since his youth to the secret sciences. His studies in magic and
astrology, in mesmerism, and electricity, had turned his head. Together
with real eagerness to pursue his studies, and real belief in them, was
added a certain spice of rascality.
One day Benoît, who had by some means made the acquaintance of M. Triat,
founder and manager of a gymnasium in Paris for athletic exercises, came
to Triat, and told him that he had made a discovery which would
supersede electric telegraphy. The director was a man of common sense,
but not of much education, certainly of no scientific acquirements. He
was, therefore, quite unable to distinguish between true and false
science. Benoît spoke with conviction, and carried away his hearer with
his enthusiasm.
"What is needed for the construction of the machine?" asked M. Triat.
"Only two or three bits of wood," replied Benoît.
M. Triat took him into his carpenter's shop. "There, my friend," he
said, "here you have wood, and a man to help you."
M. Triat did more. The future inventor of the instantaneous
communication of thought was house-less and hungry. The manager rented a
lodging for him, and advanced him money for his entertainment. Benoît
set to work. He used a great many bits of wood, and occupied the
carpenter a good part of his time. Other things became necessary as
well as wood, things that cost money, and the money was found by M.
Triat. So passed a twelvemonth. At the end of that time, which had been
spent at the cost of his protector, Benoît had arrived at no result. It
was apparent that, in applying to M. Triat, he had sought, not so much
to construct a machine already invented, as to devote himself to the
pursuit of his favourite studies. The director became impatient. He
declined to furnish further funds. Then Benoît declared that the machine
was complete.
This machine, for the construction of which he had asked for two or
three pieces of wood, was an enormous scaffold formed of beams ten feet
long, supporting the Voltaic pile described by M. Allix, ensconced in
the bowls of which were the wretched snails stuck to the bottom of the
basins by some sort of glue, at intervals. This was the
Pasilalinic-sympathetic compass. It occupied one end of the apartment.
At the other end was a second, exactly similar. Each contained
twenty-four alphabetic-sympathetic snails. These poor beasts, glued to
the bottom of the zinc cups with little dribbles of sulphate of copper
trickling down the sides of the bowls from the saturated cloth placed on
them, were uncomfortable, and naturally tried to get away. They thrust
themselves from their shells and poked forth their horns groping for
some congenial spot on which to crawl, and came in contact with the wood
on which was painted the letters. But if they came across a drop of
solution of sulphate of copper, they went precipitately back into their
shells.
Properly, the two machines should have been established in different
rooms, but no second room was available on the flat where Benoît was
lodged, so he was forced to erect both vis-à-vis. That, however, was a
matter wholly immaterial, as he explained to those who visited the
laboratory. Space was not considered by snails. Place one in Paris, the
other at the antipodes, the transmission of thought along their
sympathetic current was as complete, instantaneous and effective as in
his room on the _troisième_. In proof of this, Benoît undertook to
correspond with his friend and fellow-worker Biat-Chrétien in America,
who had constructed a similar apparatus. He assured all who came to
inspect his invention that he conversed daily by means of the snails
with his absent friend. When the machine was complete, the inventor was
in no hurry to show it in working order; however M. Triat urged
performance on him. He said, and there was reason in what he said, that
an exhibition of the pasilalinic telegraph before it was perfected,
would be putting others on the track, who might, having more means at
their command, forestall him, and so rob him of the fruit of his
labours. At last he invited M. Triat and M. Allix, as representative of
an influential journal, to witness the apparatus in working order, on
October 2nd. He assured them that since September 30, he had been in
constant correspondence with Biat-Chrétien, who, without crossing the
sea, would assist at the experiments conducted at Paris on Wednesday,
October 2nd, in the lodging of M. Benoît.
On the appointed day, M. Triat and M. Allix were at the appointed place.
The former at once objected to the position of the two compasses, but
was constrained to be satisfied with the reason given by the operator.
If they could not be in different rooms, at least a division should be
made in the apartment by means of a curtain, so that the operator at one
compass could not see him at the other. But there was insuperable
difficulty in doing this, so M. Triat had to waive this objection also.
M. Jules Allix was asked to attend one of the compasses, whilst the
inventor stood on the scaffold managing the other. M. Allix was to send
the message, by touching the snails which represented the letters
forming the words to be transmitted, whereupon the corresponding snail
on M. Benoît's apparatus was supposed to thrust forth his horns. But,
under one pretext or another, the inventor ran from one apparatus to the
other, the whole time, so that it was not very difficult, with a little
management, to reproduce on his animated compass the letters transmitted
by M. Jules Allix.
The transmission, moreover, was not as exact as it ought to have been.
M. Jules Allix had touched the snails in such order as to form the word
_gymnase_; Benoît on his compass read the word _gymoate_. Then M. Triat,
taking the place of the inventor, sent the words _lumiere divine_ to M.
Jules Allix, who read on his compass _lumhere divine_. Evidently the
snails were bad in their orthography. The whole thing, moreover, was a
farce, and the correspondence, such as it was, was due to the incessant
voyages of the inventor from one compass to the other, under the pretext
of supervising the mechanism of the two apparatuses.
Benoît was then desired to place himself in communication with his
American friend, planted before his compass on the other side of the
Atlantic. He transmitted to him the signal to be on the alert. Then he
touched with a live snail he held in his hand the four snails that
corresponded to the letters of the name BIAT; then they awaited the
reply from America. After a few moments, the poor glued snails began to
poke out their horns in a desultory, irregular manner, and by putting
the letters together, with some accommodation CESTBIEN was made out,
which when divided, and the apostrophe added, made _C'est bien_.
M. Triat was much disconcerted. He considered himself as hoaxed. Not so
M. Allix. He was so completely satisfied, that on the 27th October,
appeared the article from his pen which we have quoted. M. Triat then
went to the inventor and told him point blank, that he withdrew his
protection from him. Benoît entreated him not to throw up the matter,
before the telegraph was perfected.
"Look here!" said M. Triat; "nothing is easier than for you to make me
change my intention. Let one of your compasses be set up in my
gymnasium, and the other in the side apartment. If that seems too much,
then let a simple screen be drawn between the two, and do you refrain
from passing between them whilst the experiment is being carried on. If
under these conditions you succeed in transmitting a single word from
one apparatus to the other, I will give you a thousand francs a day
whilst your experiments are successful."
M. Triat then visited M. de Girardin who was interested in the matter,
half believed in it, and had accordingly opened the columns of _La
Presse_ to the article of M. Allix. M. de Girardin wished to be present
at the crucial experiment, and M. Triat gladly invited him to attend. He
offered another thousand francs so long as the compasses worked. "My
plan is this," said M. de Girardin: "If Benoît's invention is a success,
we will hire the _Jardin d'hiver_ and make Benoît perform his
experiments in public. That will bring us in a great deal more than two
thousand francs a day."
Benoît accepted all the conditions with apparent alacrity; but, before
the day arrived for the experiment, after the removal of the two great
scaffolds to the gymnasiums--he had disappeared. He was, however, seen
afterwards several times in Paris, very thin, with eager restless eyes,
apparently partly deranged. He died in 1852!
Alas for Benoît. He died a few years too soon. A little later, and he
might have become a personage of importance in the great invasion of the
table-turning craze which shortly after inundated Europe, and turned
many heads as well as tables.
The Countess Goerlitz.
One of the most strange and terrible tragedies of this century was the
murder of the Countess Goerlitz; and it excited immense interest in
Germany, both because of the high position of the unfortunate lady, the
mystery attaching to her death, and because the charge of having
murdered her rested on her husband, the Count Goerlitz, Chamberlain to
the Grand-Duke of Hesse, Privy Councillor, a man of fortune as well as
rank, and of unimpeachable character. There was another reason why the
case excited general interest: the solution remained a mystery for three
whole years, from 1847 to 1850.
The Count Goerlitz was a man of forty-six, a great favourite at the
Court, and of fine appearance. He had married, in 1820, the daughter of
the Privy Councillor, Plitt. They had no children. The Countess was aged
forty-six when the terrible event occurred which we are about to relate.
The Count and Countess lived in their mansion in the Neckarstrasse in
Darmstadt--a large, palatial house, handsomely furnished. Although
living under the same roof, husband and wife lived apart. She occupied
the first floor, and he the parterre, or ground floor. They dined
together. The cause of the unfriendly terms on which they lived was the
fact that the Countess was wealthy, her family was of citizen origin,
and had amassed a large fortune in trade. Her father had been ennobled
by the Grand-Duke, and she had been his heiress. The Count, himself, had
not much of his own, and his wife cast this fact in his teeth. She loved
to talk of the "beggar nobility," who were obliged to look out for rich
burghers' daughters to gild their coronets. The Count may have been hot
of temper, and have aggravated matters by sharpness of repartee; but,
according to all accounts, it was her miserliness and bitter tongue
which caused the estrangement.
There were but four servants in the house--the Count's valet, the
coachman, a manservant of the Countess, and the cook.
Every Sunday the Count Goerlitz dined at the palace. On Sunday, June 13,
1847, he had dined at the Grand-Duke's table as usual. As we know from
the letters of the Princess Alice, life was simple at that Court. Hours
were, as usual in South Germany, early. The carriage took the Count to
dinner at the palace at 3 P.M., and he returned home in it to the Neckar
Street at half-past six. When he came in he asked the servant of the
Countess, a man named John Stauff, whether his wife was at home, as he
wanted to see her. As a matter of fact, he had brought away from the
dinner-table at the palace some maccaroons and bonbons for her, as she
had a sweet tooth, and he thought the attention might please her.
As John Stauff told him the Countess was in, he ascended the stone
staircase. A glass door led into the anteroom. He put his hand to it and
found it fastened. Thinking that his wife was asleep, or did not want
to be disturbed, he went downstairs to his own room, which was under her
sitting-room. There he listened for her tread, intending, on hearing it,
to reascend and present her with the bonbons. As he heard nothing, he
went out for a walk. The time was half-past seven. A little before nine
o'clock he returned from his stroll, drew on his dressing-gown and
slippers, and asked for his supper, a light meal he was wont to take by
himself in his own room, though not always, for the Countess frequently
joined him. Her mood was capricious. As he had the bonbons in his
pocket, and had not yet been able to present them, he sent her man
Stauff to tell her ladyship that supper was served, and that it would
give him great satisfaction if she would honour him with her presence.
Stauff came back in a few moments to say that the Countess was not at
home. "Nonsense!" said the husband, "of course she is at home. She may,
however, be asleep. I will go myself and find her." Thereupon he
ascended the stairs, and found, as before, the glass door to the
anteroom fastened. He looked in, but saw nothing. He knocked, and
received no answer. Then he went to the bedroom door, knocked, without
result; listened, and heard no sound. The Count had a key to the
dressing-room; he opened, and went in, and through that he passed into
the bed-chamber. That was empty. The bed-clothes were turned down for
the night, but were otherwise undisturbed. He had no key to the anteroom
and drawing-room.
Then the Count went upstairs to the laundry, which was on the highest
storey, and where were also some rooms. The Countess was particular
about her lace and linen, and often attended to them herself, getting up
some of the collars and frills with her own hands. She was not in the
laundry. Evidently she was, as Stauff had said, not at home. The Count
questioned the manservant. Had his mistress intimated her intention of
supping abroad? No, she had not. Nevertheless, it was possible she might
have gone to intimate friends. Accordingly, he sent to the palace of
Prince Wittgenstein, and to the house of Councillor von Storch, to
inquire if she were at either. She had been seen at neither.
The Count was puzzled, without, however, being seriously alarmed. He
bade Stauff call the valet, Schiller, and the coachman, Schämbs, who
slept out of the house, and then go for a locksmith. Stauff departed.
Presently the valet and coachman arrived, and, after, Stauff, without
the locksmith, who, he said, was ill, and his man was at the tavern. The
Count was angry and scolded. Then the coachman went forth, and soon came
back with the locksmith's apprentice, who was set at once to open the
locked doors in the top storey. The Countess was not in them. At the
same time the young man noticed a smell of burning, but whence it came
they could not decide. Thinking that this smell came from the kitchen on
the first storey--that is, the floor above where the Count lived--they
attacked the door of the kitchen, which was also locked. She was not
there. Then the Count led the way to the private sitting-room of the
Countess. As yet only the young locksmith had noticed the fire, the
others were uncertain whether they smelt anything unusual or not. The
key of the apprentice would not fit the lock of the Countess' ante-room,
so he ran home to get another. Then the Count went back to his own
apartment, and on entering it, himself perceived the smell of burning.
Accordingly, he went upstairs again, to find that the coachman had
opened an iron stove door in the passage, and that a thick pungent smoke
was pouring out of it. We must enter here into an explanation. In many
cases the porcelain stove of a German house has no opening into the
room. It is lighted outside through a door into the passage. Several
stoves communicate with one chimney. The Count and his servants ran out
into the courtyard to look at the chimney stack to see if smoke were
issuing from it. None was. Then they returned to the house. The
apprentice had not yet returned. Looking through the glass door, they
saw that there was smoke in the room. It had been unperceived before,
for it was evening and dusk. At once the Count's valet, Schiller,
smashed the plate glass, and through the broken glass smoke rolled
towards them.
The hour was half-past ten. The search had occupied an hour and a half.
It had not been prosecuted with great activity; but then, no suspicion
of anything to cause alarm had been entertained. If the Countess were at
home, she must be in the sitting-room. From this room the smoke must
come which pervaded the ante-chamber. The fire must be within, and if
the Countess were there, she must run the danger of suffocation.
Consequently, as the keys were not at hand, the doors ought to be broken
open at once. This was not done. Count Goerlitz sent the servants away.
Stauff he bade run for a chimney-sweep, and Schiller for his medical
man, Dr. Stegmayer. The coachman had lost his head and ran out into the
street, yelling, "Fire! fire!" The wife of Schiller, who had come in,
ran out to summon assistance.
The Count was left alone outside the glass door; and there he remained
passive till the arrival of the locksmith's man with the keys. More time
was wasted. None of the keys would open the door, and still the smoke
rolled out. Then the apprentice beat the door open with a stroke of his
hammer. He did it of his own accord, without orders from the Count. That
was remembered afterwards. At once a dense, black, sickly-smelling smoke
poured forth, and prevented the entrance of those who stood without.
In the meantime, the coachman and others had put ladders against the
wall, one to the window of the ante-room, the other to that of the
parlour. Seitz, the apprentice, ran up the ladder, and peered in. The
room was quite dark. He broke two panes in the window, and at once a
blue flame danced up, caught the curtains, flushed yellow, and shot out
a fiery tongue through the broken window. Seitz, who seems to have been
the only man with presence of mind, boldly put his arm through and
unfastened the valves, and, catching the burning curtains, tore them
down and flung them into the street. Then he cast down two chairs which
were flaming from the window. He did not venture in because of the
smoke.
In the meanwhile the coachman had broken the window panes of the
ante-room. This produced a draught through the room, as the glass door
had been broken in by Seitz. The smoke cleared sufficiently to allow of
admission to the parlour door. This door was also found to be locked,
and not only locked, but with the key withdrawn from it, as had been
from the ante-chamber door. This door was also burst open, and then it
was seen that the writing-desk of the Countess was on fire. That was all
that could be distinguished at the first glance. The room was full of
smoke, and the heat was so great that no one could enter.
Water was brought in jugs and pails, and thrown upon the floor. The
current of air gradually dissipated the smoke, and something white was
observed on the floor near the burning desk. "Good heavens!" exclaimed
the Count, "there she lies!"
The Countess lay on the floor beside her writing-desk; the white object
was her stockings.
Among those who entered was a smith called Wetzell; he dashed forward,
flung a pail of water over the burning table, caught hold of the feet of
the dead body, and dragged it into the ante-room. Then he sought to
raise it, but it slipped through his hands. A second came to his
assistance, with the same result. The corpse was like melted butter.
When he seized it by the arm, the flesh came away from the bone.
The body was laid on a mat, and so transported into a cabinet. The upper
portion was burnt to coal; one hand was charred; on the left foot was a
shoe, the other was found, later, in another room. More water was
brought, and the fire in the parlour was completely quenched. Then only
was it possible to examine the place. The fire had, apparently,
originated at the writing-desk or secretaire of the Countess; the body
had lain before the table, and near it was a chair, thrown over. From
the drawing-room a door, which was found open, led into the boudoir.
This boudoir had a window that looked into a side street. In the
ante-room were no traces of fire. In the drawing-room only the
secretaire and the floor beneath it had been burnt. On a chiffonier
against the wall were candlesticks, the stearine candles in them had
been melted by the heat of the room and run over the chiffonier.
In this room was also a sofa, opposite the door leading from the
ante-chamber, some way from the desk and the seat of the fire. In the
middle of the sofa was a hole fourteen inches long by six inches broad,
burnt through the cretonne cover, the canvas below, and into the horse
hair beneath. A looking-glass hung against the wall above; this glass
was broken and covered with a deposit as of smoke. It was apparent,
therefore, that a flame had leaped up on the sofa sufficiently high and
hot to snap the mirror and obscure it.
Left of the entrance-door was a bell-rope, torn down and cast on the
ground.
Beyond the parlour was the boudoir. It had a little corner divan. Its
cover was burnt through in two places. The cushion at the back was also
marked with holes burnt through. Above this seat against the wall hung
an oil painting. It was blistered with heat. Near it was an étagère, on
which were candles; these also were found melted completely away. In
this boudoir was found the slipper from the right foot of the Countess.
If the reader will consider what we have described, he will see that
something very mysterious must have occurred. There were traces of
burning in three distinct places--on the sofa, and at the secretaire in
the parlour, and on the corner seat in the boudoir. It was clear also
that the Countess had been in both rooms, for her one slipper was in the
boudoir, the other on her foot in the drawing-room. Apparently, also,
she had rung for assistance, and torn down the bell-rope.
Another very significant and mysterious feature of the case was the fact
that the two doors were found locked, and that the key was not found
with the body, nor anywhere in the rooms. Consequently, the Countess had
not locked herself in.
Again:--the appearance of the corpse was peculiar. The head and face
were burnt to cinder, especially the face, less so the back of the head.
All the upper part of the body had been subjected to fire, as far as the
lower ribs, and there the traces of burning ceased absolutely. Also, the
floor was burnt in proximity to the corpse, but not where it lay. The
body had protected the floor where it lay from fire.
The police were at once informed of what had taken place, and the
magistrates examined the scene and the witnesses. This was done in a
reprehensibly inefficient manner. The first opinion entertained was that
the Countess had been writing at her desk, and had set fire to herself,
had run from room to room, tried to obtain assistance by ringing the
bell, had failed, fallen, and died. Three medical men were called in to
examine the body. One decided that this was a case of spontaneous
combustion. The second that it was not a case of spontaneous combustion.
The third simply stated that she had been burnt, but how the fire
originated he was unable to say. No minute examination of the corpse was
made. It was not even stripped of the half-burnt clothes upon it. It was
not dissected. The family physician signed a certificate of "accidental
death," and two days after the body was buried.
Only three or, at the outside, four hypotheses could account for the
death of the Countess.
1. She had caught fire accidentally, whilst writing at her desk.
2. She had died of spontaneous combustion.
3. She had been murdered.
There is, indeed, a fourth hypothesis--that she had committed suicide;
but this was too improbable to be entertained. The manner of death was
not one to be reconciled with the idea of suicide.
The first idea was that in the minds of the magistrates. They were
prepossessed with it. They saw nothing that could militate against it.
Moreover, the Count was Chamberlain at Court, a favourite of the
sovereign and much liked by the princes, also a man generally respected.
Unquestionably this had something to do with the hasty and superficial
manner in which the examination was gone through. The magistrates
desired to have the tragedy hushed up.