As she spoke she continued to press the casket on Mademoiselle Scuderi;

and now Cardillac sank again on his knees, kissed her dress, her hands,

sighed, wept, sobbed, sprang up, and ran off in frantic haste,

upsetting chairs and tables, so that the glass and porcelain crashed

and clattered together.

In much alarm, Mademoiselle Scuderi cried, "In the name of all the

saints, what is the matter with the man?" But the Marquise, in

particularly happy temper, laughed aloud, saying, "What it is,

Mademoiselle; that Master René is over head and ears in love with you,

and, according to the laws of _la galanterie_, begins to lay siege to

your heart with a valuable present." She carried this jest further,

begging Mademoiselle Scuderi not to be too obdurate towards this

despairing lover of hers; and Mademoiselle Scuderi, in her turn, borne

away on a current of merry fancies, said, "If things were so, she would

not be able to refrain from delighting the world with the unprecedented

spectacle of a goldsmith's bride of three-and-seventy summers, and

unexceptionable descent." Madame de Maintenon offered to twine the

bridal wreath herself, and give her a few hints as to the duties of a

housewife, a subject on which such a poor inexperienced little chit

could not be expected to know very much.

But, notwithstanding all the jesting and the laughter, when

Mademoiselle Scuderi rose to depart, she became very grave again when

her hand rested upon the jewel casket. "Whatever happens," she said, "I

shall never be able to bring myself to wear these ornaments. They have,

at all events, been in the hands of one of those diabolical men, who

rob and slay with the audacity of the evil one himself, and are very

probably in league with him. I shudder at the thought of the blood

which seems to cling to those glittering stones--and even Cardillac's

behaviour had something about it which struck me as being singularly

wild and eery. I cannot drive away from me a gloomy foreboding that

there is some terrible and frightful mystery hidden behind all this;

and yet, when I bring the whole affair, with all the circumstances of

it, as clearly as I can before my mental vision, I cannot form the

slightest idea what that mystery can be--and, above all, how the good,

honourable Master René--the very model of what a good, well-behaved

citizen ought to be--can have anything to do with what is wicked or

condemnable. But, at all events, I distinctly feel that I never can

wear those jewels."

The Marquise considered that this was carrying scruples rather too far;

yet, when Mademoiselle Scuderi asked her to say, on her honour, what

she would do in her place, she replied, firmly and earnestly, "Far

rather throw them into the Seine than ever put them on."

The scene with Master René inspired Mademoiselle Scuderi to write some

pleasant verses, which she read to the King the following evening, at

Madame de Maintenon's. Perhaps, for the sake of the picturing of Master

René carrying off a bride of seventy-three--of unimpeachable

quarterings--it was that she succeeded in conquering her feelings of

the imminence of something mysterious and uncanny; but at all events

she did so, completely--and the King laughed with all his heart, and

vowed that Boileau Despreaux had met with his master. So La Scuderi's

poem was reckoned the very wittiest that ever was written.

Several months had elapsed, when chance so willed it that Mlle. Scuderi

was crossing the Pont Neuf in the glass coach of the Duchesse de

Montpensier. The invention of those delightful glass coaches was then

so recent that the people came together in crowds whenever one of them

made its appearance in the streets, consequently, a gaping crowd

gathered about the Duchesse's carriage on the Pont Neuf, so that the

horses could hardly make their way along. Suddenly Mlle. Scuderi heard

a sound of quarrelling and curses, and saw a man making a way for

himself through the crowd, by means of fisticuffs and blows in the

ribs, and as he came near they were struck by the piercing eyes of a

young face, deadly pale, and drawn by sorrow. This young man, gazing

fixedly upon them, vigorously fought his way to them by help of fists

and elbows, till he reached the carriage-door, threw it open with much

violence, and flung a note into Mademoiselle Scuderi's lap; after

which, he disappeared as he had come, distributing and receiving blows

and fisticuffs. La Martinière, who was with her mistress, fell back

fainting in the carriage with a shriek of terror as soon as she saw the

young man. In vain Mademoiselle Scuderi pulled the string, and called

out to the driver. He, as if urged by the foul fiend, kept lashing his

horses till, scattering the foam from their nostrils, they kicked,

plunged, and reared, finally thundering over the bridge at a rapid

trot. Mademoiselle Scuderi emptied the contents of her smelling-bottle

out over the fainting La Martinière, who at last opened her eyes, and,

shuddering and quaking, clinging convulsively to her mistress, with

fear and horror in her pale face, groaned out with difficulty, "For the

love of the Virgin, what did that terrible man want? It was he who

brought you the jewels on that awful night." Mademoiselle Scuderi

calmed her, pointing out that nothing very dreadful had happened after

all, and that the immediate business in hand was to ascertain the

contents of the letter. She opened it, and read as follows:--

"A dark and cruel fatality, which _you_ could dispel, is driving me

into an abyss. I conjure you--as a son would a mother, in the glow of

filial affection--to send the necklace and bracelets to Master René

Cardillac, on some pretence or other--say, to have something altered,

or improved. Your welfare---your very life--depend on your doing this.

If you do not comply before the day after to-morrow, I will force my

way into your house, and kill myself before your eyes."

"Thus much is certain, at all events," said Mademoiselle Scuderi, when

she had read this letter, "that, whether this mysterious man belongs to

the band of robbers and murderers, or not, he has no very evil designs

against me. If he had been able to see me and speak to me on that

night, who knows what strange events, what dark concatenation of

circumstances would have been made known to me, of which, at present, I

seek, in my soul, the very faintest inkling in vain. But, be the matter

as it may, that which I am enjoined in this letter to do, I certainly

_shall_ do, were it for nothing else than to be rid of those fatal

jewels, which seem to me as if they must be some diabolical talisman of

the Prince of Darkness's very own. Cardillac is not very likely to let

them out of his hands again, if once he gets hold of them."

She intended to take them to him next day; but it seemed as if all the

_beaux esprits_ of Paris had entered into a league to assail and

besiege her with verses, dramas, and anecdotes. Scarce had La Chapelle

finished reading the scenes of a tragedy, and declared that he

considered he had now vanquished Racine, when the latter himself came

in, and discomfited him with the pathetic speech of one of his kings,

until Boileau sent some of his fireballs soaring up into the dark sky

of the tragedies, by way of changing the subject from that eternal one

of the colonnade of the Louvre, to which the architectural Dr. Perrault

was shackling him.

When high noon arrived, Mademoiselle Scuderi had to go to Madame

Montansier, so the visit to René Cardillac had to be put off till the

following day. But the young man was always present to her mind, and a

species of dim remembrance seemed to be trying to arise in the depths

of her being that she had, somehow and somewhen, seen that face and

features before. Troubled dreams disturbed her broken slumbers. It

seemed to her that she had acted thoughtlessly, and delayed culpably to

take hold of the hands which the unfortunate man was holding out to her

for help--in fact, as if it had depended on her to prevent some

atrocious crime. As soon as it was fairly light, she had herself

dressed, and set off to the goldsmith's with the jewels in her hand.

A crowd was streaming towards the Rue Nicaise (where Cardillac lived),

trooping together at the door, shouting, raging, surging, striving to

storm into the house, kept back with difficulty by the Marechaussée,

who were guarding the place. Amid the wild distracted uproar, voices

were heard crying, "Tear him in pieces! Drag him limb from limb, the

accursed murderer!" At length Desgrais came up with a number of his

men, and formed a lane through the thickest of the crowd. The door flew

open, and a man, loaded with irons, was brought out, and marched off

amid the most frightful imprecations of the raging populace. At the

moment when Mademoiselle Scuderi, half dead with terror and gloomy

foreboding, caught sight of him, a piercing shriek of lamentation

struck upon her ears. "Go forward!" she cried to the coachman, and he,

with a clever, rapid turn of his horses, scattered the thick masses

of the crowd aside, and pulled up close to René Cardillac's door.

Desgrais was there, and at his feet a young girl, beautiful as the day,

half-dressed, with dishevelled hair, and wild grief, inconsolable

despair in her face, holding his knees embraced, and crying in tones of

the bitterest and profoundest anguish, "He is innocent! he is

innocent!" Desgrais and his men tried in vain to shake her off, and

raise her from the ground, till at length a rough, powerful fellow,

gripping her arms with his strong hands, dragged her away from Desgrais

by sheer force. Stumbling awkwardly, he let the girl go, and she went

rolling down the stone steps, and lay like one dead on the pavement.

Mademoiselle Scuderi could contain herself no longer. "In Christ's

name!" she cried, "what has happened? What is going forward here?" She

hastily opened the carriage-door and stepped out. The crowd made way

for her deferentially; and when she saw that one or two compassionate

women had lifted up the girl, laid her on the steps, and were rubbing

her brow with strong waters, she went up to Desgrais, and with

eagerness repeated her question.

"A terrible thing has happened," said Desgrais. "René Cardillac was

found, this morning, killed by a dagger-thrust. His journeyman,

Olivier, is the murderer, and has just been taken to prison."

"And the girl----" "Is Madelon," interrupted Desgrais, "Cardillac's

daughter. The wretched culprit was her sweetheart, and now she is

crying and howling, and screaming over and over again that Olivier is

innocent--quite innocent; but she knows all about this crime, and I

must have her taken to prison too." As he spoke he cast one of his

baleful, malignant looks at the girl, which made Mademoiselle Scuderi

shudder. The girl was now beginning to revive, and breathe again

faintly, though still incapable of speech or motion. There she lay with

closed eyes, and people did not know what to do, whether to take her

indoors, or leave her where she was a little longer till she recovered.

Mademoiselle Scuderi looked upon this innocent creature deeply moved,

with tears in her eyes. She felt a horror of Desgrais and his men.

Presently heavy footsteps came downstairs, those of the men bearing

Cardillac's body. Coming to a rapid decision, Mademoiselle Scuderi

cried out, "I shall take this girl home with me; the rest of the affair

concerns you, Desgrais." A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.

The women raised the girl; every one crowded up; a hundred hands were

proffered to help, and she was borne to the carriage like one hovering

in air, whilst from every lip broke blessings on the kind lady who had

saved her from arrest and criminal trial.

Madelon lay for many hours in deep unconsciousness, but at length the

efforts of Seron---then the most celebrated physician in Paris--were

successful in restoring her. Mademoiselle Scuderi completed what Seron

had commenced, by letting many a gentle ray of hope stream into the

girl's heart, till at length a violent flood of tears, which started to

her eyes, brought her relief, and she was able to tell what had

befallen, with only occasional interruptions, when the overmastering

might of her sorrow turned her words into sobbing.

She had been awakened at midnight by a soft knocking at her door, and

had recognised the voice of Olivier, imploring her to get up at once,

as her father lay dying. She sprung up, terrified, and opened the door.

Olivier, pale and distorted, bathed in perspiration, led the way, with

tottering steps, to the workshop; she followed. There her father was

lying with his eyes set, and the deathrattle in his throat. She threw

herself upon him, weeping wildly, and then observed that his shirt was

covered with blood. Olivier gently lifted her away, and then busied

himself in bathing a wound (which was on her father's left breast) with

wound-balsam, and in washing it. As he was so doing her father's

consciousness came back; the rattle in his throat ceased, and, looking

first on her, and then on Olivier with most expressive glances, he took

her hand and placed it in Olivier's, pressing them both together. She

and Olivier then knelt down beside her father's bed; he raised himself

with a piercing cry, immediately fell back again, and with a deep

inspiration, departed this life. On this they both wept and lamented.

Olivier told her how her father had been murdered in his presence

during an expedition on which he had accompanied him that night by his

order, and how he had with the utmost difficulty carried him home, not

supposing him to be mortally wounded. As soon as it was day, the people

of the house--who had heard the sounds of the footsteps, and of the

weeping and lamenting during the night--came up, and found them still

kneeling, inconsolable by the father's body. Then an uproar commenced,

the Marechaussée broke in and Olivier was taken to prison as her

father's murderer. Madelon added the most touching account of Olivier's

virtues, goodness, piety, and sincerity, telling how he had honoured

his master as if he had been his own father, and how the latter

returned his affection in the fullest measure, choosing him for his

son-in-law in spite of his poverty, because his skill and fidelity were

equal to the nobleness of his heart. All this Madelon spoke right out

of the fullness of her heart, and added that if Olivier had thrust a

dagger into her father's heart before her very eyes, she would rather

have thought it a delusion of Satan's than have believed that Olivier

was capable of such a terrible and awful crime.

Mademoiselle Scuderi, most deeply touched by Madelon's nameless

sufferings, and quite disposed to believe in poor Olivier's innocence,

made inquiries, and found everything confirmed which Madelon had said

as to the domestic relations between the master and his workman. The

people of the house and the neighbours all gave Olivier the character

of being the very model of good, steady, exemplary behaviour. No one

knew anything whatever against him, and yet, when the crime was alluded

to, every one shrugged his shoulders, and thought there was something

incomprehensible about that.

Olivier, brought before the Chambre Ardente, denied--as Mademoiselle

Scuderi learned--with the utmost steadfastness the crime of which he

was accused, and maintained that his master had been attacked in the

street in his presence, and borne down, and that he had carried him

home still alive, although he did not long survive. This agreed with

Madelon's statement.

Over and over again Mademoiselle Scuderi had the very minutest

circumstances of the awful event related to her. She specially inquired

if there had ever been any quarrel between Olivier and the father,

whether Olivier was altogether exempt from that propensity to hastiness

which often attacks the best tempered people like a blind madness, and

leads them to commit deeds which seem to exclude all voluntariness of

action; but the more enthusiastically Madelon spoke of the peaceful

home-life which the three had led together, united in the most sincere

affection, the more did every vestige of suspicion against Olivier

disappear from her mind. Closely examining and considering everything,

starting from the assumption that, notwithstanding all that spoke so

loudly for his innocence, Olivier yet _had_ been Cardillac's murderer,

Mademoiselle Scuderi could find, in all the realm of possibility, no

motive for the terrible deed, which, in any case, was bound to destroy

his happiness. Poor, though skilful, he succeeds in gaining the good

will of the most renowned of masters; he loves the daughter--his master

favours his love. Happiness, good fortune for the rest of his life

are laid open before him. Supposing, then, that--God knows on what

impulse--overpowered by anger, he should have made this murderous

attack on his master, what diabolical hyprocrisy it required to

conduct himself after the deed as he had done. With the firmest

conviction of his innocence, Mademoiselle Scuderi came to the

resolution to save Olivier at whatever cost.

It seemed to her most advisable, before perhaps appealing to the King

in person, to go to the President, La Regnie, point out for his

consideration all the circumstances which made for Olivier's innocence,

and so, perhaps, kindle in his mind a conviction favourable to the

accused which might communicate itself beneficially to the judges.

La Regnie received her with all the consideration which was the due of

a lady of her worth, held in high esteem by His Majesty himself. He

listened in silence to all she had to say concerning Olivier's

circumstances, relationships, and character; and also concerning the

crime itself. A delicate, almost malignant, smile, however, was all the

token which he gave that the adjurations, the reminders (accompanied by

plentiful tears) that every judge ought to be, not the enemy of the

accused, but ready to attend, too, to whatever spoke in his favour were

not gliding by ears which were perfectly deaf. When at length

Mademoiselle Scuderi, quite exhausted and wiping the tears from her

cheeks, was silent, La Regnie began, saying:--

"It is quite characteristic of your excellent heart, Mademoiselle,

that, moved by the tears of a young girl who is in love, you should

credit all she says; nay, be incapable of grasping the idea of a

fearful crime such as this. But it is otherwise with the Judge, who is

accustomed to tear off the mask from vile and unblushing hyprocrisy

and deception. It is, of course, not incumbent on me to disclose the

course of a criminal process to every one who chooses to inquire. I do

my duty, Mademoiselle! The world's opinion troubles me not at all.

Evil-doers should tremble before the Chambre Ardente, which knows no

punishments save blood and fire. But by you, Mademoiselle, I would not

be looked upon as a monster of severity and barbarity; therefore,

permit me to place before your eyes in few words the bloodguilt of this

young criminal, upon whom, Heaven be thanked, vengeance has fallen.

Your acute intelligence will then despise the generous feeling and

kindliness which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place. Eh

bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger-thrust,

no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson and the daughter.

In Olivier's room there is found, amongst other things, a dagger

covered with fresh blood which exactly fits into the wound. Olivier

says, 'Cardillac was attacked in the street before my eyes.' 'Was the

intention to rob him?' 'I do not know.' 'You were walking with him and

you could not drive off the murderer or detain him?' 'My master was

walking fifteen or perhaps sixteen paces in front of me; I was

following him.' 'Why, in all the world, so far behind?' 'My master

wished it so.' 'And what had Master Cardillac to do in the streets so

late?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But he was never in the habit of being out

after nine o'clock at other times, was he?' At this Olivier hesitates,

becomes confused, sighs, shed tears, vows by all that is sacred that

Cardillac _did_ go out that night, and met with his death. Now observe,

Mademoiselle, it is proved to the most absolute certainty that

Cardillac did _not_ leave the house that night, consequently Olivier's

assertion that he went with him is a barefaced falsehood. The street

door of the house fastens with a heavy lock, which makes a penetrating

noise in opening and closing, also the door itself creaks and groans on

its hinges, so that, as experiments have proved, the noise is heard

quite distinctly in the upper stories of the house. Now, there lives in

the lower story, that is to say, close to the street door, old Maitre

Claude Patru with his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of

age, but still hale and active. Both of them heard Cardillac, according

to his usual custom, come down stairs at nine o'clock exactly, close

and bolt the door with a great deal of noise, go upstairs again, read

evening prayer, and then (as was to be presumed by the shutting of the

door) go into his bedroom. Maitre Claude suffers from sleeplessness

like many other old people; and on the night in question he could not

close an eye, therefore, about half past nine the housekeeper struck a

light in the kitchen, which she reached by crossing the passage, and

sat down at the table beside her master with an old chronicle-book,

from which she read aloud, whilst the old man, fixing his thoughts on

the reading, sometimes sat in his arm-chair, sometimes walked slowly up

and down the room to try and bring on sleepiness. All was silence in

the house till nearly midnight; but then they heard overhead rapid

footsteps, a heavy fall, as of something on to the floor, and

immediately after that a hollow groaning. They both were struck by a

peculiar alarm and anxiety, the horror of the terrible deed which had

just been committed seemed to sweep past them. When day came what had

been done in the darkness was brought clearly to light."

"But, in the name of all the Saints," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi,

"considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such

length, can you think of any _motive_ for this diabolical deed?"

"Hm!" answered La Regnie. "Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He

had valuable jewels in his possession." "But all he had would go to the

daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac's son-in-law."

"Perhaps he was compelled to share with others," said La Regnie, "or to

do the deed wholly for them!" "Share!--murder for others!" cried

Mademoiselle Scuderi, in utter amaze.

"You must learn, Mademoiselle," continued La Regnie, "that Olivier's

blood would have been flowing on the Place de Grève before this time,

but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which

has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to

that formidable band which, setting at defiance every attempt at

observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with

perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be discovered.

Cardillac's wound is precisely the same as all those of the persons who

have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most

conclusive of all, since Olivier's arrest, the robberies and murders

have ceased; the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough

that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will

not confess; but there are means of making him speak against his will."

"And Madelon!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "that truthful, innocent

creature."

"Ah!" cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, "who answers to

me that _she_ is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much

about her father. Her tears are all for the murderer boy."

"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "not for her father?--that

girl--impossible!" "Oh!" continued La Regnie, "remember the

Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off

your _protégée_, and put her in the Conciergerie."

Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered at this grizly notion. It seemed to her

that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he

spied out murder and bloodguilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts

of people's hearts. She rose. "Be human!" was all that in her state of

anxiety and oppression she was able, with difficulty, to say. As she

was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had

attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her--she

knew not how. "Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier

Brusson?" she inquired, turning round sharply. He scrutinised her

face with thoughtful looks, and then his face distorted itself

into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him. "Doubtless,

Mademoiselle," he said, "your idea is that, trusting your own

feelings--the inward voice--more than that which happened before our

eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier's guilt or innocence for

yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime--if it

is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their

gradations--the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two

hours time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought

to you."

In truth, Mademoiselle Scuderi could not bring herself to believe in

Olivier's guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the

world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what

had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had

placed before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone

all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some

inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted

against.

She thought she would hear Olivier's narrative of the events of that

night of mystery, and in this manner, possibly, penetrate further into

a secret which the judges, perhaps, did not see into, because they

thought it unworthy of investigation.

Arrived at the Conciergerie, she was taken into a large, well-lighted

room. Presently she heard the ring of fetters. Olivier Brusson was

brought in; but as soon as she saw him she fell down fainting. When she

recovered, he was gone. She demanded with impetuosity to be taken to

her carriage; she would not remain another moment in that place of

crime and wickedness. Alas! at the first glance she recognised in

Olivier Brusson the young man who had thrown the letter into her

carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought her the casket with the

jewels. Now all doubt was gone, La Regnie's terrible suspicions

completely justified. Olivier belonged to the atrocious band, and had,

doubtless, murdered his master! And Madelon! Never before so bitterly

deceived by her kind feelings, Mademoiselle Scuderi, under this deadly

attack upon her by the power of the evil one here below--in whose very

existence she had not believed--doubted if there was such a thing as

truth. She gave admittance to the fearful suspicion that Madelon, too,

was forsworn, and might have a hand in the bloody deed. And as it is

the nature of the human mind that, when an idea has dawned upon it, it

eagerly seeks, and finds, colours in which to paint that idea more and

more vividly, she, as she weighed and considered all the circumstances

of the crime along with Madelon's behaviour, found a very great deal to

nourish suspicion. Many things which had hitherto been considered

proofs of innocence and purity, now became evidences of studied

hypocrisy and deep, corrupt wickedness. Those heartrending cries of

sorrow, and the bitter tears, might well have been pressed from her by

the deadly dread of her lover's bleeding--nay, of her own falling into

the executioner's hands. With a resolve at once to cast away the

serpent she had been cherishing, Mademoiselle Scuderi alighted

from her carriage. Madelon threw herself at her feet. Her heavenly

eyes--(no Angel of God's has them more truthful)--raised to her, her

hands pressed to her heaving breast, she wept, imploring help and

consolation. Mademoiselle Scuderi, controlling herself with difficulty,

giving to the tone of her voice as much calmness and gravity as

she could, said, "Go! go!--be thankful that the murderer awaits

the just punishment of his crime. May the Holy Virgin grant that

blood-guiltiness does not weigh heavily on your own head also." With a

bitter cry of "Alas! then all is over!" Madelon fell fainting to the

ground. Mademoiselle Scuderi left her to the care of La Martinière, and

went to another room.

Much distressed, and at variance with all earthly things, she longed to

depart from a world filled with diabolical treachery and falsehood. She

complained of the destiny which had granted her so many years in which

to strengthen her belief in truth and virtue, only to shatter in her

old days the beautiful fancies which had illumined her path.

She heard Madelon, as La Martinière was leading her away, murmur in

broken accents, "_Her_, too, have the terrible men deceived. Ah!

wretched me!--miserable Olivier!" The tones of the voice went to her

heart, and again there dawned within her the belief in the existence of

some mystery, in Olivier's innocence. Torn by the most contradictory

feelings, she cried, "What spirit of the pit has mixed _me_ up in this

terrible story, which will be my very death!"

At this moment Baptiste came in pale and terrified, to say that

Desgrais was at the door. Since the dreadful La Voisin trial the

appearance of Desgrais in a house was the sure precursor of some

criminal accusation. Hence Baptiste's terror, as to which his mistress

asked him with a gentle smile, "What is the matter, Baptiste? Has the

name of Scuderi been found in La Voisin's lists?" "Ah! For Christ's

sake," cried Baptiste, trembling in every limb, "how can you say such a

thing; but Desgrais--the horrible Desgrais--is looking so mysterious,

and presses in so--he seems hardly able to wait till he can see you."

"Well, Baptiste," she said, "bring him in at once, this gentleman who

is so frightful to you, and who to _me_, at all events, can cause no

anxiety."

"President La Regnie sends me to you, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais,

when he entered, "with a request which he scarce would dare to make if

he did not know your goodness and bravery, and if the last hope of

bringing to light an atrocious deed of blood did not lie in your hands,

had you not already taken such interest (as well as bearing a part), in

this case, which is keeping the Chambre Ardente, and all of us, in a

state of such breathless eagerness. Olivier Brusson, since he saw you,

has been almost out of his mind. He still swears by all that is sacred,

that he is completely innocent of René Cardillac's death, though he is

ready to suffer the punishment he has deserved. Observe, Mademoiselle,

that the latter admission clearly refers to other crimes of which he

has been guilty. But all attempts to get him to utter anything further

have been vain. He begs and implores to be allowed to have an interview

with you. To you alone will he divulge everything. Vouchsafe then,

Mademoiselle, to listen to Brusson's confession."

"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, in indignation, "_I_ become an

organ of the criminal court, and abuse the confidence of this

unfortunate fellow to bring him to the scaffold! No! Desgrais. Ruffian

and murderer though he may be, I could never deceive and betray him

thus villainously. I will have nothing to do with his avowal. If I did,

it would be locked up in my heart, as if made to a priest under the

seal of the confessional."

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, with a subtle smile, "you might

alter your opinion after hearing Brusson. Did you not beg the President

to be human? This he is, in yielding to Brusson's foolish desire, and

thus trying one more expedient--the last--before resorting to the rack,

for which Brusson is long since ripe."

Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered involuntarily.

"Understand, Mademoiselle," he continued, "you would by no means be

expected to go again into those gloomy dungeons, which inspired you

with such horror and loathing. Olivier would be brought to your own

house, in the night, like a free man; what he should say would not be

listened to, though, of course, there would be a proper guard with him.

He could thus tell you freely and unconstrainedly all he had to say. As

regards any risk which you might run in seeing the wretched being, my

life shall answer for that. He speaks of you with the deepest

veneration; he vows that it is the dark mystery which prevented his

seeing you earlier which has brought him to destruction. Moreover, it

would rest with you entirely to repeat as much or as little as you

pleased of what Brusson confessed to you. How could you be constrained

to more?"

Mademoiselle Scuderi sat with eyes fixed on the ground, in deep

reflection. It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher

Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery--as if

there were no escape for her from the wondrous meshes in which she had

become inwound without her will. Coming to a rapid decision, she said

with solemnity, "God will give me self-command and firm resolution.

Bring Brusson here; I will see him."

As on the night when the jewel-casket had been brought, so now, at

midnight, there came a knocking at the door. Baptiste, properly

instructed, opened. Mademoiselle Scuderi's blood ran cold when she

heard the heavy tread of the guard party which had brought Brusson

stationing themselves about the passages.

At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him, Olivier

Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed.

"Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he

then departed at once.

Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle Scuderi. The pure,

clear expression of a most truthful soul beamed from his face, though

it was drawn and distorted by terror and bitter pain. The longer she

looked at him, the more vivid became a remembrance of some well-loved

person--she could not say whom. When the first feeling of shuddering

left her, she forgot that Cardillac's murderer was kneeling before her,

and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural

to her, said--

"Now, Brusson, what have you to say to me?"

He--still on his knees--sighed deeply, from profound sorrow, and then

said--

"Oh, Mademoiselle, you whom I so honour and worship, is there no trace

of recollection of me left in your mind?"

She, still looking at him attentively, answered that she had certainly

traced in his face a likeness to some one whom she had held in

affection, and it was to this that he owed it that she had overcome her

profound horror of a murderer so far as to be able to listen to him

quietly. Brusson, much pained by her words, rose quickly, and stepped

backwards a pace, with his gloomy glance fixed on the ground. Then, in

a hollow voice, he said--

"Have you quite forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son, Olivier, the boy whom

you used to dandle on your knee, is he who is now before you."

"Oh! For the love of all the Saints!" she cried, as, covering her face

with both hands, she sank back in her chair. She had reason for being

thus horrified. Anne Guiot, the daughter of a citizen who had fallen

into poverty, had lived with Mademoiselle Scuderi from her childhood;

she had brought her up like a daughter, with all affection and care.

When she grew up, a handsome, well-conducted young man, named Claude

Brusson, fell in love with her. Being a first-rate workman at his trade

of a watchmaker, sure to make a capital living in Paris, and Anne being

very fond of him, Mademoiselle Scuderi saw no reason to object to their

marrying. They set up house accordingly, lived a most quiet and happy

domestic life, and the bond between them was knitted more closely still

by the birth of a most beautiful boy, the image of his pretty mother.

Mademoiselle Scuderi made an idol of little Olivier, whom she would

take away from his mother for hours and days, to pet him and kiss him.

Hence he attached himself to her, and was as pleased to be with her as

with his mother. When three years passed, the depressed state of

Brusson's trade brought it about that job-work was scarcer every day,

so that at last it was all he could do to get bread to eat. In addition

to this came home-sickness for his beautiful native Geneva; so the

little household went there, spite of Mademoiselle Scuderi's

dissuasions and promises of all needful assistance. Anne wrote once or

twice to her foster-mother, and then ceased; so that Mademoiselle

Scuderi thought she was forgotten in the happiness of the Brusson's

life.

It was now just three and twenty years since the Brusson's had left

Paris for Geneva.

"Horrible!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had to some extent

recovered herself. "You, Olivier! the son of my Anne! And now!----"

"Mademoiselle!" said Olivier, quietly and composedly, "doubtless you

never thought that the boy whom you cherished like the tenderest of

mothers, whom you dandled on your knee, and to whom you gave

sweetmeats, would, when grown to manhood, stand before you accused of a

terrible murder. I am completely innocent! The Chambre Ardente charges

me with a crime; but, as I hope to die a Christian's death, though it

may be by the executioner's hand--I am free from all blood-guiltiness.

Not by my hand--not by any crime of my committing, was it that the

unfortunate Cardillac came to his end."

As he said this, Olivier began to tremble and shake so, that

Mademoiselle Scuderi motioned him to a little seat which was near him.

"I have had sufficient time," he went on, "to prepare myself for this

interview with you--which I look upon as the last favour of a

reconciled Heaven--and to acquire as much calmness and self-control as

are necessary to tell you the story of my terrible, unheard-of

misfortunes. Be so compassionate as to listen to me calmly, whatever

may be your horror at the disclosure of a mystery of which you

certainly have not the smallest inkling. Ah! would to Heaven my poor

father had never left Paris! As far as my recollections of Geneva carry

me, I remember myself as being always bedewed with tears by my

inconsolable parents, and weeping, myself, at their lamentations, which

I did not understand. Later, there came to me a clear sense--a full

comprehension--of the bitterest and most grinding poverty, want, and

privation in which they were living. My father was deceived in all his

expectations; bowed down and broken with sorrow, he died, just when he

had managed to place me as apprentice with a goldsmith. My mother spoke

much of you; she longed to tell you all her misfortunes, but the

despondency which springs from poverty prevented her. That, and also,

no doubt, false modesty, which often gnaws at a mortally wounded heart,

kept her from carrying out her idea. She followed my father to the

grave a few months after his death."

"Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, overwhelmed by

sorrow.

"I thank and praise the eternal power that she has gone where she

cannot see her beloved son fall, branded with disgrace, by the hand of

the executioner," cried Olivier, loudly, raising a wild and terrible

glance to the skies. Outside, things became unrestful; a sound of

people moving about made itself heard. "Ho, ho!" said he, with a bitter

laugh, "Desgrais is waking up his people, as if I could possibly

escape. But, let me go on. I was harshly treated by my master, though I

was very soon one of the best of workmen, and, indeed, much better than

himself. Once a stranger came to our workshop to buy some of our work.

When he saw a necklace of my making, he patted my shoulder in a kind

way, and said, looking with admiration at the necklace, 'Ah, ha! my

young friend, this is really first-class work, I don't know anybody who

could beat it but René Cardillac, who, of course, is the greatest of

all goldsmiths. You ought to go to him; he would be delighted to get

hold of you, for there's nobody but yourself who would be of such use

to him; and again, there's nobody but he who can teach you anything.'

The words of this stranger sunk deep into my heart. There was no more

peace for me in Geneva. I was powerfully impelled to leave it, and at

length I succeeded in getting free from my master. I came to Paris,

where René Cardillac received me coldly and harshly. But I stuck to my

point. He was obliged to give me something to try my hand at, however

trifling. So I got a ring to finish. When I took it back to him,

finished, he gazed at me with those sparkling eyes of his, as if he

would look me through and through. Then he said: 'You are a first-rate

man--a splendid fellow; you may come and work with me. I'll pay you

well; you'll be satisfied with me.' And he kept his word. I had been

several weeks with him before I saw Madelon, who, I think, had been

visiting an aunt of his in the country. At last she came home. O

eternal power of Heaven, how was it with me when I saw that angelic

creature! Has ever a man so loved as I! And now! Oh! Madelon!"

Olivier could speak no more for sorrow. He held both hands over his

face, and sobbed violently. At last he conquered the wild pain with a

mighty effort, and went on--

"Madelon looked on me with favour, and came oftener and oftener into

the workshop. Her father watched closely, but many a stolen hand-clasp

marked our covenant. Cardillac did not seem to notice. My idea was,

that if I could gain his good-will, and attain Master's rank, I should

ask his consent to our marriage. One morning, when I was going in to

begin work, he came to me with anger and contempt in his face. 'I don't

want any more of your work,' he said. 'Get out of this house, and don't

let my eyes ever rest on you again. I have no need to tell you the

reason. The dainty fruit you are trying to gather is beyond the reach

of a beggar like you!' I tried to speak, but he seized me and pitched

me out of the door with such violence that I fell, and hurt my head and

my arm. Furious, and smarting with the pain, I went off, and at last

found a kind-hearted acquaintance in the Faubourg St. Germain, who gave

me quarters in his garret. I had no peace nor rest. At night I wandered

round Cardillac's house, hoping that Madelon would hear my sighs and

lamentings, and perhaps manage to speak to me at the window

undiscovered. All sorts of desperate plans, to which I thought I might

persuade her, jostled each other in my brain. Cardillac's house in the

Rue Nicaise abuts on to a high wall with niches, containing old,

partly-broken statues. One night I was standing close to one of those

figures, looking up at the windows of the house which open on the

courtyard which the wall encloses. Suddenly I saw light in Cardillac's

workshop. It was midnight, and he never was awake at that time, as he

always went to bed exactly at nine. My heart beat anxiously: I thought

something might be going on which would let me get into the Louse. But

the light disappeared again immediately. I pressed myself closely into

the niche, and against the statue; but I started back in alarm, feeling

a return of my pressure, as if the statue had come to life. In the

faint moonlight I saw that the stone was slowly turning, and behind it

appeared a dark form, which crept softly out, and went down the street

with stealthy tread. I sprang to the statue: it was standing close to

the wall again, as before. Involuntarily, as if impelled by some power

within me, I followed the receding dark figure. In passing an image of

the Virgin, this figure looked round, the light of the lamp before the

image falling upon his face. It was Cardillac! an indescribable alarm

fell upon me; an eery shudder came over me. As if driven by some spell,

I felt I must follow this spectre-like sleep-walker--for that was what

I thought my master was, though it was not full-moon, the time when

that kind of impulse falls upon sleepers. At length Cardillac

disappeared in a deep shadow; but, by a certain easily distinguishable

sound, I knew that he had gone into the entry of a house. What was the

meaning of this? I asked myself in amazement; what was he going to be

about? I pressed myself close to the wall. Presently there came up a

gentleman, trilling and singing, with a white plume distinct in the

darkness, and clanking spurs. Cardillac darted out upon him from the

darkness, like a tiger on his prey; he fell to the ground gasping. I

rushed up with a cry of terror. Cardillac was leaning over him as he

lay on the ground. 'Master Cardillac, what are you about?' I cried

aloud. 'Curses upon you!' he cried, and, running by me with lightning

speed, disappeared. Quite beyond myself--scarcely able to walk a

step--I went up to the gentleman on the ground, and knelt down beside

him, thinking it might still be possible to save him. But there was no

trace of life left in him. In my alarm I scarcely noticed that the

Marechaussée had come up and surrounded me. 'Another one laid low by

the demons!' they cried, all speaking at once. 'Ah, ha! youngster! what

are you doing here?--are _you_ one of the band?' and they seized me. I

stammered out in the best way I could that I was incapable of such a

terrible deed, and that they must let me go. Then one of them held a

lantern to my face, and said, with a laugh: 'This is Olivier Brusson;

the goldsmith who works with our worthy Master René Cardillac. _He_

murder folks in the street!--very likely story! Who ever heard of a

murderer lamenting over the body, and letting himself be nabbed? Tell

us all about it, my lad; out with it straight.' 'Right before my eyes,'

I said, 'a man sprang out upon this one; stabbed him, and ran off like

lightning. I cried as loud as I could. I wanted to see if he could be

saved.' 'No, my son,' cried one of those who had lifted up the body,

'he's done for!--the dagger-stab right through his heart, as usual.'

'The deuce!' said another; 'just too late again, as we were the day

before yesterday.' And they went away with the body.

"What _I_ thought of all this I really cannot tell you. I pinched

myself, to see if I were not in some horrible dream. I felt as if I

must wake up directly, and marvel at the absurdity of what I had been

dreaming. Cardillac--my Madelon's father--an atrocious murderer! I had

sunk down powerless on the stone steps of a house; the daylight was

growing brighter and brighter. An officer's hat with a fine plume was

lying before me on the pavement. Cardillac's deed of blood, committed

on the spot, came clearly back to my mental vision. I ran away in

horror.

"With my mind in a whirl, almost unconscious, I was sitting in my

garret, when the door opened, and René Cardillac came in. 'For Christ's

sake! what do you want?' I cried. He, paying no heed to this, came up

to me, smiling at me with a calmness and urbanity which increased my

inward horror. He drew forward an old rickety stool, and sat down

beside me; for I was unable to rise from my straw bed, where I had

thrown myself. 'Well, Olivier,' he began, 'how is it with you, my poor

boy? I really was too hasty in turning you out of doors. I miss you at

every turn. Just now I have a job in hand which I shall never be able

to finish without you; won't you come back and work with me? You don't

answer. Yes, I know very well I insulted you. I don't hide from you

that I was angry about your little bit of love-business with my

Madelon; but I have been thinking matters well over, and I see that I

couldn't have a better son-in-law than you, with your abilities, your

skilfulness, diligence, trustworthiness. Come back with me, and see how

soon you and Madelon can make a match of it.'

"His words pierced my heart; I shuddered at his wickedness; I could not

utter a syllable. 'You hesitate,' he said, in an acrid tone, while his

sparkling eyes transfixed me. 'Perhaps you can't come to-day. You have

other things to do. Perhaps you want to go and see Desgrais, or have an

interview with D'Argenson or La Regnie. Take care, my boy, that the

talons which you are thinking of drawing out to clutch others, don't

mangle yourself.' At this my deeply-tried spirit found vent. 'Those,' I

said, 'who are conscious of horrible crimes may dread those names which

you have mentioned, but I do not. I have nothing to do with them.'

'Remember, Olivier,' he resumed, 'that it is an honour to you to work

with me--the most renowned Master of his time, everywhere highly

esteemed for his truth and goodness; any foul calumny would fall back

on the head of its originator. As to Madelon, I must tell you that it

is her alone whom you have to thank for my yielding. She loves you with

a devotion that I should never have given her credit for being capable

of. As soon as you were gone, she fell at my feet, clasped my knees,

and vowed, with a thousand tears, that she could never live without

you. I thought this was mere imagination, for those young things always

think they're going to die of love whenever a young wheyface looks at

them a little kindly. But my Madelon really did fall quite sick and

ill; and when I tried to talk her out of the silly nonsense, she called

out your name a thousand times. Last evening I told her I gave in and

agreed to everything, and would go to-day to fetch you; so this morning

she is blooming again like any rose, and waiting for you, quite beyond

herself with love-longing.' May the eternal power of Heaven forgive me,

but--I don't know how it came about--I suddenly found myself in

Cardillac's house, where Madelon, with loud cries of 'Olivier!--my

Olivier!--my beloved! my husband!' clasped both her arms about me, and

pressed me to her heart; whilst I, in the plenitude of the supremest

bliss, swore by the Virgin and all the Saints never, never to leave

her."

Overcome by the remembrance of this decisive moment, Olivier was

obliged to pause. Mademoiselle Scuderi, horrified at the crime of a man

whom she had looked on as the incarnation of probity and goodness,

cried--

"Dreadful!--René Cardillac a member of that band of murderers who have

so long made Paris into a robber's den!" "A member of the band, do you

say, Mademoiselle?" said Olivier. "There never was any band; it was

René Cardillac alone, who sought and found his victims with such an

amount of diabolical ingenuity and activity. It was in the fact of his

being alone that his impunity lay--the practical impossibility of

coming upon the murderer's track. But let me go on. What is coming will

clear up the mystery, and reveal the secrets of the most wicked, and at

the same time most wretched of all mankind. You at once see the

position in which I now stood towards my master. The step was taken,

and I could not go back. At times it seemed to me that I had rendered

myself Cardillac's accomplice in murder, and it was only in Madelon's

love that I forgot for a time the inward pain which tortured me; only

in her society could I drive away all outward traces of the nameless

horror. When I was at work with the old man in the workshop, I could

not look him in the face--could scarcely speak a word--for the horror

which pervaded me in the presence of this terrible being, who fulfilled

all the duties of the tender father and the good citizen, while the

night shrouded his atrocities. Madelon, pure and pious as an angel,

hung upon him with the most idolatrous affection. It pierced my heart

when I thought that, if ever vengeance should overtake this masked

criminal, she would be the victim of the most terrible despair. That,

of itself, closed my lips, though the consequence of my silence should

be a criminal's death for myself. Although much was to be gathered from

what the Marechaussée had said, still Cardillac's crimes, their motive,

and the manner in which he carried them out, were a riddle to me. The

solution of it soon came. One day Cardillac--who usually excited my

horror by laughing and jesting during our work, in the highest of

spirits--was very grave and thoughtful. Suddenly he threw the piece of

work he was engaged on aside, so that the pearls and other stones

rolled about the floor, started to his feet, and said: 'Olivier! things

cannot go on between us like this; the situation is unendurable. What

the ablest and most ingenious efforts of Desgrais and his myrmidons

failed to find out, chance has played into your hands. You saw me at my

nocturnal work, to which my Evil Star compels me, so that no resistance

is possible for me; and it was your own Evil Star, moreover, which led

you to follow me; wrapped and hid you in an impenetrable mantle; gave

that lightness to your foot-fall which enabled you to move along with

the noiselessness of the smaller animals, so that I--who see clear by

night, as doth the tiger, and hear the smallest sound, the humming of

the gnat, streets away--did not observe you. Your Evil Star brought you

to me, my comrade--my accomplice! You see, now, that you can't betray

me; therefore you shall know all.'

"I would have cried out, 'Never, never shall I be your comrade, your

accomplice, you atrocious miscreant.' But the inward horror which I

felt at his words paralysed my tongue. Instead of words I could only

utter an unintelligible noise. Cardillac sat down in his working chair

again, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and seemed to find it

difficult to pull himself together, hard beset by the recollection of

the past. At length he began: 'Wise men have much to say of the strange

impulses which come to women when they are _enceinte_, and the strange

influence which those vivid, involuntary impulses exercise upon the

child. A wonderful tale is told of _my_ mother. When she was a month

gone with me she was looking on, with other women, at a court pageant

at the Trianon, and saw a certain cavalier in Spanish dress, with a

glittering chain of jewels about his neck, from which she could not

remove her eyes. Her whole being was longing for those sparkling

stones, which seemed to her more than earthly. This same cavalier had

at a previous time, before my mother was married, had designs on her

virtue, which she rejected with indignation. She recognized him, but

now, irradiated by the light of the gems, he seemed to her a creature

of a higher sphere, the very incarnation of beauty. The cavalier

noticed the longing, fiery looks which she was bending on him, and

thought he was in better luck now than of old. He managed to get near

her, and to separate her from her companions, and entice her to a

lonely place. There he clasped her eagerly in his arms. My mother

grasped at the beautiful chain; but at that moment he fell down,

dragging her with him. Whether it was apoplexy, or what, I do not know;

but he was dead. My mother struggled in vain to free herself from the

clasp of the arms, stiffened as they were in death. With the hollow

eyes, whence vision had departed, fixed on her, the corpse rolled with

her to the ground. Her shrieks at length reached people who were

passing at some distance; they hastened to her, and rescued her from

the embrace of this gruesome lover. Her fright laid her on a bed of

dangerous sickness. Her life was despaired of as well as mine; but she

recovered, and her confinement was more prosperous than had been

thought possible. But the terrors of that awful moment had set their

mark on _me_. My Evil Star had risen, and darted into me those rays

which kindled in me one of the strangest and most fatal of passions.

Even in my earliest childhood I thought there was nothing to compare

with glittering diamonds with gold settings. This was looked upon as a

childish fancy; but it was otherwise, for as a boy I stole gold and

jewels wherever I could lay hands on them, and I knew the difference

between good ones and bad, instinctively, like the most accomplished

connoisseur. Only the pure and valuable attracted me; I would not touch

alloyed or coined gold. Those inborn cravings were kept in check by my

father's severe chastisements; but, so that I might always have to do

with gold and precious stones, I took up the goldsmith's calling. I

worked at it with passion, and soon became the first living master of

that art. Then began a period when the natural bent within me, so long

restrained, shot forth in power, and waxed with might, bearing

everything away before it. As soon as I finished a piece of work and

delivered it, I fell into a state of restlessness and disconsolateness

which prevented my sleeping, ruined my health, and left me no enjoyment

in my life. The person for whom I made the work haunted me day and

night like a spectre--I saw that person continually before my mental

vision, with my beautiful jewels on, and a voice kept whispering to me:

'They belong to you! take them; what's the use of diamonds to the

dead?' At last I betook myself to thieving. I had access to the houses

of the great; I took advantage quickly of every opportunity. No locks

withstood my skill, and I soon had my work back in my hands again. But

this was not enough to calm my unrest. That mysterious voice made

itself heard again, jeering at me, and saying, 'Ho, ho! one of the dead

is wearing your jewels.' I did not know whence it came, but I had an

indescribable hatred for all those for whom I made jewelry. More than

that, in the depths of my heart I began to long to kill them; this

frightened me. Just then I bought this house. I had concluded the

bargain with the owner: here in this very room we were sitting,

drinking a bottle of wine in honour of the transaction. Night had come

on, he was going to leave when he said to me: 'Look here, Maitre René,

before I go I must let you into a secret about this house.' He opened

that cupboard, which is let into the wall there, and pushed the back of

it in; this let him into a little closet, where he bowed down and

raised a trap-door. This showed us a steep, narrow stair, which we went

down, and at the bottom of it was a little narrow door, which let us

out into the open courtyard. There he went up to the wall, pushed a

piece of iron which projected a very little, and immediately a piece of

the wall turned round, so that a person could get out through the

opening into the street. You must see this contrivance sometime,

Olivier; the sly old monks of the convent, which this house once was,

must have had it made so as to be able to slip out and in secretly. It

is wood but covered with lime and mortar on the outside, and to the

outer side of it is fitted a statue, also of wood, though _looking_

exactly like stone, which turns on wooden hinges. When I saw this

arrangement, dark ideas surged up in my mind; it seemed to me that

deeds, as yet mysterious to myself, were here pre-arranged for. I had

just finished a splendid set of ornaments for a gentleman of the

court who, I knew, was going to give them to an opera dancer. My

death-torture soon was on me; the spectre dogged my steps, the whispering

devil was at my ear. I went back into the house, bathed in a sweat of

agony; I rolled about on my bed, sleepless. In my mind's eye I saw the

man gliding to his dancer with _my_ beautiful jewels. Full of fury I

sprang up, threw my cloak round me, went down the secret stair, out

through the wall into the Rue Nicaise. He came, I fell upon him, he

cried out; but, seizing him from behind, I plunged my dagger into his

heart. The jewels were mine. When this was done, I felt a peace, a

contentment within me which I had never known before. The spectre had

vanished--the voice of the demon was still. _Now_ I knew what was the

behest of my Evil Star, which I had to obey, or perish. You know all

now, Olivier. Don't think that, because I must do that which I cannot

avoid, I have clean renounced all sense of that mercy or kindly feeling

which are the portion of all humanity, and inherent in man's nature.

You know how hard I find it to let any of my work go out of my hands,

that there are many whom I would not have to die for whom nothing will

induce me to work; indeed, that in cases when I feel that, next day, my

spectre will have to be exorcised with blood, that day I settle the

business by a swashing blow, which lays the holder of my jewels on the

ground, so that I get them back into my own hands.' Having said all

this, Cardillac took me into his secret strong-room and showed me his

collection of jewels; the King does not possess such an one. To each

ornament was fastened a small label stating for whom it had been made,

and when taken back--by theft, robbery, or murder.

"'On your wedding day, Olivier,' he said, in a solemn tone, 'you will

swear me a solemn oath, with your hand on the crucifix, that as soon as

I am dead you will at once convert all those treasures into dust,

by a process which I will tell you of. I will not have any human

being, least of all Madelon and you, come into possession of those

blood-bought stones.'

"Shut up in this labyrinth of crime, torn in twain by love and

abhorrence, I was like one of the damned to whom a glorified angel

points, with gentle smile, the upward way, whilst Satan holds him down

with red-hot talons, and the angel's loving smile, reflecting all the

bliss of paradise, becomes, to him, the very keenest of his tortures. I

thought of flight, even of suicide, but Madelon! Blame me, blame me,

Mademoiselle, for having been too weak to overcome a passion which

fettered me to my destruction. I am going to atone for my weakness by a

shameful death. One day Cardillac came in in unusually fine spirits, he

kissed and caressed Madelon, cast most affectionate looks at me, drank,

at table, a bottle of good wine, which he only did on high-days and

holidays, sang, and made merry. Madelon had left us, and I was going to

the workshop 'Sit still, lad,' cried Cardillac, 'no more work to-day;

let's drink the health of the most worthy and charming lady in all

Paris.' When we had clinked our glasses, and he had emptied a bumper,

he said: 'Tell me, Olivier, how do you like those lines?

'Un amant qui craint les voleurs

N'est point digne d'amour.'

And he told me what had happened between you and the King in Madam de

Maintenon's salon, adding that he had always worshipped you more than

any other human being, and that his reverence and esteem for your

qualities was such that his Evil Star paled before you, and he would

have no fear that, were you to wear the finest piece of his work that

ever he made, the spectre would ever prompt him to thoughts of murder.

'Listen, Olivier,' he said, 'to what I am going to do. A considerable

time ago I had to make a necklace and bracelets for Henrietta of

England, supplying the stones myself. I made of this the best piece of

work that ever I turned out, and it broke my heart to part with those

ornaments, which had become the very treasures of my soul. You know of

her unfortunate death by assassination. The things remained with me,

and now I shall send them to Mademoiselle Scuderi, in the name of the

dreaded band, as a token of respect and gratitude. Besides its being an

unmistakable mark of her triumph, it will be a richly deserved sign of

my contempt for Desgrais and his men. You shall take her the jewels.'

When he mentioned your name, Mademoiselle, dark veils seemed to be

taken away, revealing the bright image of my happy early childhood,

rising again in glowing colours before me. A wonderful comfort came

into my soul, a ray of hope, driving the dark shadows away. Cardillac

saw the effect his words had produced upon me, and gave it his own

interpretation. 'My idea seems to please you,' he said. 'I must declare

that a deep inward voice, very unlike that which cries for blood like a

raving wild beast, commanded me to do this thing. Many times I feel the

strangest ideas come into my mind--an inward fear, the dread of

something terrible, the awe whereof seems to come breathing into this

present time from some distant other world, seizes powerfully upon me.

I even feel, at such times, that the deeds which my Evil Star has

committed by means of me, may be charged to the account of my immortal

soul, though it has no part in them. In one of those moods I determined

that I would make a beautiful diamond crown for the Virgin in the

Church of St. Eustache. But the indescribable dread always came upon

me, stronger than ever, when I set to work at it, so that I left it off

altogether. Now it seems to me that, in presenting Mademoiselle Scuderi

with the finest work I have ever turned out, I am offering a humble

sacrifice to goodness and virtue personified, and imploring their

powerful intercession.' Cardillac, well acquainted with all the minutiæ

of your manner of life, told me the how and the when to take the

ornaments to you. My whole Being rejoiced, for Heaven seemed to be

showing me, through the atrocious Cardillac, the way to escape from the

hell in which I was being tortured. Quite contrarily to Cardillac's

wish, I resolved that I would get access to you and speak with you. As

Anne Brusson's son, and your former pet, I thought I would throw myself

at your feet and tell you everything. Out of consideration for the

nameless misery which a disclosure of the secret would bring upon

Madelon, I knew that you would keep it, but that your grand and

brilliant intellect would have been sure to find means to put an end to

Cardillac's wickedness without disclosing it. Do not ask me what those

means were to have been; I cannot tell. But that you would rescue

Madelon and me I believed as firmly as I do in the intercession of the

Holy Virgin. You know, Mademoiselle, that my intention was frustrated

that night; but I did not lose hope of being more fortunate another

time. By-and-by Cardillac suddenly lost all his good spirits; he crept

moodily about, uttered unintelligible words, and worked his arms as if

warding off something hostile. His mind seemed full of evil thoughts.

For a whole morning he had been going on in this way. At last he sat

down at the work-table, sprang up again angrily, looked out of window,

and then said, gravely and gloomily, 'I wish Henrietta of England had

had my jewels.' Those words filled me with terror. I knew that his

diseased mind was possessed again by the terrible murder-spectre, that

the voice of the demon was loud again in his ears. I saw your life

threatened by the horrible murder-demon. If Cardillac could get his

jewels back again into his hands, you were safe. The danger grew

greater every instant. I met you on the Pont Neuf, made my way to your

carriage, threw you the note which implored you to give the jewels back

to Cardillac immediately. You did not come. My fear became despair,

when, next day, Cardillac spoke of nothing but the priceless jewels he

had seen before him in his dreams. I could only suppose that this

referred to _your_ jewels, and I felt sure he was brooding over some

murderous attack, which he had determined to carry out that night. Save

you I must, should it cost Cardillac's life. When, after the evening

prayer, he had shut himself up in his room as usual, I got into the

courtyard through a window, slipped out through the opening of the

wall, and stationed myself close at hand, in the deepest shadow. Very

soon Cardillac came out, and went gliding softly down the street. I

followed him. He took the direction of the Rue St. Honoré. My heart

beat fast. All at once he disappeared from me. I determined to place

myself at your door. Just as fate had ordered matters on the first

occasion of my witnessing one of his crimes, there came along past me

an officer, trilling and singing; he did not see me. Instantly a dark

form sprang out and attacked him. Cardillac! I determined to prevent

this murder. I gave a loud shout, and was on the spot in a couple of

paces. Not the officer, but Cardillac, fell gasping to the ground,

mortally wounded. The officer let his dagger fall, drew his sword, and

stood on the defensive, thinking I was the murderer's accomplice. But

he hastened away when he saw that, instead of concerning myself about

_him_, I was examining the fallen man. Cardillac was still alive. I

took up the dagger dropped by the officer, stuck it in my belt, and,

lifting Cardillac on to my shoulders, carried him, with difficulty, to

the house, and up the secret stair to the workshop. The rest you know.

You perceive, Mademoiselle, that my only crime was that I refrained

from giving Madelon's father up to justice, thereby making an end of

his crimes. I am innocent of bloodguilt. No torture will draw from me

the secret of Cardillac's iniquities. Not through any action of mine

shall that Eternal Power, which hid from Madelon the gruesome

bloodguilt of her father all this time, break in upon her now, to her

destruction, nor shall earthly vengeance drag the corpse of Cardillac

out of the soil which covers it, and brand the mouldering bones with

infamy. No; the beloved of my soul shall mourn me as an innocent

victim. Time will mitigate her sorrow for me, but her grief for her

father's terrible crimes nothing would ever assuage."

Olivier ceased, and then a torrent of tears fell down his cheeks.

He threw himself at Mademoiselle Scuderi's feet, saying imploringly,

"You are convinced that I am innocent; I know you are. Be merciful

to me. Tell me how Madelon is faring." Mademoiselle Scuderi summoned

La Martinière, and in a few minutes Madelon was clinging to Olivier's

neck. "Now that you are here, all is well. I knew that this

noble-hearted lady would save you," Madelon cried over and over; and

Olivier forgot his fate, and all that threatened him. He was free and

happy. They bewailed, in the most touching manner, what each had

suffered for the other, and embraced afresh, and wept for joy at being

together again.

Had Mademoiselle Scuderi not been convinced of Olivier's innocence

before, she must have been so when she saw those two lovers forgetting,

in the rapture of the time, the world, their sufferings, and their

indescribable sorrows. "None but a guiltless heart," she cried, "would

be capable of such blissful forgetfulness."

The morning light came breaking into the room, and Desgrais knocked

gently at the door, reminding them that it was time to take Olivier

away, as it could not be done later without attracting attention. The

lovers had to part.

The dim anticipations which Mademoiselle Scuderi had felt when Olivier

first came in had now embodied themselves in actual life--in a

terrible fashion. The son of her much-loved Anne was, though innocent,

implicated in a manner which apparently made it impossible to save him

from a shameful death. She admired his heroism, which led him to prefer

death loaded with the imputation of guilt to the betrayal of a secret

which would kill Madelon. In the whole realm of possibility, she could

see no mode of saving the unfortunate lad from the gruesome prison and

the dreadful trial. Yet it was firmly impressed on her mind that she

must not shrink from any sacrifice to prevent this most crying

injustice.

She tortured herself with all kinds of plans and projects, which were

chiefly of the most impracticable and impossible kind--rejected as soon

as formed. Every glimmer of hope grew fainter and fainter, and she

well-nigh despaired. But Madelon's pious, absolute, childlike

confidence, the inspired manner in which she spoke of her lover, soon

to be free, and to take her to his heart as his wife, restored

Mademoiselle Scuderi's hopes to some extent.

By way of beginning to do something, she wrote to La Regnie a long

letter, in which she said that Olivier Brusson had proved to her in the

most credible manner his entire innocence of Cardillac's murder, and

that nothing but a heroic resolution to carry to the grave with him a

secret, the disclosure of which would bring destruction upon an

innocent and virtuous person, withheld him from laying a statement

before the Court which would completely clear him from all guilt, and

show that he never belonged to the band at all. She said everything she

could think of, with the best eloquence at her command, which might be

expected to soften La Regnie's hard heart.

He replied to this in a few hours, saying he was very glad that Olivier

had so thoroughly justified himself in the eyes of his kind patron and

protector; but, as regarded his heroic resolution to carry to the grave

with him a secret relating to the crime with which he was charged, he

regretted that the Chambre Ardente could feel no admiration for heroism

of that description, but must endeavour to dispel it by powerful means.

In three days time he had little doubt he would be in possession of the

wondrous secret, which would probably bring many strange matters to

light.

Mademoiselle Scuderi knew well what the terrible La Regnie meant by the

"powerful means," which were to break down Olivier's heroism. It was

but too clear that the unfortunate wretch was threatened with the

torture. In her mortal anxiety it at last occurred to her that, were it

only to gain time, the advice of a lawyer would be of some service.

Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly was at that time the most celebrated advocate

in Paris. His goodness of heart, and his highly honourable character

were on a par with his professional skill and his comprehensive mind.

To him she repaired, and told him the whole tale, as far as it was

possible to do so without divulging Olivier's secret. She expected that

d'Andilly would warmly espouse the cause of this innocent man, but in

this she was wofully disappointed. He listened silently to what she had

to say, and then, with a quiet smile, answered in the words of Boileau,

"Le vrai peut quelquefois n'etre point vraisemblable." He showed her

that there were the most grave and marked suspicions against Olivier.

That La Regnie's action was by no means severe or premature, but wholly

regular; indeed, that to do otherwise would be to neglect his duty as a

Judge. He did not believe that he--d'Andilly--could save Brusson from

the rack, by the very ablest of pleading. Nobody could do that but

Brusson himself, either by making the fullest confession, or by

accurately relating the circumstances of Cardillac's murder, which

might lead to further discoveries.

"Then I will throw myself at the King's feet and sue for mercy," cried

Mademoiselle Scuderi, her voice choked by weeping.

"For Heaven's sake, do not do that," cried d'Andilly. "Keep it in

reserve for the last extremity. If it fails you once, it is lost for

ever. The King will not pardon a criminal such as Brusson; the people

would justly complain of the danger to them. Possibly Brusson, by

revealing his secret, or otherwise, may manage to dispel the suspicion

which is on him at present. Then would be the time to resort to the

King, who would not ask what was legally proved, but be guided by his

own conviction."

Mademoiselle Scuderi could not but agree with what d'Andilly's great

experience dictated. She was sitting in her room, pondering as to

what--in the name of the Virgin and all the saints--she should try next

to do, when La Martinière came to say that the Count de Miossens,

Colonel of the King's Body Guard, was most anxious to speak with her.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," said the Colonel, bowing with a soldier's

courtesy, "for disturbing you, and breaking in upon you at such an

hour. Two words will be sufficient excuse for me. I come about Olivier

Brusson."

"Olivier Brusson," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, all excitement as to

what she was going to hear, "that most unfortunate of men! What have

you to say of him?"

"I knew," said Miossens, laughing again, "that your _protégé's_ name

would ensure me a favourable hearing. Everybody is convinced of

Brusson's guilt. I know you think otherwise, and, it is said, your

opinion rests on what he himself has told you. With me the case is

different. Nobody can be more certain than I that Brusson is innocent

of Cardillac's death."

"Speak! Oh, speak!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi.

"I was the man who stabbed the old goldsmith, in the Rue St. Honoré,

close to your door," said the Colonel.

"_You_--_you!_" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi. "In the name of all the

Saints, how?"

"And I vow to you, Mademoiselle, that I am very proud of my

achievement. Cardillac, I must tell you, was a most abandoned old

hypocritical ruffian, who went about at night robbing and murdering

people, and was never suspected of anything of the kind. I don't,

myself, know from whence it came, that I felt a suspicion of the old

scoundrel when he seemed so distressed at handing me over some work

which I had got him to do for me, when he carefully wormed out of me

for whom I designed it, and cross-questioned my valet as to the times

when I was in the habit of going to see a certain lady. It struck me

long ago, that all the people who were murdered by the unknown hands,

had the self-same wound, and I saw quite clearly, that the murderer had

practised to the utmost perfection of certainty that particular thrust,

which must kill instantaneously--and that he reckoned upon it; so that,

if it were to fail, the fight would be fair. This led me to employ a

precaution so very simple and obvious, that I cannot imagine how

somebody else did not think of it long ago. I wore a light breastplate

of steel under my dress. Cardillac set upon me from behind. He grasped

me with the strength of a giant, but his finely directed thrust glided

off the steel breast-plate. I then freed myself from his clutch, and

planted my dagger into his heart."

"And you have said nothing?" said Mademoiselle Scuderi. "You have not

told the authorities anything about this?"

"Allow me to point out to you, Mademoiselle," said he, "that to have

done that would have involved me in a most terrible legal

investigation, probably ending in my ruin. La Regnie, who scents out

crime everywhere, would not have been at all likely to believe me at

once, when I accused the good, respectable, exemplary Cardillac of

being an habitual murderer. The sword of Justice would, most probably,

have turned its point against me."

"Impossible," said Mademoiselle Scuderi. "Your rank--your position----"

"Oh!" interrupted Miossens, "remember the Marechal de Luxemburg; he

took it into his head to have his horoscope cast by Le Sage, and was

suspected of poisoning, and put in the Bastille. No; by Saint Dyonys!

not one moment of freedom--not the tip of one of my ears, would I trust

to that raging La Regnie, who would be delighted to put his knife to

all our throats."

"But this brings an innocent man to the scaffold," said Mademoiselle

Scuderi.

"Innocent, Mademoiselle!" cried Miossens. "Do you call Cardillac's

accomplice an innocent man? He who assisted him in his crimes, and has

deserved death a hundred times? No, in verity; _he_ suffers justly;

although I told you the true state of the case in the hope that you

might somehow make use of it in the interests of your _protégé_,

without bringing me into the clutches of the Chambre Ardente."

Mademoiselle Scuderi, delighted at having her conviction of Olivier's

innocence confirmed in such a decided manner, had no hesitation in

telling the Count the whole affair, since he already knew all about

Cardillac's crimes, and in begging him to go with her to d'Andilly, to

whom everything should be communicated under the seal of secrecy, and

who should advise what was next to be done.

D'Andilly, when Mademoiselle Scuderi had told him at full length all

the circumstances, inquired again into the very minutest particulars.

He asked Count Miossens if he was quite positive as to its having been

Cardillac who attacked him, and if he would recognise Olivier as the

person who carried away the body.

"Not only," said Miossens, "was the moon shining brightly, so that I

recognised the old goldsmith perfectly well, but this morning, at La

Regnie's, I saw the dagger with which he was stabbed. It is mine; I

know it by the ornamentation of the handle. And as I was within a pace

of the young man, I saw his face quite distinctly, all the more because

his hat had fallen off. As a matter of course I should know him in a

moment."

D'Andilly looked before him in meditation for a few moments, and said:

"There is no way of getting Brusson out of the hands of justice by any

ordinary means. On Madelon's account, nothing will induce him to admit

that Cardillac was a robber and a murderer. And even were he to do so,

and succeed in proving the truth of it by pointing out the secret

entrance and the collection of the stolen jewels, death would be his

own lot, as an accomplice. The same consequence would follow if Count

Miossens related to the judges the adventure with Cardillac. Delay is

what we must aim at. Let Count Miossens go to the Conciergerie, be

confronted with Olivier, and recognise him as the person who carried

off Cardillac's body; let him then go to La Regnie, and say, 'I saw a

man stabbed in the Rue St. Honoré, and was close to the body when

another man darted up, bent down over it, and finding life still in it,

took it on his shoulders and carried it away. I recognise Olivier

Brusson as that man.' This will lead to a further examination of

Brusson, to his being confronted with Count Miossens; the torture will

be postponed, and further investigations made. Then will be the time to

have recourse to the King. Your brilliant intellect, Mademoiselle, will

point out the most fitting way to do this. I think it would be best to

tell His Majesty the whole story. Count Miossen's statement will

support Olivier's. Perhaps, too, an examination of Cardillac's house

would help matters. The King might then follow the bent of his own

judgment--of his kind heart, which might pardon where justice could

only punish." Count Miossens closely followed D'Andilly's advice, and

everything fell out just as he had said it would.

It was now time to repair to the King; and this was the chief

difficulty of all, as he had such an intense horror of Brusson--whom he

believed to be the man who had for so long kept Paris in a state of

terror--that the least allusion to him threw him at once into the most

violent anger. Madame de Maintenon, faithful to her system of never

mentioning unpleasant subjects to him, declined all intermediation; so

that Brusson's fate was entirely in Mademoiselle Scuderi's hands. After

long reflection, she hit upon a scheme which she put in execution at

once. She put on a heavy black silk dress, with Cardillac's jewels, and

a long black veil, and appeared at Madame de Maintenon's at the time

when she knew the King would be there. Her noble figure in this

mourning garb excited the reverential respect even of those frivolous

persons who pass their days in Court antechambers. They all made way

for her, and when she came into the presence, the King himself rose,

astonished, and came forward to meet her. The splendid diamonds of the

necklace and bracelets flashed in his eyes, and he cried: "By Heavens!

Cardillac's work!" Then, turning to Madame de Maintenon, he said, with

a pleasant smile, "See, Madame la Marquise, how our fair lady mourns

for her affianced husband." "Ah, Sire!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, as

if keeping up the jest, "it would ill become a mourning bride to wear

such bravery. No; I have done with the goldsmith; nor would I remember

him, but that the gruesome spectacle of his corpse carried close by me

before my eyes keeps coming back to my memory." "What!" said the King,

"did you actually see him, poor fellow?" She then told him in few words

(not introducing Brusson into the business at all) how chance had

brought her to Cardillac's door just when the murder had been

discovered. She described Madelon's wild terror and sorrow; the

impression made upon her by the beautiful girl; how she had taken her

out of Desgrais's hands, and away with her, amid the applause of the

crowd. The scenes with La Regnie, with Desgrais, with Olivier Brusson

himself, now followed, the interest constantly increasing. The King,

carried away by the vividness with which Mademoiselle Scuderi told the

tale, did not notice that the Brusson case, which he so abominated, was

in question, listened breathlessly, occasionally expressing his

interest by an ejaculation. And ere he was well aware, still amazed by

the marvels which he was hearing, not yet able to arrange them all in

his mind, behold! Mademoiselle Scuderi was at his feet, imploring mercy

for Olivier Brusson.

"What are you doing?" broke out the King, taking both her hands and

making her sit down. "You take us by storm in a marvellous fashion. It

is a most terrible story! Who is to answer for the truth of Brusson's

extraordinary tale?" "Miossen's deposition proves it," she cried; "the

searching of Cardillac's house; my own firm conviction, and, ah!

Madelon's pure heart, which recognises equal purity in poor Brusson."

The King, about to say something, was interrupted by a noise in the

direction of the door. Louvois, who was at work in the next room, put

his head in with an anxious expression. The King rose, and followed him

out. Both Madame de Maintenon and Mademoiselle Scuderi thought this

interruption of evil augury; for, though once surprised into interest,

the King might take care not to fall into the snare a second time. But

he came back in a few minutes, walked up and down the room two or three

times, quickly, and then, pausing with his hands behind his back before

Mademoiselle Scuderi, he said, in a half-whisper, without looking at

her: "I should like to see this Madelon of yours." On this Mademoiselle

Scuderi said: "Oh! gracious Sire! what a marvellous honour you

vouchsafe to the poor unfortunate child. She will be at your feet in an

instant." She tripped to the door as quickly as her heavy dress

allowed, and called to those in the anteroom that the King wished to

see Madelon Cardillac. She came back weeping and sobbing with delight

and emotion. Having expected this, she had brought Madelon with her,

leaving her to wait with the Marquise's maid, with a short petition in

her hand drawn up by D'Andilly. In a few moments she had prostrated

herself, speechless, at the King's feet. Awe, confusion, shyness, love,

and sorrow sent the blood coursing faster and faster through her veins;

her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled with the bright tear-drops, which

now and again fell from her silken lashes down to her beautiful lily

breast. The King was moved by the wonderful beauty of the girl. He

raised her gently, and stooped down as if about to kiss her hand, which

he had taken in his; but he let the hand go, and gazed at her with

tears in his eyes, evincing deep emotion. Madame de Maintenon whispered

to Mademoiselle Scuderi: "Is she not exactly like La Valliére, the

little thing? The King is sunk in the sweetest souvenirs: you have

gained the day." Though she spoke softly, the King seemed to hear. A

blush came to his cheek; he scanned Madame de Maintenon with a glance,

and then said, gently and kindly: "I am quite sure that you, my dear

child, think your lover is innocent; but we must hear what the Chambre

Ardente has to say." A gentle wave of his hand dismissed Madelon,

bathed in tears. Mademoiselle Scuderi saw, to her alarm, that the

resemblance to La Valliére, advantageous as it had seemed to be at

first, had nevertheless changed the King's intention as soon as Madame

de Maintenon had spoken of it. Perhaps he felt himself somewhat

ungently reminded that he was going to sacrifice strict justice to

beauty; or he may have been like a dreamer who, when loudly addressed

by his name, finds that the beautiful magic visions by which he thought

he was surrounded vanish away. Perhaps he no longer saw his La Valliére

before him, but thought only of Sœur Louise de la Misericorde--La

Valliére's cloister name among the Carmelite nuns--paining him with her

piety and repentance. There was nothing for it now but to patiently

wait for the King's decision.

Meanwhile Count Miossen's statement before the Chambre Ardente had

become known; and, as often happens, popular opinion soon flew from one

extreme to the other, so that the person whom it had stigmatized as the

most atrocious of murderers, and would fain have torn in pieces before

he reached the scaffold, was now bewailed as the innocent victim of a

barbarous sacrifice. His old neighbours only now remembered his

admirable character and behaviour, his love for Madelon, and the

faithfulness and devotion of soul and body with which he had served his

master. Crowds of people, in threatening temper, often collected before

La Regnie's Palais, crying, "Give us out Olivier Brusson!--he is

innocent!" even throwing stones at the windows, so that La Regnie had

to seek the protection of the Marechaussée.

Many days elapsed without Mademoiselle Scuderi's hearing anything on

the subject of Olivier Brusson. In her disconsolateness she went to

Madame de Maintenon, who said the King was keeping silence on the

subject, and it was not advisable to remind him of it. When she then,

with a peculiar smile, asked after the "little La Valliére,"

Mademoiselle Scuderi saw that this proud lady felt, in the depths of

her heart, some slight annoyance at a matter which had the power of

drawing the mobile King into a province whose charm was beyond her own

sphere. Consequently nothing was to be hoped from Madame de Maintenon.

At length Mademoiselle Scuderi managed to find out, with D'Andilly's

help, that the King had had a long interview with Count Miossens;

further, that Bontems, the King's confidential groom of the chamber and

secret agent, had been to the Conciergerie, and spoken with Brusson;

that, finally, the said Bontems, with several other persons, had paid a

long visit to Cardillac's house. Claude Patru, who lived in the lower

story, said he had heard banging noises above his head in the night,

and that he had recognised Olivier's voice amongst others. So far it

was certain that the King was, himself, causing the matter to be

investigated; but what was puzzling was the long delay in coming to a

decision. La Regnie was most probably trying all in his power to

prevent his prey from slipping through his fingers; and this nipped all

hope in the bud.

Nearly a month had elapsed, when Madame de Maintenon sent to tell

Mademoiselle Scuderi that the King wished to see her that evening in

her salon.

Her heart beat fast. She knew that Olivier's fate would be decided that

night. She told Madelon so, and the latter prayed to the Virgin and all

the Saints that Mademoiselle Scuderi might succeed in convincing the

King of her lover's innocence.

And yet it appeared as if he had forgotten the whole affair, for he

passed the time in chatting pleasantly with Madame de Maintenon and

Mademoiselle Scuderi, without a single word of poor Olivier Brusson. At

length Bontems appeared, approached the King, and spoke a few words so

softly that the ladies could not hear them. Mademoiselle Scuderi

trembled; but the King rose, went up to her, and said, with beaming

eyes, "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle. Your protégé, Olivier Brusson,

is free." Mademoiselle Scuderi, with tears streaming down her cheeks,

unable to utter a word, would have cast herself at the King's feet; but

he prevented her, saying, "Va! Va! Mademoiselle, you ought to be my

Attorney-General and plead my causes, for nobody on earth can resist

your eloquence and powers of persuasion." He added, more gravely, "He

who is shielded by virtue may snap his fingers at every accusation, by

the Chambre Ardente, or any other tribunal on earth."

Mademoiselle Scuderi, now finding words, poured forth a most glowing

tribute of gratitude. But the King interrupted her, saying there were

warmer thanks awaiting her at home than any he could expect from her,

as at that moment doubtless Olivier was embracing his Madelon.

"Bontems," added His Majesty, "will hand you 1000 Louis, which you will

give the little one from me as a wedding portion. Let her marry her

Brusson, who does not deserve such a treasure, and then they must both

leave Paris. This is my will."

La Martinière came to meet her mistress with eager steps, followed by

Baptiste, their faces beaming with joy, and both crying out, "He is

here! he is free! Oh, the dear young couple!" The happy pair fell at

Mademoiselle Scuderi's feet, and Madelon cried, "Ah! I knew that you,

and you only, would save my husband." "Mother," cried Olivier, "my

belief in you never wavered." They kissed her hands, and shed many

tears; and then they embraced again, and vowed that the super-earthly

bliss of the present time was worth all the nameless sufferings of the

days that were past.

In a few days the priest pronounced his blessing upon them. Even had it

not been the King's command that they were to leave Paris, Brusson

could not have remained there, where everything reminded him of the

dreadful epoch of Cardillac's atrocities, and where any accident might

have disclosed the evil secret, already known to several persons,

destroying the peace of his life for ever. Immediately after the

wedding he started with his young wife for Geneva, sped on his way by

Mademoiselle Scuderi's blessings. Handsomely provided with Madelon's

portion, his own skill at his calling, and every civic virtue, he there

led a happy life, without a care. The hopes, whose frustration had sent

the father to his grave, were fulfilled to the son.

A year after Brusson left Paris, a public proclamation, signed by

Harloy de Chauvalon, Archbishop of Paris, and by Pierre Arnaud

d'Andilly, Advocate of the Parliament, appeared, stating that a

repentant sinner had, under seal of confession, made over to the Church

a valuable stolen treasure of gold and jewels. All those who, up to

about the end of the year 1680, had been robbed of property of this

description, particularly if by murderous attack in the street, were

directed to apply to d'Andilly, when they would receive it back,

provided that anything in the said collection agreed with the

description to be by them given, and providing that there was no doubt

of the genuineness of the application. Many whose names occurred in

Cardillac's list as having been merely stunned, not murdered, came from

time to time to d'Andilly to reclaim their property, and received it

back, to their no small surprise. The remainder became the property of

the Church of St. Eustache."

Sylvester's tale was received by the Brethren with their full approval.

It was held to be truly Serapiontic, because, whilst founded on

historical fact, it yet soared into the region of the imaginative.

Lothair said: "Our Sylvester has got very well out of a somewhat risky

undertaking, for that, I consider, was the representing of a literary

old maid who kept a sort of _bureau d'esprit_ in the Rue St. Honoré,

which he lets us have a peep into. Our own authoresses (and if they

chance to be advanced in years, I hope they may all be genial, kind,

and dignified as the old lady in the black dress) would be much

delighted with you, my Sylvester, if they heard your story, and forgive

you your somewhat gruesome and terrible Cardillac, whom, I suppose, you

have altogether to thank your own imagination for."

"At the same time," said Ottmar, "I remember having read, somewhere or

other, of an old shoemaker in Venice, whom the whole town looked upon

as a good, exemplary, industrious man, though he really was the most

atrocious robber and murderer. Just like Cardillac, he used to slip out

in the night-time and get into the palazzi of the great, where, in the

depths of darkness, his surely-dealt dagger-thrust pierced the hearts

of those whom he wanted to rob, so that they dropped down on the spot

without a cry. Every effort of the most clever and observant police to

detect this murderer, who kept all Venice in terror, was useless, until

a circumstance led to the shoemaker's being suspected. He fell sick,

and, strange to say, as long as he was confined to his bed there were

no murders. They began again as soon as he was well. On some pretext he

was put in prison, and, just as was expected, so long as he was shut up

the palaces were in security; but the moment he got out (there being no

proof of anything against him) the victims fell just as before. Finally

the rack extracted his secret, and he was executed. A strange thing was

that he had made no use whatever of the stolen property; it was all

found stowed away under the flooring of his room. He said, in the

naïvest manner, that he had made a vow to St. Rochus, the patron of his

craft, that he would get together a certain, pretty considerable, sum

by robbery, and then stop; and complained of the hardship of having

been apprehended before the said sum was arrived at."

"I never heard of the Venetian shoemaker," said Sylvester; "but if I am

truly to tell you the source from whence I drew, I must inform you that

the words spoken by Mademoiselle Scuderi, 'Un amant qui craint les

voleurs,' &c., were really made use of by her, in almost similar

circumstances to those of my story. Also the affair of the offering

from the band of robbers is by no means a creature of the brain of the

felicitously inspired writer. The account of that you will find in a

book where you certainly would not look for it, Wagenseil's 'Nuernberg

Chronicle.' The old gentleman speaks of a visit he made to Mademoiselle

Scuderi in Paris, and if I have succeeded in representing her as

charming and delightful, I am indebted solely to the distinguished

_courtoisie_ with which Wagenseil mentions her."

"Verily," said Theodore, laughing, "to stumble upon Mademoiselle

Scuderi in the 'Nuernberg Chronicle' requires an author's lucky hand,

such as Sylvester is specially gifted with. In fact, he shines on us

to-night in his double capacity of playwright and story-teller, like

the constellation of the Dioscuri."

"That is just where he seems to me so vain," said Vincenz. "A man who

writes a good play ought not to set to work to tell a good tale as

well."

"Yet it is strange," said Cyprian, "that authors who can tell a story

well, who manage their characters and situations cleverly, often fail

altogether in drama for the stage."

"But," said Lothair, "are not the conditions of drama and of narrative

so essentially different in their fundamental elements, that the

attempt to turn a story into a play is very often a complete failure?

You understand that I am speaking of true narrative, not of the novel,

so much, because that has often in it germs from which the drama can

grow up like a glorious, beautiful tree."

"What do you think," asked Vincenz, "of the admirable idea of making a

story out of a play? Some years ago I read Iffland's 'Jaeger' turned

into a story, and you can't believe how delightful and touching little

Anton with the couteau de chasse, and Riekchen with the lost shoe, were

in this shape. It was delightful, too, that the author, or adapter,

preserved whole scenes unchanged, merely putting in the 'said he,' and

'answered she,' between the speeches. I assure you I did not wholly

realise the truly poetic imagination, and the deep sublimity which

there is in Iffland's 'Jaeger,' until I read it in this form. Moreover,

the scientific side of it struck me then, and I saw how properly it was

classed in a certain library under the head 'Science of Forestry.'"

"Cease your funning," said Lothair, "and lend, with us, an attentive

ear to the worthy Serapion Brother who, as I perceive, has just pulled

a manuscript out of his pocket."

"This time," said Theodore, "I have trespassed upon another's ground.

However, there is a real incident at the basis of my story, not taken

from any book, but told to me by another."

He read:--

GAMBLERS' FORTUNE.

In the summer of 18-- Pyrmont was more than usually frequented, and the

influx of visitors, rich and great, increased from day to day, exciting

the eager emulation of the various speculators and purveyors of their

wants. Particularly did the faro-table keepers heap up piles of gold in

unusual quantity, for the attraction of the noble game, which, like

experienced sportsmen, they set themselves to decoy. As we all know, at

watering-places especially--where people resolve to give themselves up,

at their own sweet will, to whatever amusements may be most to their

taste, to get through the time---the attractions of the play-table are

not easy to resist. We see people who never touch a card at other

times, absorbed at those tables; and, in fact, among the upper classes,

at all events, it is thought only a proper thing to stake something

every evening.

There was but one exception to this otherwise universal rule, in the

person of a young German Baron, whom we shall call Siegfried. When

everybody else rushed to the tables, and there was no way left to him

to amuse himself in what he considered a rational manner, he preferred

taking a lonely walk, yielding to the play of his fancy, or would stay

at home, amusing himself with a book, or sometimes writing something

himself.

He was young, independent, good-looking, well off, pleasant in manners,

so of course he was very popular, and his success with the other sex

was distinguished. But besides all this, there appeared to be a special

lucky star watching over everything he undertook. People talked of many

love-affairs, comprising risky adventures of which he had been the

hero, which, though certain to have proved disastrous to most men, he

had got out of with marvellous ease and facility. Old gentlemen who

knew him would speak, particularly, of the affair of a certain watch,

which had happened in his very early days. It chanced, before he came

to his majority, that, on a journey, he unexpectedly found himself in

such a strait for money that, to get on at all, he had to sell his

watch, a beautiful gold one set with brilliants. Seeing no alternative,

he had made up his mind to part with it much under its value; but

it so happened that, in the hotel where he was living, there was a

young prince who was on the look-out for just such a watch; so

that he got more for it than it was worth. Rather more than a year

afterwards--having come to his majority in the meantime--he read in the

newspaper, at another place where he was, that a watch was going to be

raffled. He took a ticket, costing only a trifle, and won the very

watch set in brilliants which he had sold. Soon afterwards, he swopped

this watch away for a valuable ring. Presently, having been for a time

in the service of the Prince of G----, as he was leaving, the Prince

gave him, as a souvenir, the self-same watch which he had twice got rid

of--and a handsome chain into the bargain.

Then, people went on to talk about Siegfried's fancy of never touching

a card--which, considering his extraordinary luck, he ought to be just

the man to do; and everybody came to the conclusion that, in spite of

all his delightful qualities, the Baron was a screw; far too canny to

risk a little of his cash. That his whole conduct completely excluded

the idea of his being avaricious, didn't matter. People are always

anxious, and delighted to fasten an objectionable "but" on to a man of

gifts, and to find out this "but" wherever they can, be it only in

their own imaginations. So everybody was quite satisfied with this

explanation of Siegfried's hatred of the play-table.