(Edmond Spencer: Parisian Police Archives.)
M. Scipion Desruelles kept a small shop in the Rue de Seine, Paris. He
had a wife, but no children.
He was a small tradesman, and his wife a large, coarse-looking woman,
quite capable of taking care of shop and Scipion.
Scipion’s past life had been singularly uneventful.
One single circumstance had ruffled it, and that he used often to
relate to his gossips, in proof that a hero was spoiled in the making
when Scipion became a shopkeeper.
One night, ten years before the time of his introduction to the reader,
Scipion had gone to the theatre, and after the performance had taken
Madame to a restaurant and treated her to a little supper. Returning
home, after he was in bed Scipion heard a noise in the shop. He armed
himself with a bootjack, went down, and, with the assistance of the
hastily summoned police, captured a burglar.
The man, who said he was an Italian, named Vedova, disclaimed earnestly
all felonious intentions, but could give no good account of himself.
Scipion prosecuted him vigorously, and he was convicted and sent to
Brest.
Two years later Scipion met Vedova in a café and had him arrested as an
escaped convict.
In the early part of 1852 Scipion received official notification from
Martinique that a bachelor cousin of his on the island, whose name was
Pache, was dead and had left him heir to all his property which was
large, and included a valuable sugar plantation. Desruelles was further
informed by the notary at St. Jean, that it would be necessary for him
to come out in person and administer on the estate in order to save
himself great loss and inconvenience and many delays.
The bourgeois of Paris is not a traveling character, but neither is
he willing to lose money if he can help it. Scipion bought himself a
trunk, committed the little boutique in the Rue de Seine to Madame’s
charge--she was quite as competent to take care of it as he--made
a deed of all his property in Paris to Madame as a preventive of
accidents, and then bidding her the most tender adieu, sailed for
Martinique, via Bourdeaux, in a brig which took out a cargo of claret
and oil for the French islands and New Orleans.
When Desruelles reached Martinique and went to St. Jean, he was simply
struck dumb to find his cousin alive and well, and all the notarial
papers he had received forgeries!
There was nothing for him to do but go back again.
The brig was to sail in a day for New Orleans, and Scipion determined
to go thither in her, take the cars to New York and the steamer thence
to Havre, in order to get home again as speedily as possible. He was
burning to send the police in search of the rascals who had hoaxed him
and made him spend his money and suffer sea-sickness in a wild-goose
chase. He was armed with all the preliminary depositions and statements
necessary to open the case, duplicates of which were to be forwarded by
the authorities from Martinique.
Arrived in New Orleans, Scipion determined to spend a day or two in the
city before taking the cars for New York. He put up at a boarding house
in the French quarter, and devoted himself to sight-seeing with great
assiduity.
While at breakfast the second morning after his arrival he was warmly
greeted by a stranger, who took his hand and said: “I am truly
delighted to see you, Monsieur Quentineau! When did you arrive?”
Scipion gently informed the man that he was not Quentineau, but Scipion
Desruelles.
The stranger with great violence said that the dodge wouldn’t go down
there! Next thing he’d want to repudiate that bill of $725 he owed
Marais & Hughes.
Scipion said he had only been in the city a day, had never seen
the stranger before, nor knew he who or what Marais & Hughes
were--consequently could not possibly owe them or anybody else anything.
An hour later Scipion was arrested on a warrant taken out by Marais &
Hughes, liquor dealers in Canal street, against Pierre Quentineau, an
absconding debtor.
Scipion Desruelles, alias Quentineau, was cast into prison. He found a
lawyer, and with great difficulty, and at the cost of half his money,
proved that he was not Quentineau, but Scipion Desruelles, a passenger
aboard the brig Braganza, of Bordeaux. But for the captain he would
have been convicted, for several witnesses swore that he was Quentineau.
As soon as Scipion was released he went to the levee and embarked on a
steamer for Memphis, intending to make his way thence by rail to New
York.
At Memphis he was misdirected, enticed into a low groggery under the
bluffs and robbed of every cent he had left. Scipion found his way to
the mayor of the city, who promised to write to the French Consul at
New Orleans about it and to send the police in search of the thieves.
Scipion meantime wrote to Paris to Madame for a remittance, and
went about in search of a situation. A cotton broker gave him some
correspondence with Louisiana Creole planters to look after, and he was
thus enabled to earn enough to eat. But no answer nor remittance came
from Madame, and our poor exile could not make money enough to take
him home. At last he wrote to his cousin in Martinique, stating his
circumstances, and received shortly after in reply a draft for 2,500
francs.
Scipion immediately bought himself some clothes and necessaries, took
the cars and started for New York.
Here, while waiting for the sailing of the Havre steamer, he was again
arrested as being Pierre Quentineau a fugitive from justice and a
bond-forger.
By the merest good luck the cotton-broker in whose employ he had
been in Memphis happened to be in the city, and Scipion was able to
establish an alibi. His passport was stolen from him on the Memphis
steamer, and he had to get another one in New York, being thus delayed
a week.
Finally, to his intense joy, he was outside Sandy Hook on his return
voyage.
Arrived at Havre, he was accosted on the quay by a customs officer
with, “Eh bien! Monsieur Quentineau! What have you to declare at _this_
time?”
“Sacre bete de Quentineau!” cried the exasperated boutiquier; “I am
Scipion Desruelles, marchand, numero 79 _bis_ rue de Seine.”
“Then, sir, you must be detained,” said the officer.
While he was waiting in the customs office a man came behind him,
slipped something in his hand, and whispered: “Don’t be afraid,
Quentineau! They have nothing whatever against you! Here’s what I owe
you!”
Desruelles turned quickly, but the man who had spoken to him was
already lost in the crowd, and Scipion found eight gold Napoleons in
his hand. Mechanically he put the money in his pocket, cursing this
Quentineau whom everybody persisted in mistaking him for.
His baggage proving all right, and his passport not objectionable,
Scipion was after some delay permitted to start for Paris, but still
under the suspicion of the authorities that he was not Desruelles, but
Quentineau. At Rouen, in the railroad restaurant, he changed a Napoleon
to buy a bottle of wine and half a chicken. As soon as he reached Paris
he took a fiacre and drove to numero 79 Rue de Seine. His modest sign
was no longer there, but instead of it one of:
“Lamballe, coiffeur et parfumeur.”
Astounded, he rushed into the little shop; “Madame Desruelles,” he
said, “where is she?”
The attendant answered, “In America. It is four months since she
went--at the summons of her husband!”
“At the summons of me!” cried Scipion, sitting down abruptly. “This is
all a dream!”
Before he could say another word, a sergeant de ville entered the shop
and laid hands upon him. “You are wanted, Quentineau.”
“I am not Quentineau--I am Desruelles!” shouted the unhappy man, but
the officer of the law was incredulous, and bore Scipion off to prison.
He was examined on a charge of coining and of passing counterfeit
Napoleons upon the _dame du comptoir_ of the railroad restaurant at
Rouen, and fully committed for trial as Quentineau, alias Desruelles,
_faussaire_.
Desruelles employed an able advocate, and laid all the facts before
him. “It is a mere question of mistaken identity,” said the lawyer,
“and of course there will be no difficulty in proving who you really
are--a boutiquier of the Rue de Seine, of twenty years’ standing.”
But the advocate reckoned rather too hastily. One of the most
interesting trials that ever came off in Paris, now ensued. The
advocate employed by Desruelles was thoroughly persuaded of his
client’s innocence and good character, but the _Procureur Imperial_
was of a different opinion. The case was sent before the Court
d’Assises, and was tried by the president. A great number of witnesses
were called, and the whole question turned upon the identity of the
prisoner, by the mutual agreement of parties, for the reason that if
the accused were Desruelles his account of how he received the gold
Napoleons (admitted to be counterfeit) was probable; but if he were
Quentineau, no defense was possible. Quentineau was established to be
a desperate character, who had been several times convicted of minor
offenses, such as smuggling, and was more than suspected of being a
criminal of much deeper dye--a counterfeiter and forger.
The testimony of the customs officers at Havre and of the _dame du
comptoir_ at Rouen was first taken, and then a mass of police testimony
to prove that Desruelles was unquestionably Quentineau. This was
chiefly from the provinces, Quentineau having apparently operated
very little in the capital. At the outset the defense experienced an
unexpected difficulty. There were some hundreds of witnesses willing to
swear that they knew Desruelles perfectly well, but not nearly so many
who were satisfied that the prisoner was that person. His hardships,
his voyages, his poverty had told upon Desruelles. He was deeply
sunburnt, his hair was grizzled, his hand was hard, his manner nervous
and excited--as little like as possible to the placid shopkeeper of
the Rue de Seine. Unquestionably the accused resembled Desruelles
remarkably, and knew as much about that person’s antecedents as if he
were really himself, but then--. In short, Desruelles’ neighbors were
exceedingly conscientious, and the police exceedingly positive, and the
unfortunate shop keeper was convicted of being not himself at all, but
Pierre Quentineau, _faussaire et faux monnayeur_.
The rebutting testimony adduced by the advocate general not only
convinced the jury but overwhelmed Desruelles. It was a letter which
one of his neighbors, a woman, testified she had received from
Desruelles’ wife, from New York, that she and her Scipion were happily
accommodated with a shop and a thriving custom in Broadway in that
great city! Desruelles admitted that the handwriting was his wife’s,
but the statement impossible, for the reason that he was in the Palais
de Justice, and consequently could not be in New York.
Pierre Quentineau, calling himself Scipion Desruelles was sentenced to
ten years’ close imprisonment.
The unhappy convict was moved by his sense of injustice to carry
himself with unexpected dignity. He shed no tears, but said he felt
certain that time would remove the evils that now bore upon him
so heavily. He was sent to Brest, and set to learn the trade of
shoe-making. He was one of the most tractable prisoners ever confined
at the _bagnes_.
When Scipion had served out three years of his sentence, an unexpected
episode occurred in his history. Visitors were announced to Quentineau.
He went to the office of the prison and found his Martinique cousin,
Pache, and--his wife! He attempted to throw himself into the arms of
the latter, but was repulsed with severe dignity.
“We know you are not Quentineau, but Desruelles,” she said; “but there
are crimes charged against Desruelles.”
Scipion demanded an explanation and his release, but Madame was
inexorable.
M. Pache then told him to wait. Through influence, and the facts
presented by the Martinique cousin, the Court of Cassation had
consented to re-examine the question as to his identity. “Of course you
are Desruelles,” said M. Pache, confidently, “and I mean to prove it,
if it costs me a million.” After you are shown to be not Quentineau but
Desruelles, it will be time enough to go into Madame’s grievances.
Desruelles was now brought back to Paris, and M. Pache set to work to
establish his cousin’s identity.
The notary he employed suggested that M. Jules Favre be retained as
advocate and that eminent lawyer consented to take the case, but two
days later sent a note declining to serve on account of the pressure of
uncontrollable circumstances. M. Plongoulm, was consequently retained.
After various delays, the case of Desruelles or Quentineau was again
called up, this time not before a jury, but before the first President
of the Court of Cassation. The array of witnesses was formidable, and
the testimony of the most conflicting character. For the Procureur’s
side a great number of witnesses were brought who positively identified
Desruelles as Quentineau. In addition to this, substantial proof was
brought to the fact that Desruelles himself was dead. One of the
sailors of the brig Braganza was produced, who had made the Martinique
voyage with Desruelles. This man testified that after cargo was
discharged at New Orleans the brig took on cotton and was towed down
the river on her return voyage. Off Chandeleur Bay the brig was boarded
by a tug from Lake Bargne, and Desruelles came aboard from her. Three
days out Desruelles was taken with yellow fever, and died just as the
brig dropped anchor in the harbor of Basse Terre, Gaudeloupe. He was
buried on the extreme eastern point of the island after a considerable
difficulty with the authorities, who deeply resented the brig’s
anchoring at the island with such a fatal disease aboard. The log of
the Braganza and the burial record from Guadeloupe were presented in
court in corroboration of the sailor’s testimony, which made a deep
impression.
For the side of the defense Mme. Desruelles positively identified her
husband, naming marks and peculiarities upon his person which were
found to be singularly identical with those on the prisoner’s person.
An amusing colloquy between her and the prisoner was permitted, in
which both were seen to be mutually so intimate with all the details of
a domestic life together of twenty year’s standing that nothing short
of a miracle could suppose the privity of a third party. The books of
the shop were produced and the two went over them together, witnesses
being called to corroborate these minutiæ whenever they concerned a
third party, and it was thus shown by a mass of particulars that if
the prisoner were really Quentineau, he must likewise be Desruelles.
Having gone so far, the ingenious advocate proved, by an accumulation
of circumstances that Desruelles could not be Quentineau.
The President of the Court, who seemed to take a great interest in the
problem on trial before him, questioned Mme. Desruelles as to the cause
of her sudden trip to New York.
She pointed to Desruelles with a scornful finger. “_Ca!_” she cried,
“he had a mistress; he wished to abandon me; he called me Cosaque!
He appointed to meet her in New York after settling up his cousin’s
estate. I determined to make his amours uncomfortable. I pursued the
woman to New York. I pulled her hair; I boxed her ears; I made her flee
in dismay to California; then, my mission performed, I returned to
Paris.”
The unhappy Scipion, in utter prostration of astonished protest, lifted
his helpless hands and denied the mistress, the assignation--everything.
His wife turned away with an incredulous, scornful shrug.
“I have your letters, Monsieur. I compelled the creature to surrender
them to me.”
The President ordered Mme. Desruelles to produce the letters, and while
the huissier was gone examined M. Pache.
The latter gentleman testified as to the facts of Desruelles’ visit to
Martinique, the false will, etc., and positively identified Desruelles.
“Have you ever seen that will?” asked the President.
“No,” said Pache.
“I have it here,” said the President. “It is duly authenticated, signed
and sealed--look at it!”
“Mon Dieu! that is my own signature, and that notarial signature I
would swear to as Alphonse Domairon’s!”
At this moment the huissier came into court with the package of
letters, which he handed to the president. That officer looked over
them, with Pache still upon the stand.
“M. Pache,” said the president, handing a letter to the witness, “do
you identify that handwriting?”
“I do; it is undoubtedly Desruelles’.”
“Be kind enough to read that letter aloud to the Court.”
M. Pache, adjusting his eye glasses, read, “Ma Mignon: The will is
all perfect. The Cosaque totally deceived. I sail for Martinique
to-morrow, and _ma poudre de succession_ will make short work of my
stumbling-block of a cousin!”
He turned severely upon Desruelles: “Atrocious wretch! You plotted to
poison me, then! I abandon the case.”
Desruelles fell back fainting. Mme. Desruelles eagerly came forward. “I
swear, Judge, that letter was not in the parcel I received from Mlle.
Tolly! I never saw it before!”
The president turned from her coldly. “The handwriting is precisely the
same.”
The prisoner, reviving, stared around him with a ghastly face, and the
president looked down upon him gloomily.
“The Court,” he said, “is not able to determine with satisfaction
whether the prisoner is Desruelles or Quentineau. The evidence
preponderates in favor of Desruelles. But, so far as the ends of
justice are concerned, it does not matter. Quentineau was a bad man,
but Desruelles is evidently a man much worse. The prisoner is remanded
to serve out his sentence, and at the expiration of his full term is
doomed to transportation to New Caledonia for fifteen years.”
Desruelles fainted once more and was removed. That afternoon, waiting
wearily in the _salle des gardes_, a man came and stood before him,
looking at him fixedly, then turning away. Everybody paid him the
utmost respect. Desruelles asked the sergeant by his side who that
personage was.
“It is M. M----, chief of the secret police.”
“Good God!” cried Desruelles--“Vedova!”
He fell in an apoplectic fit, and before morning brought the question
of his identity to the tribunal of a higher court.