L'AUBERGE DE PEYRABEILLE
Roman road—The inn—Pierre Martin, his wife, and man—Haussmann
at the inn—Number of murders committed never known—Claude
Béraud—Assassination of an unknown man—A body boiled—Vincent
Boyer—Murder of an old man—Marriage of the youngest
daughter—Michel Hugon—Robbery of a pedlar woman—Marriage of the
eldest daughter—Murder of Anjolras—Testud and the barrel of
bran—Arrest of the Martins and their man—Difficulty of procuring
evidence—Execution.
[Illustration: THE TAVERN OF PEYRABEILLE]
The story of the Tavern of Peyrabeille is, perhaps, the most ghastly in
the annals of crime, but I give it here partly because it has been so
overladen and altered by fiction that the facts have disappeared in a
cloud of fable; mainly because that story reveals, in a manner nothing
else could, some of the characteristics of the Cevenol peasant.
The facts have been gathered from the archives of the Court of Justice
at Privas, and published there by M. Paul d'Albigny. But the book is
very scarce, long out of print, and I had great difficulty in procuring
a copy. It is a book of 495 pages, and I shall have to compress the
contents into one chapter.
In the valley of the Ardèche, above Aubenas, at Pont de la Baume, is a
Roman milestone now bearing a cross on its summit. Above the road tower
the ruins of the castle of Ventadour commanding the valley. Both
indicate that a great high road of ancient date led this way. In fact,
that road was the main artery of communication between France proper
and Languedoc. It was up this road that Cæsar pressed in his memorable
winter march when he surprised the Arverni.
The great road came down from Clermont to Le Puy, passed over the
tableland to near the source of the Ardèche, and followed down that
river to Aubenas and thence into the Rhône valley. At almost the
highest point, 3,850 feet above the sea, in a bleak spot away from
other human habitations, stood a hostelry, Peyrabeille, at which
travellers were almost bound to halt to refresh or to pass the night.
Faujas de Saint Fond, who was almost the first man to draw attention
to the volcanic phenomena of the district, visited Peyrabeille in or
about 1770, and he wrote: "There is no habitation so isolated as this
inn; and not a year passes that solitary travellers do not find their
safety in this shelter." If he had lived seventy years later he would
not have used the same flattering language about it, for after that the
family of Martin-Blanc took the tavern; for twenty-five years it became
a murderous den, in which the travellers who lodged there were robbed
and sent to their long rest. It was never known how many were there
murdered, but it was believed that some sixty had become the victims of
Pierre Martin, his wife, and his serving-man, and with what was taken
from them the taverner bought up land and extended his possessions
on all sides. Not till 1833 was this murderous band convicted and
guillotined beside the inn, the scene of their crimes.
Pierre Martin, called also Blanc, with his wife Marie, came first of
all as tenant farmer to a man named Beyraud, in a small habitation
near the inn, in or about 1802. They had two daughters, Jeanne, born
in 1800, and Marguerite, born after they came to this farm, in 1805.
Martin and his wife did well there, by what means we do not know, but
he speedily grew so easy in his circumstances that he purchased a site
and land of Beyraud, and built a new inn which was completed in 1808.
This building still stands, very slightly altered. It is a long, low
structure of granite and lava, with a huge stable, coachhouse, and loft
over it adjoining. The front door from the road gave access to the
kitchen, dimly lighted by one small hole of a window. In this kitchen
was a large fireplace, beside which was the staircase leading to the
upper floor, where were the principal bedrooms. On the left a door gave
access to the salle-à-manger, lighted by two small windows. Beyond this
was a washhouse, within it a huge oven in which Martin and his wife
cremated the bodies of their victims. It must have been contrived for
this purpose when the house was built, for it could serve no other,
and since their time it has been destroyed. There was and is still
an oven for domestic purposes in the kitchen. Behind this range of
apartments was the bedroom of the Martins, husband and wife, adjoining
it that of the two daughters and the servant-man Jean Rochette, and in
rear of the washhouse a cellar. From the kitchen access was obtained
by a door to the coachhouse. The vast stable had a door on to the
road, and another at the further end. Above the stable the hayloft was
reached by a sloping ascent from the ground. In the upper story of the
dwelling-house were four bedrooms opening out of a wide passage in
which was a fold-up cupboard bed, and from which a doorway led into
the hayloft.
Pierre Martin, towards the end of his life, had an appearance somewhat
patriarchal, with long flowing hair almost white. He had a high colour
in his cheeks, and was a short, thick-set man. His forehead was
retreating, his mouth firm. In manner he was unctuous, and he affected
to be gracious.
His wife Marie, or Marion as commonly called, was a woman of
avaricious, violent character, with a strength of will and decision
capable of urging on her husband and servant to the worst deeds. Their
servant, Jean Rochette, was born in 1785; he was a strongly built man,
with auburn hair, large bright eyes, and a face at variance with the
ferocity of his character; he was aged forty-eight when executed.
The new inn at Peyrabeille (the Old Stone) was much frequented, lying
on the main road from Clermont and Le Puy to Aubenas and Viviers,
consequently linked with the Rhône valley as also with Langonne,
the great cattle market for the farmers and cattle-breeders of the
Margeride; merchants, dealers, colporteurs passed and repassed it, and
as habitations were few and inns still fewer, and such as there were of
the most wretched description, Peyrabeille could not be gone by without
some refreshment being taken there, and in stormy and cold weather the
blazing fire kept up in the kitchen out of wood from the forest of
Bauzon lured travellers to stay.
Baron Haussmann, in his _Memoirs_, relates a visit made to this inn in
1832. He was then sous-préfet of Yssingeaux:—
"It was six o'clock at night. We decided reluctantly to stay
anywhere for the night, dine, and rest our horses. We halted at a
lonely inn at the crossing of two roads on a bleak plateau of most
melancholy appearance. Darkness settled down, and the stars did
not suffice to show the way. We were reluctantly induced to spend
the night there. But it was stifling in the kitchen, which served
also as salle-à-manger and as salon, and to take a breath of air
we had opened the door, which the host had already barricaded. A
light appeared between the mountains, and we soon became aware
that the moon was about to rise. The prospect of escaping from
beds of doubtful cleanliness to go elsewhere to rest where less
suspicious, made us, late as it was, determine to proceed. We
ordered our horses to be saddled, turning a deaf ear to the
solicitations of our hosts, whom we urged to draw up our bill.
Midnight struck when we arrived, greatly exhausted, at Le Puy."
Eight months later the papers rang with news of the arrest of the
host and hostess and servant of the inn for repeated murders of
their guests, whose bodies they burned in an oven. Among those who
had disappeared was a stout cattle-dealer whom Haussmann and his
companion had that night met in the tavern, and with whom they had held
discussion.
It is doubtful whether the Martins would have ventured to assassinate
two men so well known as Haussmann and his comrade, M. Dumoulin.
Possibly, had they stayed the night, it would have saved the life of
the cattle-dealer.
The Martins were cautious to treat well and leave unmolested persons
of some condition, whose disappearance would rouse inquiry. Moreover,
they did not always assassinate their victims in the house, but waylaid
them at a distance, and disposed of the bodies in lava chasms or
snow-drifts.
Only a fraction of their misdeeds came to light. At their trial
such cases alone were brought up against them of which evidence was
procurable to convict. Indubitably other persons were involved, sending
information of intending lodgers well furnished with money, in advance
of the arrival of the guests. Furthermore, André Martin, the nephew,
aged thirty-five, was acquitted, although no doubt whatever existed
that he had assisted in some of the murders. I will give a summary of
the cases proved against the Martins and their man.
In 1808 Europe was the theatre of considerable wars, there was the
continental blockade, the war in Spain and Portugal. The difficulties
with Rome obliged Napoleon to raise 270,000 conscripts, torn from their
families to lay their bones on foreign battlefields. The dislike to
conscription caused many young men to retire into hiding away from
their homes, and others to desert after enrolment. These were the
object of incessant research by the imperial gendarmerie. Among such
was a young fellow of twenty called Claude Béraud, son of well-to-do
parents near Le Puy, who had already lost one son at Jena, and another
was with the army of occupation of Naples, but had not been heard of
for long. His parents furnished Claude with money sewn into a leather
belt he was to wear next his skin, and bade him hide till the search
was over. One winter night, in 1808, this unfortunate young man came
to the inn at Peyrabeille and asked to be taken in. Snow was falling,
and a storm raging. He was received, and incautiously told his hosts
what he was and that he was well supplied with money. They made up
for him a roaring fire, and gave him hot spiced wine as he sat over
it. The change from the cold without to the heat within made him
drowsy, and as he nodded, Pierre Martin struck the leg of his chair
and upset the youth, about whose neck Rochette at once slipped a thong
and strangled him. The body was searched, the belt taken off, and the
pockets emptied. From the belt 350 francs were taken; from the pockets
a peculiarly ornamented knife, which Jean Rochette appropriated, and a
watch from which hung a piece of cornelian in the form of a disc. It
was by identifying these latter articles twenty-five years later that
the parents of Claude first learned his fate.
When he was dead, Pierre Martin and the serving-man carried the body
to a distance, leaving a little loose silver in the pocket, and threw
it into a snow-drift that filled a ditch. Not till late in the spring
was the corpse found, and then it was so disfigured by wolves that
identification was impossible, and the money in the pocket led the
police to suppose that the death was due to accident.
In the month of July, 1812, Jean Rochette received news through a
wagoner who halted at the inn that a stranger, presumedly a merchant
and well-to-do, was on his way thither, and might or might not spend
the night at Peyrabeille. He was riding on an apple-grey horse with a
long tail, and had holsters to his saddle with pistols in them.
At six o'clock in the evening this man arrived, looked at the tavern,
and not relishing its appearance was pushing on, when Jeanne, then aged
fourteen, ran out, and standing before the horse, entreated the man
to make proof of her mother's kitchen; at the same time Rochette came
out and joined in persuading him to alight. The traveller was on his
way, he said, to Pradelles, and could not reach it till well on in the
night. The merchant allowed himself to be persuaded, and surrendered
the horse to the servant, who took it to the stables and at once
removed the pistols from their cases. The stranger, whose name never
transpired, remained in the inn and dined there; he did not leave till
eight o'clock, when night was falling. He had not observed that whilst
he was at his meal the two men, Martin and his servant, had disappeared.
After departing, he had gone some way on the road to Pradelles, when
from a coppice the host and Rochette leaped out on him, and Martin
dealt him a blow with a cudgel on the back of his head which sent him
from his horse. Martin then laid hold of the bridle and bade his man
finish the stranger. So soon as the traveller was dead he was robbed,
despoiled of most of his clothes, and then the body flung across the
saddle, the horse led to a great distance, and the corpse thrown into a
cleft in the rock, and pieces of granite heaped upon it.
Some days later a couple of poachers after a fox pursued the animal
till it took refuge in this very cleft, and in removing the stones to
reach it discovered the dead man. The tidings of what had been found
was buzzed about, but the police acted in such leisurely fashion that
they did not go to the spot till three days after its discovery, and
then—the body had disappeared. Pierre Martin had removed and cremated
it in his oven. He took the horse, after having docked its tail, to Le
Puy to sell it at a fair, but a dealer there seemed to recognise it,
and asked inconvenient questions, so Martin hastily left, and he and
Rochette killed the beast and buried it.
In the same year a farmer named Brisac, living at no great distance,
having sold some hay to Pierre Martin, went one morning very early,
as dawn was breaking, to claim his money. On reaching Peyrabeille his
surprise was great to see a strong light gleaming from the crevices of
the door and the curtained window. He knocked with his stick, but only
after some delay did a voice from within ask who he was and what he
wanted. He stated his business; the woman Martin opened, and seemed to
be somewhat disconcerted and in a very bad temper. The morning was raw,
and Brisac went to the hearth, where he saw it piled up into faggots,
making a huge blaze about a cauldron suspended in the flames, and the
ebullition was so great that the lid of the cauldron was in constant
agitation to emit the steam. At the same time, whatever was boiling
sent forth a peculiar and disagreeable odour, as from something decayed.
Pierre Martin and his wife were obviously impatient to be rid of their
creditor, and Pierre left the room to fetch the money that was due.
Brisac seized the opportunity as Marie Martin's back was turned to lift
the lid of the cauldron, and to his horror beheld a human hand. As
he dropped the lid Pierre re-entered, observed what he had done, and
fixing his eyes on Brisac, said to him sternly: "Here is your money. Be
off, and take care that not a word as to what you have seen here passes
your lips. If you forget my warning, you are a lost man."
Brisac took the money and fled the house, and never again set foot
across its threshold. Such, however, is the cowardice of the peasant,
his fear of compromising himself, his shyness of having anything to do
with the police, that it was not till the Martins were in prison that
he ventured to relate what he had seen, and he appeared in court with
his evidence only when it was certain that they could do him no harm.
The next case illustrates this timidity even more clearly. I will quote
the deposition of the witness textually. It is that of Vincent Boyer,
tinner, aged twenty-nine.
"One day, in the winter of 1824, I was going to my family at
Aubenas, when I was surprised by the bad weather (the land was
covered with snow), and I was forced to stay at the Martins' inn
at Peyrabeille. I saw several persons there, notably an old man
also delayed by the bad weather and forced to pass the night
there. Martin's wife having invited me to draw near to the fire,
entered into conversation with me, and questioned me on my gains
in my trade, and as to how much money I had with me. She told me
that there was a band of robbers in the neighbourhood, and she
asked me what I would do if attacked by them. 'I would give up to
them the thirty sous I have with me and be off.' 'But,' said she,
'supposing that they were disposed to kill another man and let you
alone, what would you do?' 'I would defend him at the peril of my
life if I saw there was a chance of saving him. If not, I would
let be.' 'Are you a heavy sleeper?' 'Very. When once asleep you
might remove the house without awaking me.'
"This strange questioning frightened me; I saw clearly enough
into what company I had got. However, I did my best to disguise
my suspicions. After having catechised me, the woman Martin went
to the old man and asked him the cause of his journey. He replied
without mistrust that he had sold a cow and was taking the money
back with him. This lack of reticence further alarmed me.
"Bed-time arrived. The people of the house told us plainly enough
to go to our respective chambers aloft. Then only did some
suspicion cross the mind of the old man, and he asked to share the
same room with me, but this was peremptorily refused.
"They led us to our separate bedrooms at some little distance
apart. I heard the old man make some demur as to his, and a voice
replied: 'Manage as you will. There is no other room for you.'
Then I heard the door of his chamber shut, and whoever had led
him to his room descended. One of the girls had conducted me to
my chamber, and she recommended me not to leave my door open,
speaking in a tone that expressed an order.
"As soon as the girl Martin had left I examined my bed, and was
horrified to find on the bolster splashes of blood as big as the
bottom of a pail. I went to bed more dead than alive. At the end
of about an hour some one entered my room, thinking that I was
asleep—I made good pretence that I was so—and searched my pockets,
and finding in them no more than the thirty sous, left them there
and descended again.
"Two or three hours later I heard strokes at the old man's
door, and a voice call, 'Get up, it is time.' There was,
however, no response. Then those who had made this noise went
back below, but returned in half an hour. They knocked again
at the door, repeating the words as before. But seeing that
the stranger persisted in refusing to reply, they burst in the
door. Immediately I heard cries of 'Help! Help!' But soon the
victim uttered no more articulate cries, but such as I can only
liken to the squeals of a pig that is being killed. During the
accomplishment of the crime—that is to say, whilst the unhappy man
was uttering these cries of distress—the two Martin girls, aged
twenty-eight and thirty, were keeping guard at my door, laughing
in fits and singing. I could compare them only to demons from hell.
"Next morning I rose late, to give the scoundrels time to conceal
their crime, and by this means make it safer for myself. The woman
Martin asked me how I had slept and if I had heard anything. I
said that I had been sound asleep all night. I was so frightened,
that when I had got a hundred paces from the house I ran the rest
of my way as hard as my legs could carry me."
This self-revelation of abject cowardice and meanness in a young man
drew from the judges no comment. It was in the nature of the peasant
to be such, and comment would be useless. Only they remarked on Boyer
having said nothing of what had occurred to the police or any one else
for fourteen years. But this also was characteristic.
By means of repeated crimes Pierre Martin had amassed a good deal of
money. He bought more land to round off his property, also another
house, at a few paces from his own. He was also able to announce
that he would give a handsome _dot_ with each of his daughters. This
brought a suitor, Philemon Pertuis, son of a well-to-do farmer, above
the Martins in position, to ask the hand of Marguerite. They were
married, and installed in the house that Pierre had bought. Young
Pertuis was a mild, inoffensive man. There is no evidence that he took
any part in the crimes, but he became aware of them, and cautioned his
father-in-law to be more circumspect; and finally, in 1830, four years
after his marriage, quitted the house and went to a distance so as
to avoid implication in the misdeeds of the old man and his wife. He
also said nothing to the police or to any one else of what he knew or
suspected.
In 1826, just two months after the marriage, another crime was
attempted, that came to light later.
A farmer, named Michel Hugon, was at the fair at Jaujac, where he sold
a drove of young bullocks. He was annoyed at being followed and watched
by a little hunchback named Pannard, who endeavoured to get into
conversation with him and learn where he intended to pass the night on
his way home to Pradelles. He curtly informed him that he would sleep
at the house of a friend at Mayres.
Hugon was on his way home when he was passed by Pannard riding a
mountain pony, and going the same way as himself. In fact, the
hunchback was on the road to Peyrabeille to announce to the Martins
that some good game was coming to their net. After sleeping at Mayres,
Hugon pursued his journey on the following morning, and halted at the
inn of the Martins to breakfast, but saw none there save the women.
When about to leave, Marie Martin strongly advised him to take a short
cut which she pointed out, and which would save him over a mile.
Without suspicion he followed her directions, and had gone some way,
when out of the bushes leaped Pierre Martin and Jean Rochette, armed
with picks; and the former with his weapon dealt a blow at Hugon that
cut his head open and wounded his back, but happily failed to stun him
or split his skull. The farmer at once whirled his cudgel and struck
Martin under the knee with such force as to bring him to the ground.
Rochette, who was behind, yelled to his master, "Strike on! strike
on!" But Pierre was unable to rise for a moment, and Hugon took to
his heels and ran before Jean could deal him another blow. Pierre got
up now, and he and Rochette pursued the farmer, who fled and did not
draw breath till he reached the high road on which were passengers,
and where he felt himself safe. He also breathed not a word of his
adventure and escape till the Martins were under lock and key. Not long
after this Pannard was arrested on a charge of theft and imprisoned
for six months. In gaol he opened his mouth and complained to his
fellow-prisoners that he had helped the innkeeper at Peyrabeille to
do a good stroke of business, and that he had not been paid for his
assistance; for he could not believe that Hugon had escaped with his
money. This got spoken of. Moreover, ugly rumours began to circulate
relative to the tavern, but no one was willing to speak out and lay a
definite charge against the Martins.
[Illustration: MAYRES]
The attempt on Hugon was in May. In June of the same year a
pedlar-woman, named Catherine Vercasson, on a very hot day, came to
the inn and showed her wares to the Martin girls and their mother, in
the hopes that they would purchase. They bought a few trifles, and
then Catherine locked her box with a key that she carried suspended to
her belt. As she was hot and tired, she asked leave to lie down on a
bed for a rest. This was readily accorded. She was given a tumbler of
drugged wine, and led to one of the upper rooms, where she was soon
fast asleep. As she lay unconscious Jeanne Martin possessed herself
of the key, opened the box, and took from it several articles of
jewellery, and the mother relieved the pedlar's purse of some of its
contents.
Catherine Vercasson woke after a long sleep and unsuspiciously went on
her way, but had not gone far before she sat down to count her money,
when to her alarm she found that she had been robbed of two louis d'or.
She went into the nearest village to sell more of her goods, and, on
opening her box, found that that also had been rifled. She was now
positive that she had been pillaged at Peyrabeille. She confided her
distress to the innkeeper at Lanarce, the village where she was. He
shrugged his shoulders and bade her put a good face on it, and not
venture back to reclaim the money and goods. But Catherine was not
disposed to accept her losses so easily, and with great difficulty
she induced two young men to accompany her to Peyrabeille. They went
with her, but no persuasion would induce them to enter the house. The
determined woman went in and charged the mother and daughters with the
theft, which they stoutly denied. "I will not leave till I receive
my money and goods," said she. The women exchanged glances, and the
mother bade one of her daughters go out and fetch Pierre and the
servant. The girl returned in haste to say that two men were watching
the house, but hiding their faces so as not to be recognised. Under
these circumstances the three women deemed it expedient to restore the
major part of what they had taken, and to pretend that the whole was a
practical joke. The story got wind, and increased the suspicion with
which the Martins were regarded.
In 1831, the eldest of the daughters was married to a man named
Deleyrolles, he also occupying a better social position than the
Martins; he was drawn to ask for her by the rich _dot_ that went with
her, and he took his wife with him to Vans.
One would have supposed that now all reason for amassing money by crime
was taken away. The Martins had no more children for whom to save, and
they were very comfortably off themselves. But avarice is insatiable.
Other crimes and attempted crimes I will pass over, to come to the last
which led to the arrest of the Martins and their man.
In October, 1831, an old man of seventy-two, named Anjolras, a
relative of Pierre Martin, had sold to him a cow at the fair at S.
Cirgues, and as he wanted his money asked Martin to pay for it at once.
The taverner said he had not the sum by him, but invited Anjolras to
accompany him to Peyrabeille, where he would give him what was owed.
The old man consented, and went with his kinsman to the fatal inn,
which they reached at nightfall.
There were in the house at the time André, the nephew of Pierre Martin,
and a girl named Marie Arnaud, the betrothed of André, engaged there
at needlework, a pale, serious-faced girl, whose part in what follows
is difficult to discover. There was also in the house at the time a
beggar named Laurent Chaze, who had asked to be taken in for the night.
Pierre Martin, as soon as he entered, demanded roughly what this fellow
wanted, and when Chaze stated his requirements he was bidden be off,
there was no bed at his disposal. Chaze went forth into the dark,
walked some way along the road, then bethought himself of the hayloft,
stole back, and finding the loft door unbarred went in and concealed
himself in a corner beneath the hay. When bedtime arrived, under some
excuse the host induced Anjolras to sleep in the loft and not in one
of the bedrooms, and the beggar heard Martin bring his kinsman in and
point out a place where he could lie, near the door of communication
with the house. About an hour later Chaze saw Jean Rochette with a lamp
enter and examine Anjolras to ascertain if he were asleep. Then he
descended, but returned with Marie Martin, she carrying a large iron
ladle full of scalding soup. Having satisfied themselves that the old
man was sound, she said to Jean Rochette, "Strike!" and he brought a
hammer down on the sleeper's head. As Anjolras started and opened his
mouth she threw the scalding contents of the ladle into it. The old man
fell. "Strike again," said the woman, "he is not dead yet." Jean obeyed
till the skull was beaten in.
Before dawn the beggar had fled the scene.
The disappearance of Anjolras caused a commotion, and search was made
for him in all directions. It was heard that he had been last seen
along with Pierre Martin on his way to Peyrebeille.
The murder had been committed on the night of the 12th October. On the
25th, thirteen days after, the authorities began to bestir themselves,
and as every trace pointed to the inn, the Mayor of Lanarce,
accompanied by a party of young men, went to Peyrabeille to institute
inquiries. On entering the kitchen, Marie Martin informed him that the
Juge de Paix of Coucouron was already there in the parlour, and would
speak with him. No one knew what passed between these magistrates, but
presently the mayor came out and said to his attendants: "Gentlemen,
you may depart, there is nothing to be done"; and, in fact, nothing
was done. No search was made; some politenesses passed between the two
officials and the hostess, and they retired with bows. Yet the corpse,
all the while, was within a few yards of the house. It was discovered
in a startling manner.
Philemon Pertuis, son-in-law of the Martins, who had left the house
in which he had been for a few years at Peyrabeille, had retained the
little farm about it, and employed the sheds and stable and cellars for
his crops, etc.
One day he sent his servant, Jean Testud, with a tumbril to fetch away
his potatoes that were in the cellar. Testud went in with a lamp and
saw in a corner a barrel of bran. He was aware of an unpleasant smell
in the cellar, which he could not explain. On one of his journeys the
lamp went out, and he returned to grope for it. In so doing he put his
hand into the barrel and encountered the cold remains of a human body.
Frozen with horror, he staggered to the inn, sank in a chair, and said
he was ill, and must go home to his parents at Banne.
Pierre Martin and his wife were uneasy. They went to the cellar and
found there the lamp of Testud, and at once saw that the corpse must be
removed. This was done during the night on the back of a mule, and was
conveyed to a precipice at Lespéron and flung over it, so as to give an
idea that Anjolras had fallen accidentally.
The body was discovered on October 26th, was identified and examined,
and it was soon seen that this was no case of an accidental fall, but
of murder. On November 1st, Martin and his wife and his nephew André,
and after that Jean Rochette, were arrested, but were not brought
to trial for three years, as the prosecution met with extraordinary
difficulty in getting together evidence against them, so timorous were
the peasants, so afraid of appearing in court and being subjected to
cross-questioning, and of incurring the resentment of the relatives of
the Martins, who were numerous. The two daughters were not arrested.
Nothing could be wrung from the girl Marie Arnaud, who preserved
throughout remarkable self-possession and self-restraint. André, as
already said, was acquitted, but Pierre and his wife and Jean Rochette
were guillotined close to the inn on October 2nd, 1833.
Pierre Martin affected to be penitent, made loud professions of
remorse. Rochette was sullenly penitent, but Marion literally kicked
the prison chaplain out of the cart in which he purposed attending her
to the gallows, was resentful and hardened to the last, and when, on
the scaffold, another priest held up the crucifix before her eyes as
she was being bound to be placed under the fatal knife, she turned away
her face from it with a scowl.
Vast crowds attended the execution, and when the bloody scene was over
and the scaffold removed, the crowd spent the rest of the day till late
into the night dancing over the spot where the blood had flowed, to the
strains of a piper, whilst the old folks got fuddled over the liquor
from the cellar of the inn, sold to them by the nearest relatives of
the Martins, who had inherited it through the execution a few hours
previously. To Peyrabeille may be applied the words of Jules Claretie,
relative to Paris after the Terror: "Il y avait encore dans Paris une
odeur de sang, et Paris cependant s'ammusait; folle de joie."
[Illustration: A GROUP OF LACEMAKERS]