THE ARREST OF THE PHYSICIAN
The name pronounced was that of an Italian, terrible throughout all
Europe; at the mention of whom even crowned heads quailed, and whose
black deeds, although far more than matters of surmise, had yet been
transacted with such consummate skill and caution as to baffle the
keenest inquiries, both of the police and of the profession. Exili,
who had been obliged to fly from Rome, as one of the fearful secret
poisoners of the epoch, was instructed in his hellish art, it has been
presumed, by a Sicilian woman named Spara. She had been the confidante
and associate of the infamous Tofana, from whom she acquired the
secret at Palermo, where the dreaded preparation which bore her name
was sold, with little disguise, in small glass phials, ornamented with
some holy image.
Six years previous to the commencement of our romance, a number of
suspicious deaths in Rome caused unusual vigilance to be exercised by
the police of that city, little wanting at all times in detective
instinct; and the result was the detection of a secret society (of
which Spara was at the head, ostensibly as a fortune-teller), to whose
members the various deaths were attributed; inasmuch, amongst other
suspicious circumstances, as Spara had frequently, in her capacity of
sybil, predicted their occurrence. Betrayed through the jealousy of
one of the party, all in the society were arrested, and put to the
torture; a few were executed, and others escaped. Amongst these last
Exili eluded the punishment no less due to him than to the rest, and,
flying from Italy, came into France, and finally established himself
at Paris under an assumed name; but his real condition was tolerably
well understood by the police, although his depth and care never gave
them tangible ground for an arrest. He practised as a simple
physician. In this portion of his career little occurred to throw
suspicion on his calling; but, driven at length by poverty to sink his
dignity in a less precarious method of gaining a livelihood, he had
appeared as the mere charlatan, and it was now hinted, that whilst he
sold the simplest drugs to the people, poisons of the most subtle and
violent nature could be obtained through his agency. Where they came
from no one was aware, but their source was attributed, like many
other uncertain ones, to the devil. These suspicions were, however,
principally confined to the police; the mass looked upon him as an
itinerant physician of more than ordinary talents.
Those, indeed, to whom he had administered potions had been known to
die; but his skill in pharmacy enabled him to produce his effects as
mere aggravated symptoms of the disease he was ostensibly endeavouring
to cure. And chemical science, in those days, was so far behind its
modern state, that no delicate tests of the presence of poisons--even
of those offering the strongest precipitates--were known. At the
present time, our poisons have increased to tenfold violence and
numbers: yet in no instance, scarcely, could an atom be now
administered, without its presence, decomposed or entire, being laid
bare on the test-glass of the inquirer.
‘Exili!’ again gasped Benoit, as he drew nearer his wife and Louise;
in an agony of fear, also, that the part he bore in the public
displays of the medicines would involve him in the punishment.
‘I must have your authority, sir, before I can be arrested,’ replied
Exili, as we may now call him, with singular and suddenly assumed
calmness. ‘And you must also prove that I am the man of whom you are
in search.’
‘I can satisfy you on both points,’ cried a voice from amidst the
guard.
The soldiers fell back on either side of the doorway, and Gaudin de
Sainte-Croix, the young officer who had held parley with him on the
Carrefour du Châtelet, entered the room.
‘I know you to be the same Antonio Exili,’ he continued; ‘you
confessed it to me yourself but this afternoon. And here,’ he added,
as he held a paper towards him, ‘is the _lettre de cachet_ for your
arrest.’
The girl, who had started at the first sound of Sainte-Croix’s voice,
now leant anxiously forward as he entered the room; and when she saw
him, a sudden and violent cry of surprise burst from her lips. She
checked herself, however, whilst he was speaking, but as soon as he
had finished, she rushed up to him, and, grasping his arm, cried
‘Gaudin!’
‘Louise!--you here!’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix. ‘I thought you were in
Languedoc,’ he added, dropping his voice, whilst his brow contracted
into an angry frown. He was evidently ill-prepared for the rencontre,
and but little pleased at it.
The Italian took advantage of the temporary diversion afforded by the
interview. With the nerve and muscular strength of a young man, he
vaulted over the table against which he had been standing, and rushed
into his own apartment, closing the door, which was of massy wood,
against his pursuers. But this only caused the delay of an instant.
Finding that their partisans made not the least effect upon the thick
panels, the officer in command ordered them to take a large beam that
was lying on the floor--apparently a portion of some old
mill-machinery, and use it as a battering ram. It was lifted by six or
eight of the guard, and hurled with all their united strength against
the door. For the first two or three blows it resisted their efforts,
but at last gave way with a loud crash, and the laboratory of the
physician lay open before them.
‘_En avant!_’ cried the captain of the watch; ‘and take him, dead or
alive. Follow me.’
The officer entered the room, but had scarcely gone two steps, when he
uttered a loud and spasmodic scream and fell on the floor. A guard,
who was following him, reeled back against his fellows with the same
cry, but fainter; and immediately afterwards a dense and acrid vapour
rolled in heavy coloured fumes into the outer chamber. Its effects
were directly perceptible upon the rest, who fell back seized with
violent and painful contractions of the windpipe; and the man who had
kept close upon their commander, was now also struck down by the
deadly vapour, which a violent draught of cold air spread around them.
But they had time to perceive that a window at the end of the small
laboratory was open, and that Exili had passed through it and escaped
to the river.
‘It is poison! it is poison!’ cried Benoit lustily, apparently most
anxious to give every information in his power respecting his late
tenant, and turning fool’s evidence in his eagerness to clear his own
character. ‘He has broken the bottle it was in. I know it well. He
killed some dogs with it, before the Pâques, as if they had been
shot. Keep back, on your lives!’
During this short and hurried scene, Louise had not once quitted her
hold of Sainte-Croix, but, in extreme agitation, the result of mingled
terror and surprise, still clung to him.
‘Beware! beware!’ continued Benoit; ‘I know it well, I tell you. He
has water that burns like red irons; and he pours it on money, which
leaves it blue. It will kill you! He has broken the bottle that held
it.’
And he continued reiterating these phrases with almost frantic
volubility, until one of the guard, at the risk of his life, pulled to
the shattered door as well as he was able.
‘Gaudin!’ cried Louise as she fell at his feet, still clinging to his
arm and his rich sword-belt. ‘Gaudin, only one word--tell me that you
have not forgotten me--that you still love me.’
‘Yes, yes, Louise; I still love you,’ he replied in a careless and
impatient tone. ‘But this is not the place for scenes like these; you
might, in delicacy, have spared me this annoying persecution.’
‘Persecution, Gaudin! I have given up all for you; I have abandoned
everything, even the hope of salvation for my own soul; I have
wandered day after day through the heartless streets of Paris, or
worked at the Gobelins until my spirits have been crushed to the
earth, and all my strength gone, by the struggle to support myself;
and all in the hope of seeing you again. Tell me--do you still care
for me, or am I a clog upon your life in this gay city?’
‘Not now, Louise; not now,’ returned Sainte-Croix, ‘another time. This
is ill-judged, it is unkind. I tell you that I still love you. There,
now let me go, and do not thus lower me before these people.’
‘And when shall I see you again?’
‘At any time--to-morrow--whenever you please--at any place,’ continued
Sainte-Croix, endeavouring to disembarrass himself from her grasp.
‘There, see! I am wanted by the guard.’
‘Gaudin! only one kind word, spoken as you once used to do, to tell me
where I may see you: to show me that you do not hate me.’
‘Pshaw! Louise, this is childish at such a moment. Let go my arm, if
you would escape an injury. You see I am wanted. You are mad thus to
annoy me.’
‘Heaven knows I have had enough to make me so,’ returned the girl,
struggling with the hands of the other as he tried to free himself
from her grasp. ‘But, Gaudin! I beg it on my knees, one, only one,
kind word. Ah!’
She screamed with pain, as Sainte-Croix, in desperation, seized her
wrists and twisting them fiercely round, forced her to loose her hold.
And then casting her from him, with no light power, she fell senseless
on the floor at the feet of Bathilde, who had remained completely
paralysed since the commencement of the hurried scene.
‘He will escape by the river,’ cried the second in command of the
night watch. ‘We must follow him.’
Pressing onward with the rest, Sainte-Croix passed from the chamber
and stood on the edge of the floating tenements. The boat in which
Benoit had arrived was still lying where it had been left fastened by
a cord. He directly ordered two of the men into it, and entering
himself, divided the cord that held it with his sword, and then put
forth upon the river. The others gained the roof of the mill, and they
were then joined by some members of the Garde Bourgeois, who had
descended, and were still coming down by a rope-ladder, depending from
the window of one of the old gabled houses upon the Pont Notre Dame.
This was evidently the manner in which they had gained access to the
mill, when their feet had first been heard overhead by Exili.
In the meanwhile, the object of their pursuit had escaped by the
window, as has been seen, and dropped into the hollow of one of the
lighters that floated the entire structure, with the intention of
passing underneath the mill-floor to the spot at which another small
boat, used by himself alone, was fastened. But it was here quite dark,
and the passage was one of extreme caution, being amongst the timbers
of the woodwork upholding the mill, between some of which the large
black wheels were turning, as the deep and angry water foamed and
roared below them, lashing the slippery beams or leaping wildly over
the narrow ledges of the lighters.
Supplied with torches by the Garde Bourgeois, the others pervaded
every portion of the mill, and at last came upon the track of their
object, his lace collar having caught some projecting woodwork in his
flight. One or two of them leapt boldly down into the lighters, and
the others clung round the structure above upon frightfully insecure
foot-room. They were now under the apartment, and entirely amidst the
timbers of the works. The light of their torches revealed to them
Exili passing onward, at the peril of his life, to gain the boat; but
close before them.
A cry of recognition broke from two or three of the guard, and the
Italian, as a last chance, caught hold of a beam which overhung the
wheels, contriving, at an imminent risk, to pass himself across the
channel of the current by swinging one hand before the other. Those
who had regarded his general appearance, would scarcely have given him
credit for so much power.
[image: img_03.jpg
caption: The Capture]
He gained the other side. One of the guard immediately attempted to
follow him, and seized the beam; but he had not crossed half-way
before his strength failed him, his armour proving too heavy, together
with his body, for his arms to sustain; and he fell upon the wheel as
it turned, entangling his legs in the float-boards. He was borne
beneath the current, and immediately afterwards re-appeared on the
wheel, throwing his arms wildly about for help. Scarcely had a cry
escaped his lips, when he again passed beneath the surface; the water
disentangled him and bore him down the stream for an instant, until he
sank, and was seen no more.
Meanwhile Exili was endeavouring to unfasten his boat, and the Garde
Bourgeois passing round the other side of the mill had arrived close
to where he was stationed, cutting off his retreat in that direction.
There was now no chance but the river; and without a moment’s
hesitation he plunged into the boiling current, trusting to the
darkness for his escape. At the same moment a bourgeois threw off his
upper garments, and letting himself down the outer side of the lighter
into the river, where the stream was somewhat less powerful, called
for a torch, which he contrived to keep above the water in his left
hand, striking out vigorously with his right.
It was a singular chase. Both were evidently practised swimmers, and
more than once Exili eluded his pursuer by diving below the surface
and allowing him to pass beyond the mark. Several times, as they
approached, he made a clutch at the torch, or tried to throw back a
palm-full of water at its light, knowing if he could but reach any of
the houses on the site of the present Quai Desaix, he should be
sheltered in some of the secret refuges of the city. And once, indeed,
he turned at bay in deep water, locking on to the guard in a manner
which would soon have proved fatal to both, when the boat containing
Sainte-Croix shot across the river, and came up to where they were
struggling. His capture was the work of half a minute, and he was
dragged into the boat.
‘So, _mon enfant_,’ said Gaudin, as the dripping object of all this
turmoil was placed, breathless and dripping, in the stern, ‘you
thought we stood in somewhat different positions, I will be bound,
this afternoon.’
Then addressing himself to the men who were rowing, he added--
‘The Port au Foin is the nearest landing-place for the Rue St.
Antoine. And then to the Bastille!’
The stream was violent below the bridge; for the mill-boats obstructed
the free course of the river, and the Seine was still swollen and
turbid from the spring floods. But the rowers plied their oars
manfully, and, directed by one of the guard, who kept at the head of
the boat with the torch, were not long in arriving at the
landing-place indicated by Sainte-Croix, which was exactly on the site
of the present Pont Louis Philippe, conducting from the Place de la
Grêve to the back of Notre Dame.
Exili remained perfectly silent, but was trembling violently--more,
however, from his late immersion than from fear. His countenance was
pale and immovable, as seen by the glare of the torch; and he
compressed his under lip with his teeth until he nearly bit it
through. Neither did Sainte-Croix exchange another word with any of
his party; but, shrouded in his cloak, remained perfectly silent until
the boat touched the rude steps of the Pont au Foin.
A covered vehicle, opening behind, and somewhat like a modern
deer-cart, was waiting on the quay, with some armed attendants. The
arrival of the prisoner was evidently expected. By the direction of
Sainte-Croix he was carefully searched by the guard, and everything
being taken from him, he was placed in the vehicle, whither his captor
also followed him. The doors were then closed, and the men with
torches placing themselves at the sides and in front of the vehicle,
the cortege moved on.
It was a rough journey, then, to make from the Seine to the Bastille;
and it would have been made in perfect darkness but for the lights and
cressets of the watch. For the night was advancing; the lanterns in
the windows had burned out, or been extinguished; and the tall
glooming houses, which rose on either side of the Rue Geoffry Lanier,
by which thoroughfare they left the river side, threw the road into
still deeper obscurity, their only lights being observable in the
windows high up, where some industrious artisan was late at work. A
rude smoky lamp hung from the interior of the vehicle, and by its
gleam Sainte-Croix was watching his prisoner in silence. At length
Exili spoke.
‘You have been playing a deep game; and this time Fortune favours you.
But you took her as the discarded mistress of many others; and she
will in turn jilt you.’
‘Say rather we have both struggled for her, and you lost her by your
own incautious proceedings,’ replied Sainte-Croix. ‘We were both at
the brink of a gulf, on a frail precipice, where the fall of one was
necessary to the safety of the other. You are now my victim; to-morrow
I might have been yours.’
‘And whence comes the _lettre de cachet_?’
‘From those who have the power to give it. Had you been more guarded
in your speech on the _carrefour_ to-day, you might have again
practised on the credulity of the dupes that surrounded you.’
‘For what term is my imprisonment?’
‘During the pleasure of the Minister of Police; and that may depend
upon mine. Our secrets are too terrible for both to be free at once.
You should not have let me know that you thought me in your power.’
‘Has every notion of honour departed from you?’ asked Exili.
‘Honour!’ replied Sainte-Croix, with a short contemptuous laugh;
‘honour! and between such as we have become! How could you expect
honour to influence me, when we have so long despised it--when it is
but a bubble name with the petty gamesters of the world--the watchword
of cowardice fearing detection?’
There was a halt in the progress of the carriage as it now arrived at
the outer gate of the Bastille. Then came the challenge and the
answer; the creaking of the chains that let down the huge drawbridge
upon the edge of the outer court; and the hollow rumbling of the
wheels over its timber. It stopped at the inner portal; and when the
doors were opened, the governor waited at the carriage to receive the
new prisoner.
But few words were exchanged. The signature of the _lettre de cachet_
once recognised was all that was required, and Exili was ordered to
descend. He turned to Sainte-Croix as he was about to enter the gate,
and with a withering expression of revenge and baffled anger,
exclaimed--
‘You have the game in your own hands at present. Before the year is
out my turn will have arrived. Remember!’