CELEBRATED CASES
Parricide--Benoit and his mother--Donon Cadot--Combinations
for crime--Soufflard and Le Sage--The mysterious case of
Madame Lafarge--A strange story--The Duc de Choiseul-Praslin
kills his wife in the faubourg St. Honoré--Evidence clearly
against him--Poisons himself and escapes justice--Suspected
in Paris that special favor was shown him on account of his
rank--Failure of justice in this case one of the supposed
causes of the French Revolution of 1848.
The crime of parricide was so little conceivable in ancient law that no
mention of it appears in the early codes. Six centuries of civilisation
elapsed before the Roman law-makers devised a special penalty for
the child who slew his parent. The guilty offspring was sewn up in a
leather sack, and drowned in the sea; in this it was the custom later
to enclose a dog, a cock, a viper and a monkey. The case of Benoit,
quoted below, was by no means isolated. At the trial of Edward Donon
Cadot in 1844, the public prosecutor admitted that there had been
ninety-five parricides in France in the course of ten years. Only a
short time before had the special penalty inflicted in addition to
death, that of mutilation by striking off the offending hand, been
suppressed.
The causes that have inspired this horrible offence are in all cases
generally the same; either the impatient heirs, weary of waiting for
their inheritance, have hastened the departure of the obstacle, or they
have resented the duties imposed on them by the prolonged existence
of an aged and useless parent. These reasons have too often weighed
in France, especially with the peasant class, at once avaricious and
greedy, and the most hideous stories of the savage cruelty of children
towards their parents are to be found in French criminal records; and
this even in quite recent times.
A singularly savage instance of matricide is on record; that of
Frederick Benoit, who murdered his mother at Vouziers, in 1832, and
committed a certain murder at Versailles, for which he suffered death
in Paris. This Benoit was the third son of the Justice of the Peace
at Vouziers. The father was in the habit of visiting a mill he owned
at some little distance, and passing the night there. Madame Benoit,
when left alone, was always a prey to apprehension, for they kept a
considerable sum in cash in the wardrobe, near her bedroom. This fact
was known to young Benoit. One night, when the judge was absent, an
alarm of robbers was raised, and several neighbors rushed in. Frederick
met them on the threshold with the news that the thieves had escaped
by the window, but he begged some one to rouse his mother at once. On
entering her room she was found lying dead upon her bed, with her
throat cut from ear to ear. Death must have been instantaneous, but her
head was enveloped in a woollen petticoat, undoubtedly to stifle her
cries.
Circumstance did not support the theory that thieves had broken into
the house. All the windows had been securely closed at bedtime. The
shutters could be opened only from within. Besides there were no signs
of muddy footmarks brought in from outside, where it was raining hard.
Nor, last of all, was the existence of the money in the cupboard, 6,000
francs in gold, known to any one outside the family circle. The inquiry
seemed naturally limited, therefore, to the persons actually occupying
the house that night,--Frederick Benoit and a young girl, a cousin,
who served as domestic. As the boy was barely twenty and the girl not
seventeen, the police could not bring themselves to suspect them.
Several arrests were made, but guilt could not be fixed upon any one.
Then all at once the second murder was committed by Benoit, who killed
a youthful companion, with whom he was on the most intimate terms. They
had occupied a room together in a small hotel at Versailles. At midday
Benoit had gone out, but no sign was made by the other. In the evening,
about 7 o’clock, the servants went up and found the door locked from
the outside. They entered by another door, and discovered the body of
the second young man with his throat cut. “Precisely as my mother was
killed,” remarked Benoit, when subsequently arrested, and brought into
the presence of the body at the Morgue.
Witnesses now appeared, who had heard the deceased declare that
his life was in danger from Frederick Benoit. “I know what he has
done, and he will certainly kill me some day to save his own skin.”
Benoit was accordingly arrested. A search in his lodgings in Paris
revealed a razor case, from which the razor had been removed, and a
quantity of gold inserted, wrapped up as _rouleaux_ in fragments of
the _Constitutionnel_ newspaper, to which his father, the judge, was
a subscriber. Further incriminating evidence now came from the last
confession of the girl Louise Feucher, his cousin, to the effect that
she had been his accomplice in the murder of Madame Benoit. She had
fled from the house in Vouziers to Paris, and fallen into bad ways,
which had led to her imprisonment in Les Magdelonnettes, where she
entered the hospital, and died.
Frederick Benoit was duly convicted, sentenced to death and executed.
It came out in the course of the trial that his mother had had a
strong presentiment of impending evil. On the night of the murder,
when her husband was absent, she carefully inspected the house with
her son, the intending parricide, and made all secure. “The nights
are long (it was the month of November); we never know what might
happen,” she said, closing all doors and shutters, and looking to the
locks and fastenings. She could not protect herself from the danger
already within the house. Her murderer was in a room close by, and he
accomplished his purpose with a single blow, while she still slept, and
passed, without a struggle, instantaneously from life to death.
M. Donon Cadot, a prosperous banker of Pontoise, was found murdered in
his offices on January 15, 1844; and suspicion fell upon his second
son, who lived with him. He was a widower. His household was limited to
one general servant, and his economy was so rigid that he passed for
a miser. No doubt he was very illiberal to his son. On the day named,
one for the settlement of bills and notes of hand, the banker was at
his desk by 9 o’clock, ready to meet his engagements, and transacted
business for a time, but at the half hour the doors were found closed,
and the son, answering for his father, declared that he had been called
away for a time. He had not returned by four in the afternoon, and the
son on the premises, Edward, summoned an elder brother, who lived in
the town, to attend to the business of the bank. Together they found
a sluggish stream of mingled blood and ink, flowing under the office
door. Forcing it they discovered the lifeless corpse of their father
within. He had been battered to death by some heavy instrument.
The motive of the crime was revealed by the forced safe and empty
drawers of the desk. Everything of value, bills, bank-notes, cash
and a quantity of plate had been carried off. The first named, many
hundred in number, and amounting in all to some 300,000 francs, being
unnegotiable, were returned by post. Other bills, however, were
presented, and the bearer of one of them was traced to his home, where
a number of the papers were found in the same handwriting as the
envelopes which had come through the post. This fixed the suspicion
on a man named Rousselot, and he was brought to confess that he had
participated in the crime. He had committed it at the instigation of
the son Edward, who was moved by greed and jealousy. A long trial
followed, resulting in the conviction of Rousselot and a sentence of
life at the galleys, but the evidence was not deemed conclusive against
the son, and he was released.
A common feature in French crime has always been the systematic
organisation of offenders in bands, where a number of them contrive
to act in concert under chosen leaders. There have been many of these
associations from time to time working on a wide scale and doing
enormous damage. The _chauffeurs_, so called from their methods of
torture to extort confessions of hidden wealth, were a product of
the revolutionary epoch, and a revival of the baneful bands, that
have constantly ravaged France from the Middle Ages. The extensive
operations of Cartouche, one of the most daring and successful of
thieves on a large scale, were rivalled by the terrible band directed
by Hulin in the forest of Montargis, and the exploits of Pontailler,
who worked close up to the walls of Paris.
The depredations of a number of the worst criminals spread terror
through the capital in 1836 and the years immediately following. Now
again, as when Vidocq was charged with pursuit and discovery, serious
robberies were of constant occurrence, and were rightly attributed to
associated action. Very many ex-convicts, those regularly released,
and yet more who had made their escape from durance, were at large.
Some five or six thousand infested Paris alone. The police were ever
on the alert, but failed to put their hands upon the ringleader, until
all at once an atrocious murder was committed in broad daylight in the
populous quarter of the Temple.
Among the respectable dealers of that neighborhood was a family named
Renaud, father, mother and daughter, who kept a shop for the sale of
mattresses and bedding. One afternoon in June, Renaud meant to take
his wife and daughter for a walk, and sent the girl to their private
residence, hard by, to help her mother to dress. She found the rooms
securely locked, and, thinking her mother was within, asleep, went down
to ask her father if she should be awakened. On her return she met a
man coming down in a hurry, and a second, following. But still her
mother’s door was closed. Still no answer came to her knocking, and
she again sought her father, who now ascended and broke into the room
with a hatchet. Madame Renaud was lying dead upon the floor, bearing
many wounds. It was subsequently found that a bag of gold had been
abstracted from the room, a quantity of silver money and several pieces
of plate. Beyond question the strange men first seen were the authors
of the crime. As the men reached the street a woman had met them,
and heard a sound of silver rattling down on the pavement. Some one
also cried after them: “Here! You’ve dropped a silver spoon;” and the
smaller of the two paused to pick it up and run on. Others noted them
as they passed, and that their clothes were much stained with blood.
But they went on, and entered a café, where they called for two glasses
of sugared water. Their haggard looks attracted attention, and they
were seen using the water bottle to wash their hands below the table.
Evidently disturbed, and dreading further observation, they got up and
hurriedly left the café.
The description given of these two men fitted with that of a couple
of convicts recently released from Toulon. Search was made for them,
and, as it progressed, the police came upon several confederates, all
members of a gang in which these two, by name Soufflard and Le Sage,
were leading spirits. With a third, called Micaud, they formed the
executive of this criminal association. They had all been at Toulon
together, and were known there as the most violent and intractable
prisoners. When a new act of insubordination was planned, a new series
of thefts, this trio always originated or were concerned in it. Le Sage
in particular was a terror to his keepers. He had a sister of the same
type as himself, a half savage peasant woman, who hawked bread about
in a basket, but whose real occupation was that of spy, who hunted out
jobs for execution, promising great profit to those who could bring
them off. She had trained a small son to assist her, a precocious
child, who was an adroit thief on his own account. Inspired and guided
by these chiefs, a number of lesser practitioners were kept constantly
busy. Crimes multiplied throughout Paris; jewellers’ shops were broken
into, and private apartments by force or with false keys; shops were
explored by pretended purchasers of goods, and their weak points laid
bare and a descent made next night.
Le Sage, who had been locked up for a brief space in La Force, was,
on his release, informed by his sister of the chances offered by the
Renaud establishment in the Temple. He saw at once that robbery could
hardly be effected without violence, which he did not shrink from, but
he wanted a stalwart companion. Soufflard, who was also at large, was
thirsting for some “big thing,” and willingly joined in the attack upon
the Renauds. The crime once committed, the police were soon on the
track of the murderers, guided by the indications of false friends. Le
Sage was taken first, and easily identified. Soufflard, who had three
separate domiciles, and was very wary, was only caught through the
help of a jealous comrade, who denounced him. Trial and conviction
rapidly followed, but Soufflard after the sentence, evading the
supervision of the warders, who were removing him to the Conciergerie,
swallowed a quantity of arsenic, and died of the effects. Le Sage also
committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell.
Crime is of no class, and in all countries and in all ages, high born
offenders, as well as low, have stood in the dock to answer for their
misdeeds. There are two cases about this period that may be quoted
here in proof of this particular statement; one the alleged poisoning
of her husband by Madame Lafarge; the other, the horrible murder of
the Duchesse de Choiseul-Praslin by her husband, the Duke, at their
mansion, the Hotel Sebastiani in the Faubourg St. Honoré, Paris. Both
take rank with the most celebrated cases, and attracted extraordinary
interest, which has but little abated even now.
The case of Madame Lafarge is still an unsolved mystery. Grave doubts
as to her guilt prevailed, and many learned lawyers have maintained
that she was the victim of judicial error. The accused, Marie Fortunée
Cappelle, was a young lady in good society, well educated and well
bred, who had married a manufacturer at Glandier in the Limoges
country, not far from Bordeaux. She was the daughter of a colonel in
Napoleon’s Artillery of the Guard. She was well connected. Her aunts
were well married, one to a Prussian diplomatist, the other to Monsieur
Garat, the General Secretary of the Bank of France. Her father had
stood well with Napoleon, had held several important military commands,
and was intimate with many of the nobles of the First Empire. Marie
lost her parents early, and, being possessed of a certain fortune,
a marriage was sought for her in the usual French way. She was not
exactly pretty, but was distinguished looking, with a slim, graceful
figure, a dead white complexion, jet black eyes and a sweet, sad smile.
The husband chosen was a certain Charles Pouch Lafarge, a man of fair
position, but decidedly the inferior of Marie Cappelle. He was in
business as an iron master, and was deemed prosperous. He said he had
a large private residence in the neighborhood of his works, a fine
mansion, situated in a wide park, where his wife would be in the midst
of agreeable and fashionable society. Great, almost indecent, haste
was shown in arranging and solemnising the marriage. Within five days
the bride started for her new home, and quickly realised that she had
been completely befooled. M. Lafarge at once showed himself in his
true colors as a rough, brutal creature, who treated his wife badly
from the first. The family seat at Glandier was a fraud. It was a
damp, dark house in a street, surrounded with smoky chimneys. The park
did not exist, nor did the pleasant neighbors. She had been grossly
deceived, and the reality was even worse than it appeared, for Lafarge
was in serious financial difficulties, and had been obliged to issue
forged bills of exchange to keep his head above water. The unhappy and
disappointed wife, when face to face with the truth, made a determined
effort to break loose from Lafarge. On the very day of her arrival at
Glandier, she shut herself up in her room, and wrote him an indignant
yet appealing letter, in which she threatened, if he would not let her
go, to take arsenic. And this, her first mention of the lethal drug,
was remembered against her in later days, when she was tried for her
life.
Peace was patched up between the ill-assorted couple, and Marie was
persuaded to withdraw her letter and promise to do her best to accept
the position, and make her husband happy. “With a little strength of
mind,” she wrote to an uncle, “with patience and my husband’s love, I
may grow contented. Charles adores me, and I cannot but be touched by
the caresses he lavishes on me.” He must have been willing enough to
secure her good graces, for he wanted her to part with her fortune to
improve his business. He had discovered a new process in iron-smelting,
which promised to be profitable, and his wife lent him money to develop
the invention. Then he hurried to Paris to secure the patent, and while
absent from Glandier, where his wife remained, the first event occurred
on which the suspicion of foul play was based. Madame Lafarge was now
so affectionately disposed that she desired to send her portrait to
her husband. The picture was to be accompanied by a number of small
cakes prepared by the mother-in-law, and Marie Lafarge wrote to beg
her husband to eat one at a particular hour on a particular day. She
would do the same at Glandier, and thereby set up some mysterious
_rapport_ with her husband. When the parcel arrived, the picture was
found within, but no small cakes, only one large one. The box had been
tampered with. When it left Glandier, it was screwed down. It reached
Paris fastened with long nails. Lafarge, on opening it, broke off a
part of the large cake, and ate it. That night he was taken violently
ill. The cake presumably contained poison, but the fact was never
proved, still less that Marie Lafarge had inserted the arsenic, which
it was supposed to contain. The evidence against her was that she
had bought some of this baneful drug from a chemist at Glandier. The
charge was definitely made, but on weak evidence, the chief being the
purchased arsenic and her manifest agitation when the news came from
Paris that her husband had been taken ill. On the other hand, there was
nothing to show that she had substituted the large poisoned cake for
the small ones, or that no one else had handled the parcel. Here crept
in the notion of another agency, and the suggestion that some one else
might have been anxious to poison Lafarge. This idea was by no means
extravagant, and it cropped up more than once during the proceedings,
but no proper attention was paid to it. Had the clue been followed, it
might have led inquiry to the possible guilt of another person.
Lafarge returned from Paris a good deal shaken, but the doctor promised
that with rest his health would be restored. On the contrary it got
worse, and with symptoms which to-day would undoubtedly be attributed
to arsenical poisoning. Marie Lafarge would have constituted herself
sole nurse, but the mother-in-law would not agree, and would never
leave her alone with her husband. Witnesses deposed to having seen
Marie take a white powder from a cupboard, which she mixed with the
chicken broth and medicine given to Lafarge. Another witness declared
that the patient cried out “that his medicine burnt out like fire.”
All this time Marie Lafarge did not conceal her possession of arsenic.
She bought it openly to kill rats, she said: a very hackneyed excuse.
It had been bought through one of Lafarge’s clerks, Denis Barbier by
name, upon whom rested strong suspicion from first to last. Barbier
was a man of bad character, passing under a false name. He had been
the secret accomplice of Lafarge in passing forged bills, and a shrewd
theory was advanced that all along he was scheming to supplant his
master and take possession of his property after he (Lafarge) had been
made away with. Barbier’s conduct was such that the Prussian jurists
who investigated the trial afterwards declared that they would have
accused him of the crime rather than Madame Lafarge.
The trial was no doubt conducted with gross carelessness. A post-mortem
was made, but not until it was insisted upon, and it was very
imperfectly performed. When at length the corpse was disinterred,
only an infinitesimal quantity of arsenic was at first found in
the remains, but when the most eminent scientists of the day were
called in, it was established by M. Orfila that the deceased had been
poisoned. The circumstances of the case fixed the guilt upon Madame
Lafarge. She was very ably defended by the famous Maitre Lachaud, but
the jury had no doubt, and condemned her by a majority of voices. At
the same time she was given the benefit of extenuating circumstances,
and sentenced to _travaux forcés_ for life, with exposure in the
public square of Tulle. This decision, although supported by science,
was not universally approved. Many believed in her innocence to the
last, and the number of her sympathisers was legion. She endured her
imprisonment at Montpelier, where she remained for many years, engaged
almost continually in literary work. Her “Memoirs” and a work entitled
“Prison Hours” were largely read. She also conducted an enormous
correspondence, for she was permitted to receive and send out an
unlimited number of letters. No less than six thousand passed through
her hands. At length in 1852 she petitioned the head of the State, and
was released with a full pardon by Napoleon III.
It is impossible at this length of time to settle a question so keenly
debated by her contemporaries. The possibility of her having served
for another’s crime hardly rests on any very strong basis, and the
circumstances that led to her arraignment were very much against
her. It must not be forgotten, moreover, that she was charged with
a crime other than that of theft, and was convicted of it. In this
again she may have suffered unjustly. A school friend, who had become
the wife of the Vicomte de Leautaud, accused her of having stolen her
diamonds, when on a visit at her house. Marie Lafarge freely admitted
the diamonds were in her possession, and pointed out where they might
be found at Glandier, but she refuted the accusation of theft, and
declared that the Vicomtesse had entrusted the diamonds to her to be
sold. Her former lover threatened blackmail, and Madame de Leautaud
was driven to buy him off--this was Marie’s explanation, which Madame
de Leautaud repelled by declaring that it was Marie Lafarge who was
threatened, and that the diamonds were to be sacrificed to save her
good name. In the end, the case was tried in open court, and Madame
Lafarge was found guilty, although there were many contradictory facts.
It was strange that the Vicomtesse so long refrained from complaining
of the theft, and made so little of the loss. Marie, on the other hand,
scarcely secreted the jewels, and was known to have a number of fine
loose stones, for which she variously accounted--one story being that
they were a gift, another that she had owned them from childhood. A
sentence of two years’ imprisonment was passed upon Madame Lafarge, but
it merged in the larger term, when she was convicted of having poisoned
her husband.
The murder of the Duchesse de Choiseul-Praslin by the husband shocked
all Europe, not only on account of the horrible details of the deed,
but from the high rank of the parties concerned. The Duke held his
head high as the representative of an ancient family, and his unhappy
victim was one of the leaders of French fashionable society. She was
the daughter of one of the first Napoleon’s famous generals, the Count
Sebastian, and when in Paris they resided at the Sebastian Hotel in
the Faubourg St. Honoré, in the Champs Elysées. In August, 1840, the
family came from their country seat, the magnificent Chateau of Vaux,
constructed by the famous Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance minister, who
fell into such irretrievable disgrace, and died after long years of
close imprisonment.
It was not a happy marriage, although ten children had been born to
them. But the Duke and Duchess had become estranged as the years passed
by, and were practically separated. Although still residing under the
same roof, they held no communication with each other. What is now
called incompatibility of temper was the cause, and the Duke was a
masterful, overbearing man, who wanted his own way, and had his own
ideas as to the bringing up of his children. He would not suffer his
wife to have any voice in their education and management, but claimed
to control them completely through their governesses, who were quickly
changed if they failed to give satisfaction. One at last was found to
suit, and the fact served to suggest a motive for the crime. Whether
or not there was really an intrigue between this Madame Deluzy and the
Duke, it was strongly suspected, and the Duchess certainly detested
her. The Duke put the governess in a false position. He preferred her
society, and lived much with his children committed to her charge, in a
remote wing of the house.
These relations continued unchanged for several years, and the Duchess,
although consumed with jealous rage, would have ended them by pleading
for a divorce. Here the King and Queen intervened, and sought to
reconcile husband and wife. Madame Deluzy left the Praslins to take
a situation at a school, the head of which, not strangely, asked for
a personal character from the Duchess. Curious stories had been put
about, which must be cleared up before the new governess could be
engaged. The Duchess refused pointblank to give a certificate, although
the mistress came in person with Madame Deluzy to seek it. No doubt the
Duke took this refusal in very bad part, and it is believed a violent
quarrel ensued, although no record of it was preserved. But it is a
fact of the utmost importance as supplying the motive for the crime
committed the same night, or rather in the small hours of the following
morning.
At four o’clock agonized cries disturbed the sleeping household. They
proceeded from the Duchess’s apartment, and were compared by those
who heard them to the yells of a lunatic in a fit of fury. Frantic
ringings of the bell, rapid and intermittent, were the next sounds,
followed by deep groans, the thud of blows and the fall of a heavy
body. The servants rushed down, and found an entrance through doors,
which had been locked from within. All the external doors and shutters
giving upon the gardens were closed, their fastenings intact; only that
of an antechamber, leading to the staircase which communicated with
the Duke’s bedroom on the floor above, was open. He was apparently
still undisturbed, and it was not until the servants had penetrated
to the inner apartment, where they found the Duchess lying prone in
her nightdress and deluged with blood, that the Duke appeared on the
staircase. He was greatly agitated, asked excitedly and repeatedly what
had happened, and struck the wall and his head with his hands. When he
saw the corpse he cried: “Who can have done this? Help! Help! Fetch a
doctor. Quick!”
The doctors arrived, and close behind them the commissaries of police,
who began their investigation immediately. That murder had been
committed was clear from the slashed and stricken state of the corpse.
There were quite a dozen wounds. The throat was cut down to the bone,
the carotid artery and the jugular severed. Gashes in the hands showed
that desperate attempts had been made to ward off the murderous blows
by catching at the blade of the knife used. The poor woman had fought a
hard fight for her life. Later, a close examination of the Duke proved
that he had been wounded. His left hand was lacerated, and the thumb
had been bitten, deep scratches with nails convulsively used,--all
these bore witness to the struggle, and turned suspicion to the Duke.
This was strengthened by other telltale facts. His bedroom was in the
utmost disorder, water had been poured into the basin to wash off
traces of blood, and several garments wringing wet were hung up in the
place.
When called upon to state the facts as he knew them, the Duke made a
very lame defence. He had roused from a sound sleep by loud cries, but,
believing they came from the street outside, he waited until he thought
he heard steps in the garden; then he rose, put on a dressing-gown,
took a loaded pistol, and went down to his wife’s room. He called to
her, but received no answer, and then lit a candle, by the feeble
light of which he discovered her where she lay bleeding to death.
Overcome with horror, he said, he ran back to his own room to wash
off the blood with which he was now covered, and again descended to
join the servants, who had now arrived upon the scene. The replies
to the many serious questions put to the Duke were considered highly
incriminating, and as by this time the highest officers of justice had
reached the spot it was decided that the supposed murderer, whose guilt
seemed clear, should be taken into custody. The King (Louis Philippe)
was absent at his seaside residence, the Castle of Eu, and a special
messenger was despatched to the coast, asking that the House of Peers
should be summoned as a high court of justice to deal with the crime.
Meanwhile an order of arrest was issued, and the Duke would have been
conveyed to the nearest prison but that a disturbance was dreaded.
Great crowds had assembled near the Hotel Sebastian, and feeling ran
high against the aristocratic criminal. A day was thus wasted, and when
the Duke was removed at length to the Luxembourg lock-up he was too
weak to walk, and could barely speak. It was thought at first that he
had been attacked with cholera; for that dread epidemic was just then
ravaging Paris, and he exhibited some of the symptoms of that disease;
but there was presently little doubt that when left unobserved in his
own house he had contrived to become possessed of some poison, and had
attempted his own life. When searched, on leaving his house, a phial
was found in his pocket, containing laudanum mixed with arsenical
acid. Remedies were promptly applied, but failed to counteract the
evil effects of the strong dose.
The “instruction,” or preliminary inquiry, was, however, continued,
despite the condition of the accused and the constitutional
difficulties which demanded the intervention of the House of Peers.
But the Duke grew weaker hourly, and could frame no replies to the
questions, and was beyond doubt dying. At the last, just three days
after his commission of the crime, he made full confession of his
guilt. Nothing had been proved against Madame Deluzy. She had been
charged with complicity, but was in due course discharged.
The crime of De Choiseul-Praslin occurred at a time when political
passion ran high, and the reign of Louis Philippe was approaching its
term. The feeling against the aristocracy was greatly embittered; the
republican opposition was strongly moved by this atrocious murder
committed by a Duke and Peer of France upon an unoffending wife. A
report gained ground and could not be discredited, that the authorities
had permitted him to evade justice; that the story of his death was
quite untrue, and that he had been allowed to escape to England. There
were people who afterwards declared that they had met the Duke, walking
with Madame Deluzy in a London street, and when the funeral took place
an attack was threatened upon the hearse so as to verify the matter.
All this increased the popular excitement, and the government was
fiercely denounced for daring to shield a titled criminal from the
consequence of his acts. No doubt the Praslin murder was a contributory
cause of the Revolution of 1848 and the downfall of Louis Philippe.