THE DOUBLE LIFE
BY GASTON LEROUX
Author of “The Mystery of the Yellow Room”
JOHN E. KEARNEY Forty-Three West Twenty-Seventh Street New York
Copyright, 1909, by JOHN E. KEARNEY
HISTORICAL PREFACE
|I WAS passing through the waiting-room of the _Morning Journal_ on a
certain evening last year when my attention was drawn to a man seated
in a corner. He was dressed in black and his appearance was that of
the deepest dejection. In fact upon his face I read the most melancholy
despair.
He was not weeping, his eyes were dry and almost expressionless and
received the impression of exterior objects like motionless ice. He had
placed upon his knees a small oaken chest, ornamented with ironwork.
His hands were crossed over this object and hung down, accentuating his
dejected appearance.
An attendant told me that he had been awaiting my arrival there three
long hours without a movement, without so much as a sigh. I went towards
him, and announcing myself, I invited him to enter my office. I showed
him a seat, but instead of taking it he came straight to my writing-desk
and placed the little oaken chest on it. “Sir, this chest belongs to
you,” said he, and his voice seemed far away and indistinct. “My
friend, M. Théophraste Longuet, commissioned me to bring it to you.
Take it, sir, and believe me, your servant.” As he spoke the man bowed
and made a motion toward the door. I stopped him, however, and said:
“Why, do not go, I cannot receive this box without a knowledge of its
contents.” He replied: “Sir, I do not know what it contains, it is
locked and its key is lost. You might have to break it open to find out
the contents.” I replied: “Then at least I would like to know to
whom I am indebted for bringing it to me.”
“My friend, M. Théophraste Longuet, called me Adolphe,” replied
the man, in a voice so melancholy that it seemed to grow more faint and
indistinct with each syllable.
“Well, if M. Longuet had brought me the chest himself, he would most
certainly have told me what it contains; I expect that M. Longuet,
himself.”
“I also, sir,” said the man, “but M. Théophraste Longuet is dead,
and I am his sole executor.”
By this time he had edged his way to the door, and having said these
words, he opened the door and departed. I was taken back by this sudden
move and stood staring at the door, then at the chest. Collecting myself
I hastily followed the man, but could find no trace of him... he had
disappeared.
Opening the chest I found it contained a bundle of papers, which at
first I regarded with indifference, but which I presently began
to examine with greater interest. The deeper I penetrated the more
mysterious they appeared to be and the more unexpected were the
adventures revealed. In fact, so strange did they seem that I at first
could not believe my intelligence, and if the proof had not been in
front of me I never would have been convinced of their reality.
It was some time before I could bring myself to realize my position
regarding these papers. M. Théophraste Longuet had made me heir to this
chest and to the mysteries lying therein. In fact, the secrets of his
life.
These papers were written in the form of memoirs and were voluminous.
They related with the minutest detail, all the incidents of an
exceptionally dramatic existence. M. Théophraste Longuet had by the
discovery of a document two centuries old acquired the proof that Louis
Dominique Cartouche, the most cunning criminal in the annals of French
crime, and he, Théophraste, were one and the same person. This was
indeed a most startling discovery and valuable, for it also put me on
the track of the treasures of the famous Cartouche.
He had frequently confided in me facts about his peculiar life, but an
untimely death, certain terrible events related in these documents,
had prevented him from telling me all. We had been great friends. I had
written for a journal he had called his “favorite organ.” He
had chosen me as his companion and confidant from among many other
journalists, not because of any superiority of intellect, but rather,
as he used to say, “because a reliable level-headed friend is worth
twenty acquaintances, and he found me reliable.” There was much
significance in this word, “level-headed,” as you will learn as you
read this narrative.
Having thoroughly examined the papers, I immediately took them to my
manager, who was a keen business man. He did not hesitate for a moment
to find the “Treasures of Cartouche” a valuable piece for his paper,
and it is now a matter of common knowledge how curiously the sum of
twenty-five thousand francs, divided into seven sums, were hidden in and
around Paris, and how the author of these lines in the history of the
chest which appeared in print in the month of October, in the year 1903,
* touched lightly upon the story found therein.
* This date is very important, for it established the fact that
my authentic history of Cartouche had appeared before Mr. Frank
Brentano’s book, and that one two books the day after that of Mr.
Maurice Bernard.
I have believed it my duty toward the public, and also to the memory of
Théophraste Longuet, to publish in volume the authentic history of the
reincarnation of Cartouche, written exclusively from the documents found
in the little oaken chest, a plain narrative, unembellished by all that
which I, poor journalist, had added for the chance reader of my journal.
The reader will find more than a mere treasure. The documents are of
the greatest literary value, inasmuch as they contain proof of things
hitherto only dreamt of. It is certain that many people imagining
themselves of superior intellect will doubt and possibly scoff at many
of these mysteries.
The oaken chest contained the secret of the tomb; it also contained
the history of the Talpa people written by no less an authority than M.
Milfroid, Commissioner of Police, who remained for three weeks with M.
Théophraste Longuet in the subterranean home of those monsters. This
last infernal comedy would most certainly have met with incredulity had
not it been vented by one of the most honest and intellectual of Police
Commissioners. M. Milfroid was a most noble and accomplished character,
and he could place music, painting, sculptors among his accomplishments.
Now before closing this preface I must warn my readers that they
will find many strange things in the narrative, weird and almost
supernatural. And I would say that unless he is possessed with
great level-headedness, he must not read the secrets of the Life of
Théophraste Longuet.
CHAPTER PAGE
Historical Preface........................ 5
I M. Théophraste Longuet Wishes to Inform Himself, and Visits
Historical Monuments.............................. 15
II An Explanation from Théophraste------- 26
III A Search and a Discovery................ 34
IV Some Philosophy and a Song.............. 48
V Théophraste Remembers Himself......... 57
VI M. Lecamus Expresses Himself............ 64
VII Théophraste and His Black Plume_______ 68
VIII An Appeal for Help...................... 76
IX The Portrait............................ 84
X Cartouche’s Past........................ 94
XI Signor Appears.......................... 99
XII Théophraste’s Memory is Refreshed.. 112
XIII The Cat................................ 125
XIV Petito Loses His Ears.................. 131
XV Adolphe Consulted...................... 140
XVI On Private Ground...................... 146
XVII They Decide to Kill.................... 161
XVIII The Operation.......................... 166
XIX The Torture Chamber.................... 177
XX In the Charnel House................... 188
XXI Results of the Operation............... 197
XXII Visits to a Butcher’s Shop............ 201
XXIII A Newspaper Report..................... 207
XXIV The Murder in the Rue Guenegaud... 215
CHAPTER PAGE
XXV The Calf’s Revenge.............. 221
XXVI Théophraste Again Hears of His
Treasures...................... 228
XXVII The Express Train’s Disappearance 234
XXVIII Not to be Explained.............. 240
XXIX M. Mifroid Recognizes Cartouche.. 244
XXX M. Mifroid’s Theory................ 247
XXXI Lost in the Catacombs.............. 253
XXXII A Dissertation on Fish............. 264
XXXIII The Meeting of the Talfa........ 269
XXXIV M. Mifroid Performs on the Stage.. 276
XXXV A New Trade...................... 280
XXXVI A Robber Is Caught................. 284
XXXVII The Escape from the Catacombs..... 287
XXXVIII An Old Friend...................... 293
XXXIX The Final Tragedy................... 296
THE DOUBLE LIFE
CHAPTER I
_M. Théophraste Longuet Wishes to Inform Him-self and Visits Historical
Monuments_
|THE strange adventures of M. Théophraste Longuet, which ended so
tragically, originated in a visit to the prison of the Conciergerie, on
the 28th of June, 1899. Therefore this history is modern; but the writer
would say that, having read and examined all the papers and writings
of M. Théophraste Longuet, its recentness does not detract from its
sensational character.
When M. Longuet rang the bell of the Conciergerie he was accompanied
by his wife, Marceline, and M. Adolphe Lecamus. The latter was a close
friend. It was his physique that had attracted M. Longuet. He was not
handsome, but was tall and well built, and every movement showed that
strength which M. Longuet lacked. His forehead was broad and convex, his
eyebrows were heavy and straight. He had a habit of every now and
then lifting them gracefully to express his disdain of others and
his confidence in himself. His grey eyes twinkled under near-sighted
spectacles, and the straight nose, the proud arch of the underlip,
surmounted by a dark, flowing mustache, the square outline of his chin
and his amaranthine complexion, all combined to accentuate his strong
appearance.
He had been employed as postmaster at Turin, and had traveled
considerably. He had crossed the sea. This was also an attraction to M.
Longuet, who had never crossed anything, unless it was the Seine.
M. Longuet had been a rubber stamp manufacturer, but had made sufficient
money to retire at an early age. He was the antithesis of Adolphe in
build and character. His face showed no marked intelligence, and his
slight build lent almost insignificance to his appearance. He had,
however, imagination, and he used to laughingly say to Adolphe: “Even
if I haven’t traveled, I run just as much risk in walking the streets
of Paris as one who crosses the ocean in ships. Might not houses
collapse or pots of flowers fall on one’s head?” Thus he lived a
monotonous existence, relieved only by the morbid workings of his mind.
Before his retirement he had worked hard and had little time to study,
therefore, now he had leisure, it occurred to him to occupy his time in
improving his mind. It was with this intention that we find him visiting
the various buildings of historic interest around Paris.
On ringing the bell of the Conciergerie the iron door turned heavily
on its hinges. A warden shaking the keys demanded of Théophraste his
permit. He had anticipated this and had received it that morning from
the Prefect of Police. He tendered it with satisfaction, looking around
at his companion with the confidence of anticipations realized.
The gate-keeper turned the little company over to the Chief Warden, who
was passing at the time. Marceline was much impressed, and as she leaned
on Adolphe’s arm, thought of Marie Antoinette’s dungeon, the Grevin
Museum, and all the mysteries of this famous prison. The Chief Warden
said: “Are you French?” to which Théophraste replied, laughingly,
for he was typically French: “Do we look like English people?”
“This is the first time,” explained the Chief Warden, “that any
French people have asked permission to visit the Conciergerie. French
people are indifferent to things of interest in their own country.”
“They are wrong, sir,” replied Théophraste, wiping his spectacles.
“In the monuments of the past we have foundations of the future.”
This idea rather pleased him, and he looked for approval to Adolphe and
Marceline. He continued following the Warden. “As for me, I am an old
Parisian and would have visited all these places of interest long ago
but for my work. I have worked hard at my trade and the only leisure I
got was when I went to bed. That time is over now, sir, and now is the
time for me to educate myself,” and he struck the century-old pavement
with the end of his green umbrella.
Passing a small door and a large wicket, they descended some steps and
were in the guard-room. The first thing to draw attention made Adolphe
laugh, Marceline blush, and Théophraste turn in disgust. It was the
capital of a Gothic column carved to symbolize the story of Abelard and
Heloise. Abelard was pleading with the Carion Fulbert for his clemency,
while the latter was taking the child from Heloise.
“It is strange,” said M. Longuet, “that in the name of art the
Government should tolerate such obscenities. That capital is a disgrace
to the Conciergerie and should be removed.” M. Lecamus did not agree,
and said: “Many things are excusable in art if they are done in the
right spirit.”
However, the subject was dropped and they were soon interested in other
parts of these old historic buildings. The Chief Warden conducted them
through the Tower of Cæsar, into the Silver Tower, or Tower of Bon
Bee. They thought of the thousand of illustrious prisoners who had been
incarcerated in prison for years. Marceline could not keep from thinking
of the martyred Marie Antoinette, of Elizabeth, and the little Dauphin,
and of the waxen gendarmes in the museum, who watched over the Royal
family. All this impressed her, and her mind was continually carried
back to those stirring times. The Silver Tower had been transformed into
a record office, and the modern writing desks were in striking contrast
to the old medieval walls. Returning through the guard-room, they
directed their steps towards the Bon Bee Tower. Théophraste had read
about this tower and imagined he knew it well, so wishing to appear well
informed, asked of the Warden, “Is it not there, sir, that the last
meal of the Girondists was served? You ought certainly to tell us
exactly where to find the table, and also the place which Camille des
Moulins occupied.” The Warden replied that the Environdists had dined
in the chapel and that they would soon visit it.
“I wish to know Camille des Moulins’ place,” said Théophraste,
“because he was a friend of mine.”
“And mine also,” said Marceline, with a look towards Adolphe, which
seemed to say, “Not as much as you, Adolphe.”
But Adolphe laughed and said Camille was not a Girondist, he was a
Franciscan friar, a friend of Danton, a Septembrian.
Théophraste was vexed, and Marceline protested that if he had been
anything of the sort Lucille would not have married him. Adolphe did
not insist, but as they had by now reached the chamber of torture, he
feigned condescendingly to be interested in the labels which adorned the
drawers decorating the walls, “Hops,” “Cinnamon,” “Spice,”
etc.
“Here is the room in question. They have transformed it into the
doctor’s store-room.”
“It is just as well, perhaps,” said Théophraste, “but not so
impressive.”
Adolphe and Marceline were of the same opinion. They were not at all
impressed. Here was the famous torture chamber. They expected something
else. They were disillusioned. Outside, when viewed from the court of
the Sundial, the formidable aspect of those old feudal towers, the last
vestige of the palace of the French monarchy, momentarily brought fear
and awe to their minds. That prison had stood a thousand years, had
known so many tragedies, death rattles, legendary miseries, hidden
secrets. It seemed that one only had to step inside to find an
inquisition court in some dark corner, damp and funereal. Here seemed
to be all the tragedies of the history of Paris, as immortal as the very
walls.
What a disillusion here in these towers with a little plaster and paint
they had made the office of the Director of Records, the store-room of
the prison doctor. One could carouse here where once the hangman held
sway. One could laugh where only the cries of the tortured were heard.
Now there would have been nothing unusual about this visit to the
Conciergerie but for a very extraordinary incident which occurred after
the party had left the torture chamber. The incident was weird and
inexplicable, and while I read M. Longuet’s own description of it, I
confess I found it impossible to believe. Therefore I went to the
Chief Warden, who had shown the party round the prison, and asked for
his account of the incident.
He gave it to me in the following words:
Sir, the affair passed as usual, and the lady, the two gentlemen and I
visited the kitchen of St. Louis, which is now used as a store-house for
plaster. We proceeded towards the dungeon of Marie Antoinette, which is
now the chapel. On the way I showed them the crucifix, before which she
prayed before mounting the cart which is now in the Director’s room.
I told the man with the green umbrella that we had been obliged to
transfer the Queen’s arm-chair to the Director’s room, because the
English visitors had carried away pieces from it as souvenirs. We had
by this time arrived at the end of the Street of Paris—you know the
street that leads from Paris to the Conciergerie. We passed through that
frightfully dark passage, where we found the grating behind which they
cut off the hair of the women before execution. You know that it is
the very same grating. It is a passage where never a ray of sunlight
penetrates. Marie Antoinette walked through that passage on the day of
her death. It is there that the old Conciergerie stands just as it was
hundreds of years ago.
I was describing the Street of Paris, when suddenly the man with the
green umbrella cried out in a voice so unlike the previous voice, so
strangely that the other gentleman and lady looked startled: “Zounds,
it is the walk of the Straw Dealers.” He said it in a weird tone and
his whole attitude was changed. He used the expression, zounds, twice. I
told him he was mistaken, that the walk of the Straw Dealers is what
we call to-day the Street of Paris. He answered me in the same strange
voice: “Zounds, you cannot tell me that! I have lain there on that
straw like the others!” I remarked to him, smilingly, although not
without a feeling of fear, that no one had lain on that straw in the
alley of the Straw Dealers for more than two hundred years.
He was just about to answer me when his wife intervened. “What are you
saying, Théophraste?” said she. “Do you wish to teach Monsieur his
business? You have never been to the Conciergerie before.” Then he
said in his natural voice, the voice by which I had known him at first:
“That is so, I have never been here before.”
I could not understand then at all, but thought the incident closed,
when he did something stranger still.
We visited the Queen’s Dungeon, Robespierre’s Dungeon, the Chapel
of the Girondists, and that little gate, which is still the same as when
the unfortunate prisoners, called the Septembrians, leaped over it to be
massacred in the court. We were now in the Street of Paris. There was
a little stairway on the left which we did not descend. It led to the
cellars which I did not deem necessary to show, as it was dark and
difficult of access. The gate at the bottom of this staircase is closed
by a grating which is perhaps a thousand years old—possibly more. The
gentleman, whom they called Adolphe, proceeded with the lady toward the
door leading out of the guard-room, but without saying a word the man
with the green umbrella descended the little staircase. When he was at
the grating he cried out in that strange, weird voice: “Well, where
are you going? It is here.” The gentleman and the lady stopped as if
petrified. The voice was terrible, and nothing in the outward appearance
of the man would make you believe that the voice came from him. In spite
of my fear I ran to the head of the stairs. I was thunderstruck. He
ordered me to open the grating, and I don’t know how I obeyed him. It
was as if I had been hypnotized. I obeyed mechanically. Then when the
grating was opened he disappeared in the darkness of the cellar. Where
had he gone? How could he find his way? Those subterranean passages of
the Conciergerie are plunged in frightful darkness and nobody has been
down there for centuries and centuries.
He had already gone too far for me to stop him. He had hypnotized me. I
stayed about a quarter of an hour at the entrance of that dark hole. His
companions were in the same state as I was. It was impossible to follow
him. Then suddenly we heard his voice, not his first voice, but his
second. I was so startled I had to cling to the grating for support. He
cried out: “It is thou, Simon l’Anvergust.” I could not answer. He
passed near me, and as he passed it seemed to me that he put a scrap of
paper in his jacket pocket. He leaped up the steps with one bound and
rejoined the lady and gentleman. He gave them no explanation. As for
me, I ran to open the door of the prison for them. I wanted to get them
outside. When the wicket was open and the man with the green umbrella
was walking out, without apparent reason he said: “We must avoid the
wheel.” I don’t know what he meant, as there was no carriage near.