THE FLIGHT OF MARIE TO LIÉGE--PARIS--THE GIBBET OF MONTFAUCON
Midnight was sounded upon the heavy bell of the Bastille by the
sentinel on guard but a few minutes before the Marchioness of
Brinvilliers--terrified, breathless, and, in spite of her hurry,
shivering in her light dress beneath the intense cold--arrived at the
Hôtel d’Aubray. There were no signs of life in that quarter of Paris,
for the inhabitants had long retired to rest; a faint light, gleaming
from the front windows of Marie’s residence upon the snow that covered
the thoroughfare, alone served to guide her to the door. The drowsy
concierge admitted her, and she hurried across the inner court and
upstairs to her own apartment.
Françoise Roussel, her servant, was waiting up for her. Her mistress
had left in such an extreme of anxiety, and half-undressed, that
Françoise saw at once an affair of great moment had disturbed her;
and now, as Marie returned, the girl was frightened by her almost
ghastly look. As she entered the room she fell panting on one of the
_causeuses_, and then her servant perceived that she had lost one of
her shoes, and had been walking, perhaps nearly the whole distance
from the Place Maubert, with her small naked foot upon the snow,
without discovering it. In her hurried toilet, she had merely arisen
from her bed and drawn her shoes on, without anything else, and
throwing a heavy loose robe about her had thus hurried with
Lachaussée to Glazer’s house; for from Gaudin’s accomplice she had
learned the first tidings of his death and the dangerous position in
which she stood. And now, scarcely knowing in the terror and agony of
the moment what course to adopt, she remained for some minutes
pressing her hands to her forehead, as if to seize and render
available some of the confused and distracting thoughts which were
hurrying through her almost bewildered brain. A few offers of
assistance on the part of her domestic were met with short and angry
refusals; and Françoise, almost as frightened as the Marchioness
herself, remained gazing at her, not knowing what measures she ought
next to adopt.
Meanwhile, Desgrais, with the important casket, and accompanied by the
clerk Frater and Maître Picard, had reached the house of M. Artus,
the Commissary of Police, in the Rue des Noyers, arriving there not
two minutes after Marie had quitted it to regain her own abode.
Philippe Glazer had accompanied them, partly from being in a measure
an implicated party in the affair, but chiefly out of anxiety for the
position of the Marchioness, in whose guilt he had not the slightest
belief. He was aware of her connection with Sainte-Croix; but this was
a matter of simple gallantry, and in the time of Louis Quatorze much
more likely to enlist the sympathies of the many on the side of the
erring party than to excite their indignation.
‘I suppose you have no further occasion for me?’ observed Maître
Picard, as he stood at the foot of M. Artus’s bed, after having
awaited the conclusion of Desgrais’s account of the discovery;
‘because, if you have not, I would fain go home.’
The little bourgeois was thinking of the roast pheasant which he had
abandoned to the voracity of the Gascon. He had a wild hope that it
might be yet untouched.
‘Stop, _mon brave_,’ said Desgrais. ‘You cannot leave me until we have
found Madame de Brinvilliers. I have only missed her by a few seconds.
You must come on with me to her house, where she most likely is by
this time.’
‘I suppose there is no necessity for me to remain here longer,’ said
Philippe Glazer.
‘None whatever, monsieur,’ replied the exempt. ‘You will take care of
M. de Sainte-Croix’s property; and we may call upon you to-morrow to
analyse the contents of this casket.’
Philippe bowed, and left the room. The moment he was clear of the
house, having borrowed a lighted lantern from one of the guard, who
was at the door, he set off as fast as his legs would carry him
towards the Rue St. Paul, having heard enough to convince him that the
Marchioness was in danger of being arrested. Upon reaching the Hôtel
d’Aubray he clamoured loudly for admission. At the sound of the first
knock he perceived a form, which he directly recognised to be that of
Marie, peep from behind the edge of the curtain and immediately
disappear. Some little delay took place before his summons was
answered, and then the concierge, peering through the half-opening of
the door, told him that Madame de Brinvilliers was not within. Pushing
the menial on one side, with a hurried expression of disbelief,
Philippe forced his way into the court, and perceived, as he entered,
the figure of the Marchioness hurrying upstairs. He bounded after her,
and stood by her side upon the landing.
‘Philippe!’ exclaimed Marie, as she recognised his features. ‘I was
afraid it was Desgrais, and I had gone down to give orders that no one
might be admitted.’
‘You have not an instant to lose,’ replied young Glazer hurriedly,
‘and must leave the house in reality. I have just now left them with
M. Artus, about to come on and arrest you. You must fly--instantly.’
‘Fly! by what means?’ asked Marie; ‘my horses are at Offemont, except
the one at--at _his_ house in the Rue des Bernardins. O Philippe!’ she
continued, ‘tell me what to do in this fearful extremity. I know not
how to act--I am nearly dead.’
All her self-possession, all her duplicity, gave way beneath the
crushing agony of the moment. She burst into tears, and would have
fallen to the ground had not Philippe caught her in his arms.
‘Is there nothing in the stables that we can depart with?’ asked he of
Françoise, who had been watching this short scene with trembling
attention. ‘It will not do to hire a carriage, as that would give a
certain clue to our route.’
‘A man brought a tumbrel here this afternoon, with some things from
the country. He has left it, with the horse, in the stables, and
sleeps himself at the Croix d’Or, in the Rue St. Antoine.’
‘Bring this light with you, and show me the way,’ said Philippe, as he
placed the Marchioness in a fauteuil, and hurried downstairs, followed
by the _femme de chambre_.
As soon as the girl had indicated the spot, Glazer told her to return
to her mistress and bid her prepare as quickly as she could to leave
Paris, taking with her only such few things as were immediately
necessary. Next, pulling the drowsy horse from his stall, he proceeded
to harness him, as well as his acquaintance with such matters allowed
him to do, to the rude country vehicle which Françoise had spoken
about. All this was not the work of five minutes; and he then returned
to Marie’s apartment.
But, brief as the interval had been, Marie had in the time recovered
her wonted firmness, and aided by her servant had rapidly made her
toilet, wrapping herself in her warmest garments for protection
against the inclemency of the weather. When Philippe entered, he found
Françoise occupied in making up a small parcel, half unconscious,
however, of what she was doing, from flurry at the evident emergency
of the circumstances; and Marie was standing before the fire, watching
the destruction of a large packet of letters and other papers, which
were blazing on the hearth.
‘I am ready, madame,’ said Philippe; ‘do not delay your departure an
instant longer, or you cannot tell into what perplexities you may
fall. Every moment is of untold value.’
‘Where do you propose to take me?’ asked the Marchioness earnestly.
‘I see no better refuge for the instant than your château at
Offemont.’
‘Offemont!’ exclaimed Marie; ‘it is twenty leagues from Paris; and in
this dreadful weather we should perish on the route.’
‘It must be attempted,’ said Philippe; ‘you say your horses are there;
and if we can once reach them, your means of getting to the frontier
will be comparatively easy. We must brave everything. Your enemies I
know to be numerous in Paris, and you cannot tell what charges they
might bring against you when in their power, which it would be next to
impossible to refute. Come, come!’
He took her by the hand and led her to the door, the servant following
them closely, and receiving from the Marchioness a number of hurried
directions and commissions, which it was next to impossible she could
remember. As he quitted the room, with some forethought Philippe blew
out the candles and collected the pieces; for the night would be long
and dark; there were seven or eight hours of obscurity yet before
them. When they got to the court where the horse and tumbrel were, the
former evidently in no hurry to depart, young Glazer fastened the
lantern he had borrowed from the guard to the side of the vehicle, and
then assisted the Marchioness to mount and take her seat upon some
straw.
‘It is a rude carriage, madame,’ he said; ‘but the journey would be
less pleasant if it was going to the Place de Grêve.’
Marie shuddered as he spoke; but it was unobserved in the obscurity.
As soon as she was seated, Philippe drew a coarse awning over some
bent sticks which spanned the interior, and making this tight all
round, prepared to start.
‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden thought; ‘it will be as
well to see all clear before us.’
And he advanced to the _porte-cochère_ that opened into the street,
when to his dismay he perceived the lighted cressets of the Guet Royal
coming down the Rue Neuve St. Paul. In an instant he closed the door
and barred it; and turning to Françoise, exclaimed--
‘Go up to the window of your mistress’s room, which looks into the
road, and when the guard comes, say she is from home.’
‘There is a court which leads from the stables to the Rue St.
Antoine,’ said the Marchioness from the vehicle. ‘You can get out that
way.’
‘It is lucky,’ said Philippe, ‘or we should otherwise have been
trapped. Françoise! up--up, and detain them every instant that you
can. I will prevent the concierge from replying.’
He took his handkerchief and hurriedly tied it round the clapper of
the bell, which hung within his reach over the porter’s lodge. Then,
turning round the cart, he led the horse through the inner court and
stabling to the passage indicated by the Marchioness. Fortunately the
snow was on the ground, and there was little noise made beyond the
creaking of the vehicle, which in half a minute emerged into the Rue
St. Antoine, and Philippe closed the gate behind him.
The thoroughfare was dark and silent; but the snow was falling
heavily, as its twinkling by the side of the lantern proved. This was
so far lucky, because it would cover the traces of their route almost
as soon as they were made. The fugitives could plainly hear the sound
of voices and the clatter of arms in the Rue Neuve St. Paul; and aware
that the delay could only last for a few minutes, Philippe urged on
the animal as well as he could, and turned up a small street which ran
in a northerly direction from the Rue St. Antoine.
‘You are passing the gate,’ said Marie, who all along had been looking
anxiously from the vehicle, as she pointed towards the Bastille, where
one or two lights could be seen, apparently suspended in the air, from
the windows of the officials and the guard-room.
‘I know it, madame,’ replied Philippe. ‘It would not be safe for us to
leave the city by that barrier. It is the nearest to your house; and
if they suspect or discover that you have left Paris, they will
directly conclude it is by the Porte St. Antoine there, and follow
you. Besides, we might be challenged by the sentinels.’
‘You are right,’ said the Marchioness; ‘the Porte du Temple will be
better.’
And shrouding herself in her cloak, she withdrew under the rough
shelter of the tilt; whilst Philippe kept on, still leading the horse,
through a labyrinth of small narrow streets, which would have been cut
by a line drawn from the Bastille to the Temple. At last he emerged
upon the new road formed by the destruction of the fortifications,
which we now know as the boulevards, and reached the gate in question,
which he passed through unquestioned by the _gardien_, who merely
regarded the little party as belonging to one of the markets. Had he
been entering the city instead, he would have been challenged; but, as
the authorities did not care what any one took out of it, he was
allowed to go on his way amidst a few houses immediately beyond the
barrier, forming the commencement of the faubourg, until he came into
the more open country. Here the reflected light from the white ground
in some measure diminished the obscurity. The snow, too, had drifted
into the hollows, leaving the road pretty clear; and Philippe
clambered on to the front of the tumbrel, taking the reins in his
hand, and drove on as he best might towards the _grande route_. Not a
word was exchanged between these two solitary travellers. Marie kept
in a corner of the vehicle, closely enveloped in her mantle; and her
companion had enough to do to watch the line they were taking, and
keep his hearing on the stretch to discover the first sounds of
pursuit.
‘_Peste!_’ exclaimed Philippe at length, as one of the wheels jolted
into a deep rut, and the lantern was jerked off and its light
extinguished; ‘this is unlucky. We did not see too well with it, and I
don’t know how we shall fare now.’
He jumped down as he spoke, and tried to rekindle the light with his
breath; but it was of no use; he entirely extinguished the only spark
remaining. In this dilemma he looked around him, to see if there was a
chance of assistance. Marie also was aroused from her silence by the
accident, and gazed earnestly from the cart with the same purpose. At
last, almost at the same instant, they perceived a thin line of light,
as though it shone through an ill-closed shutter, but a little way
ahead of them; and the stars, which had been slowly coming out, now
faintly showed the outline of a high and broken ground upon their
right. At the top of this some masonry and broken pillars were just
observable, supporting cross-beams, from which, at certain distances,
depended dark, irregularly-shaped objects. It was a gloomy locality,
and Philippe knew it well, as he made out the crumbling remains of the
gibbet at Montfaucon.
‘I should have taken this as a bad omen,’ said he, half joking, ‘if
the _fourche_ had been still in use. It would have looked as though
the beam was meant for our destination.’
As they approached the small cabin from which the light came, Philippe
shouted to awaken the attention of those within; but no answer being
returned, he jumped down, and knocked furiously at the door. He heard
some whispers for a minute or two, and then a woman’s voice demanded,
‘Who is there?’
‘A traveller, who wants a light,’ cried Philippe, ‘to guide him safely
to Bourget. For pity, madame, don’t keep me here much longer, or I
must be ungallant, and kick in the door.’
There was evidently another conference within, and then the door was
cautiously opened. Philippe entered, and his eyes directly fell upon
Exili, whilst the female proved to be a woman who was practising
fortune-telling in Paris--it was supposed as a cloak for darker
matters--and was known to some of the people, and to the whole of the
police, as La Voisin. The physician and the student recognised each
other immediately, for they had often met on the carrefours, and each
uttered a hurried exclamation of surprise at the rencontre.
‘Monsieur Glazer,’ said Exili, as Philippe took a light from the fire,
‘you have seen me here, and possibly are acquainted with what has
taken place in the Quartier Latin this evening.’
‘I know everything,’ replied Glazer.
‘Then I must ask you, on your faith, to keep my secret,’ said Exili.
‘You have discovered me in coming here to serve yourself; but this
refuge is to me an affair of life and death. You will not betray me?’
‘You may trust me,’ said Philippe carelessly; ‘and in return, madame,’
he continued, turning to La Voisin, ‘if any others should come up, let
your story be that you have seen no one this night. Mine also is a
case of emergency, and a lady--high-born, rich, and beautiful--is
concerned in it.’
The woman assured Philippe he might depend upon her secrecy; and he
was about to depart with his lantern, when Exili stopped him.
‘Stay!’ he exclaimed earnestly. ‘Who is it you have with you?’ And as
he spoke the strange fire kindled in his falcon eyes that always
bespoke the working of some terrible passion within.
‘It cannot concern you,’ replied Philippe. ‘I have got my light, and
our interview is concluded.’
‘Not yet,’ answered Exili quickly. ‘A woman--rich, high-born, and
beautiful. It is the Marchioness of Brinvilliers!’
And before Philippe could stop him, he rushed forward and threw open
the covering of the cart, discovering Marie still crouching in the
corner of the vehicle.
‘I have you, then, at last,’ he cried, in a voice choking with rage,
as he recognised her. ‘Descend!--fiend! demon! murderess of my son!
Descend! for you are mine--mine!’
He was about to climb up the vehicle, when Marie, to whom part of the
speech was entirely incomprehensible, shrank to the other side of the
tumbrel, and called upon Philippe to defend her. But this was not
needed. The young student had clutched the physician by the neck, and
pulled him back on to the ground.
‘What do you mean by this outrage, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘She is a murderess, I tell you!’ he continued hoarsely. ‘Her damned
arts drove my son--him they called Sainte-Croix--to death! She killed
him, body and soul, and she belongs to me. I will denounce her to the
Chambre Ardente.’
‘Keep back!’ cried Philippe; ‘you are mad! What has the Marchioness of
Brinvilliers in common with yourself?’
‘You shall see,’ answered Exili. ‘Look there--in the faubourg--the
guard is coming. They have tracked you.’
And indeed the lights were visible from the cressets carried by the
Guet Royal at the extreme end of the route. Philippe sprung upon the
tumbrel as Exili spoke, and tried to proceed; but the other seized the
horse’s head and endeavoured to arrest his progress.
‘Stand away!’ exclaimed young Glazer, ‘or you are a dead man!’
‘I shall not move,’ was Exili’s reply. ‘I shall be doomed myself, but
I will drag her with me to the scaffold. See! they are coming--she is
mine!’
His further speech was cut short by Philippe, who, raising his heavy
country whip, struck the physician with all his force with the
butt-end upon the temple. Exili staggered back, and then the student,
lashing his horse furiously, drove from the hovel with tolerable
speed, placing the lantern under the covering, that it might not be
seen; whilst Marie, without speaking a word, gazed anxiously behind
upon the advancing patrol. In a minute, however, a turn of the road
shut them from her sight, and the travellers found themselves
approaching the faubourg of La Villette, upon the high-road, without
the Porte St. Martin.
It was, as Exili had said, a party of the guard who were in pursuit,
mounted, and headed by Desgrais. The active exempt had gone to the
Hôtel d’Aubray, as we have seen, and being at last admitted by
Françoise, had seen some traces of a departure on the snow, which had
drifted into the sheltered parts of the court. But in the street the
fall had covered up the wheel-tracks; and, as the fugitives had
conceived, he went directly to the Porte St. Antoine. The sentinel,
however, told him that no one had passed the barrier; and he then rode
briskly along the boulevards to the next gate, near the Temple. Here
he learned a tumbrel had gone out of the city but a few minutes before
his arrival; upon which he divided his troop into two parties, sending
one along the road to La Courtille, whilst with the other he took the
same line that Philippe had chosen, these being the only two
practicable routes for vehicles without the barrier, and accompanied
by the latter escort he soon arrived at the foot of Montfaucon.
Exili had been stunned for a few seconds by the heavy blow which
Philippe Glazer had dealt to him; but, recovering himself before the
guard came up, he darted back into the hovel, and seizing a piece of
lighted wood from the hearth, told La Voisin to save herself as she
best might, and then scrambled with singular agility up the steep
mound at the back of the house, until he reached the stone-work of the
gibbet. This was crumbling, and afforded many foot-places by which he
could ascend, until he stood between two of the pillars that still
supported the crosspieces, above the hollow way along which Desgrais
and his troop were progressing.
The exempt knew the physician directly, as his gaunt form appeared in
the lurid light of the cressets, and the rude torch that he himself
carried; and he would have ordered the guard immediately to capture
him, had not Exili arrested the command by speaking.
‘You seek the Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ he cried. ‘She was here
not an instant back; and you will find her, if you care to hurry, on
the _grande route_.’
‘I call upon you to surrender yourself my prisoner,’ said Desgrais,
speaking from below; ‘you may then guide us on the track.’
‘If I had meant to give myself up,’ said Exili, ‘I should have
remained below. I have put you on the scent, and that was all I
wanted. Farewell!’
He waved his hand to the officers, and disappeared behind the
foundation of the masonry. On seeing this, Desgrais sprang
[image: img_13.jpg
caption: The Arrest of Exili]
from his horse, and, seizing a cresset from the guard, told one or two
of the others to follow him, as he rapidly ascended the mound. He was
active, his limbs were well-knit, and a few seconds sufficed to bring
him to the spot from whence Exili had spoken; but as he looked over
the area of masonry, not a trace of the physician was visible, except
the smouldering brand which he had flung down upon the ground.
The others had arrived at the platform, and by the additional light
from their cressets Desgrais perceived an opening in the stone-work,
conducting below by ragged jutting angles of masonry, and down this he
boldly proceeded to venture. It conducted to a terrible spot--the
cemetery of those unfortunates who had perished on the gibbet, into
which the bodies were thrown in former times, to make room for fresh
victims on the _fourche_. But now the dry bones were all that
remained, crushing and rattling beneath the feet of the exempt as he
proceeded; for nearly a century had elapsed since the last
execution--that of the wise and just Coligni, during the fiendish
massacre of St. Bartholomew. But the place had been undisturbed, time
alone having altered its features; the only intruders upon its dreary
loneliness being the dogs, and the sorcerers, who came thither for
materials to give a horrid interest to their calling and frighten the
vulgar who came to consult them.
By the flaring light of the cressets Desgrais beheld Exili cowering at
the end of the vault. His object had evidently been to betray the
Marchioness, whilst he eluded capture himself; but he had under-rated
the keen vigilance of the exempt. He had been taken in a trap; and as
one or two of the Guet Royal followed Desgrais, he saw that further
resistance was useless. He held up his hand to prevent the threatened
attack which the others seemed inclined to make; and then, advancing
to the exempt, muttered--
‘I am your prisoner; take me where you please. The game is up at
last.’
The party retraced their steps, and descended once more to the byway
of the faubourgs. Bidding two of the patrol watch Exili, Desgrais next
went into the hovel, and ordered the woman to come forth. She
immediately obeyed, and made a haughty reverence to the authorities.
‘Madame Catherine Deshayes,’ said Desgrais, ‘by your name of La Voisin
you are already under the surveillance of the police. You will please
to accompany them at present, until your connection with the Signor
Exili can be explained.’
Some of the patrol directly took their places on either side of the
woman, and then Desgrais turned to Exili.
‘You will stay for to-night,’ he said, ‘in the Châtelet; to-morrow
other arrangements will be made for your sojourn until the opening of
the next chamber at the Arsenal. Two of you,’ he continued, addressing
the guard, ‘will take charge of the prisoner to Paris.’
‘Then you will not want me to follow Madame de Brinvilliers?’ said
Exili.
‘We do not now require your aid,’ was the reply. ‘Messieurs,--_en
route_!’
The guard prepared to mount, when one of them rode, apparently in a
great feeling of insecurity, through the little knot of patrol, and
approached Desgrais. The lights revealed the form and features of
Maître Picard.
‘Monsieur,’ said the little bourgeois, ‘I fear my horse is tired. I
will therefore form one of the escort to take the prisoner to the
Châtelet.’
‘I fear we cannot spare you just yet, _mon brave_,’ said Desgrais.
‘You are the only member of the Garde Bourgeois with us, and we may
need your authority after mine. You must come on at present.’
Maître Picard groaned as he turned his horse’s bridle back again. He
was evidently ill at ease in the saddle. He could just touch the
stirrups--the leathers of which were much too long for him--with the
tips of his toes; and as he had not crossed a horse since his grand
progress to Versailles, he complained that the action of the present
steed was somewhat too vigorous for him. But he was obliged to obey
the orders of the exempt, and fell into the rear accordingly.
‘A country cart, drawn by one horse, and covered with a tilt, is the
object of our chase,’ said Desgrais. ‘It cannot be ten minutes before
us. Forward!’
The majority of the guard set off at a smart trot along the hollow
way, whilst those who remained placed their prisoners between them,
and prepared to return by the Porte du Temple to Paris.