meeting, and had no reason to complain of the treatment that I experienced. For several weeks I had been in the house without seeing Madelon, who was, at that time, living with a distant relation in the country. At length she returned home, and, oh heaven! how was I astonished at the innocent angelic beauty of that girl! Was there ever any mortal that loved so fondly and fervently as I have done,—and now,—oh Madelon!"
Olivier was here overcome by his feelings, and for some time could not proceed. He covered his face with both hands, and even sobbed violently; but with a determined effort, he resumed, as follows:—
"Madelon often looked at me with an expressive glance, in which I thought that I could read her approval of my evident admiration. She used also to come more and more frequently into the workshop, till, in short, I discovered with rapture that she loved me, and closely as her father might have watched us, many a stolen kiss or pressure of the hand served for a token of the agreement thus mutually understood between us. Cardillac, indeed, never seemed to observe any of our proceedings; but I had intended, after I had proved myself deserving of his good opinion, and had passed my years of trial, to pay my addresses openly to Madelon. One morning, however, when I was about to begin my work for the day, Cardillac suddenly came to me with his eyes flashing contempt and indignation. 'I have no longer any need of your assistance,' said he,—'Get out of my house within this very hour, and never again come in my sight.—The reason why I cannot suffer your presence any longer ​requires no explanation. The fruit at which you have aimed may be tempting indeed; but it hangs too high for your reach: therefore pack up and begone!'
"I was about to speak, but without a moment's warning, as if struck with a sudden madness, he seized me by the collar and forced me out of doors with such violence, that I fell down stairs, and was severely hurt in the head and right arm. I left his home with my heart almost bursting with grief and rage, and betook myself to the farthest end of the Faubourg de St. Martin, where I had an acquaintance who received me into the ground-floor of his humble dwelling.—Here my agitations continued, and I could never rest by night nor day. In the night, indeed, I used to wander about Cardillac's house, hoping that Madelon perhaps might hear my complaints, which at intervals I could not repress;—and if she could only succeed in speaking to me from a window, I would have tried to persuade her into adopting some one of many desperate plans which I had been revolving to effect her escape.
"Now, my lady, you will please to observe, that adjoining Cardillac's house in the Rue de la Nicaise, is a high court wall, ornamented with niches, in some of which there are yet old mouldering statues cut in freestone. It happened once that I was hiding myself near one of the statues, and gazing up to the windows of the house, that looked into the square court, of which this high wall is the boundary. Suddenly, while I was then on the watch, I perceived light in the work-room of Cardillac. It was now midnight, at which hour my master never used to be awake; for, as the clock struck nine, he punctually went to rest. My heart beat violently, for I thought it possible that some accident might have occurred, in consequence of which I might once more obtain entrance into the house; but the light soon after vanished. Determining to watch as long as possible, in order to escape all risk of observation, I forced myself into the niche behind the statue; but scarcely had I taken my place when I was obliged to recoil ​with a feeling almost of horror, for I felt an opposing pressure, precisely as if the stone image had become suddenly a living being. I retired to a little distance, keeping always in the shade, and saw that the statue slowly turned round, and from behind it there emerged a dark figure in a long mantle, that with cautious light steps glided away into the street. I ran up to the statue and tried to move it, but it now stood fixed as usual. Without reflection, and forced on by some irresistible inward impulse, I left the court and followed the mysterious figure, till, just beside a shrine of the blest Virgin, he chanced to turn half round, and the full glare of the consecrated lamp fell upon his visage. It was Cardillac.
"An indescribable mood of terror and indefinable apprehension now overcame me. As if spell-driven, I must move on after this ghostly sleep-walker, for as such Cardillac now appeared to me, though it was not the time of the full moon, when that fearful malady generally seizes its victims. At last, he suddenly turned off to one side, and vanished in the dark shadows of the night. As I went on, however, I became perfectly aware where he was, for being acquainted with the slightest sounds of his voice, I heard, by certain habitual interjections, in a low muttering tone, that he had stationed himself in the portal of a neighboring house. 'What can be the meaning of all this?' said I to myself, 'and what can he intend to do?' At the same time, I remained close within the shade of the houses, so that I was quite unobserved. I had not waited long, when there came a man with a grand plume of feathers in his hat, clattering with his military spurs, and singing all the way, as if elated with wine, 'C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour!" and so forth. Like a tiger on his prey, Cardillac started from his hiding place, and attacked the man, who did not utter a groan or shout, but fell instantly, as if lifeless, to the ground. I rushed forward to prevent further violence, and met the assassin face to face, as he stepped across the body of the murdered man. 'Master Cardillac!' cried I, in my loudest voice, 'what are you about here?' ​He made no reply, but with one half-suppressed exclamation of rage and resentment, passed by me with incredible speed, and vanished.
"I was now so much agitated, that I scarcely knew where I was, or what I did; however, with tottering steps, I drew near to Cardillac's victim, and knelt down beside him on the pavement. I thought life could not yet be extinct, and that he might possibly recover; however, I soon found he was quite dead. Meanwhile the marechaussee had come up unawares, and now surrounded me. 'So soon another murder!' cried one of them, 'and no doubt by the hands of the same incarnate demons! Hilloah, young man, what are you about there? You are one of the band, perhaps,—away with you to prison!' Accordingly they seized me as if I had been the criminal, while I was scarcely able to stammer out, that I was quite incapable of such a horrid deed, and that they should let me depart in peace. At last one of them held the light to my face, and laughed aloud. 'Why,' said he, 'this is Olivier Brusson, the goldsmith's apprentice—he who now works with that good honest citizen, Master Rene Cardillac. Aye, forsooth, he would murder people in the streets? And it looks very like an assassin to stay here lamenting over a dead body, and allow himself to be taken prisoner! But how did this happen, Brusson? Tell your story boldly, and at once.'
"'I was walking along the street,' said I, 'when I saw a man start from the wall, attack him who is now lying there, and knock him down. Then, as in my terror I cried aloud, the assassin ran away with the speed of lightning, and disappeared. I wished now to see whether his unfortunate victim were really dead, or might be recovered.' 'That was needless enough,' cried one of them, who had lifted up the dead body; 'these demons always make sure work, and the dagger has gone, as usual, right through the heart.' 'The devil fetch them!' cried another; 'it has happened now just as the last time. We came only a few minutes too late.' ​Afterwards, as I said, (and this was, indeed, a great crime,) that I could not give any farther information, they let me go, and retired, bearing away the murdered man.
'I cannot describe adequately my feelings when I was thus left alone. It seemed to me as if I had been under the dominion of some hideous dream, from which I must now awake, and wonder that I could have been so deceived! Cardillac, the father of my beloved Madelon, transformed all at once into an ignominious, cruel-hearted assassin! Notwithstanding the violence with which he had conducted himself towards me, I could not have imagined any event more utterly impossible. Overpowered by these reflections, I had sunk down, almost fainting, on the stone steps of a house-door, and remained there unconscious how the time passed, till the morning broke, and all was light around me. Then I observed an officer's hat, richly adorned with lace and feathers, lying on the pavement, and the idea that Cardillac's abominable deed had been perpetrated on the very spot where I now rested, rose in my mind with such intolerable force, that I started up in horror, and ran as fast as I could to my own lodgings.
"Quite confused, and unable to follow out distinctly any one train of thought, I was sitting in my lonely apartment, when, to my great surprise, the door opened, and Rene Cardillac stood before me. 'In God's name,' said I. 'what can you want here?' Not attending to this, he came up, and smiled upon me with an expression of friendly confidence, which only increased my inward agitation and abhorrence. He drew in an old broken stool, and took his place beside me, while I was not able to lift myself from the straw couch on which I had lain down.
"'Now then, Olivier,' he began, 'how have you lived, and how are you spending your time? My conduct was, indeed, shamefully rash, when I turned you out of my house; fur every moment since then, I have deeply regretted your absence. At present, for example, I have some jewelry in ​hand, which I cannot finish without your assistance. What would you think of again taking your place in my work-room? You are silent! Yes, I know that I have injured and insulted you. It is needless to deny that I was violently enraged against you, on account of your attachment to my daughter Madelon. But since then, I have carefully reflected on the matter, and decided that, considering the cleverness, industry and fidelity which you have always shown, I ought not to wish for any better son-in-law. Come with me, then, if you are not unwilling, and you shall have my free permission to obtain Madelon, as soon as you can, for your betrothed bride.'
"Cardillac's words agitated me to the heart. I shuddered at his enormous treachery, and could scarcely bring out a word, 'You hesitate,' said he, in a sharp tone, fixing on me his intense glaring eyes. 'You hesitate! And, perhaps, you could not go with me to-day. You have other plans in view, and will probably pay a visit to Desgrais, or get yourself introduced to D'Argensen or la Regnie?—But, take care, young man, that the clutches of these executioners, whom you are about to rouse for the destruction of another, do not turn against yourself, and rend you!'——Here, my indignation suddenly broke out in words.
"'Let those,' said I, 'who are convicted by their own conscience, entertain fears of such executioners. I, at least, can front them without apprehension.' 'The truth is,' said Cardillac, still retaining perfect composure, 'it is an honor for you to be in my employment, as I am universally known and celebrated as the first artizan in Paris; and, at the same time, my character is so well established, that every evil report against me would recoil heavily on the head of the calumniator. As for Madelon, however, I must confess to you, that it is wholly to her that you owe this visit from me. She is attached to you, with a degree of constancy and ardor, which, in so young a girl, I should hardly have thought possible. As soon as she knew that you were away, she fell at my feet, burst into tears, and confessed that, without you, ​she could not live. I thought this was a mere momentary delusion of her own imagination, as it usually happens with such young girls, who are ready to die, forsooth, for the first smooth-faced lad who happens to look kindly upon them. But, in truth, my Madelon became seriously ill, and when I wanted to persuade her out of the foolish fancies that she had taken up, she only answered by repeating your name in a tone of distraction, about an hundred times over. What could I now do, unless I resolved to let her utterly despair? This would have been too harsh, and, yesterday morning, I said to her that I would grant my full and free consent, and that I would, if possible, bring you home with me to-day. So, in the course of one night, she is again become blooming like a rose in June, and now expects you with the utmost impatience."
"I heard no more;—my senses were quite confused and lost, so that, Heaven forgive me, I know not how it happened, but ere long I found myself once more in the house of Cardillac. I heard Madelon's voice—'Olivier! my own Olivier! my beloved—my husband!' With these words she rushed into my arms; and, with the most fervent rapture, I swore by the blessed Virgin and all the saints, that I would never forsake her.'"
Agitated even to tears by the recollection of that decisive moment, Olivier was obliged to pause in his narrative, while de Scuderi was confounded at hearing such imputations against one whom she had always looked upon as a model of regularity and integrity. "This is frightful," cried she; "Rene Cardillac then belonged to that band of invisible miscreants, who have so long haunted our city, so that Paris might be called a mere den of murderers."
"Nay, nay," said Olivier; "speak not of band, for there is not, and never was any such association. It was Cardillac alone, who, with diabolical activity, sought for and found his victims through the whole city. On his being alone, in the practices of these enormities, depended the security with which ​he carried through his plans, and the unconquerable difficulty of tracing out the murderer. But let me proceed. What I have yet to add, will fully explain to you the mysteries in which this most unprincipled, and yet most unhappy of all mortals was involved."
CHAPTER VII.
"The situation in which I now found myself with Cardillac may be easily imagined. The decisive step was taken, and I could not retreat. Sometimes my gloomy imagination represented to me that I had become the assistant and accomplice of an assassin; only in my love for Madelon, I forgot at intervals the affliction that otherwise preyed on my spirits, and only in her presence was I able to conceal my feelings of abhorrence towards her father. If I joined with the old man in his professional labors, I could not bear to look on him, or to answer when he spoke to me, such was the indignation I felt against the vile hypocrite, who seemed to fulfil all the duties of an affectionate parent and good citizen, while the night veiled in its darkness his unparalleled iniquity. Madelon, pious, confiding, and innocent as an angel, looked up to him with unchanging love and affection! The thought often struck like a dagger to my heart, that if justice one day overtook the now masked and concealed assassin, this poor girl, so long deceived by his fiend-like cunning, would fall a victim to the most incurable despondency.
"Such apprehensions altogether prevented me from acting as I should otherwise have done, and even though I had been already condemned to the scaffold, I should have remained silent. Meanwhile I gained many hints from the conversation of the marechaussee, yet the motive of Cardillac's crimes, and the manner in which he carried them through, remained to me a complete riddle. The explanation, however, followed soon after.
"One day Cardillac, who generally excited my abhorrence ​the more, because, when at work, he was, or pretended to be, cheerful and merry, appeared all of a sudden quite thoughtful and reserved. With a vehement start, he threw away an ornament on which he was then at work, so that the diamonds and pearls rolled about the floor, and exclaimed—'Olivier, it is impossible that our intercourse can any longer be continued on this footing. Such a connection is to me quite intolerable. That which baffled all the cunning of Desgrais and his associates to discover, chance put it in your power at once to develope. You have beheld me at my nightly task, to which I am driven on by malignant stars,—by resistless destiny, against which I am unable to contend. It was indeed your evil star, too, that obliged you to follow me, with noiseless steps, and, as if invisible, so that I, who generally see objects in the dark, like a tiger, and hear the slightest noise, even to the humming of midges in the air, was never once aware of your presence. In short, it has become your fate in this world to be united with me, as my accomplice and companion; and, as you are now situated in this house, there can be no thought on your part of treachery and betrayal. Therefore you may freely listen to all that I can reveal.'
"Never, never will I be thy accomplice, thou hypocritical old villain! These words were at my tongue's end, and I even tried to utter them, but the very horror and detestation which I felt towards Cardillac, rendered me inarticulate, so that I was able only to bring out some unintelligible sounds, which he might interpret in his own way. He now seated himself again on his working stool, and wiped his forehead, as if the conflict of his feelings had been more overpowering than the severest labor. He seemed fearfully moved by his recollections of the past, and with difficulty to regain any degree of self-possession; but at last he resumed:—
"'In the writings of natural philosophers,' said he, 'we read many strange stories of the wonderful impressions to which mothers are liable, and of the deep influences which such impressions, derived from outward causes, evince on their ​children. I have not met with any story more marvellous, however, than one which has been told to me of my own mother. About two months after her marriage, she was admitted, along with other women, to be a looker-on at a brilliant festival given by our Court at Trianon. There her attention was so powerfully attracted by a certain cavalier, in a handsome Spanish dress, with a very magnificent chain, studded with diamonds, about his neck, that she could not turn her eyes from him for a moment. Her whole heart was fixed on these jewels, and she looked at them with a most ardent longing, convinced that they were a treasure of incalculable worth. The same cavalier had, some years before, when my mother was a young girl, paid his addresses to her, but was repulsed with indifference and disdain. My mother recognized him; but now, illumined as he was by the splendor of the brilliant diamonds, he seemed to her a being of a higher order, the very beau ideal of beauty and attraction. The cavalier did not fail to remark the fixed direction of her eyes, and the fervent admiration by which they seemed to be animated. He thought, of course, that she was now more favorably disposed towards him; he contrived to make his way to her party, entered into conversation, and, in the course of the evening, found means to entice her with him to a lonely thicket in the garden, quite apart from her associates. There an accident occurred, which, to this moment, remains inexplicable, unless on the supposition that my father was also present, and had been on the watch; but, during their interview, while the cavalier persisted in his amorous attentions, and my mother thought only of the beautiful chain, he was stabbed to the heart by some one who came behind him unawares, and who vanished instantly, favored by the darkness of the night. My mother's piercing shrieks brought people to her assistance, and the cavalier only lived long enough to declare that she was guiltless of his fate; but the horror and agitation of this adventure brought on a severe fit of illness, so that she and her unborn child were given up for lost. ​However, she recovered, and her accouchement afterwards was more favorable than could have been expected, though the feelings inspired by that event acquired an influence over me, which could never afterwards be resisted. My evil star was now risen above the horizon, and had shot down those fatal rays which kindled in my heart one of the most extraordinary and destructive passions by which any poor mortal was ever misled and tormented.
'Already, in my earliest childhood, glittering gems and gold chains were, above all things, the delight of my existence. This was looked on merely as an instance of that fondness for finery, which is common to all infants. But time proved that there was far more in the matter; for, when arrived at boyhood, I began to steal gold and jewels whenever I could lay my hands upon them. Like the most experienced connoisseur, I knew, by mere instinct, how to distinguish all sorts of real and precious jewelry from those which were counterfeited. And it was only by the genuine specimens that I was attracted. All imitations, and even gold coins, I left as unworthy of my notice. It was in vain that my father endeavored, by the most violent chastisements, to eradicate those propensities, which were inherent in my nature, and which, accordingly, grew with my growth, and strengthened with my strength.
'Merely for the sake of getting, by fair means, such treasures into my hands, I resolved to become a goldsmith. I took lessons, and labored with passionate enthusiasm, till at length I surpassed all my instructors, and became a first-rate master in the art. I began business on my own account, and now there commenced a period in which my natural impulses, so long repressed, broke forth with such vehemence, that they soon got the better of every other consideration or propensity. No sooner had I delivered up any fine specimen of jewelry to the person by whom it had been ordered, than I fell into a state of disquietude, almost of despair, which was quite intolerable, and robbed me utterly of health and sleep. Like a ghost, the figure of the person for whom I had been working ​stood day and night before me, adorned with my jewels, and a voice sounded ever and anon in my ears:—'Take it,—it is thine!—What business have the dead with these diamonds?' At last the passion was irresistible—I betook myself regularly to the arts of thieving, and, having free access into the houses of the great, I profited by every opportunity. Of course, no look resisted my ingenuity as a mechanic, and, in a short time, many of the ornaments that I had made were again in my own hands. But, afterwards, this was not sufficient to soothe the disquietude, or disperse the illusions by which I was tormented. That mysterious voice, of which I have already told you, was again audible, and cried to me many times, as if in scorn and mockery—'Ho—ho!—a dead man now wears your fine diamonds!' It remained even to myself inexplicable, that against every one for whom I had provided brilliant zones, necklaces, and earrings, I entertained the most implacable hatred, till at last there arose in my mind a thirst after assassination, at which I myself, in the beginning, trembled and recoiled with horror,
'About that time I purchased the house in which we now live. I had concluded the bargain, and the landlord was seated with me in this very room, where we were making merry over a bottle of wine. It was late in the night, and I wished to retire, when my entertainer said, 'Listen, Monsieur Rene; before you go, I must make you acquainted with a secret contrivance in this house, which is now yours. Look here!'—With these words, my landlord threw open a press in the wall, pushed aside the back pannels, which left an opening, through which we stepped into a small chamber, where he stepped down and lifted up a trap-door. We then descended a steep narrow staircase, and came to a small gateway, which he unlocked, and passed by it into the open square court. Here my landlord stepped up to the wall, pressed his fingers on a knob of iron, that was scarcely perceptible, and immediately a large stone began to move, so that one could enter by the opening which it had left, and pass through the ​wall into the street. There is, besides, a concealed passage running through the wall, by which one may come to the statue, without entering the court; and these inventions were probably the work of the crafty Carthusian monks, of whose convent, in ancient times, this house formed a part. That which looks like a large stone is only a piece of wood, covered on the outside with rough paint, and properly colored to look like stone, into which there is fixed?. statue, which is also of wood prepared in the same manner, and the whole turns together by means of concealed mechanism.
'Dark forebodings, or, I should rather say, brilliant: rose on my mind when I beheld these contrivances. It seemed as if they were exactly made for the fulfilment of deeds which were to myself yet a mystery, for I had never cherished any regular plan for street-robbery and assassination. My business was at this time rapidly increasing, and as I had just then delivered up to one of the court lords a rich ornament, which I knew was designed for a present to an opera-dancer, I was again assailed, but in a tenfold degree, by the same intolerable delusion which I had before experienced.—The ghost was inseparable wherever I went, and the diabolical voice was always whispering in my oars. At length I took possession of the house; and, on the first night, after I had gone to bed, it was impossible for me to obtain a moment's repose. I tossed and tumbled on my restless conch, and, in my mind's eye, beheld this man gliding through the streets with my box of jewels in his hand, to the opera-dancer's lodgings. My rage at this sight became so ungovernable, that, about midnight, I stalled up, threw my mantle about my shoulders, went down by the secret staircase, and away through the wall into the Rue de la Nicaise. From thence I proceeded to the street in which the actress lived, where, as if sent by the devil, the man to whom I had sold the necklace soon afterwards fell in my way, and I directly attacked him. At first, he uttered a loud cry, but grasping him firmly by the throat, I struck the dagger right into his heart, so that he fell without another word, and the jewels were mine!
​Having achieved this, I experienced a quiet and contentment of mind, such as I had never before known. The ghost had vanished, and the voice of the whispering devil was also mute. My contentment, indeed, lasted but for a brief interval, till I was called on again to make up and deliver an ornament of equal value; but, by this very relief and composure of spirit, under circumstances which would have rendered any one else anxious and miserable, I recognized at once the fate that awaited me. My malignant stars were triumphant, and I must yield to them or die!—So, then,' concluded Cardillac, 'you are now possessed of the master-key to all the mysteries of my life and conduct. Do not suppose, because I am thus irresistibly led on from crime to crime, that I have absolutely renounced every feeling of humanity and compassion. You know already how unwilling I am to part with any jewels that I have made up; how I keep them on one pretext or another from week to week; besides, when I am applied to by persons, whose deaths it would be impossible for me to contemplate with indifference, it is an absolute rule of mine, that I will not accept of such employment. Nay, more, in many instances, I have avoided the crime of murder, for, with one blow of my clenched hand, I am able to stun my victims in such a manner, that they become altogether insensible; and I can, without risk, possess myself at once of the jewels, which, alone, are my object.'
"After having thus spoken, Cardillac led me into a vaulted apartment, (entering from the press in his room-wall,) and allowed me to see his private collection of jewelry, than which the king himself could not display anything more magnificent. Every article had attached to it a parchment-ticket, on which there was inscribed for whom the ornament had been made, and at what time it had been regained, either by theft within doors, or street-robbery. 'On your wedding-day,' said Cardillac, in a deep stern voice, 'you will swear to me on the cross, a solemn oath, that, after my death, you will utterly annihilate all these diamonds and other jewels! They must ​be turned into dust, by a chemical process, with which I shall then make you acquainted. I am determined that no mortal, and least of all, Madelon, or you, should come into possession of treasures thus purchased by treachery and murder, lest, as I fear, a curse should attend on such an inheritance.'
"After these disclosures, I found myself lost in a labyrinth tenfold more intricate than ever. My situation might almost be compared to that of the already condemned sinner, who sees from afar a beneficent angel looking down with smiles upon him; but then Satan seizes him from below with his scorching talons, and the beautiful aspect of the seraph becomes to him the most cruel of his torments. I thought indeed of flight, nay, of self-murder. But then, what was to become of Madelon? You may indeed justly blame my conduct in this, that I was too weak to contend against a passion, which obliged me to conceal crimes, though I did not assist in their perpetration. But enough! The hour is near at hand, when I am to atone for this by an ignominious and untimely death on the scaffold.
"The rest of my story is soon told. One day it happened, that Cardillac came home wonderfully cheerful. He looked at me with the most friendly aspect; at dinner he indulged himself in a bottle of wine, such as I had never known him to use, except on high holidays; he even began to sing old songs,—in short, was rejoiced beyond measure. Madelon left us, and I would have retired into the work-room. 'Remain where you are, young man;' said Cardillac, 'to-day we are to have no more labor. Let us drink a glass together, to the health of the most noble, the most witty, and most excellent lady in all Paris.' When we had joined glasses to this toast, and he had emptied a full bumper, 'Olivier,' said he, 'how dost thou like these verses?
"Un amant qui craint des voleurs, N'est point digne d'amour."
After this question, he went on to relate what had happened at the apartments of the Duchess de Maintenon, when the ​king requested your opinion of the petition that had been presented to him, for protection against the nightly assassins;—adding, that ever since he had heard of that occurrence, he had cherished towards the lady de Scuderi the utmost respect, gratitude and veneration; and that you were endowed with such pre-emiment virtue and talents, that, for the first time in his life, he felt an influence, which could overpower that of the malignant destiny to which he had been hitherto subjected. Nay, so much was he impressed with these sentiments, that if Mademoiselle de Scuderi were to bear on her person the finest ornaments he had ever made, the whispering demon of murder would never once tempt him to recover it. At last, 'Mark you, Olivier,' said he, 'what I have now firmly resolved to do. A considerable time since, I received an order for a necklace and a pair of bracelets, from the Princess Henrietta of England. I was not limited to any fixed price, and succeeded in the work, even beyond my best expectations; but my heart was almost broken, when I thought that I must part with these jewels, which, more than any that I had ever made up, had rivetted my affections. You know how that princess fell by the hands of an assassin. Of course the jewels remained unclaimed in my possession, and now, as a token of my veneration and gratitude, I shall present them as a gift from the supposed band of invisible robbers, to the lady de Scuderi. Besides that she will by this means receive a flattering proof of her triumphant influence over the King, I shall at the same time express my contempt for Desgrais, and his troop of catchpoles. You then, Olivier, shall be the bearer of this present to her ladyship's house, and the sooner that she receives it the better.'
"Even at the first mention of your name, it seemed as if a dark veil were drawn aside, and I beheld again in all their brightness and effulgence the delightful hopes and prospects of my youth. Cardillac perhaps observed the impression which his words had made on me, and interpreted it after his own manner. 'You appear,' said he, 'to approve of my ​intention; and I can assure you, an inward voice, very different from that by which I was hitherto driven on like a furious beast of prey, from one crime to another, has now prompted me to this good action. Many times I am liable to strange moods of mind;—these come over me almost like a warning from another world, the apprehension of some horrible and yet unknown event, which seizes me so powerfully, that I cannot shake it off. At such times, it appears to me as if those deeds in which I was but the agent of a malignant and irresistible destiny, might be reckoned against my own immortal soul, though, in truth, that bears no share of the guilt. In a state of mind like this, I once resolved to prepare a beautiful diamond crown, for the blessed Virgin in the church of St. Eustathius. But, instead of deriving comfort from this design, I felt always more and more that indescribable terror and perturbation stealing over me, and though I frequently began the work, I could not persevere, but was at last obliged to give it up altogether. Now, it appears to me, almost, as if with an humble and contrite heart, I were to bring an offering to the shrine of virtue and piety, and that I shall obtain the mediation of a saint in my favor, if I send to de Scuderi the finest ornament that I have ever elaborated.'—Cardillac, who was well acquainted with your mode of life, now informed me at what hour, and in what manner, I was to deliver the jewels, which I immediately received from him enclosed in an elegant case. My feelings were now quite elated, and even rapturous; for I thought that Providence had pointed out to me, even through the wicked Cardillac, a means of escaping from that horrid thraldom and abject slavery under which I had so long suffered. Such were my private thoughts, and quite against Cardillac's plans and wishes, I determined that I would make my way to your presence. As the son of Anne Brusson, and your former protegé, I thought of throwing myself at your feet, and revealing to you all that had happened, well knowing that, from your goodness of heart, you would, on Madelon's account, have preserved invi​olate the secrets thus disclosed. Even without the necessity of publishing his guilt to the world, I was impressed with the belief that your powerful mind would have devised some means to stop his frightful career, and to liberate Madelon and myself from his tyranny; though, what means could be taken, my mind was too confused even to conjecture. Still I had the most implicit confidence that you could assist us. It is needless to repeat how my plans that night were frustrated; though I tried every means that I thought could force Martiniere to admit me into your presence; but I did not give up hopes of finding a better opportunity.
"All of a sudden, however, Cardillac seemed entirely to have lost the cheerfulness and good humor which he had lately assumed. He went about from room to room, silent and gloomy, with his eyes staring on vacancy; threw out his arms as if demons and spectres were actually assailing him; and it was obvious that his mind was beset with some wicked temptations. One morning, in particular, he had continued for hours together in this disordered mood; at length he seated himself at his work-table, as if he would begin the usual task of the day—but had no sooner taken his place than he started up again and exclaimed, in a deep hollow tone, 'I wish from my heart that Henrietta of England had lived to wear my jewels!' These words inspired me with the utmost horror; for I well knew that his mind was laboring under the same influence which had led him into his former crimes, and that the voice of Satan was again audible in his ears. I saw your life threatened by the reckless assassin, but at the same time was perfectly aware that if he only had the jewels again in his hands, you might be spared. Cardillac watched me so narrowly, that I durst scarcely be a moment out of his sight: however, I had intended, at all risks, to go to your house, when one morning I luckily met you on the Pont Neuf, forced my way to your carriage, and threw into it that billet, which I had, ready written, and in which I conjured you to give back the casket into Cardillac's hands. You never ​came nor sent to his house, and my fears increased almost to madness, when, on the following day, Cardillac could speak of nothing else but certain magnificent jewels, finer than any that the world had yet beheld, and which had been constantly present to his mind's eye during the night. I had no doubt that he alluded to your necklace and bracelets; it was at all events certain that his imagination was fixed on some plan of murder, which, in all probability, he would try to execute on the very same night-—and I determined to protect you at all risks, though it should cost the life of Cardillac. Therefore, when he had as usual read the vesper-service, and shut himself up in his bed-room, I made my way through a window into the court, passed through the secret opening at the statue, and took my station at a little distance, keeping as much as possible in the shadow. No long interval had elapsed, when Cardillac came out, and walked with his usual light, cautious steps along the street. Just as on the night when I first discovered his guilt, I now went after him, and my heart beat violently, when I found that he was taking the route towards the Rue St. Honoree. We arrived there accordingly, and all at once he disappeared. I could not find out his station this time, and was at a loss what to do. I thought of planting myself at your door as a sentinel, but, precisely as on the former occasion, there came up an officer gaily dressed, whistling and singing, who went past without observing me. Almost in the same moment, the dark figure of the diabolical Cardillac started forward, and being determined, if possible, to prevent this murder, I rushed up just as they grappled together. Short as the distance was, I came again too late; but this time the result was different; it was not the officer, but Cardillac, who fell motionless, and without a word, to the ground!—The former let fall the dagger, which he was still grasping when I came up, drew his sword, and took his position on the defensive, believing no doubt that I was an accomplice of the murderer; but perceiving that I interested myself only for his fallen victim, he turned round, and with​out speaking, hastened away. Cardillac was still living, and, with infinite labor and exertion, I contrived to bear him home on my shoulders, and convey him by the secret passage into his own workshop.
"The rest is already known to you, and requires no farther notice. You perceive that my only guilt consisted in my not having had sufficient firmness and resolution to betray Madelon's father to the officers of justice, and thus put an end at once to his assassinations. In other respects I am wholly blameless; but no torture would force from me the disclosure of his guilt, by which alone I could be cleared in the eye of the law. It has hitherto been the merciful will of Providence that the horrid truth should be withheld from Madelon; therefore I shall never, in order to save my own life, withdraw the veil by which her father's real character has been concealed.
"Could I endure the thought that she should behold the remains of a parent, whom she so long loved and respected, dragged from the tomb, and branded in the Place de Greve, by the public executioner?—No! my dearest Madelon will weep for me as one who died innocent, and time will alleviate her sorrow; but, were she at once to learn the whole truth, the shock would be so unsupportable, that madness, perhaps, would ensue—at all events, she could never, in this world, be restored to peace of mind."
Olivier here broke off abruptly, and burst into tears. He threw himself at de Scuderi's feet, and implored her compassion. "You are convinced of my innocence," said he; "I know it must be so! Have pity, then, on my sufferings, and tell me how is Madelon!" De Scuderi made no answer, but rang for Martiniere, and in the next moment, Madelon was in her lover's arms. "Now, all is well again," she exclaimed, "for you are here! I was, indeed, sure that this noble minded lady would find means to set you at liberty! "Over and over again were such expressions of joy and confidence repeated by the poor girl, while Olivier too, appeared for the time perfectly happy, forgetting his own real situation, and ​the cruel fate that awaited him. Thereafter, both described in the most moving terms the sufferings which they had mutually endured; again they embraced, and shed tears of rapture, to find themselves once more united. Even if de Scuderi had not been already convinced of Brusson's innocence, that scene must have established her belief beyond a doubt. "No!" said she to herself, "whatever la Regnie may maintain to the contrary, they are not criminal. It could only be hearts that are wholly free from the torments of a guilty conscience, that thus, in the delights of a mutual attachment, forget the world, with all its miseries and misfortunes."
The first rays of the morning light now broke through the window. Desgrais knocked gently at the door of the room, and reminded them that it was time for Brusson's removal, as at a later hour this could not be done without attracting attention. The lovers were therefore obliged to separate, and their parting was such, that even the sternest heart could not have contemplated the scene without emotion.
CHAPTER VIII.
Satisfied as de Scuderi was of Brusson's innocence, her gloomy anticipations of his approaching fate returned in all their force after his departure—and, with heartfelt grief, she beheld the son of her beloved Anne Guiot involved in such inexplicable toils, that to save him seemed next to impossible. She admired the heroic courage of the youth who would rather die loaded with unjust imputations, than betray a secret, which, as he thought, would, more certainly than his own fate, bring distraction and despair on the object of his affection. Under these circumstances, she could not, within the utmost limits of probability, find any means by which he could escape the cruel sentence that would be passed against him yet she must not hesitate to make every exertion, or sacrifice, if it were possible that such a horrid act of in​justice might be prevented. She therefore kept her mind on the rack with a hundred different schemes, some of which were sufficiently romantic and extravagant, and all were at length set aside as impracticable. The rays of hope became always fainter and fainter, so that she would have given up the point in despair, had it not been that Madelon's boundless and child-like confidence in her protectress, and the rapture with which she spoke of her lover, who would now, as she thought, be pronounced free from every charge against him, kept her sympathy awake, and her attention on the stretch, though, all the while, she felt wounded to the heart by the consciousness of her own inability to realize these expectations.
In order that something, at least, might be tried, de Scuderi wrote a long letter to la Regnie, in which she informed him, that Brusson had, in the most convincing manner, proved to her his innocence of Cardiilac's murder; and that it was only his heroic resolution, of carrying with him to the grave a secret, which, if revealed, might be the cause of grief and despondency to another, who is wholly blameless, that had prevented him, at his trial, from making a confession, such as would at once have freed him from all suspicion. In writing this letter, whatever could be effected by the most zealous eloquence, and ingenious argument, was put in force by de Scuderi, in order to soften the heart of la Regnie; but, after an interval of only half an hour, came his implacable answer, stating that he was very glad to learn that Brusson had justified himself so completely in the opinion of his noble and benevolent protectress; but, as to the young man's heroic resolution, of carrying with him a secret to the grave, he regretted that, in a case of this kind, where a criminal had been regularly committed, he could not approve of such heroism; on the contrary, the Chambre Ardente would doubtless employ the strongest means in their power to break through that obstacle, and in a few days he hoped to be in possession of this terrible secret, which would, no doubt, bring wonders to light.
De Scuderi knew but too well to what means the frightful ​la Regnie alluded, and by which he trusted to break the resolution of the prisoner. It was now certain that the unfortunate youth would be put to the torture, which measure her letter, however well intended, would now rather tend to accelerate than retard. In the most miserable agitation, de Scuderi bethought herself, that, in order even to obtain a short delay, the assistance of a lawyer would be requisite. At that time, Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly was the most renowned advocate in Paris; and his deep knowledge of his professional duties was only to be excelled by his unimpeachable honesty, and severe virtue.
De Scuderi, therefore, went to his house immediately, and explained the situation in which Brusson was placed, as far as it was possible to do so without openly betraying Cardillac's guilt. She had supposed that the advocate would, with great zeal, undertake the cause of the unhappy youth, but in such expectations found herself bitterly disappointed. D'Andilly listened quietly to all that she could say, and then answered in the words of Boileau,—"Le vrai pent quelquefois n'etre pas vrai-semblable." He then demonstrated to de Scuderi, that there was against Brusson the strongest grounds of suspicion, and that the proceedings of la Regnie were by no means to be called rash and cruel; but, on the contrary, were quite according to law, and, indeed, he durst not act otherwise without infringing his duties as a judge. For his own part, he did not perceive how, by the cleverest defence which any advocate could make Brusson could be saved from the torture. It was only the young man himself who could bring about this, either by a confession of his guilt; or, if he really were innocent, by a minute detail of the real circumstances which led to the death of Cardillac, and thus perhaps afford some grounds on which he might be defended. "Then," said de Scuderi, in a faltering voice, and bursting into tears, "I shall throw myself at the king's feet—and implore him for mercy!" "For heaven's sake, my lady," cried d'Andilly, do not try this on the present occasion. Reserve the dernier resort, ​which if it should fail you in one instance, is, of course, lost to you forever. The king will never show favor to a criminal of this class; for, by so doing, he would, of necessity, draw on himself the bitterest hatred of the people, who feel themselves every night in danger of their lives, if they venture abroad. It is possible that Brusson himself may change his mind, and, by a full or partial confession, will find means of moving the judges in his favor."
De Scuderi found herself obliged to submit to the opinion of the learned advocate, and returned home in very low spirits. She was unable to divert her attention from the subject, and was sitting alone in her chamber at a late hour of the night, imploring one by one all the saints in the Calendar, that they would assist her invention with some device to save the unhappy youth, when Martiniere entered, and announced a visit from the Count de Miossen. This nobleman was well known at court, as colonel of the king's Garde d'Honneur, and having earnestly requested an audience of the lady de Scuderi, was, of course, admitted.
"Forgive me, Mademoiselle," said the Count, bowing with military grace and politeness, "if I thus trouble you at an inconvenient hour. We soldiers have no the time at our command; and besides, a few words will plead my apology. It is on account of your protege, Olivier Brusson, that I have come hither."
"Olivier Brusson!" said de Scuderi, with her attention on the utmost stretch, "what can you have to say of that most unfortunate of mortals?" "I thought, indeed," said de Miossen with a smile, "that the name of that youth would procure me a favorable hearing, for though all the world has been convinced of his guilt, I am aware that you hold a different opinion, which is said to depend on the prisoner's own assertions. With me the case is altogether different, and no one can be more perfectly certain than I am, (not even Brusson himself,) that he is perfectly guiltless as to the death of Cardillac." "Good heaven! my lord Count," said de Scuderi, ​her eyes sparkling with joy, "how have you obtained such information? Speak on, I entreat you." "My answer need only be in three words," said de Miossen, with emphasis; "it was I—I myself who struck the old goldsmith a mortal blow in the Rue St. Honoree, not far from your house."
"The saints protect us!" cried de Scuderi; "You?—you indeed! it is impossible." "Nay," said de Miossen; "I swear to you that, so far from looking on that action as a crime, I believe that I have thereby rendered an especial service to the whole city of Paris, and that I deserve the thanks of every one of its inhabitants. I can assure you, Mademoiselle, that Cardillac was the most depraved and hypocritical of villains, and that it was he alone who committed the horrid murders and robberies, escaping, as if by miracle, all the snares that were laid for him. I scarcely know myself by what means my own suspicions against the old miscreant were first awoke, but when I heard of his eccentricities, as they were called, I always supposed that there was something wrong in his character. However, it so happened that he once came to me in visible inquietude and perturbation, with a set of jewels which I had ordered, and on receiving payment, he begged to know for whom I designed the present? I returned him a careless and indignant answer; but afterwards, in the most artful manner, he contrived to elicit from my confidential servant at what hour I was in the habit of visiting a certain lady. It had before occurred to me, as something very remarkable, that the victims of assassination who were daily found in the streets, had all precisely the same sort of wound, apparently inflicted by one and the same weapon. I was quite certain that the murderer must have been, by practice, accustomed to the blow, which was momentarily mortal, and must have reckoned with certainty on its effect. If that one blow should prove ineffectual, then there might be a combat on an equal footing. This made me think of a precaution, in its nature so simple, that I am surprised it did not occur to others who could not have gone out at night without ​being apprehensive of the danger that awaited them. In short, I put on a light coat of mail under my waistcoat, and walked along the street at that hour which, as my servant had informed him, was the usual time of my nightly assignations. When I was drawing near to the lady's house, Cardillac, just as I had expected, rushed up, and attacked me from behind. He clasped me in his arms with gigantic strength; but the blow which he aimed, trusting as usual that it would prove mortal, slid off from the coat of mail without doing me any injury. At that moment I disengaged myself from his hold, and having my stiletto ready in my right hand, struck it into his heart."
"And you have been silent," said de Scuderi, "and would not announce these important truths to the Chambre Ardente?" "I have been silent," answered Miossen, "and your ladyship will please to remember, that such information, if it did not bring destruction upon my own head, must, at least, have involved me in a terrible law process. Would la Regnie, who suspects every one who falls in his way, of guilt and hypocrisy, have believed me if I accused Cardillac, (who was looked upon as a perfect model of regularity and devotion,) of an attempt at murder?—Should I not rather, by this means, have turned the sword of justice against myself?" "Impossible," said de Scuderi, "your birth and rank must have preserved you from such imputations." "Oh, ho!" replied de Miossen, "your ladyship forgets, then, the Marshal de Luxembourg, who, because he had once taken it into his head to have his fortune read by le Sage, brought on himself the suspicion of wishing to poison all his acquaintances, and was therefore thrown into the Bastile. No,—by St. Dennis! I would not surrender even a single hour of my personal liberty into the power of la Regnie. I doubt not, that, if the matter were at his own disposal, he would bring all our necks to the block, tout d'un coup, without delay or discrimination."
"But whatever is the character of la Regnie," said de Scuderi, "could you have made up your mind on such prin​principles, to see the guiltless Brusson dragged to the scaffold?" "Guiltless?" said de Miossen; "could you then apply that epithet to the friend and accomplice of the diabolical Cardillac? To him, forsooth, who, no doubt, aided the assassin in all his crimes, and who has, therefore, deserved an hundred-fold the punishment that now awaits him?—No, indeed! He will justly suffer on the scaffold; nor was it from any wish to rescue him that I made these disclosures;—yet, at the same time, if you can turn what I have said to the advantage of your protege,—if, at least, means could be devised to save him from the torture, I should rejoice, as I know that this would be a satisfaction to your benevolent heart."
De Scuderi, overjoyed to find her own conviction of Olivier's innocence thus confirmed, did not hesitate to repeat to the Count the whole narrative, which the unfortunate youth had entrusted to her, and to suggest, that they ought immediately to go to the advocate D'Andilly. From him she proposed that a solemn promise of secresy should be required, and that they should afterwards be governed by his counsel as to what remained farther to be done.
The meeting took place accordingly, and the advocate was very particular in his enquiries of de Miossen, whether he was absolutely certain that it was Cardillac, by whom he had been attacked, and if he could swear to the personal identity of Brusson, as the individual who had come up during their encounter. "Not only," said the Count, "did I recognize the goldsmith's features by the moonlight, but I have also seen, in the hands of la Regnie, the dagger with which Cardillac was struck. I can swear to its being mine, and it is distinguished from all others, by the particular workmanship of the hilt. As to the young man's countenance, his hat had fallen off, and I was so near to him that I could recognize his appearance again, even among a thousand people."
The advocate was silent for some minutes, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the ground. At length he said, "In an ordinary and regular way, Brusson cannot possibly be ​rescued from the sentence that awaits him. On account of his attachment to Madelon, he will not accuse Cardillac as an assassin. But this course he might follow, at all events, because, if by an exposure of the secret passage, and the collected treasures, he were to prove the goldsmith's guilt, he would not the less be looked on as an accomplice. The same difficulties, of course, remain, though the Count de Miossen were to reveal his adventures to the judge. Delay is, in short, the only advantage we can hope for at present, and, in order to obtain this, we must not speculate, but use, at once, the means, however limited, that are within our power. With this view, Count de Miossen may, if he pleases, go to the Conciergerie, may have an interview with the prisoner, and identify him as the person who came up to the assistance of Cardillac. He may then go to la Regnie, and say, "I was walking in the Rue St. Honoree, and saw a man knocked down. I ran to give my assistance, when another man started out from the opposite side of the street, came up, and kneeled beside him who had fallen, and as he found life not extinct, took him up on his shoulders and carried him away. This person's features were clearly visible to me in the moonlight, and I have recognized them in Olivier Brusson." Should the Count think proper to give in a deposition of this tenor, it will, of course, bring on a new hearing in court, and the deponent will be examined along with the prisoner. At all events, it is satisfactory that the torture will be for the present postponed, and farther investigations will be commenced.—Then will be the proper time to make an application to the king,—and this last must, of course, be entrusted to the management of the lady de Scuderi, on whose good sense and admirable talents success with his majesty must depend. In my opinion it would be proper to reveal to him the whole mystery. Brusson's confessions to you are fully supported by the deposition of the Count, and farther proof will probably be gained by an examination of Cardillac's house. All this, however, could not warrant any favorable sentence of the ​law; but it may justify the interference of the king, who can show mercy even in cases where the judge is necessitated to condemn the prisoner."
D'Andilly's advice was accurately followed, and the consequences were such as he had expected, the torture being delayed, and a day appointed for a new hearing. Now the proper time had arrived for having recourse to the king; a point on which de Scuderi could not help feeling timid and anxious; for such was the abhorrence that Louis had conceived against Brusson, believing him to be one of the murderers by whom all Paris was kept in a state of terror and agitation, that, even on the slightest allusion to the delays that had taken place at the trial, he fell into a tremendous passion. The Marchioness de Maintenon, adhering firmly to her principles of never speaking to the monarch upon any subject that was disagreeable, refused to undertake the office of mediatrix, so that Brusson's fate was left entirely in the hands of de Scuderi. After long reflection, she came to a resolution which she did not lose a moment in carrying into effect; she dressed herself for the occasion, in a black robe of heavy massive silk, adorned herself with Cardillac's fine jewels, hung a lace veil over the whole, and in this attire made her entree into the chambers of de Maintenon, at the time when the king was there. In such a dress, the dignified figure, and placid countenance of the noble poetess, failed not to inspire respect, even among the mob of idle loungers, who, as usual, were collected in the ante-room. All made way for her with the greatest deference, and on her appearance in the audience chamber, even the king himself was forcibly struck, and came forward to meet her.
The valuable diamonds of the necklace and bracelets then flashed so brightly, that they could not escape his notice, and he exclaimed, by St. Dennis, that is jewelry of Cardillac's.—Look only, Madame la Marquise," added he, turning to de Maintenon, "how our beautiful bride mourns for the loss of her betrothed husband!"—"Nay, Sire," answered de ​Scuderi in the same tone of badinage, "how could it become a mourning bride to adorn herself with these glittering jewels? No—no! I have quite disengaged my affections from the goldsmith, and would not think of him any more, were it not indeed that his frightful figure, as he lay murdered, and was carried close by me, so often recurs to my recollection."—"How is this?" said the king; "you saw Cardillac then on the night of the murder?" De Scuderi now related in few words, how chance (for she did not venture to speak of Brusson,) had brought her to the goldsmith's house, just after the alarm of his death had been given. She described the wild grief of Madelon, the deep impression that had been made on her own mind by the appearance and conduct of the beautiful girl; in consequence of which she had rescued her from the violent hands of Desgrais, and brought her away, followed by the loud applause of the multitude. De Scuderi's tones were clear and musical, and her eloquence was powerful.—She contrived always to give additional interest to the narrative, and perceiving that Louis was favorably disposed, she came to the scenes with la Regnie, with Desgrais, and at length even with Olivier Brusson. The king had indeed listened attentively to de Scuderi's story, insomuch that he seemed to have quite forgot the irritability and anger which he had before manifested, whenever any allusion was made to that criminal. He never once checked the lady's discourse, but occasionally, by his interjections of surprise or approval, betrayed how deeply he was interested. Before Louis was in the least aware of her intentions, and while he was under the full impression of her eloquence, de Scuderi had thrown herself at his feet, and implored his royal clemency in behalf of the unfortunate prisoner.
"What can all this mean, Mademoiselle?" cried the king, raising her up by both hands, and leading her to a chair.—"You surprise me beyond measure. What you have now related is indeed a very strange and affecting story, but who can tell whether Brusson's confessions are really true, or mere ​inventions of his own brain?" To this de Scuderi answered by referring to the deposition of Count de Miossen,—the examination of Cardillac's house,—her own inward conviction,—the perfect innocence and goodness of heart shown by Madelon, who could not have loved Brusson so ardently if he had not also been guiltless. The king seemed much struck by the earnest confidence of her manner, and was about to answer, but at that moment Louvois the secretary, who had been at work in an adjoining room, looked in with an anxious countenance, and Louis, seeming to understand the signal, immediately retired. De Scuderi and de Maintenon immediately glanced at each other, and thought that by this interruption all was lost; for Louis, having had time to recover from his first surprise, would doubtless take good care not to be so much moved a second time. However, after a few minutes, the grand monarque came again into the room, took two or three turns up and down, then placed himself, with his arms crossed, opposite to de Scuderi, and said, rather in a low voice, without looking directly at her, "I should like for once to see your protege, Madelon!" "Oh, my gracious liege!" said de Scuderi, "what unspeakable condescension do you vouchsafe towards that poor girl, and what happiness will you confer upon her! It only requires your Majesty's approving signal in order to see the poor child even now at your feet."
The king nodded in token of acquiescence, and de Scuderi tripped away, as fast as her heavy dress would permit her, to inform the attendants at the door that his Majesty desired to see Madelon Cardillac in the audience chamber. On her return she could not help bursting into tears, and sobbed aloud, so deeply was she affected. She had, indeed, fondly anticipated that the king's attention might be gained, and had, with this view, brought Madelon along with her, who was now waiting in one of the ante-rooms, with the dame d'Honneur of the Marquis, and holding in her hand a little petition, which had been drawn out for her by D'Andilly,
​In a few moments she made her entree, and threw herself in silence at the king's feet. Agitated at once by fear, bashfulness, grief, and love, her heart beat so violently, that she could not have uttered a word. Her cheeks were suffused with the deepest blushes, and her eyes shone through tears, that ever and anon fell through her long eyelashes, on her snow-white bosom. It was obvious, that, from the first moment, the king was deeply struck with the wonderful beauty of this angelic girl. He raised her gently from the ground, and even made a movement as if he would kiss the hand which he still held; he let it go, however, but looked at her with an expression of embarrassment, that betrayed how deeply he was affected. The Marchioness de Main tenon now whispered to de Scuderi, "Is not her hair wonderfully like that of la Valiere? The king, too, seems to think so, and luxuriates in sweet though melancholy remembrances; your game is won!" Cautiously as de Maintenon pronounced these words, yet in the stillness of the whole party, the king had probably overheard them. He turned half round to the Marquise, and a transient flush of displeasure came over his features. He than read the short petition which Madelon had brought with her, and said mildly and good humoredly, "I believe, indeed, my dear child, that you are thoroughly convinced of your lover's innocence, but we must yet hear what the Chambre Ardente have to say on that head." A wave of his hand implied that the poor girl might withdraw; and, as she retired, it was remarked that she could not help bursting into a passionate flood of tears.
De Scuderi perceived, to her great dismay, that the recollection of la Valiere, beneficial as it might have been at first, yet, as soon as de Maintenon pronounced the name of that lady, seemed to have quite a contrary effect. It might be that Louis found himself by this means rather brusquement reminded, that he was about to sacrifice justice at the shrine of beauty, or he might feel like a dreamer, who, when suddenly awoke, sees the beautiful images that he had thought to grasp, ​fade at once into chill reality. Now, perhaps, he no longer beheld the young and blooming la Valiere, but only the sister Louise de la Misericorde, (which was her name among the Carmelite nuns,) who, with her piety and penitence, was by no means an object suited to the lively disposition of the monarch. What could henceforth be done to retrieve this blunder? It was a subject on which she dared not to speak, and she could only wait in patience the king's unbiassed determination.
The deposition of the Count de Miossen before the Chambre Ardente had now been made known in public, and as it usually happens with the mob, who fly from one extreme to another, the very same individual, who had before been denounced as the most abominable of hypocrites and assassins, and whom they had threatened to tear in pieces, if ho were not immediately brought to the scaffold, was now mourned and lamented over as the innocent victim of a barbarous and unrelenting judge. Now, for the first time, the neighbors began to recollect with what exemplary piety he had always conducted himself among them, his regular attendance at church, and the faithful industry with which he had served the old goldsmith. Nay, great bands of people often assembled in a threatening manner before the house of la Regnie and shouted aloud, "We come to demand freedom for Olivier Brusson—bring him out to us immediately, for he is innocent!" At last they began to throw stones at the windows; so that la Regnie was obliged to send to the Marechaussee for protection.
Several days passed over, and de Scuderi had not received any intimation how the process was going on. Quite restless and miserable, she at last betook herself to de Maintenon, who assured her that the king had never said one word on the subject, and that it would be by no means prudent to remind him of it. Afterwards, when she inquired with an ironical smile for the little la Valiere, de Scuderi was convinced that, in this proud woman's heart, there existed some feeling of ​jealousy or vexation, by which the king might easily be led astray from all his good intentions. From de Maintenon, therefore, she could not for the future entertain any hopes of assistance.
At last, with the help of D'Andilly, she was able to discover, that Louis had had a conference with the Count de Miossen; farther, that Bontems, the monarch's confidential chamberlain, had been sent to the Conciergerie, and had spoken with Brusson; afterwards, that private examinations had been carried on at the house of Cardillac, where the old gentleman Claude Patru deponed, that, through the whole night on which Cardillac was murdered, he had heard an extraordinary noise over his head, and that Olivier must certainly have been there, for he had distinctly heard his voice, &c. So much at least was certain, that the king had ordered the most accurate inquiries to be made into the evidence for and against Brusson; but it was inconceivable how the matter was so long of coming to any termination. La Regnie would no doubt try every method to hold fast within his own power the victim who thus threatened to escape from him; and, when de Scuderi reflected on this man's chararcter, she almost lost hope. Nearly a month had passed away, when a message was brought to the lady, that the king wished to see her, the same evening, at the chambers of de Maintenon. De Scuderi's heart beat violently, for she knew that Brusson's trial must by this time be decided. She mentioned this to the poor Madelon, who prayed zealously to the blessed Virgin and all the saints, that whatever the judge's sentence might have been, the king at least might be inspired with a conviction of her lover's innocence.
For some time, however, after de Scuderi's appearance in the Marchioness's rooms, his Majesty seemed to have forgotten the whole affair, for, as on former occasions, occupying himself in lively discourse with the ladies, he did not allude, by a single syllable, to the unhappy prisoner. At last, however, Bontems appeared, went up to the monarch, and said a few ​words in a voice so low, that their import was unintelligible to the bystanders, though, as the name Brusson was audible, de Scuderi trembled, but she was not long kept in suspense. Louis arose, and came to her with joy unaffectedly gleaming in his eyes, "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle," said he, "your protegé, Olivier Brusson, is free!" De Scuderi, who was too much affected to utter a word, would have thrown herself at his feet in her gratitude,—but Louis prevented her. "No, no! my lady," said he, "I have not deserved such homage, for it is to your exertions that this result is owing. You should, in truth, be my advocate in the chamber of peers, and carry on all my pleas, for there is no resisting your eloquence. Yet," added he, in a more serious tone, "whoever is under the protection of genius and virtue, may indeed be safe, in spite of the Chambre Ardente, and all the courts of justice in the world." De Scuderi now found words, and in the most glowing terms expressed her gratitude. The king interrupted this, reminding her that far more ardent thanks now awaited her in her own house than he had any right to look for, as by that time Madelon was probably clasped in the embraces of her fortunate lover. "Bontems," concluded the monarch, "shall disburse one thousand Louis d'or, which I beg of you to give in my name to the poor girl, as a wedding dowry. She may marry this Olivier Brusson, who, whether innocent or guilty, is probably far from deserving such good fortune; but, then, both of them must leave Paris. That is our fixed will and resolve, from which we shall certainly not depart."
On de Scuderi's return home, Martiniere came in a great hurry to the door, and behind her was Baptiste, both of them with looks of the utmost delight, and exclaiming, "He is free—he is free!—oh! the dear happy young bride and bridegroom!" The lovers now threw themselves at de Scuderi's feet—"Oh! I knew very well, that you,—you alone would save my beloved husband!" cried Madelon. "And my confidence in the kind protectress of my infancy," said Olivier, ​"was never for a moment abated." They kissed the hands of the venerable lady, declaring that the happiness of that moment far more than compensated for all their sufferings; then they wept in their great joy, and vowed that nothing but death should again effect their separation.
After a few days, they were united by the holy rites of the church, and even, though it had not been the king's command, Brusson would not have remained in Paris, where all the scenes reminded him of Cardillac's crimes, and where a trifling chance might bring to light the horrid mysteries which were already known to several individuals. Immediately after his wedding, therefore, he went, followed by the blessings of de Scuderi, to Geneva, where being well established in the world by Madelon's dowry, and clever in his profession, he led henceforward a contented happy life, free from care and vexation of every kind, so that for him all those hopes were realized, in which his father had even to his dying day been disappointed.
About a year after Brusson's departure, a public advertisement appeared at Paris, signed by Harley, de Chavelon, archbishop, and the advocate Pierre Arnaud D'Andilly, to the effect, that a repentant sinner under the zeal of confession, had given over to the church a treasure of gold and diamonds which he had gained by robbery. Every person, therefore, who, from about the end of 1680, had been robbed of property on the streets, should come to the chambers of D'Andiliy, where, if their description of what they had lost accorded exactly with that of any jewel in his possession, they would immediately obtain it again. Many, therefore, who were noted in Cardillac's list as not murdered, but only stunned by a blow of his powerful arm, came one after another to the advocate, and, to their no small astonishment, received back the jewels. The rest were given up as a present to the church of St. Eustathius.
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