IT now rests with us to trace, with the aid of authentic documents,
and reliable evidence, the most atrocious, treacherous, and cowardly
domestic crime of which the record has come down to us. The murder
whose circumstances we are about to relate can only be compared to
that committed on the night of the 9th March, 1449, on the person of
Guillaume de Flavy, by his wife Blanche d’Overbreuc, a young and slender
woman, the bastard d’Orbandas, and the barber Jean Bocquillon.
They stifled Guillaume with a pillow, battered him pitilessly with a
club, and bled him at the throat like a calf. Blanche d’Overbreuc proved
that her husband had determined to have her drowned, while Jeanne de
Lespoisse betrayed a loving husband to a gang of unspeakable scoundrels.
We will record the facts with all possible restraint. Bluebeard returned
rather earlier than expected. This it was gave rise to the quite
mistaken idea that, a prey to the blackest jealousy, he was wishful to
surprise his wife. Full of joy and confidence, if he thought of giving
her a surprise it was an agreeable one. His kindness and tenderness, and
his joyous, peaceable air would have softened the most savage hearts.
The Chevalier de la Merlus, and the whole execrable brood of Lespoisse
saw therein nothing but an additional facility for taking his life, and
possessing themselves of his wealth, still further increased by his new
inheritance.
His young wife met him with a smiling face, allowing herself to be
embraced and led to the conjugal chamber, where she did everything to
please the good man. The following morning she returned him the bunch of
keys which had been confided to her care. But there was missing that of
the Cabinet of the Unfortunate Princesses, commonly called the little
Cabinet. Bluebeard gently demanded its delivery, and after putting him
off for a time on various pretexts Jeanne returned it to him.
There now arises a question which cannot be solved without leaving
the limited domain of history to enter the indeterminate regions of
philosophy.
Charles Perrault specifically states that the key of the little Cabinet
was a fairy key, that is to say, it was magical, enchanted, endowed with
properties contrary to the laws of nature, at all events, as we conceive
them. We have no proof to the contrary. This is a fitting moment to
recall the precept of my illustrious master, Monsieur du Clos des Lunes,
a member of the Institute: “When the supernatural makes its appearance,
it must not be rejected by the historian.” I shall therefore content
myself with recalling as regards this key, the unanimous opinion of all
the old biographers of Bluebeard; they all affirm that it was a fairy
key. This is a point of great importance. Moreover, this key is not the
only object created by human industry which has proved to be endowed
with marvellous properties. Tradition abounds with examples of enchanted
swords. Arthur’s was a magic sword. And so was that of Joan of Arc, on
the undeniable authority of Jean Chartier; and the proof afforded by
that illustrious chronicler is that when the blade was broken the two
pieces refused to be welded together again despite all the efforts of
the most competent armourers. Victor Hugo speaks in one of his poems of
those “magic stairways still obscured below.” Many authors even admit
that there are men-magicians who can turn themselves into wolves. We
shall not undertake to combat such a firm and constant belief, and we
shall not pretend to decide whether the key of the little Cabinet was
or was not enchanted, for our reserve does not imply that we are in any
uncertainty, and therein resides its merit. But where we find ourselves
in our proper domain, or to be more precise within our own jurisdiction,
where we once more become judges of facts, and writers of circumstances,
is where we read that the key was flecked with blood. The authority of
the texts does not so far impress us as to compel us to believe this. It
was not flecked with blood. Blood had flowed in the little cabinet, but
at a time already remote. Whether the key had been washed or whether it
had dried, it was impossible that it should be so stained, and what, in
her agitation, the criminal wife mistook for a blood-stain on the iron,
was the reflection of the sky still empurpled by the roses of dawn.
Monsieur de Montragoux, on seeing the key, perceived none the less that
his wife had entered the little cabinet. He noticed that it now appeared
cleaner and brighter than when he had given it to her, and was of
opinion that this polish could only come from use.
This produced a painful impression upon him, and he said to his wife,
with a mournful smile:
“My darling, you have been into the little cabinet. May there result
no grievous outcome for either of us! From that room emanates a malign
influence from which I would have protected you. If you, in your turn
should become subjected to it, I should never get over it. Forgive me;
when we love we are superstitious.”
On these words, although Bluebeard cannot have frightened her, for his
words and demeanour expressed only love and melancholy, the young lady
of Montragoux began shrieking at the top of her voice: “Help! Help!
he’s killing me!” This was the signal agreed upon. On hearing it, the
Chevalier de la Merlus and the two sons of Madame de Lespoisse were to
have thrown themselves upon Bluebeard and run him through with their
swords.
But the Chevalier, whom Jeanne had hidden in a cupboard in the room,
appeared alone. Monsieur de Montragoux, seeing him leap forth sword in
hand, placed himself on guard. Jeanne fled terror-stricken, and met
her sister Anne in the gallery. She was not, as has been related, on
a tower; for all the towers had been thrown down by order of Cardinal
Richelieu. Anne was striving to put heart into her two brothers, who,
pale and quaking, dared not risk so great a stake. Jeanne hastily
implored them: “Quick, quick, brothers, save my lover!” Pierre and Cosme
then rushed at Bluebeard. They found him, having disarmed the Chevalier
de la Merlus, holding him down with his knee; they treacherously ran
their swords through his body from behind, and continued to strike at
him long after he had breathed his last.
Bluebeard had no heirs. His wife remained mistress of his property. She
used a part of it to provide a dowry for her sister Anne, another part
to buy captains’ commissions for her two brothers, and the rest to marry
the Chevalier de la Merlus, who became a very respectable man as soon as
he was wealthy.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Seven Wives Of Bluebeard, by Anatole France