THE MARCHIONESS
OF
BRINVILLIERS
THE POISONER OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
A Romance of Old Paris
By ALBERT SMITH
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1886
[image: img_01.jpg
caption: The Escape of Lachaussée Prevented]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
The Mountebank of the Carrefour du Châtelet
CHAPTER II.
The Boat-Mill on the River
CHAPTER III.
The Arrest of the Physician
CHAPTER IV.
The Students of 1665
CHAPTER V.
Sainte-Croix and his Creature
CHAPTER VI.
Maître Glazer, the Apothecary, and his man, Panurge, Discourse with
the People on Poisons--The Visit of the Marchioness
CHAPTER VII.
Louise Gauthier Falls into the Hands of Lachaussée
CHAPTER VIII.
The Catacombs of the Bièvre and their Occupants
CHAPTER IX.
The Revenge of Sainte-Croix--The Rencontre in the Bastille
CHAPTER X.
What further befel Louise in the Catacombs of the Bièvre
CHAPTER XI.
Maître Picard Prosecutes a Successful Crusade against the Students
CHAPTER XII.
Exili Spreads the Snare for Sainte-Croix, who falls into it
CHAPTER XIII.
Gaudin Learns Strange Secrets in the Bastille
CHAPTER XIV.
The Château in the Country--The Meeting--Le Premier Pas
CHAPTER XV.
Versailles--The Rival Actresses--The Discovery
CHAPTER XVI.
The Grotto of Thetis--The Good and Evil Angels
CHAPTER XVII.
The Gascon Goes through Fire and Water to Attract Attention--The
Brother and Sister
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Rue de L’Hirondelle
CHAPTER XIX.
The Mischief still Thickens on all Sides
CHAPTER XX.
Two Great Villains
CHAPTER XXI.
The Dead-house of the Hôtel Dieu, and the Orgy at the Hôtel de Cluny
CHAPTER XXII.
The Orgy at the Hôtel de Cluny
CHAPTER XXIII.
Sainte-Croix and Marie Encounter an Uninvited Guest
CHAPTER XXIV.
Louise Gauthier falls into Dangerous Hands
CHAPTER XXV.
Marie has Louise in her Power--The Last Carousal
CHAPTER XXVI.
Sainte-Croix Discovers the Great Secret sooner than he expected
CHAPTER XXVII.
Matters Become very Serious for all Parties--The Discovery and the
Flight
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Flight of Marie to Liége--Paris--The Gibbet of Montfaucon
CHAPTER XXIX.
Philippe Avails himself of Maître Picard’s Horse for the Marchioness
CHAPTER XXX.
The Stratagem at Mortefontaine--Senlis--The Accident
CHAPTER XXXI.
Philippe Glazer Throws Desgrais off the Scent
CHAPTER XXXII.
Offemont to Liége--An Old Acquaintance--The Sanctuary
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The End of Lachaussée
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Game is up--The Trap--Marie Returns with Desgrais to the
Conciergerie
CHAPTER XXXV.
News for Louise Gauthier and Benoit
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Journey--Examination of the Marchioness
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Last Interview
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Water Question--Exili--The Place de Grêve
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Louise Gauthier--The Conclusion
ENDNOTES.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
WORKED FROM THE ORIGINAL ETCHINGS
By John Leech
1. The Escape of Lachaussée Prevented
2. The Physician and Mountebank
3. The Capture
4. The Students Enlightening Maître Picard
5. Sainte-Croix Upbraiding the Marchioness
6. Louise Claiming Sanctuary
7. Bras D’acier and Lachaussée Outwitted
8. Le Premier Pas
9. The Duel
10. The Good and Evil Angels
11. Sainte-Croix Surprised by Exili
12. The Death of Sainte-Croix
13. The Arrest of Exili
14. ‘Then, Madame, you are mine at last!’
15. The Marchioness going to Execution
THE MARCHIONESS OF BRINVILLIERS
CHAPTER I.
THE MOUNTEBANK OF THE CARREFOUR DU CHÂTELET
One hundred and eighty years ago, on a sunny spring evening in the
year of grace 1665, the space of ground which extended from the front
of the Grand Châtelet in Paris to the rude wooden barrier which then
formed the only safeguard between the public road and the river, at
the northern foot of the Pont au Change, was crowded with a joyous and
attentive mass of people, who had collected from their evening
promenade to this spot, and now surrounded the temporary platform of
an itinerant charlatan, erected in front of the ancient fortress.
Let us rest awhile on the steps of the Pont au Change, to become
acquainted with the localities; for little of its ancient appearance
now remains. The present resident at Paris, however well versed he
might be in the topography of that city, might search in vain for even
the vestiges of any part of the principal building, which rose, at the
date above spoken of, on the banks of the River Seine. The Pont au
Change still exists, but not as it then appeared. The visitor may call
to mind this picturesque structure, with its seven arches crossing to
the Marché aux Fleurs from the corner of the Quai de la Megisserie.
In 1660 it was covered with houses, in common with most of the other
bridges that spanned the Seine, with the exception of the Pont Neuf.
These were now partly in ruins, from the ravages of time, and frequent
conflagrations. Lower down the river might be seen the vestiges of the
Pont Marchand--a wooden bridge, which had been burnt down nearly forty
years before, some of whose charred and blackened timbers still
obstructed the free course of the river. It had stood on the site of
the Pont aux Meuniers--also a wooden bridge--to which six or seven
boat-mills were attached; and these, in consequence of the flooding of
the Seine, dragged the whole structure away in the winter of 1596.
The Grand Châtelet stood at the foot of the Pont au Change; its
ground is now occupied by a square, and an elegant fountain. The
origin of the Châtelet has been lost in antiquity. It had once been a
strong fortress; and its massive round-towers still betokened its
strength. Next it was a prison, where the still increasing city
rendered its position of little value in guarding the gates; and
afterwards it became the Court of Jurisdiction pertaining to the
Provost of Paris. Part of its structure was now in ruins; wild foliage
grew along the summits of its outer walls, and small buildings had
been run up between the buttresses, occupied by retailers of wine and
small merchandise. It was a great place of resort at all times; for a
dark and noisome passage, which ran through it, was the only
thoroughfare from the Pont au Change to the Rue St. Denis, and this
was constantly crowded with foot-passengers.
The afternoon sunlight fell upon the many turrets and spires, and
quivered on the vanes and casements of the fine old buildings that
then surrounded the _carrefour_. Across the river the minarets of the
Palais de Justice rose in sharp outline against the blue sky, glowing
in the ruddy tint; together with the campanile at the corner of the
quay, and the blackened towers of Notre Dame, farther in the Ile de la
Cité, round which flocks of birds were wheeling in the clear spring
air, who had their dwellings amidst the corbels, spouts, and belfries
of the cathedral. There was not an old gray gable or corroded spire
which, steeped in the rays of the setting sun, did not blush into
light and warmth. And the mild season had drawn all the inhabitants of
the houses who were not abroad to their windows, whence they gazed
upon the gay crowd below, through pleasant trellises of climbing
vegetation, which crept along the pieces of twine latticing the
casements. Humble things, indeed, the plants were,--hops, common
beans, wild convolvuli, and the like, spreading from a rude _cruche_
of mould upon the sill; but the beams of the sun came through them
cheerfully; and their shadows danced and trembled on the rude tiled
floor as sportively as on the costly inlaid _parquets_ of the richer
quarters of the city.
The Carrefour du Châtelet was at this period, with the Pont Neuf, the
principal resort of the people of Paris, then, as now, ever addicted
to the promenade and out-of-door lounging. A singularly varied
panorama did the open place present to any one standing at the cross
which was reared in the centre, and gazing around him. He might have
seen a duel taking place between two young gallants on the footpath,
in open contest. Swords were then as quickly drawn forth as tempers;
no appointments were made for the seclusion of the faubourgs beyond
the walls which occupied the site of the present boulevards; and these
quarrels often ended fatally, though merely fought for the possession
of some courtesan who, in common with others, blazed forth in her
sumptuous trappings on the bridges during the afternoon. But the
guards never interfered, and the passengers looked on unconcernedly
until the struggle was, one way or the other, decided.
The beggars were as numerous then as now, perhaps more so; for the
various Cours des Miracles, the ‘Rookeries’ of Paris, if we may be
allowed the expression, which abounded all over the city, offered them
a ready colony and retreat. Here were counterfeiters of every disease
to which humanity is liable, dragging themselves along the rude
footpath; there, beggars of more active habits, who swarmed, cap in
hand, by the side of the splendid carriages which passed along the
quays, to and from the Louvre. The thieves, too, everywhere plied
their vocation; and the absurd custom of carrying the purse suspended
at the girdle, favoured their delinquencies; whence certain of them
acquired the title of _coupe-bourse_, as in England the pick-pockets
were formerly termed cut-purses.
Crowds of soldiers, vendors of street merchandise, and charlatans of
every description filled the _carrefour_. Looking to the tableau
offered by the public resorts of Paris at the present time, the Champs
Elysées for instance (in 1665, consisting only of fields, literally
in cultivation), it is curious to observe how little the principal
features of the assembly have altered from the accounts left us by
accurate and careful delineators of former manners.
But, besides all these, the mere idlers, of both sexes, were numerous
and remarkable; an ever-changing throng of gay habits, glittering
accoutrements, and attractive figures and faces. The license of the
age, unbounded in its extent, permitted appointments of every kind to
be made without notice. Every kind of dissipation was openly
practised, and therefore the world winked at it, as under such
circumstances it always does, even if the place of an illicit
assignation or conference (and in the reign of Louis XIV. they were
seldom otherwise) were a church, as indeed was most frequently the
case. The generally licentious taste extended to the dress and
conversation; hence, from the crowds of gallants who thronged the
_carrefour_, salutations and remarks of strange freedom were
constantly addressed to the handsome women who, in the prodigality of
their display of dazzling busts and shoulders, invited satire or
compliments; nay, to such a pitch was that negligee attire carried,
that some might be seen walking abroad in loose damask robes merely
confined at the waist by a cord of twisted silk.
The platform round which the laughing crowd had assembled was formed
on a light cart that had its wheels covered with some coarse drapery.
There were two occupants of this stage. One of them was a man who
might have numbered some forty years; but his thin furrowed cheeks and
sunken eye would have added another score to his age, in the opinion
of a casual observer. He was dressed entirely in faded black serge,
made after the fashion of the time, with full arms, and trunks
fastened just above the knee. Some bands of vandyked lace were
fastened round his wrists; and he wore a collar of the same material,
whilst his doublet was looped together but a little way down his
waist. A skull-cap of black velvet completed his attire.
Yet few who looked at him took much notice of his dress: the features
of this man absorbed all attention. His face exactly resembled that of
a condor, his cap adding to the likeness by being worn somewhat
forward; from beneath which his long black hair fell perfectly
straight down the back of his neck. His brows were scowling: his eyes
deep-set and jet-black: but they were bloodshot, and surrounded by the
crimson ridges of the lids. His cheeks were pallid as those of a
corpse; and his general figure, naturally tall, was increased in
appearance of height by his attenuated limbs. He took little notice of
the crowd, but remained sitting at a small table on the carriage, upon
which there was a small show of chemical glasses and preparations:
leaving nearly all the business of his commerce to his assistant.
This was a merry fellow, plump, and well-favoured, in the prime of
life. He was habited in a party-fashioned costume of black and white,
his opposite arms and legs being of different colours; and his doublet
quartered in the same style. Round his waist he carried a pointed
girdle, to which small hawk-bells were attached; and he wore the red
hood of the _moyen âge_ period, fitting closely to his neck and head,
and hanging down at the top, to the extremity of which a larger bell
was fastened His face had such a comic expression, that he only had to
wink at the crowd to command their laughter. And when to this he added
his jests, he threw them into paroxysms of merriment.
‘_Ohé! ohé!_ my masters!’ he cried, ‘the first physician of the
universe, and many other places, has come again to confer his
blessings on you. He has philtres for those who have not had enough of
love, and potions for those who have had too much. He can attach to
you a new mistress when she gets coy, or get rid of an old one when
she gets troublesome. And if you have two at once, here is an elixir
that will kill their jealousies.’
‘Send some to Louis!’ cried one of the bystanders.
A roar of laughter followed the speech, and the crowd looked round to
see the speaker. But, although bold enough to utter the
recommendation, he had not the courage to support it. However, the cue
had been given to the crowd, and the applause and laugh of approbation
continued.
‘Give it to La Vallière!’ exclaimed another of the citizens.
‘Or Madame de Montespan,’ cried a third.
‘Or, rather, to her husband!’ was ejaculated in a woman’s voice.
‘Respect his parents,’ exclaimed a bourgeois, with mock solemnity, who
was standing at the foot of the bridge, and pointing to a group of
three figures in bronze relief, which adorned a triangular group of
houses close to where he was stationed. They were those of Louis
XIII., Anne of Austria, and the present King when a child.
‘Simon Guillain, the sculptor, was a false workman!’ shouted the
bystander who had first spoken. ‘Where is the fourth of the family?’
The mountebank, who had been endeavouring to talk through the noise,
found himself completely outclamoured by the uproar that now arose. He
gave up making himself heard, and remained silent whilst the crowd
launched their sallies, or bandied their satirical jibes from one to
the other.
‘Where is the fourth?’ continued the speaker.
‘Ask Dame Perronette, who nursed him!’ was the reply from the other
side of the carrefour.
‘Ask Saint-Mars who locked on his iron mask.’
‘Who will knock and ask at Mazarin’s coffin!’ shouted another, with a
strength of lungs that ensured a hearing. ‘He ought to know best.’
The name of Anne of Austria was on the lips of many; but, with all the
license of the time, they dared not give utterance to it. And,
besides, as the last speaker finished, a yell broke forth that drowned
every other sound; and showed by its force, which partook almost of
ferocity, in what manner the memory of the Cardinal was yet held. The
instant comparative silence was obtained a fellow sung, from a popular
satire upon the late prime minister--
‘He trick’d the vengeance of the Fronde,--
All in the world, and those beyond.
_A bas! à bas le Cardinal!_
He trick’d the headsman by his death--
The devil, by his latest breath,
Who for his perjured soul did call,
But found that he had none at all,
_A bas! à bas le Cardinal!_’
The throng chorused the last words with great emphasis; and then in a
few minutes were once more tranquil. The charged cloud had got rid of
its thunder, and the storm abated.
The physician, who was upon the platform, took little notice of the
clamour. At its commencement, he glared round upon the assembly for a
few seconds, and then once more bent his eyes upon the table before
him. His assistant continued, as soon as he could make himself
audible--
‘_Ohé!_ masters! a philtre for your eyes that will make them work
upon others at a distance. Here is one that will infect the spirit of
the other with sickness at heart; here is a second that will instil
love also by the glance of the eye that is washed with it.’
They were little phials containing a small quantity of coloured fluid.
The price was small, and they were eagerly purchased by the multitude.
But for every one of the second, they purchased a dozen of the first.
‘Art thou sure of its operation?’ asked a looker-on.
‘Glances of love and malice shoot subtly,’ replied the fool; ‘and my
master can draw subtle spirits from simple things that shall work upon
each other at some distance. But your own spirits, with the aid of
this philtre, are more subtle than they.’
‘A proof! a proof!’ cried a young man at the extremity of the
_carrefour_.
‘The philtre is not for such as you,’ cried the mountebank. ‘You have
youth, and a well-favoured aspect; you have a strong arm, a gay coat,
and a trusty rapier. What would man require more?’
The crowd turned to look at the object of the clown’s speech. At the
end of the _carrefour_, two young men were gazing, arm-in-arm, upon
the assemblage. Both were of the same age; their existence might have
reached to some seven or eight-and-twenty years, and they were attired
in the gay military costume of the period; with rich satin
under-sleeves, and bright knots or epaulettes upon the right shoulder.
One of them, to whom the mountebank had more particularly addressed
himself, was of a fair complexion, and wore his own light hair in long
flowing curls upon his shoulders. His face was well formed, and
singularly intelligent and expressive; his forehead high and
expansive, and his eyes deep set beneath the arch of the orbit, ever
bearing the appearance of fixed regard upon whatever object they were
cast. Still to the close observer there was a faint line running from
the edge of the nostril to the outer angle of the lip, which, coupled
with his retreating eye, gave him an expression of satire and
mistrust. But so varied was the general expression of his face, that
it was next to impossible to divine his thoughts for two minutes
together.
The other was dark--his face had less indication of intellect than his
companion’s, although in general contour equally good-looking. Yet did
the features bear a somewhat jaded expression, and the colour on his
cheek was rather fevered than healthy. His eyes too were sunk, but
more from active causes than natural formation; and he gazed on the
objects that surrounded him with the listless air of an idler. His
mind was evidently but little occupied with anything he then saw. His
attire was somewhat richer than his friend’s, betokening a superior
rank in the army.
‘A proof! a proof!’ cried the gayer of the two, repeating his words.
‘Where will you have it then?’ asked the mountebank, looking about the
square. ‘Ha! there is as fair a maiden as ever a king’s officer might
follow, sitting at the cross. Shall she be in love with you?’
Again the attention of the crowd was directed by the glance of the
mountebank towards a rude iron cross that was set up in the
_carrefour_.
At its foot was a young girl, half sitting, half reclining upon the
stone-work which formed its base. She was attired in the costume of
the working order of Paris. Her hair, different from that of the
higher class of females, who wore it in light bunches of ringlets at
the side of the head, was in plain bands, over which a white
handkerchief, edged with lace, was carelessly thrown, falling in
lappets on each side. Her eyes and hair were alike dark as night, but
her beautiful face was deadly pale, until she found the gaze of the
mob had been called towards her. And then the red blood rushed to her
neck and cheeks, as she hastily rose from her seat, and was about to
leave the square.
‘A pretty wench enough,’ cried the cavalier with the black hair, as he
raised himself upon the step of a house to see her. She was still
hidden from his companion.
‘I doubt not,’ answered the other carelessly; ‘but I do not care to
look. No,’ he cried loudly to the mountebank, ‘I have no love to spare
her in return, and that might break her heart.’
The girl started at his voice, and looked towards the spot from whence
it proceeded. But she was unable to see him, for the intervening
people.
‘A beryl!’ cried the fool, showing a small crystal of a reddish tint
to the crowd. ‘A beryl! to tell your fortune then. Who will read the
vision in it? a young maiden, pure and without guile, can alone do it;
are there none in our good city of Paris?’
None stepped forward. The fair-haired cavalier laughed aloud as he
cried out:
‘You seem to have told what is past better than you can predict what
is to come. Ho! sirs, what say you to this slur upon the fair fame of
your daughters and sisters--will none of them venture?’
A murmur was arising from the crowd, when the physician, who had been
glancing angrily at the two young officers, suddenly rose up, and
shouted with a foreign accent--
‘If you will have your destinies unfolded, there needs no beryl to
picture them. Let me look at your hands, and I will tell you all.’
‘A match!’ cried the young soldier. ‘Now, good people, let us pass,
and see what this solemn-visaged doctor knows about us.’
The two officers advanced towards the platform. As they approached it,
the crowd fell back, and then immediately closed after them with eager
curiosity. The friends stood now directly beside the waggon.
‘Your hands!’ said the physician.
They were immediately extended to him.
‘You are in the king’s service,’ continued he.
‘Our dresses would tell you that,’ said the darker of the two.
‘But they would not tell me that you are married,’ answered the
physician. ‘You have two children--a fair wife--and no friend.’
‘’Tis a lie!’ exclaimed the cavalier with the light hair.
[image: img_02.jpg
caption: The Physician and Mountebank]
‘It is true,’ replied the necromancer coldly, directing the gaze of
his piercing eye full upon him.
‘But our destiny, our destiny,’ said the dark officer with impatience.
‘You would care but little to know,’ returned the other, ‘if all
should turn out as I here read it. I have said your wife is fair--a
score and a half of years have robbed her of but little of her beauty;
and I have said you have _no friend_. Now read your own fate.’
‘Come away,’ said the fair cavalier, trying to drag his friend by the
arm from the platform. ‘We will hear no more--he is an impostor.’
As the soldier spoke a hectic patch of colour rose on the pale cheek
of the physician, and his eye lighted up with a wild brightness. He
raised his arm in an attitude of denunciation, and cried, with a loud
but hollow voice:
‘You are wrong, young man; and you shall smart for thus bearding one
to whom occult nature is as his alphabet. We have met before--and we
shall meet again.’
‘Pshaw! I know you not,’ replied the other heedlessly.
‘But I know _you_,’ continued the physician. ‘Do you remember an inn
at Milan--do you recollect a small room that opened upon the
grape-covered balcony of the Croce Bianca? Can you call that to mind,
Gaudin de Sainte-Croix?’
As the officer heard his name pronounced, he turned round; and stared
with mingled surprise and alarm at the physician. The latter beckoned
him to return to the platform, and he eagerly obeyed. The crowd
collected round them closer than ever, hustling one another in their
anxiety to push nearer to the platform, for affairs appeared to be
assuming a turn rather more than ordinary. And so intent were they
upon the principal personages of the scene, that they paid no
attention to the girl who had been sitting at the cross, and who, upon
hearing the name, started from her resting-place, and rushed to the
outside of the throng that now closely surrounded the waggon. But the
crowd was too dense for her to penetrate; and she passed along from
one portion to the other, vainly endeavouring to force her way through
it. Some persons roughly thrust her back; others bade her desist from
pressing against them; and not a few launched out into some
questionable hints, as to the object of her anxiety to get closer to
the two officers.
Meanwhile, Sainte-Croix, as we may now call him, had again reached the
edge of the platform. The physician bent down and whispered a word or
two into his ear, which, with all his efforts to retain his
self-possession before the mob, evidently startled him. He looked with
a scrutinising attention, as if his whole perception were concentrated
in that one gaze, at the face of the other, and then with an almost
imperceptible nod of recognition, caught his companion by the arm, and
dragged him forcibly through the crowd.
As the two cavaliers departed, the interest of the bystanders ceased,
and they fell back from the platform, except the girl, who glided
quickly between them, towards where the officers had been standing.
But they were gone; and, after a vain search amidst the crowd in the
_carrefour_, she retired back to where she had been sitting, and
covering her face with her hands, was once more unheeded and alone.