_Signor Petito Appears_
|WHILE waiting for the stage from Crecy to stop for them, they called
at the wayside inn, and had some refreshment, while Adolphe took up the
story of L’Enfant at the point where he had left off.
“That good uncle,” said he, “had fellow-feeling for one of his
family, and he rescued young Cartouche from his miserable lot and made
him return to his parents. His father was a cooper by trade, and
young Louis, having profited by his youthful misfortunes, swore that
henceforth he would be a good son and a diligent apprentice. He helped
his father to make casks, working from daybreak to sunset.
“He was frequently seen, during lunch hour, amusing his companions
with pretty tricks of sleight-of-hand which he had learned during the
few months he had been with the gypsies. He had become so adept at
this science that on special occasions little Louis and his family were
invited to dinners and suppers before friends, for they looked forward
to the enjoyment of these tricks of Louis’, and he became a great
success in the quarter, and he, on his part, was proud of his growing
renown.
“In the meantime he had attained that happy period where the least
sensitive of human beings feel the beating of their hearts awaken to the
most tender sentiments. Louis Dominique was in love. The object of his
affections was a charming needlewoman of the Rue Porte Foin, coquettish,
with blue eyes, golden hair, and a fine figure. I have said that this
needlewoman was a coquette. She loved dress, jewels and laces, and it
was her desire always to be better clothed than her companions. The
modest income of Louis Dominique did not permit of his paying for the
extravagant fancies of his poor seamstress, and so Cartouche stole from
his father. The latter soon found out and took steps by which he could
have his boy placed in the Convent of the Lazaretto, in the Faubourg St.
Denis.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “instead of combating with kindness the
wickedness of this child, they drive him to despair by incarcerating him
where he only meets with bad examples, and where the feeling of
revolt increases, and boils over, stifling all other feelings in his
inexperienced mind. I wager that if they had not put Louis in the House
of Correction, that all the trouble would never have happened.”
“Reassure yourself,” said Adolphe. “Cartouche was never shut up in
the Convent of the Lazaretto, for while his father had discovered this
crime of Louis’, he did not tell him of it; but one Sunday morning, he
asked his son to take a walk with him. Dominique readily acquiesced, and
they were soon seen walking down the street together.
“‘Where are we going, father?’ asked Louis. ‘No matter where. By
way of the Faubourg St. Denis.’ Louis pricked up his ears. He knew that
at the end of the Faubourg St. Denis was the Lazaretto, and he also knew
that sometimes fathers escorted their boys to the Lazaretto.
“He at once felt suspicious, for his conscience was not altogether
tranquil, and when they arrived at the corner of the Faubourg St. Denis,
and the battlement of the St. Lazaretto rose before them, it seemed to
him that his father looked unnatural, and he felt uncomfortable at once.
He told his father to continue his walk, slowly, without hurrying, as he
wished to stop at the corner.
When his father returned, the son had disappeared, and he never saw him
again.”
About this time the coach had arrived, and Adolphe discontinued his tale
while they mounted to the top. Théophraste recognized M. Bache, and
Mme. Froude, and he at once bowed to them, but they did not respond.
He called them by name, but they remained mute. Théophraste could not
understand this, and turned to ask Adolphe what he thought of it, and
why they did not recognize him.
“That does not astonish me at all,” said Adolphe. “It is no wonder
to me, since the dinner the other day, that nobody bows to you. Your
extraordinary behavior was enough to upset them all. Do you not remember
how you were mounted on the table and sang that vulgar song? There were
some young ladies present, Miles. Froude and Tabouret.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “that accounts for Mme. Bache’s
pretending not to see me the other day in Paris, when she called at the
Pharmacy Crecy and I happened to meet her there. Never mind, Adolphe,
continue where you left off about my father. What happened to him?”
“Well, you forgot about your seamstress at the Rue Point Foin, and you
thought of her no more.
She worried over your disappearance about a fortnight, and then got
somebody else, as is done under similar circumstances to-day. The
necessity to make your way in the world recalled your old talents, and
soon you were robbing passers-by of the things in their pockets. You
operated so adroitly, that you incurred the admiration of a great
sharper, who having seen you work, stopped you at the corner of the Rue
Gallaud, and demanded of you your money or your life. ‘You shall have
my purse only when you have my life,’ said you to him, and you drew
your sword, a small sword that you had taken the day before from a
French Guardsman. The great sharper flattered you upon your courage, and
then upon your dexterity, and he begged you to accompany him home to the
Rue Bout du Monde. He told you on the way that he sought an associate,
and you could do the business. He also told you that he had a wife,
and the wife had a very pretty sister. After a while you married this
sister, though neither notary nor priest was sent for. The attachment
did not last over six months, because the sharper, his wife, and his
sister-in-law were sent to the gallows. You had already left them by
this time, and had joined the army. You were caught one day, drunk, by
a recruiting officer, and he took you to the barracks, and made you sign
on.”
By this time it was seven o’clock, and Adolphe interrupted the course
of his recital at that point, as they had to alight from the coach.
“Tell me,” said Théophraste, “I am curious to know how I was
built. Was I a handsome man, a tall man?”
“They represent you thus at the theater, in M. d’Ennury’s play,
but on the contrary, according to the poet Granvel, you were a conceited
man, and always fond of singing your own praises. You were dark, lean,
small, but of great courage. You were enterprising and bold, and very
alert.”
“You have not told me,” said Théophraste, “how you got that
picture in the house on the Rue Guinegaud.”
“It is a copy of a photograph by Nedar. He photographed a wax mask,
which ought to resemble you, as that mask was made from your face by the
order of the Regent. Nedar photographed that mask in 1859. The mask was
found in the Chateau de St. Germain.”
“Oh! I want to see it,” cried Théophraste—“to touch it. We must
go to St. Germain to-morrow.”
By this time they had reached the house, and Marceline, in neat
dishabille, smilingly opened the door and greeted them.
Théophraste had a great desire to see and touch that waxen mask that
had been made from his face, and the desire was still greater when
Adolphe entered into the details of it. He told him that it had been in
the Chateau de St. Germain en Laye, since the 24th of April, 1849.
“It appears that the portrait was given by an abbot, one Viallier, to
be inherited by one Richot, an old officer of the Hussars of King Louis
XVI. M. Richot died at St. Germain. He owned the portrait for many
years, one most precious, especially as it had belonged to the royal
family. The wax mask was moulded by a Florentine artist some days before
Cartouche’s punishment. The head-dress was a woolen or coarse felt
cap, his clothing was a shirt of very coarse linen, a waistcoat, and
another vest, and a doublet of black camelot. But the most remarkable
thing of all was that Cartouche’s hair was cut off of his corpse
and pasted on the waxen mask. The whole was shut up in a gilded wooden
chest, large and deep, of beautiful workmanship. A Venetian glass
protected the portrait, and one could still see the escutcheon of the
arms of France on the chest.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe where he had found such precise details,
and was told that they were the result of two days’ searching in the
forgotten archives of the most noted libraries and museums of Paris.
There he found his hair, his moustache, and his clothes, two hundred
years old.
In spite of the horror which these relics of a man so monstrous ought to
have inspired in him, Théophraste could not control his impatience to
see them, to touch them. Here was Théophraste Longuet, whose name was
synonymous with honor, who had always feared the shedding of blood,
cherishing in his heart the coarse remains of the greatest brigand on
earth. When he had again command of his senses, he did not find in the
bottom of his soul a feeling of absolute despair, but of great pity, a
pity so keenly felt that he did not weep only for himself, Théophraste,
but also moved him to pity Cartouche. He asked himself which was the
more dominant, honest Théophraste, carrying with him the brigand
Cartouche, or the brigand Cartouche, shut up within honest Théophraste.
“It is necessary that we should understand each other,” he said
aloud. He felt that he should not have uttered that sentence which must
have seemed odd, but which expressed so well the double and yet unique
preoccupation of his soul that he could not restrain himself. A great
light dawned upon him at the same time, that recalled the theory of
reincarnation that had been explained to him by M. Lecamus. He connected
reincarnation with the natural evolution of things, and of individuals,
that which was no other than transformation. “Does it not point to
the fact that souls reincarnate themselves in order to pass according to
natural law to advancement to a better state? It is the progressive step
of being. Well, the natural law which certain persons call God, did not
find anything better on the earth than the body of Théophraste Longuet
through which to make the criminal soul of Cartouche evolve to a better
state.”
When that idea got a firm hold on him, in place of the deepest despair,
which had led him to faint, he found himself prompted by a sentiment
almost akin to pride. He was entrusted with the destiny of the world.
He, the humble but honest Théophraste, entrusted with the regeneration
in ideal splendor, of the soul of shadows and of the bloody Louis
Dominique Cartouche, called L’Enfant. He accepted this unexpected task
willingly, since he could not do otherwise, and he put himself at once
on his guard. Instead of saying, “It is necessary for us to understand
each other,” he immediately ordered Cartouche to obey Théophraste,
and he promised himself to lead him a life so hard that he could not
say without smiling, “Poor Cartouche.” He had charged M. Lecamus to
write everything possible about Louis Dominique Cartouche in such a way
that he could not be ignorant of anything that could be known of his
life. With that and with what his black feather and his memory had
taught him, he justly thought he could resist in spirit the Other
One, which would allow him to act accordingly. He partly confided his
reflections to Adolphe, who approved of them, but warned him against a
tendency he had to separate Théophraste from Cartouche.
“You must not forget,” said he, “that they are one. You have the
instincts of the gardeners of the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. Those instincts
are good, but you have the soul of Cartouche, which is detestable. Take
care. You are his declared enemy, the question is raised as to who will
vanquish— the soul of former years, or the instincts of today.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe if the soul of Cartouche was really
altogether detestable, and was happy to learn that it had some good
points. Adolphe said that Cartouche had expressly forbidden to kill or
even wound passers-by without cause. When he operated in Paris with some
of his bands, and they brought victims to him, he spoke to them with so
much politeness and kindness, that they always returned a part of the
booty to him. Sometimes they would limit matters to a simple exchange of
clothes. When he found letters or pictures in the pockets of the coats
thus exchanged, he ran after the ex-proprietors to return them. It was
a maxim of that extraordinary individual, that a man ought not to
be robbed twice in the same night, nor were they to be too severely
treated, so as not to prevent the Parisians from going out in the
evening. Therefore he ordered his men to take the utmost care not to
kill any one without good reason. At this time the man was not yet
thoroughly wicked. Up to then he had always had a reason for every act.
It is to be regretted, however, that he had had one hundred and fifty
reasons to assassinate.
Let us return to the wax mask.
Théophraste and Adolphe were going down the stairs in the station
of St. Germain-en-Laye, when suddenly Théophraste thought he saw a
familiar figure ahead of him, among a group of travelers. Moved by a
feeling over which he had no control, he ran rapidly towards the group,
but the figure had disappeared. Where had he seen that figure before? It
was so repulsive to him. Adolphe asked him the cause of his agitation,
and he recovered himself at once.
“I would swear,” said Théophraste, “that it was Signor Petito,
the Italian professor of the floor below. What did Signor Petito come to
St. Germain for? I do not want to run foul of him.”
“Well, what has he done, then?” asked Adolphe.
“Oh, nothing. Only if he runs across my way, I swear I will cut off
his ears, and you know I will do it if I say so.”
They then went, without any more thought of Signor Petito, to the
castle. They entered the Museum, and asked to see the wax mask of
Cartouche. Théophraste became enraged when he learned that it was not
to be found there, and in his excitement he poked the handle of his
green umbrella into the eye of a plaster cast of a member of the Legion
of Honor. An old guard came up and told him that he knew well there had
been a wax mask of Cartouche in St. Germain, and that it could be found,
he thought, in the library. But the latter had been closed up for eight
days for repairs. Théophraste gave that man a franc, and they turned
their steps toward the terrace, promising themselves to come again at
a later time, for the farther the wax mask seemed away, the more
Théophraste burned to touch it.
It was a beautiful day, and they walked together in the forest, in the
magnificent walk which led to the battlements of the Loge, which were
constructed in front of the Castle Germain, by Queen Anne of Austria.
As they reached the south angle of the ramparts, it seemed that
Théophraste recognized again, gliding in a thicket, the repulsive form
of Signor Petito.
Adolphe insisted that he was mistaken.