_The Operation_
|THIS savage onslaught, which but for the presence of mind of M.
Eliphaste would have terminated in the amputation of M. Longuet’s
hand, proved to them that the sanguine imagination of Cartouche had so
completely invaded the brain of M. Longuet that it seemed to them the
only remedy for such a misfortune was the death of Cartouche.
M. Eliphaste did not hesitate. He had reasoned with him in vain, and had
even hoped at one time that he had been victorious, but this incident
undoubtedly proved otherwise. He rose and looked at Théophraste, giving
him a long, steady glance, which seemed to pierce the uttermost depths
of his soul. Théophraste sighed several times and began to tremble
violently, when M. Eliphaste cried, “Cartouche, I order you to
sleep.” Théophraste fell as if stricken on the armchair which stood
behind him, and did not make another move. His respiration was so silent
that they doubted if he still lived. Marceline ran to him alarmed, but
M. Eliphaste restrained her, saying, “All is well. The operation of
the death of Cartouche has begun.”
Adolphe knew, from several examples, that there is always a great risk
when one wishes to kill a reincarnated soul—that is to say, to throw
it back toward the past. There is a risk of killing the body in which
it is reincarnated. And so he knew that trying to kill the soul of
Cartouche without killing Théophraste was a great undertaking.
It needed all the authority, and all the science of M. Eliphaste, to
calm them in the extremity in which they found themselves. He was the
most intellectual and scientific spiritualist of the day. He had the
most absolute and domineering will that the world had seen since Jacques
Molay, to whom he had succeeded, by the supreme direction of the secret
order of Temphis. He had made an allegorical demonstration of his last
treatise on “Psychic Surgery,” and had analyzed the subject in his
pamphlet on “Astral Scalpel.”
It is necessary to enumerate all the accomplishments of M. Eliphaste,
for it gives Adolphe a chance of refuting in advance the reproach put
upon him for letting him treat his best friend with the utmost severity.
The criminal eccentricities of M. Longuet, of which Signor Petito was
the first victim, made him dread the most irremediable catastrophes,
and it was for this reason that he was led to consider the operation
of Cartouche as a benefit, not only possible, but probable, without
too great a risk to Théophraste. As to Mme. Longuet, her faith in M.
Eliphaste was so great that at first she only made a few remarks, so as
to relieve her of any responsibility, and then the terror that she had
of sleeping with Cartouche made her, over and above everything, desire
his death.
M. Eliphaste told Adolphe to take Théophraste’s heels, and he
took and held him under the armpits, and they carried him into the
sub-cellar, where a laboratory had been fitted up, which was lighted in
the day by gas, with large, red, hissing flames.
Mme. Longuet followed. They placed Théophraste on a bed, and bound
him down with straps. He was still under the mesmeric influence. M.
Eliphaste stood over him, watching him closely, for a quarter of an
hour, during which time there was a deep silence in the room. At length
a voice was heard. It was M. Eliphaste praying. The prayer began in this
way:
“In the beginning there was silence. Oh, age Eternal, source of all
ages------”
When the prayer was ended, M. Eliphaste took Théophraste by the hand
and seemed to command him without speaking. He questioned Théophraste
by the strength of his domineering spirit —only by the answers
Théophraste made could they understand what he had been commanded to
tell. Théophraste said, without effort, “Yes, I see. Yes, I am. I
am M. Théophraste Longuet; in an apartment of the Rue Gerondeau.” M.
Eliphaste turned toward Adolphe and Marceline. “The operation is a bad
one,” he said in a deep voice. “I have put Cartouche to sleep, and
Théophraste answers me. He is sleeping in the present. We must not
precipitate matters. It will be dangerous.”
“I am in the Rue Gerondeau—in the apartment under mine—and I see
stretched on the bed a man without ears. In front of him a woman; a dark
woman—she is pretty—she is young—her name is Regina—the woman is
saying to the man, ‘Signor Petito, as true as I am called Regina, and
that you have lost your ears, you will cease to see me in forty-eight
hours if you have not found the means to give me a little comfort, to
which I have a right. When I married you, you basely deceived me, both
as to your fortune and as to your intelligence. Your fortune rested only
in hopes which have not been realized. What are you going to do?’
“Signor Petito replies, ‘My dear Regina, you puzzle me. Leave me
in peace to find a trace of the treasures that the imbecile above is
incapable of snatching from the profound depths of the earth.’”
Théophraste made them understand, in his sleep, that the imbecile
referred to was Cartouche. M. Eliphaste turned toward them, saying, “I
expect that word to make him quit the present. Now, madam, the time
has come. I am going to tempt God.” And then he spoke in a
commanding voice, in a voice that it seemed impossible not to obey.
“Cartouche,” said he, extending his hand above the strapped bed with
a commanding majesty, “Cartouche, where wast thou on the night of the
first of April, 1721, at ten o’clock?”
“On the night of April first, 1721, at ten o’clock, I struck two
light blows on the door, with the intention of making them open the door
of the Tavern Reine Margot. I never should have believed that I could
have reached the ironmonger’s shop so easily. But I had killed the
horse of the French guardsman, and I had thrown those who had followed
him into the Seine. At the Reine Margot I found Paleton, Gatelard, and
Guenal Noire. La Belle Laittiere was with them. I related the story to
them while emptying a bottle of wine. I had confidence in them, and
I told them that I suspected Va de Bon Cœur—and perhaps Marie
Antoinette—of having whispered something to the spies. They cried out,
but I cried out louder than they. I announced to them that I had decided
to deal summarily with all who gave me cause to suspect them. I
became very angry, and La Belle Laittiere told me that I was no longer
bearable. Was it my fault? Every one had betrayed me. I could not sleep
two nights consecutively in one place. Where, then, were the days when
all Paris was with me? Where, then, was the day of my wedding to Marie
Antoinette, when we sang the air of ‘Tout joli belle menniere, Tout
joli moulin’? Where was now my uncle Taton? Shut up in a castle. And
his son? Killed by me because he was going to denounce me. I had done it
quickly. A pistol shot, and his corpse was under a pile of rubbish. Then
I was sure of his silence. I killed the robber Pepin, and the police
officer Huron. I did not ask anything, only that they leave me alone to
police Paris for the security of everybody. My great council,” this he
murmured to himself, “did not pardon me for having Jacques le Febrere
executed. I am no longer bearable, and that is because I wish to live.
After that which had come to pass,” continued Théophraste in his
hypnotic sleep, “and the miraculous way in which I escaped in spite of
treachery and the precautions taken by the spies, I did not conceal from
Gate-lard or from Guenal Noire that I had decided to leave them.
“I soon left them and opened the door of the Reine Margot. Not a soul
in the ironmonger’s shop. I was saved. I did not even stop Magdelen,
whom I passed while walking along the walls of the cemetery, where I was
going to sleep that night. Truth was, I was going to pass the night like
a robber in my hole in the Rue Amelot. It was pouring with rain.”
It would be difficult to describe the strange tone in which this
narrative was related. The undulation of the phrases, their stops and
their stations, then the peculiar monotone in which the words fell
from Théophraste’s lips while he was in the hypnotic sleep. His face
sometimes expressed anger, sometimes contempt, and sometimes terror.
M. Lecamus, who had seen Cartouche’s portrait, recalled that at
certain times there was a striking resemblance to that of Théophraste.
Just as he was relating the incident of passing Magdelen, and the
downpour of rain, Théophraste’s face showed a most peculiar
expression, changing from joy to most overwhelming despair.
M. Eliphaste, leaning over the bed, asked him: “What then,
Cartouche?”
Théophraste replied in a rattling voice: “I killed a passerby.”
The operation continued, but it was only by degrees that M. Eliphaste
wished to bring Cartouche to the hour of his death. Before making him
live his death, it was necessary to make him live a little of his life.
That was the reason that M. Eliphaste had thrown the spirit of Cartouche
back to the month of April, 1721.
Though the minutes following were terrible for the onlookers, they were
worse for Cartouche, who was passing through the end of his career the
second time.
It was not until October 11, 1721, that the treason bore fruit.
Coustard, sergeant in the company of Cha-bannes, took forty men and
four sergeants with him, all of whom were designated by Duchatelle,
Cartouche’s lieutenant, who had betrayed him. This little army, in
citizen clothes, concealing its arms very mysteriously, surrounded the
house pointed out by Duchatelle.
It could not have been more than nine o’clock in the evening when they
arrived in sight of the tavern, Au Pictolet, kept by Germain Tassard and
his wife, near the Rue des Trois Bornes. Tassard was smoking his pipe on
the doorstep, when Duchatelle came up and demanded, “Is there nobody
upstairs? No? Where are the four ladies?”
Tassard, who expected this question, said, “Go up.”
The little troop rushed in, and when they came to the room above, they
found Boloquy and Cartouche drinking wine before the fireplace. Gaillard
was in bed, and Cartouche was seated on the bed, mending his breeches.
They rushed upon him. The attack was so sudden that he had no time to
make any resistance. They tied him with strong ropes, and, placing him
in the coach, took him prisoner to Monsieur the Secretary of State. Then
he was taken to the Grande Châtelet.
He was in his shirt, having had no time to put on his breeches. He kept
cool, congratulating the lieutenant who had betrayed him on the fine
livery he wore.
As the coach passed down the road, it nearly crushed some poor wretch
who was in the way, and Cartouche, seeing his plight, shouted to him
that phrase which he seemed to have affected, “It is necessary to look
out for the wheel.”
All the people ran out to see him on his way to the house of M.
the Secretary of State. They cried out, “It is Cartouche! It is
Cartouche!” only half believing it, as they had so often been
deceived.
While in the prison awaiting trial, Cartouche received many illustrious
visitors. The Regent came; the courtesan Emilie and the Mme. le
Maréchale de Boufflers followed one after the other to pay the prisoner
small attentions. Some one had composed a play, and Quinnato, the famous
actor of the time, who filled the principal rôle in it, came to ask him
for suggestions about the chief scene.
When Cartouche had been sufficiently amused, he began to think of making
his escape. He intended doing this in spite of the very close watch that
was being kept over him.
After getting out of his dungeon, and just as he was pushing the last
bar which separated him from the street and liberty, he was discovered
and caught.
Thinking that the Grande Châtelet was not strong enough for so
ingenious a man, he was bound securely in chains and taken to the
Conciergerie, in the most formidable corner of the tower of Montgomery.