At the time when I first became commissary of police, my arrondissement
was in that part of Paris which includes the Rue St. Antoine--a street
which has a great number of courts, alleys, and culs-de-sac issuing from
it in all directions. The houses in these alleys and courts are, for the
most part, inhabited by wretches wavering betwixt the last shade of
poverty and actual starvation, ready to take part in any disturbance, or
assist in any act of rapine or violence.
In one of these alleys, there lived at that time a man named Jean Monette,
who was tolerably well stricken in years, but still a hearty man. He was a
widower, and, with an only daughter, occupied a floor, au quatrième, in
one of the courts; people said he had been in business and grown rich, but
that he had not the heart to spend his money, which year after year
accumulated, and would make a splendid fortune for his daughter at his
death. With this advantage, Emma, who was really a handsome girl, did not
want for suitors, and thought that, being an heiress, she might wait till
she really felt a reciprocal passion for some one, and not throw herself
away upon the first tolerable match that presented itself. It was on a
Sunday, the first in the month of June, that Emma had, as an especial
treat, obtained sufficient money from her father for an excursion with
some friends to see the fountains of Versailles.
It was a beautiful day, and the basin was thronged around with thousands
and thousands of persons, looking, from the variety of their dresses, more
like the colors of a splendid rainbow than aught besides; and when, at
four o'clock, Triton and his satellites threw up their immense volumes of
water, all was wonder, astonishment, and delight; but none were more
delighted than Emma, to whom the scene was quite new.
And, then, it was so pleasant to have found a gentleman who could explain
everything and everybody; point out the duke of this, and the count that,
and the other lions of Paris; besides, such an agreeable and well-dressed
man; it was really quite condescending in him to notice them! And then,
toward evening, he would insist they should all go home together in a
fiacre, and that he alone should pay all the expenses, and when, with a
gentle pressure of the hand and a low whisper, he begged her to say where
he might come and throw himself at her feet, she thought her feelings were
different to what they had ever been before. But how could she give her
address--tell so dashing a man that she lived in such a place? No, she
could not do that, but she would meet him at the Jardin d'Eté next Sunday
evening, and dance with no one else all night.
She met him on the Sunday, and again and again, until her father began to
suspect, from her frequent absence of an evening--which was formerly an
unusual circumstance with her--that something must be wrong. The old man
loved his money, but he loved his daughter more. She was the only link in
life that kept together the chain of his affections. He had been
passionately fond of his wife, and when she died, Emma had filled up the
void in his heart. They were all, save his money, that he had ever loved.
The world had cried out against him as a hard-hearted, rapacious man, and
he, in return, despised the world.
He was, therefore, much grieved at her conduct, and questioned Emma as to
where her frequent visits led her, but could only obtain for answer that
she was not aware she had been absent so much as to give him uneasiness.
This was unsatisfactory, and so confirmed the old man in his suspicions
that he determined to have his daughter watched.
This he effected through the means of an ancien ami, then in the
profession of what he called an "inspector," though his enemies (and all
men have such) called him a mouchard, or spy. However, by whatever name he
called himself, or others called him, he understood his business, and so
effectually watched the young lady that he discovered her frequent
absences to be for the purpose of meeting a man who, after walking some
distance with her, managed, despite the inspector's boasted abilities, to
give him the slip.
This naturally puzzled him, and so it would any man in his situation.
Fancy the feelings of one of the government's employees in the argus line
of business, a man renowned for his success in almost all the arduous and
intricate affairs that had been committed to his care, to find himself
baffled in a paltry private intrigue, and one which he had merely
undertaken for the sake of friendship!
For a second time, he tried the plan of fancying himself to be well paid,
thinking this would stimulate his dormant energies, knowing well that a
thing done for friendship's sake is always badly done; but even here he
failed. He watched them to a certain corner, but, before he could get
around it, they were nowhere to be seen. This was not to be borne. It was
setting him at defiance. Should he call in the assistance of a brother in
the line? No, that would be to acknowledge himself beaten, and the
disgrace he could not bear--his honor was concerned, and he would achieve
it single handed; but, then, it was very perplexing.
The man, to his experienced eye, seemed not, as he had done to Emma, a
dashing gentleman, but more like a foul bird in fine feathers. Something
must be wrong, and he must find it out--but, then, again came that
confounded question, how?
He would go and consult old Monette--he could, perhaps, suggest something;
and, musing on the strangeness of the adventure, he walked slowly toward
the house of the old man to hold a council with him on the situation.
On the road, his attention was attracted by a disturbance in the street,
and mingling with the crowd, in hope of seizing some of his enemies
exercising their illegal functions on whom the whole weight of his
official vengeance might fall, he for the time forgot his adventure. The
crowd had been drawn together by a difference of opinion between two
gentlemen of the vehicular profession, respecting some right of way, and,
after all the usual expressions of esteem common on such occasions had
been exhausted, one of them drove off, leaving the other at least master
of the field, if he had not got the expected job.
The crowd began to disperse, and with them also was going our friend, the
detective, when, on turning round, he came in contact with Mlle. Monette,
leaning on the arm of her mysterious lover. The light from a lamp above
his head shone immediately on the face of Emma and her admirer, showing
them both as clear as noonday, so that when his glance turned from the
lady to the gentleman, and he obtained a full view of his face, he
expressed his joy at the discovery by a loud "Whew!" which, though a short
sound and soon pronounced, meant a great deal.
For first, it meant that he had made a great discovery; secondly, that he
was not now astonished because he had not succeeded before in his
watchfulness; thirdly--but perhaps the two mentioned may be sufficient;
for, turning sharply round, he made the greatest haste to reach Monette
and inform him, this time, of the result of his espionage.
After a long prelude, stating how fortunate Monette was to have such a
friend as himself, a man who knew everybody and everything, he proceeded
to inform him of the pleasing intelligence that his daughter was in the
habit of meeting, and going to some place (he forgot to say where) with
the most desperate and abandoned character in Paris--one who was so
extremely dexterous in all his schemes that the police, though perfectly
aware of his intentions, had not been able to fix upon him the commission
of any one of his criminal acts, for he changed his appearance so often as
to set at naught all the assiduous exertions of the Corps des Espions.
The unhappy father received from his friend at parting the assurance that
they would catch him yet, and give him an invitation to pass the rest of
his days in the seclusion of a prison.
On Emma's return, he told her the information he had received, wisely
withholding the means from which his knowledge came, saying that he knew
she had that moment parted from a man who would lead her to the brink of
destruction, and then cast her off like a child's broken play-thing. He
begged, nay, he besought her, with tears in his eyes, to promise she would
never again see him. Emma was thunderstruck, not only at the accuracy of
her father's information, but at hearing such a character of one whom she
had painted as perfection's self; and, calling to her aid those
never-failing woman's arguments, a copious flood of tears, fell on her
father's neck and promised never again to see her admirer and, if possible,
to banish all thoughts of him from her mind.
"My child," said the old man, "I believe you from my heart--I believe you.
I love you, but the world says I am rich--why, I know not. You know I live
in a dangerous neighborhood, and all my care will be necessary to prevent
my losing either my child or my reputed wealth; therefore, to avoid all
accidents, I will take care you do not leave this house for the next six
months to come, and in that time your lover will have forgotten you, or
what will amount to the same thing, you will have forgotten him; but I am
much mistaken if the man's intentions are not to rob me of my money,
rather than my child."
The old man kept his word, and Emma was not allowed for several days to
leave the rooms on the fourth floor.
She tried, during the time, if it were possible to forget the object of
her affections, and thought if she could but see him once more, to bid him
a long and last farewell, she might in time wear out his remembrance from
her heart; but in order to do that, she must see him once more; and having
made up her mind that this interview would be an essential requisite to
the desired end, she took counsel with herself how it was to be
accomplished. There was only one great obstacle presenting itself to her
view, which was that "she couldn't get out."
Now women's invention never fails them, when they have set their hearts
upon any desired object; and it occurred to her, that although she could
not get out, yet it was not quite so apparent that he could not get in;
and this point being settled, it was no very difficult matter to persuade
the old woman who occasionally assisted her in the household arrangements,
to be the bearer of a short note, purporting to say that her father having
been unwell for the last few days, usually retired early to rest, and that
if her dear Despreau would come about eleven o'clock on the following
evening, her father would be asleep, and she would be on the watch for a
signal, which was to be three gentle taps on the door.
The old woman executed her commission so well that she brought back an
answer vowing eternal fidelity, and promising a punctual attendance at the
rendezvous. Nor was it likely that he meant to fail--seeing it was the
object he had had for months in view, and he reasoned with himself that if
he once got there, he would make such good use of his time as to render a
second visit perfectly unnecessary.
Therefore it would be a pity to disappoint any one, and he immediately
communicated his plans to two of his confederates, promising them a good
share of the booty, and also the girl herself, if either of them felt that
way inclined, as a reward for their assistance.
His plans were very well managed, and would have gone on exceedingly well,
but for one small accident which happened through the officious
interference of the inspector, who, the moment he had discovered who the
Lothario was, had taken all the steps he could to catch him, and gain the
honor of having caught so accomplished a gentleman. He rightly judged that
it would not be long before he would pay a visit to Monette's rooms, and
the letters, before their delivery by the old woman, had been read by him,
and met with his full approbation.
I was much pleased on being informed by the inspector that he wanted my
assistance, one evening, to apprehend the celebrated Despreau, who had
planned a robbery near the Rue St. Antoine, and make me acquainted with
nearly all the circumstances. So, about half past ten o'clock, I posted
myself with the inspector and four men where I could see Despreau pass,
and at eleven o'clock, punctual to the moment, he and his two associates
began to ascend the stairs.
The two confederates were to wait some time, when he was to come to the
door on some pretext and let them in.
After the lapse of half an hour they were let in, when we ascended after
them, and the inspector, having a duplicate key, we let ourselves gently
in, standing in the passage, so as to prevent our being seen; in a few
minutes we heard a loud shriek from Emma, and old Monette's voice most
vociferously crying "Murder!" and "Thieves!" On entering the rooms, we
perceived that the poor girl was lying on the ground, while one of the men
was endeavoring to stifle her cries by either gagging or suffocating her,
though in the way he was doing it, the latter would have soon been the
case.
The old man had been dragged from his bed, and Despreau stood over him
with a knife, swearing that unless he showed him the place where his money
and valuables were deposited, it should be the last hour of his existence.
Despreau, on seeing us, seemed inclined to make a most desperate
resistance, but not being seconded by his associates, submitted to be
pinioned, expressing his regret that we had not come half an hour later,
when we might have been saved the trouble.
Despreau was shortly after tried for the offense, which was too clearly
proved to admit of any doubt. He was sentenced to the galleys for life,
and is now at Brest, undergoing his sentence. Emma, soon afterward,
married a respectable man, and old Monette behaved on the occasion much
more liberally than was expected.