_The Murder in the Rue Guenegaud_
|MARCELINE got up as much to hide her feelings as to find out if the
nickel-plated revolver was in its usual place in the drawer. Upon her
return she was greatly agitated, and told them that the revolver had
been removed.
Théophraste advised her to calm herself, saying there was nothing of
importance in that; and he proceeded to read about the crime in the
Rue du Bac, saying that the journalist who wrote the narrative was more
intelligent, and had made his report more interesting than the first
one.
“However,” said he, “there are a few inaccuracies and omissions
in his narrative. According to him one is led to think that Cartouche
indulged in amorous proceedings with Mme. de Bithigne after supper.
However, such a thing should not be allowed to get abroad, as no such
thing happened. He had no other intention than to take supper with the
lady.
“Why, my dear Marceline, if I had intended otherwise, my reputation
would have suffered, and Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers would have
scorned me when I met her on July 13th, 1721.
“These gentlemen also relate that I outraged Mme. la Maréchale de
Boufflers. This is all wrong. I am very fond of her on account of her
intellect, and our intercourse was most polite, as well as virtuous.
If they had only studied more, these journalists would have known that
Madame in 1721 was over sixty years old, and I dare say Cartouche knew
many younger women to play such tricks on.”
Théophraste then took up the paper:
“‘The history of the Rue du Bac is much more simple. The Prefect of
Police had received a note which ran: “If you dare, come and find me;
I am always at the inn in the Rue du Bac, with Bernard.” It was signed
“Cartouche.” The thing had occurred after Mme. de Bithigne had told
her story. The Prefect thought over his case and laid his plans.
“‘That same evening, a quarter of an hour after midnight, half a
dozen policemen raided the tavern in the Rue du Bac. They were met on
the stairs by a man, who, although still young, had perfectly white
hair. He was endowed with almost superhuman strength, and, on seeing the
police, he picked up a chair near by and started striking them. Three
of them were stunned, and the others only just had time to drag the
prostrated bodies of their companions into the street to prevent them
from being burned by a fire started on the first landing by this man
with white hair. The man saved himself by jumping from roof to roof over
spaces more than thirty feet high.
“‘The new Cartouche,’ continued Théophraste, amid the scared
silence of Marceline and M. Le-camus, ‘the new Cartouche has taken
possession of the Rue Guenegaud. Several days ago they found in a
vault-like passage there under the floor the body of a young doctor, who
had been active at the death of Mme. de Bardinoldi, the mystery of which
had baffled the police and press. The police had not confided to any one
the fact that pinned to the young doctor’s tunic was a card on which
some one had written in pencil: “We will meet each other in the other
world, M. de Traneuse.” This was without doubt a crime of the new
Cartouche, for the old one did in fact assassinate at this place an
engineer named Traneuse. Cartouche had knocked him on the head with a
stick, and the young doctor had had his skull fractured with a blunt
instrument.’”
Théophraste laid down the paper, and, looking at Adolphe and Marceline,
remarked that they both looked as if they were expecting a like
catastrophe.
“Why, my dear Adolphe,” said he, “it is ridiculous for you to be
angry at such pleasantries. I take the opportunity of telling you that I
often frequent the Rue Guenegaud. That history of M. de Traneuse was to
me the beginning of one of the prettiest farces that ever I played with
M. d’Argenson’s spies. Following the death of M. de Traneuse (who
had allowed some very improper talk about me), I was followed by
two patrols of the guard, who covered me and rendered all resistance
impossible. But they were ignorant that I was Cartouche, and satisfied
themselves by conducting me to the Ford l’Avegne, which was the
easiest prison in Paris. In this prison they put debtors, drunks, and
disorderly people, and the people who have not paid their fines. They
were sure that they had taken Cartouche on the 10th of January, but
on the evening of the 9th Cartouche had made his escape, and took the
direction of his police. It was time, for everybody was now searching
the streets of Paris.
“My dear Marceline, and my dear Adolphe, you look as if you were at
a funeral. That article does not lose its quota of a certain amount of
wit. At first I thought it only the jest of a cheap journalist, but I
see now that it is very serious, believe me. Wait for the history of the
calf! Ah! We have not done yet with the affair of the Petits Augustines!
Listen!”
Théophraste picked up his paper, adjusted his gold spectacles, and
began again:
“‘That which was the most extraordinary in this adventure was that
several times during light days they have been on the point of capturing
this modern Cartouche, and that he always escaped just as the other
did, by way of the chimneys. History teaches us that the true Cartouche
designed on the 11th of June, 1721, to sack the Hotel Desmarets, Rue des
Petits Augustines. It was one of his men, Le Ratichon, who had given
him the idea. But Cartouche and Le Ratichon had been imprisoned by the
police. As soon as Cartouche was in the house, the bailiffs hastened
there and the place was invaded. He tranquilly closed the doors of the
salons and extinguished the lights, undressed himself, climbed into the
chimney, descended by another way into the kitchen, where he found a
scullion, killed the scullion, disguised himself with the dead man’s
clothes, and went out in fine form from the hotel, killing two bailiffs
with two pistol shots because they asked him news of Cartouche. Well,
what will you say when you know that our Cartouche was surrounded the
day before yesterday in a confectioner’s shop in a quarter of the
Augustines, escaped by the chimney, after having put on over all his
effects, to prevent soiling them, the pastry cook’s blouse, which had
been found on the roofs, also his pantaloons. As to the pastry cook,
they found him half buried in his bake oven. But, before putting him
there, as a humane precaution, the murderer, Cartouche, had assassinated
him.’ ”
Here Théophraste, interrupting himself again, cried:
“Previously, previously. I had previously assassinated him.... But
why do you fly into the corners? Are you afraid? Let us see, my dear
Adolphe, my dear Marceline, a little coolness— you will need it for
the history of the calf.”