mind. From this time until the year 1682, the prisons of France teemed
with persons accused of this crime; and it is very singular that other
offences decreased in a similar proportion. We have already seen the
extent to which it was carried in Italy. It was, if possible, surpassed in
France. The diabolical ease with which these murders could be effected, by
means of these scentless and tasteless poisons, enticed the evil-minded.
Jealousy, revenge, avarice, even petty spite, alike resorted to them.
Those who would have been deterred, by fear of detection, from using the
pistol or the dagger, or even strong doses of poison, which kill at once,
employed slow poisons without dread. The corrupt government of the day,
although it could wink at the atrocities of a wealthy and influential
courtier like Penautier, was scandalised to see the crime spreading among
the people. Disgrace was, in fact, entailed, in the eyes of Europe, upon
the name of Frenchman. Louis XIV., to put a stop to the evil, instituted
what was called the Chambre Ardente, or Burning Chamber, with extensive
powers for the trial and punishment of the prisoners.
Two women, especially, made themselves notorious at this time, and were
instrumental to the deaths of hundreds of individuals. They both resided
in Paris, and were named Lavoisin and Lavigoreux. Like Spara and Tophania,
of whom they were imitators, they chiefly sold their poisons to women who
wanted to get rid of their husbands; and, in some few instances, to
husbands who wanted to get rid of their wives. Their ostensible occupation
was that of midwives. They also pretended to be fortune-tellers, and were
visited by persons of every class of society. The rich and poor thronged
alike to their _mansardes_ to learn the secrets of the future. Their
prophecies were principally of death. They foretold to women the
approaching dissolution of husbands, and to needy heirs the end of rich
relatives, who had made them, as Byron expresses it, "wait too, too long
already." They generally took care to be instrumental in fulfilling their
own predictions. They used to tell their wretched employers that some sign
of the approaching death would take place in the house, such as the
breaking of glass or china; and they paid servants considerable fees to
cause a breakage, as if by accident, exactly at the appointed time. Their
occupation as midwives made them acquainted with the secrets of many
families, which they afterwards turned to dreadful account.
It is not known how long they had carried on this awful trade before they
were discovered. Detection finally overtook them at the close of the year
1679. They were both tried, found guilty, and burned alive on the Place de
Grève, on the 22d of February, 1680, after their hands had been bored
through with a red-hot iron, and then cut off. Their numerous accomplices
in Paris and in the provinces were also discovered and brought to trial.
According to some authors, thirty, and to others, fifty of them, chiefly
women, were hanged in the principal cities.
Lavoisin kept a list of the visitors who came to her house to purchase
poisons. This paper was seized by the police on her arrest, and examined
by the tribunals. Among the names were found those of the Marshal de
Luxembourg, the Countess de Soissons, and the Duchess de Bouillon. The
marshal seems only to have been guilty of a piece of discreditable folly
in visiting a woman of this description, but the popular voice at the time
imputed to him something more than folly. The author of the _Memoirs of
the Affairs of Europe since the Peace of Utrecht_, says, "The miserable
gang who dealt in poison and prophecy alleged that he had sold himself to
the devil, and that a young girl of the name of Dupin had been poisoned by
his means. Among other stories, they said he had made a contract with the
devil, in order to marry his son to the daughter of the Marquis of
Louvois. To this atrocious and absurd accusation the marshal, who had
surrendered himself at the Bastille on the first accusation against him,
replied with the mingled sentiment of pride and innocence, 'When Mathieu
de Montmorenci, my ancestor, married the widow of Louis le Gros, he did
not have recourse to the devil, but to the states-general, in order to
obtain for the minor king the support of the house of Montmorenci.' This
brave man was imprisoned in a cell six feet and a half long, and his
trial, which was interrupted for several weeks, lasted altogether fourteen
months. No judgment was pronounced upon him."
The Countess of Soissons fled to Brussels, rather than undergo the risk of
a trial; and was never able to clear herself from the stigma that attached
to her, of having made an attempt to poison the Queen of Spain by doses of
succession-powder. The Duchess of Bouillon was arrested, and tried by the
Chambre Ardente. It would appear, however, that she had nothing to do with
the slow poisons, but had merely endeavoured to pry into the secrets of
futurity, and gratify her curiosity with a sight of the devil. One of the
presidents of the Chambre, La Reynie, an ugly little old man, very
seriously asked her whether she had really seen the devil; to which the
lady replied, looking him full in the face, "Oh, yes! I see him now. He is
in the form of a little ugly old man, exceedingly illnatured, and is
dressed in the robes of a Counsellor of State." M. la Reynie prudently
refrained from asking any more questions of a lady with so sharp and ready
a tongue. The duchess was imprisoned for several months in the Bastille;
and nothing being proved against her, she was released at the intercession
of her powerful friends. The severe punishment of criminals of this note
might have helped to abate the fever of imitation among the vulgar;--their
comparative impunity had a contrary tendency. The escape of Penautier, and
the wealthy Cardinal de Bonzy his employer, had the most pernicious
effect. For two years longer the crime continued to rage, and was not
finally suppressed till the stake had blazed, or the noose dangled, for
upwards of a hundred individuals.[40]
[40] Slow poisoning is a crime which has unhappily been revived in
England within the last few years, and which has been carried
to an extent sufficient to cast a stain upon the national
character. The poisoners have been principally women of the
lowest class, and their victims have been their husbands or
their children. The motive for the crime has in most
instances been the basest that can be imagined,--the desire
to obtain from burial-clubs to which they subscribed, the
premium, or burial-money. A recent enactment, restricting the
sale of arsenic and other poisons, will, it is to be hoped,
check, if it do not extirpate this abominable crime.--1851.
[Illustration: PALACE OF WOODSTOCK.]
HAUNTED HOUSES.
Here's a knocking indeed!... Knock! knock! knock!... Who's there,
i' the name o' Beelzebub?... Who's there, i' the devil's name?
Knock! knock! knock!--Never at quiet?--_Macbeth_.
Who has not either seen or heard of some house, shut up and uninhabitable,
fallen into decay, and looking dusty and dreary, from which, at midnight,
strange sounds have been heard to issue--aerial knockings--the rattling of
chains, and the groaning of perturbed spirits?--a house that people have
thought it unsafe to pass after dark, and which has remained for years
without a tenant, and which no tenant would occupy, even were he paid to
do so? There are hundreds of such houses in England at the present day;
hundreds in France, Germany, and almost every country of Europe, which are
marked with the mark of fear--places for the timid to avoid, and the pious
to bless themselves at, and ask protection from, as they pass--the abodes
of ghosts and evil spirits. There are many such houses in London; and if
any vain boaster of the march of intellect would but take the trouble to
find them out and count them, he would be convinced that intellect must
yet make some enormous strides before such old superstitions can be
eradicated.
The idea that such houses exist is a remnant of the witch creed, which
merits separate notice from its comparative harmlessness, and from its
being not so much a madness as a folly of the people. Unlike other notions
that sprang from the belief in witchcraft, and which we have already dwelt
upon at sufficient length, it has sent no wretches to the stake or the
gibbet, and but a few to the pillory only.
Many houses have been condemned as haunted, and avoided by the weak and
credulous, from circumstances the most trifling in themselves, and which
only wanted a vigorous mind to clear up, at once, and dissipate all alarm.
A house in Aix-la-Chapelle, a large desolate-looking building, remained
uninhabited for five years, on account of the mysterious knockings that
there were heard within it at all hours of the day and night. Nobody could
account for the noises; and the fear became at last so excessive, that the
persons who inhabited the houses on either side relinquished their
tenancy, and went to reside in other quarters of the town, where there was
less chance of interruption from evil spirits. From being so long without
an inhabitant, the house at last grew so ruinous, so dingy, and so
miserable in its outward appearance, and so like the place that ghosts
might be supposed to haunt, that few persons cared to go past it after
sunset. The knocking that was heard in one of the upper rooms was not very
loud, but it was very regular. The gossips of the neighbourhood asserted
that they often heard groans from the cellars, and saw lights moved about
from one window to another immediately after the midnight bell had tolled.
Spectres in white habiliments were reported to have gibed and chattered
from the windows; but all these stories could bear no investigation. The
knocking, however, was a fact which no one could dispute, and several
ineffectual attempts were made by the proprietor to discover the cause.
The rooms were sprinkled with holy water; the evil spirits were commanded
in due form, by a priest, to depart thence to the Red Sea; but the
knockings still continued, in spite of all that could be done in that way.
Accident at last discovered the cause, and restored tranquillity to the
neighbourhood. The proprietor, who suffered not only in his mind but in
his pocket, had sold the building at a ruinously small price, to get rid
of all future annoyance. The new proprietor was standing in a room on the
first floor when he heard the door driven to at the bottom with a
considerable noise, and then fly open immediately, about two inches and no
more. He stood still a minute and watched, and the same thing occurred a
second and a third time. He examined the door attentively, and all the
mystery was unravelled. The latch of the door was broken, so that it could
not be fastened, and it swung chiefly upon the bottom hinge. Immediately
opposite was a window, in which one pane of glass was broken; and when the
wind was in a certain quarter, the draught of air was so strong that it
blew the door to with some violence. There being no latch, it swung open
again; and when there was a fresh gust, was again blown to. The new
proprietor lost no time in sending for a glazier, and the mysterious
noises ceased for ever. The house was replastered and repainted, and once
more regained its lost good name. It was not before two or three years,
however, that it was thoroughly established in popular favour; and many
persons, even then, would always avoid passing it, if they could reach
their destination by any other street.
A similar story is narrated by Sir Walter Scott, in his _Letters on
Demonology and Witchcraft_, the hero of which was a gentleman of birth and
distinction, well known in the political world. Shortly after he succeeded
to his title and estates, there was a rumour among the servants concerning
a strange noise that used to be heard at night in the family mansion, and
the cause of which no one could ascertain. The gentleman resolved to
discover it himself, and to watch for that purpose with a domestic who had
grown old in the family, and who, like the rest, had whispered strange
things about the knocking having begun immediately upon the death of his
old master. These two watched until the noise was heard, and at last
traced it to a small store-room, used as a place for keeping provisions of
various kinds for the family, and of which the old butler had the key.
They entered this place, and remained for some time without hearing the
noises which they had traced thither. At length the sound was heard, but
much lower than it seemed to be while they were farther off, and their
imaginations were more excited. They then discovered the cause without
difficulty. A rat, caught in an old-fashioned trap, had occasioned the
noise by its efforts to escape, in which it was able to raise the
trap-door of its prison to a certain height, but was then obliged to drop
it. The noise of the fall resounding through the house had occasioned the
mysterious rumours, which, but for the investigation of the proprietor,
would, in all probability, have acquired so bad a name for the dwelling
that no servants would have inhabited it. The circumstance was told to Sir
Walter Scott by the gentleman to whom it happened.
[Illustration: SAINT LOUIS.]
But, in general, houses that have acquired this character have been more
indebted for it to the roguery of living men than to accidents like these.
Six monks played off a clever trick of the kind upon that worthy king,
Louis, whose piety has procured him in the annals of his own country the
designation of "the Saint." Having heard his confessor speak in terms of
warm eulogy of the goodness and learning of the monks of the order of St.
Bruno, he expressed his wish to establish a community of them near Paris.
Bernard de la Tour, the superior, sent six of the brethren, and the king
gave them a handsome house to live in in the village of Chantilly. It so
happened that from their windows they had a very fine view of the ancient
palace of Vauvert, which had been built for a royal residence by King
Robert, but deserted for many years. The worthy monks thought the palace
would just suit them; but their modesty was so excessive that they were
ashamed to ask the king for a grant of it in due form. This difficulty was
not to be overcome, and the monks set their ingenuity to work to discover
another plan. The palace of Vauvert had never laboured under any
imputation upon its character until they became its neighbours; but,
somehow or other, it almost immediately afterwards began to acquire a bad
name. Frightful shrieks were heard to proceed from it at night; blue, red,
and green lights were suddenly seen to glimmer from the windows, and as
suddenly to disappear; the clanking of chains was heard, and the howling
as of persons in great pain. These disturbances continued for several
months, to the great terror of all the country round, and even of the
pious King Louis, to whom, at Paris, all the rumours were regularly
carried with whole heaps of additions that accumulated on the way. At last
a great spectre, clothed all in pea-green, with a long white beard and a
serpent's tail, took his station regularly at midnight in the principal
window of the palace, and howled fearfully, and shook his fists at the
passengers. The six monks at Chantilly, to whom all these things were duly
narrated, were exceedingly wrath that the devil should play such antics
right opposite their dwelling, and hinted to the commissioners sent down
by Saint Louis to investigate the matter, that if they were allowed to
inhabit the palace, they would very soon make a clearance of the evil
spirits. The king was quite charmed with their piety, and expressed to
them how grateful he felt for their disinterestedness. A deed was
forthwith drawn up, the royal sign-manual was affixed to it, and the
palace of Vauvert became the property of the monks of St. Bruno. The deed
is dated 1259. The disturbances ceased immediately, the lights
disappeared, and the green ghost (so said the monks) was laid at rest for
ever under the waves of the Red Sea.[41]
[41] Garinet, _Histoire de la Magie en France_, p. 75.
In the year 1580, one Gilles Blacre had taken the lease of a house in the
suburbs of Tours, but repenting him of his bargain with the landlord,
Peter Piquet, he endeavoured to prevail upon him to cancel the agreement.
Peter, however, was satisfied with his tenant and his terms, and would
listen to no compromise. Very shortly afterwards, the rumour was spread
all over Tours that the house of Gilles Blacre was haunted. Gilles himself
asserted that he verily believed his house to be the general rendezvous of
all the witches and evil spirits of France. The noise they made was awful,
and quite prevented him from sleeping. They knocked against the wall,
howled in the chimneys, broke his window-glass, scattered his pots and
pans all over his kitchen, and set his chairs and tables a dancing the
whole night through. Crowds of persons assembled round the house to hear
the mysterious noises: and the bricks were observed to detach themselves
from the wall, and fall into the streets upon the heads of those who had
not said their paternoster before coming out in the morning. These things
having continued for some time, Gilles Blacre made his complaint to the
Civil Court of Tours, and Peter Piquet was summoned to shew cause why the
lease should not be annulled. Poor Peter could make no defence, and the
court unanimously agreed that no lease could hold good under such
circumstances, and annulled it accordingly, condemning the unlucky owner
to all the expenses of the suit. Peter appealed to the parliament of
Paris; and after a long examination, the parliament confirmed the lease.
"Not," said the judge, "because it has not been fully and satisfactorily
proved that the house is troubled by evil spirits, but that there was an
informality in the proceedings before the Civil Court of Tours, that
rendered its decision null and of no effect."
A similar cause was tried before the Parliament of Bourdeaux, in the year
1595, relative to a house in that city which was sorely troubled by evil
spirits. The parliament appointed certain ecclesiastics to examine and
report to them, and on their report in the affirmative that the house was
haunted, the lease was annulled, and the tenant absolved from all payment
of rent and taxes.[42]
[42] Ibid. p. 156.
One of the best stories of a haunted house is that of the royal palace of
Woodstock, in the year 1649, when the commissioners sent from London by
the Long Parliament to take possession of it, and efface all the emblems
of royalty about it, were fairly driven out by their fear of the devil,
and the annoyances they suffered from a roguish cavalier, who played the
imp to admiration. The commissioners, dreading at that time no devil,
arrived at Woodstock on the 13th of October, 1649. They took up their
lodgings in the late king's apartments--turned the beautiful bedrooms and
withdrawing-rooms into kitchens and sculleries--the council-hall into a
brew-house, and made the dining-room a place to keep firewood in. They
pulled down all the insignia of royal state, and treated with the utmost
indignity every thing that recalled to their memory the name or the
majesty of Charles Stuart. One Giles Sharp accompanied them in the
capacity of clerk, and seconded their efforts, apparently with the
greatest zeal. He aided them to uproot a noble old tree, merely because it
was called the _King's_ Oak, and tossed the fragments into the dining-room
to make cheerful fires for the commissioners. During the first two days,
they heard some strange noises about the house, but they paid no great
attention to them. On the third, however, they began to suspect they had
got into bad company; for they heard, as they thought, a supernatural dog
under their bed, which gnawed their bed-clothes. On the next day, the
chairs and tables began to dance, apparently of their own accord. On the
fifth day, something came into the bedchamber and walked up and down; and
fetching the warming-pan out of the withdrawing-room, made so much noise
with it that they thought five church-bells were ringing in their ears. On
the sixth day, the plates and dishes were thrown up and down the
dining-room. On the seventh, they penetrated into the bedroom in company
with several logs of wood, and usurped the soft pillows intended for the
commissioners. On the eighth and ninth nights, there was a cessation of
hostilities; but on the tenth, the bricks in the chimneys became
locomotive, and rattled and danced about the floors, and round the heads
of the commissioners, all the night long. On the eleventh, the demon ran
away with their breeches; and on the twelfth filled their beds so full of
pewter platters that they could not get into them. On the thirteenth
night, the glass became unaccountably seized with a fit of cracking, and
fell into shivers in all parts of the house. On the fourteenth, there was
a noise as if forty pieces of artillery had been fired off, and a shower
of pebble-stones, which so alarmed the commissioners that, "struck with
great horror, they cried out to one another for help."