A “CAUSE CÉLÈBRE”
The Defrêne Case, a Drama of Crime and of Justice—The Marquis
Defrêne—Marie-Elizabeth du Tillay—Elopement—Bogus Marriage—Flight
to England—Marriage Made Legal—The Marquis Tires of the Marriage
State—Evil Plans—Marie-Elizabeth Forewarned—Adventures of Her
Flight—The “Penitent” Defrêne—Compromising Letters—The Vindication
of Marie-Elizabeth—A Judicial Separation.
The name of that same Duchess-Regent of Savoy, Maria Baptista of
Nemours, the cause of Mattioli’s downfall in 1679, had figured in
connection with another and now long forgotten “cause célèbre” some few
years earlier, in 1672—the drama of crime and of justice known to legal
annalists as the “Defrêne Case.”
Towards the year 1670 there was living in Paris a young man of the
name of Pierre Hennequin, Marquis Defrêne. Of his antecedents I have
no knowledge, but, by all accounts, he was related to many noble and
influential families; a personable young man of considerable address,
and entirely given over to the fashionable life of his day as he found
it—that life of license, bridled only by the fear of a death upon
the scaffold; that orgy of dissipation and debt by the encouragement
of which Louis XIV, as history tells us, was bent upon sapping the
resources of his powerful nobles in order that he might cut their claws
and impair their ability ever again to dispute the absolute authority
of the throne.
As many another young man of that period, so was the Marquis Defrêne.
Resolutely reckless in the gratification of every passing inclination,
and the slave of his pleasures, he was nearly at the end of his
resources when, as Fate would have it, he was thrown in the path of a
young and lovely girl, Marie-Elizabeth Girard du Tillay, the daughter
of the President of the Chamber of Accounts. M. du Tillay, having, as
a careful father, satisfied himself as to the complete undesirability
of the Marquis in the character of a son-in-law, sternly repelled
every attempt of the young man to gain possession of Marie-Elizabeth’s
affections. All M. du Tillay’s efforts notwithstanding, however,
Defrêne succeeded in establishing the tenderest of relations with the
girl and, ultimately, in persuading her to elope with him.
But it was necessary for the Marquis to make sure of his prey as
quickly as possible, lest Marie-Elizabeth’s scruples and her love for
the father upon whom and whose house she was now turning her back,
at his invitation, should gain the upper hand of her and so make her
return to her home in order to obtain the parental blessing and consent
to her union with him. No priest, as Defrêne well knew, would join them
in marriage without the consent of the girl’s father. Marie-Elizabeth,
however, was in ignorance of this fact; so that she was in no way
surprised when her swain informed her that he had a priest in readiness
to make them man and wife.
This priest, indeed, was no other than Defrêne’s body-servant, who was
to assume the sacerdotal character for the occasion; and thus between
the two scoundrels, master and man, Marie-Elizabeth was deceived
into going through a bogus ceremony of marriage with the blessing of
the rascally valet. Having carried out this piece of villainy to the
complete deception of Marie-Elizabeth, who now believed herself a
marchioness for better or for worse, Defrêne hastened to put himself
beyond the reach of French law by crossing the channel into England,
together with his victim, since, in those days, the protection of
foreign criminals—poisoners and coiners only excepted—was considered an
especial attribute of the majesty of every Sovereign.
Ere long, however, M. du Tillay contrived to trace the fugitive
pair to their hiding-place. It is more than likely that he learned
of it through the valet, although upon this point I cannot come at
any certainty—for, at the same time, he appears to have learned the
atrocious particulars of the sham marriage and to have done all in
his power to bring the Marquis to justice for it. In this M. du Tillay
had the powerful aid of his brother-in-law, M. Baillieu, a “Président
à Mortier.” But their labours were opposed by those of Defrêne’s
relatives, who were in terror lest the King should be persuaded, by
the two eminent officials, to ask his Brother of England to make him
a present of the Marquis, that he might inflict condign punishment
upon him for his villainy. It ended in the issuing of a royal decree
designed to satisfy both parties; by this decree the marriage was
recognised as legal and binding upon both parties—in deference to
the sincerity of Mademoiselle du Tillay’s participation in it, its
fraudulent character notwithstanding—on condition of the marriage
contract’s being duly signed and exchanged between the families of the
bride and bridegroom. To this compromise the kindly Du Tillay gave his
adhesion, and thus the evil deed of the Marquis Defrêne was righted for
the time being.
But not for long; soon Defrêne, now accepted as his lawful son-in-law
by Du Tillay, began to weary of the bonds of matrimony, and,
disappointed in the amount of cash he had hoped to extort from
his father-in-law, he decided to try his luck afresh in some more
lucrative quarter; to this end he made up his mind to get rid of poor
Marie-Elizabeth, that he might be free to take another partner.
It should not have been difficult for him, one would think, in the
Paris of the later Seventeenth Century, to carry out his iniquitous
design, without overmuch caution or expense; there were to be found
there means notoriously at the disposal of gentlemen in Defrêne’s
predicament, provided only they were able to pay the price of a
“succession powder” or of a philtre indistinguishable from the purest
water save in its deadly results. And yet Defrêne could not screw
up his courage, all at once, to murdering his wife out of hand or of
procuring her assassination. Truth to tell, he was deterred from such
a course by the salutary severity of the sentence pronounced a few
years earlier, in 1667, upon the murderers of the unfortunate Marquise
de Gange, who had been poisoned by her brothers-in-law with the tacit
approval of her unworthy husband, the latter having been condemned to
perpetual banishment with the loss of his estates and to be degraded
from the nobility; while the actual assassins were sentenced to be
broken alive on the wheel.
This wholesome fear, then, so acted upon the mind of the Marquis
Defrêne as to compel him to devise a more subtle method of doing away
with Marie-Elizabeth; a method as diabolical as any in all the dark
records of criminal achievement.
His plan was, apparently, simplicity itself; he would voyage abroad
with Marie-Elizabeth to Constantinople and would there sell her into
slavery or the harem of some wealthy Turk; her beauty would command a
substantial price that would reimburse her betrayer for the expenses
of his undertaking, and besides he could return in safety to give out
that she was dead, and to claim her entire property as her disconsolate
widower, her father having recently died.
Having arrived at this decision, he informed his wife that she was
to accompany him on a journey that he was obliged to make to some
far-distant baths for the sake of his health; and Marie-Elizabeth, ever
trustful of his designs, and of his surpassing love for her, consented
at once, albeit her husband did not enlighten her as to their actual
destination.
From Paris they travelled to Lyons and thence to Beauvoisin. From
the latter place they went over into Savoy, which they crossed in
the direction of Genoa, Marie-Elizabeth being compelled to traverse
the Alps, as the archives tell us, “on a vicious mule with an old
pack-saddle.” But from the moment of their departure from Paris
a change had come over the spirit of the doomed woman; ever since
then, when Defrêne had forbidden her to bid farewell to her beloved
mother and her relatives, Marie-Elizabeth had been weighed down with
forebodings of evil. And on reaching the seaport of Genoa these
forebodings seemed to acquire the most sinister confirmation in a
hint of danger conveyed to her by a good and compassionate man, Pierre
Pilette, a wagoner who had acted as their guide over the passes into
Italy.
This man told Marie-Elizabeth that, having gone with the Marquis (to
interpret for him, presumably) to visit certain merchants of Genoa,
Defrêne had made anxious inquiries for some vessel that should take him
to Constantinople; further, that Defrêne had tried to obtain from them
letters of credit on some merchant in that city, but that it had not
been possible for them to accommodate him, although they had cashed all
such letters upon themselves as he had brought with him from France.
This information, imparted to her by Pilette, was the first
Marie-Elizabeth had heard of any intention of her husband’s to go to
Constantinople; and, at the news, her suspicions of his conduct turned
to terror that was all the more agonising by reason of the need for
dissembling it in Defrêne’s presence. From Genoa he now set out, with
his unhappy wife and the half-dozen or so of his retainers whom he
brought with him—Pilette still accompanying them to look after the
horses—for Savona, where, as he had been led to expect, he might find
a vessel sailing for Constantinople. Be it noted, by the way, that
never since leaving Paris had any reference to the “baths,” of which
he had declared his health to be in need, passed Defrêne’s lips; and
never—save on the occasion of her interview with Pilette—had any one
not a member of the Marquis’ household been allowed to exchange a
single word in private with his wife.
On the journey, however, to Savona, Marie-Elizabeth contrived to
whisper her fears to Pilette (who, I take it, was leading her mule
by the bridle along the then dangerous coast-road), imploring him to
save her from her husband and to bring her into a place of safety,
whence she might communicate with her relatives; and Pilette, moved by
her tears and entreaties, promised that he would do his best at all
costs to deliver her from her enemies. He had friends, he told her,
at Savona, an inn-keeper and his wife, to whose hostel he would bring
her, who would take care of her. And from their hands Pilette promised,
moreover, that he would take her, afterwards, to Turin, there to place
her under the protection of the Duchess of Savoy.
Arrived at Savona, Defrêne lodged himself and his party in this inn,
to which Pilette had led them; here he found a ship preparing to sail
for Constantinople and so made his arrangements with her owner for
the transport of himself and his wife to the Turkish capital. The day
before that appointed for sailing, however, he had to go down to the
wharf in order to pay over their passage money, leaving Marie-Elizabeth
locked up in her bedroom. This was Pilette’s opportunity; no sooner
had the Marquis left the premises than he went up to Marie-Elizabeth’s
room, armed with a key furnished him by his friend the host, unlocked
the door, and released the prisoner for whose flight he had everything
in readiness.
Going down to the street with her deliverer, Marie-Elizabeth found
a closed sedan-chair waiting for her, into which she stepped, and
was then quickly borne away out of town into the hills, followed by
the faithful Pilette. For nearly thirty miles they pursued their way
northwards until, on striking the village of Cortemiglia, Pilette
left his charge in the inn of the place, whilst he himself went to
seek out Count Scarampo, the lord of that district, and to entrust
Marie-Elizabeth to that gentleman’s safekeeping.
But, just as he was leaving the inn for that purpose, what was
Pilette’s consternation on beholding a party of men come tearing up the
road, headed by none other than Defrêne in person, to an accompaniment
of shouts and the waving of swords and firearms! Taking to his heels,
the defenceless Pilette fled incontinently down the village street
pursued by the Marquis and his gang with musket-shots and imprecations.
Fortunately, he continued to elude them and to make his way to the
castle of Count Scarampo, to whom he gave warning of what was going
forward in the village. The Count, nothing loath, at once called out
his own men and rushed down to the village to do battle for the lady
with her husband and his retainers; in this he was joined by the local
magistrate, and so the two with their supporters reached the little
inn, whence a piteous din of shrieks and blows came out into the
roadway.
Having abandoned the pursuit of Pilette, Defrêne had returned hot-foot
to the inn, which he had invaded in search of his wife; in spite of
the host’s protests, he had forced his way to where Marie-Elizabeth
was cowering in a back room and had set upon her with a cudgel as well
as with his fists and feet; had it not been for the timely arrival of
Scarampo and the judge, moreover, there can be small doubt but that the
tiger-hearted Marquis would have made an end, then and there, of the
miserable woman. Providentially, though, their coming prevented this,
when, seeing that resistance was useless, Defrêne submitted to their
arrest of him.
For the time being, Marie-Elizabeth was safe from her husband’s
cruelty. Taken by Count Scarampo to his castle, she was there received
by the Countess, as the chronicle relates, “with much compassion and
with a distinguished politeness.” Here she was rejoined by Pilette,
under whose escort she set out before dawn of the next day on the road
to Turin.
Such was her condition, however, as the result of the ill-treatment she
had suffered, that, by evening, she had gone no further than Alba, a
town on the Tanaro, where she sought out the governor and threw herself
upon his protection against any further attempts on the part of her
detestable husband. The official kindly took her into his own house;
but scarcely had he done so than her pursuer, having escaped from his
gaolers at Cortemiglia, turned up, on foot and alone, at Alba, in his
latest character—that of a penitent and broken-hearted suppliant for
his wife’s forgiveness. In this new rôle he presented himself before
the governor, begging for an interview with Marie-Elizabeth, that he
might soften her heart with the sight and the sighs of him.
To these entreaties the governor demurred for a time, but at last
suffered himself to be persuaded to consent to an interview between the
husband and wife on the stipulation that it should take place under
his own eyes; he even went to the length of inducing Marie-Elizabeth
to see Defrêne, although she herself was strongly opposed to such a
concession.
When Defrêne found himself once more in her presence, he cast himself
grovelling at his wife’s feet, refusing to rise, with a thousand
protestations, a thousand vows, of his undying love for her. He had
not, he swore, the least ill-design against her in the journey he had
undertaken; handing her his sword, he begged that she would either
pardon him or else put him out of his sufferings. By all that was holy,
he promised he would take her back to France without fail if she would
but have faith in him—in short, he would be her slave in all things.
After several repetitions of this comedy, “que Baron[27] n’aurait si
bien jouée que lui”—again I quote from the accounts of the time—the
Marquis succeeded in winning over the governor to his side, and got
him, in spite of Marie-Elizabeth’s protests, to write to the Duke
of Savoy for permission to deliver her into Defrêne’s keeping, on
condition of his taking her back to France without doing her any
further injury, and of his solemnly pledging himself to answer for his
good behaviour to the Duke and to the King of France.
At the same time Marie-Elizabeth wrote to the Duke and Duchess of
Savoy, telling them the whole story of her husband’s ill-treatment of
her, and imploring their protection; this letter was intercepted by the
Marquis and destroyed. Soon an answer was returned to the governor’s
communication, giving him the requisite permission to deliver
Marie-Elizabeth into her husband’s keeping on the conditions already
stated, of his answering to his own Sovereign and the Duke of Savoy for
his conduct towards her on the journey home. Thus the luckless woman
was once more delivered into the hands of her crafty and relentless
foe.
For a space all went well with her, so long as they were accompanied
by an officer of the Duke of Savoy charged with seeing that Defrêne
behaved himself; but no sooner were they once more by themselves than
his evil designs came again to light. Having reached the village of
Lanslebourg at the northern foot of the Mont Cenis, where the Savoyard
officer took his leave of them, Defrêne placed his wife under lock and
key in a room in the village inn and applied himself to the problem
confronting him—that of how to accomplish the destruction of his wife
without rendering himself liable to the law.
And at this point it occurred to him to fall back on a stratagem
of which he had already, months earlier, made a beginning, but had
abandoned it through impatience and failure.
This stratagem consisted in accusing Marie-Elizabeth of attempting to
murder him by means of poison—a crime punishable with death. As he now
saw clearly, the main thing needful to the success of such a method
was that he should be able to produce some incontrovertible evidence,
and that so atrocious, of Marie-Elizabeth’s depravity as to bring her
within distance of the scaffold; failing which, it must be at least
such as to serve him as an excuse for his attempt to sell her into
slavery.
With this amiable purpose Defrêne applied all his talents to the
composing of a series of no less than twenty-four letters purporting
to be written by his wife to her various lovers and couched in the
most abandoned of terms. Having done this, he came with them to
Marie-Elizabeth, and ordered her to copy out the vile effusions so that
he might have them in her own handwriting as an irrefutable proof of
her guilt against him.
For long she refused to obey his commands; until, at length, Defrêne
drew a knife and threatened her with it; but even this made no
impression upon her resolve to defend her honour.
“Kill me if you will—I would prefer to die rather than to write those
horrible letters,” she said. “All I ask is that you will let me have a
priest to whom I may first confess myself—let me, at least, die like a
Christian!”
To this request, it need hardly be said, Defrêne turned a deaf ear.
“Write as I tell you—or die as you are, in your sins!” he cried. “Come,
be quick about it——”
At the prospect of going into eternity in that fashion, so frightful to
one of her upbringing, Marie-Elizabeth’s courage broke down. Taking the
pen that Defrêne held out to her, she began to copy the abominations
set before her, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her heart sick and
appalled at the thing she was doing.
As she finished copying each letter, Defrêne took his own original
draft of it and burned it in the fire—so that all hope seemed gone for
Marie-Elizabeth of ever being able to prove her innocence of them. And,
all the while, she never ceased from praying Heaven to come to her aid.
Suddenly there was a knock on the locked door of the room in which they
were sitting; rising hastily, Defrêne went to the door and let himself
out into the corridor, taking care to close and lock the door again
behind him. Instantly Marie-Elizabeth saw her chance and took it.
It so happened that, at the moment of Defrêne’s being called away, she
had all but come to an end of copying one of the letters; finishing
quickly she seized the draft of it in Defrêne’s handwriting and slipped
it between the lining of her bodice, that chanced to be torn, and the
bodice itself. Then, snatching up a needle and thread, she sewed up
the rent over the letter and, resuming her pen, wrote on again for
dear life. Providentially, her husband was kept in conversation a
considerable time. When he returned to her, she had written out yet
another of the unspeakable letters, and Defrêne had lost count of the
originals; so that he did not miss the one she had secreted on her
person.
Finally, having completed her task, she threw down the pen and covered
her face in her hands—as Defrêne triumphantly imagined in consternation
at the weapon of which he was now in possession against her; in
reality, for fear lest he might see the relief in her expression. For
now, indeed, thanks to the letter concealed in her clothing, he was
taken in his own snare!
And so it proved when, a few weeks later, the Marquis went the rounds
of his acquaintance armed with Marie-Elizabeth’s pretended letters to
her lovers; to which she, now safe once more in her mother’s house,
replied by making known the circumstances under which they had been
written, and by showing to all the world Defrêne’s draft in his own
handwriting that she had so fortunately been enabled to secrete in her
dress.
The matter ended in her obtaining a judicial separation from
the Marquis, who soon became involved in another and even darker
iniquity—the case of Madame de Brinvilliers—through his intimacy with
the truly diabolical Sainte-Croix; an intimacy that all but obtained
him the public services of the executioner.