"I have always said that if we wish to find a great and supreme remedy

for the state of abasement in which we are, none must shrink from combat

nor from suffering; and the real liberty of the German people will only

be assured when the good citizen sets himself or some other stake upon

the game, and when every true son of the country, prepared for the

struggle for justice, despises the good things of this world, and only

desires those celestial good things which death holds in charge.

"Who then will strike this miserable hireling, this venal traitor?

"I have long been waiting in fear, in prayer, and in tears—I who am not

born for murder—for some other to be beforehand with me, to set me free,

and suffer me to continue my way along the sweet and peaceful path that

I had chosen for myself. Well, despite my prayers and my tears, he who

should strike does not present himself; indeed, every man, like myself,

has a right to count upon some other, and everyone thus counting, every

hour’s delay, but makes our state worse; for at any moment—and how deep

a shame would that be for us! Kotzebue may leave Germany, unpunished,

and go to devour in Russia the treasures for which he has exchanged his

honour, his conscience, and his German name. Who can preserve us from

this shame, if every man, if I myself, do not feel strength to make

myself the chosen instrument of God’s justice? Therefore, forward! It

shall be I who will courageously rush upon him (do not be alarmed), on

him, the loathsome seducer; it shall be I who will kill the traitor, so

that his misguiding voice, being extinguished, shall cease to lead us

astray from the lessons of history and from the Spirit of God. An

irresistible and solemn duty impels me to this deed, ever since I have

recognised to what high destinies the German; nation may attain during

this century, and ever since I have come to know the dastard and

hypocrite who alone prevents it from reaching them; for me, as for every

German who seeks the public good, this desire has became a strict and

binding necessity. May I, by this national vengeance, indicate to all

upright and loyal consciences where the true danger lies, and save our

vilified and calumniated societies from the imminent danger that

threatens them! May I, in short, spread terror among the cowardly and

wicked, and courage and faith among the good! Speeches and writings lead

to nothing; only actions work.

"I will act, therefore; and though driven violently away from my fair

dreams of the future, I am none the less full of trust in God; I even

experience a celestial joy, now that, like the Hebrews when they sought

the promised land, I see traced before me, through darkness and death,

that road at the end of which I shall have paid my debt to my country.

"Farewell, then, faithful hearts: true, this early separation is hard;

true, your hopes, like my wishes, are disappointed; but let us be

consoled by the primary thought that we have done what the voice of our

country called upon us to do; that, you knew, is the principle according

to which I have always lived. You will doubtless say among yourselves,

’Yes, thanks to our sacrifices, he had learned to know life and to taste

the joys of earth, and he seemed: deeply to love his native country and

the humble estate to which he was called’. Alas, yes, that is true!

Under your protection, and amid your numberless sacrifices, my native

land and life had become profoundly dear to me. Yes, thanks to you, I

have penetrated into the Eden of knowledge, and have lived the free life

of thought; thanks to you, I have looked into history, and have then

returned to my own conscience to attach myself to the solid pillars of

faith in the Eternal.

"Yes, I was to pass gently through this life as a preacher of the

gospel; yes, in my constancy to my calling I was to be sheltered from

the storms of this existence. But would that suffice to avert the danger

that threatens Germany? And you yourselves, in your infinite love,

should you not rather push me on to risk my life for the good of all? So

many modern Greeks have fallen already to free their country from the

yoke of the Turks, and have died almost without any result and without

any hope; and yet thousands of fresh martyrs keep up their courage and

are ready to fall in their turn; and should I, then, hesitate to die?

"That I do not recognise your love, or that your love is but a trifling

consideration with me, you will not believe. What else should impel me

to die if not my devotion to you and to Germany, and the need of proving

this devotion to my family and my country?

"You, mother, will say, ’Why have I brought up a son whom I loved and

who loved me, for whom I have undergone a thousand cares and toils, who,

thanks to my prayers and my example, was impressionable to good

influences, and from whom, after my long and weary course, I hoped to

receive attentions like those which I have given him? Why does he now

abandon me?’

"Oh, my kind and tender mother! Yes, you will perhaps say that; but

could not the mother of anyone else say the same, and everything go off

thus in words when there is need to act for the country? And if no one

would act, what would become of that mother of us all who is called

Germany?

"But no; such complaints are far from you, you noble woman! I understood

your appeal once before, and at this present hour, if no one came

forward in the German cause, you yourself would urge me to the fight. I

have two brothers and two sisters before me, all noble and loyal. They

will remain to you, mother; and besides you will have for sons all the

children of Germany who love their country.

"Every man has a destiny which he has to accomplish: mine is devoted to

the action that I am about to undertake; if I were to live another fifty

years, I could not live more happily than I have done lately. Farewell,

mother: I commend you to the protection of God; may He raise you to that

joy which misfortunes can no longer trouble! Take your grandchildren, to

whom I should so much have liked to be a loving friend, to the top of

our beautiful mountains soon. There, on that altar raised by the Lord

Himself in the midst of Germany, let them devote themselves, swearing to

take up the sword as soon as they have strength to lift it, and to lay

it down only when our brethren are all united in liberty, when all

Germans, having a liberal constitution; are great before the Lord,

powerful against their neighbours, and united among themselves.

"May my country ever raise her happy gaze to Thee, Almighty Father! May

Thy blessing fall abundantly upon her harvests ready to be cut and her

armies ready for battle, and recognising the blessings that Thou hast

showered upon us, may the German nation ever be first among nations to

rise and uphold the cause of humanity, which is Thy image upon earth!

"Your eternally attached son, brother and friend, "KARL-LUDWIG SAND.

"JENA, the beginning of March, 1819."

Sand, who, as we have said, had at first been taken to the hospital, was

removed at the end of three months to the prison at Mannheim, where the

governor, Mr. G——, had caused a room to be prepared for him. There he

remained two months longer in a state of extreme weakness: his left arm

was completely paralysed; his voice was very weak; every movement gave

him horrible pain, and thus it was not until the 11th of August—that is

to say, five months after the event that we have narrated—that he was

able to write to his family the following letter:—

"MY VERY DEAR PARENTS:—The grand-duke’s commission of inquiry informed

me yesterday that it might be possible I should have the intense joy of

a visit from you, and that I might perhaps see you here and embrace

you—you, mother, and some of my brothers and sisters.

"Without being surprised at this fresh proof of your motherly love, I

have felt an ardent remembrance reawaken of the happy life that we spent

gently together. Joy and grief, desire and sacrifice, agitate my heart

violently, and I have had to weigh these various impulses one against

the other, and with the force of reason, in order to resume mastery of

myself and to take a decision in regard to my wishes.

"The balance has inclined in the direction of sacrifice.

"You know, mother, how much joy and courage a look from your eyes, daily

intercourse with you, and your pious and high-minded conversation, might

bring me during my very short time. But you also know my position, and

you are too well acquainted with the natural course of all these painful

inquiries, not to feel as I do, that such annoyance, continually

recurring, would greatly trouble the pleasure of our companionship, if

it did not indeed succeed in entirely destroying it. Then, mother, after

the long and fatiguing journey that you would be obliged to make in

order to see me, think of the terrible sorrow of the farewell when the

moment came to part in this world. Let us therefore abide by the

sacrifice, according to God’s will, and let us yield ourselves only to

that sweet community of thought which distance cannot interrupt, in

which I find my only joys, and which, in spite of men, will always be

granted us by the Lord, our Father.

"As for my physical state, I know nothing about it. You see, however,

since at last I am writing to you myself, that I have come past my first

uncertainties. As for the rest, I know too little of the structure of my

own body to give any opinion as to what my wounds may determine for it.

Except that a little strength has returned to me, its state is still the

same, and I endure it calmly and patiently; for God comes to my help,

and gives me courage and firmness. He will help me, believe me, to find

all the joys of the soul and to be strong in mind. Amen.

"May you live happy!—Your deeply respectful son, "KARL-LUDWIG SAND."

A month after this letter came tender answers from all the family. We

will quote only that of Sand’s mother, because it completes the idea

which the reader may have formed already of this great-hearted woman, as

her son always calls her.

"DEAR, INEXPRESSIBLY DEAR KARL,—How Sweet it was to me to see the

writing of your beloved hand after so long a time! No journey would have

been so painful and no road so long as to prevent me from coming to you,

and I would go, in deep and infinite love, to any end of the earth in

the mere hope of catching sight of you.

"But, as I well know both your tender affection and your profound

anxiety for me, and as you give me, so firmly and upon such manly

reflection, reasons against which I can say nothing, and which I can but

honour, it shall be, my well-beloved Karl, as you have wished and

decided. We will continue, without speech, to communicate our thoughts;

but be satisfied, nothing can separate us; I enfold you in my soul, and

my material thoughts watch over you.

"May this infinite love which upholds us, strengthens us, and leads us

all to a better life, preserve, dear Karl, your courage and firmness.

"Farewell, and be invariably assured that I shall never cease to love

you strongly and deeply.

"Your faithful mother, who loves you to eternity."

Sand replied:—

January 1820, from my isle of Patmos. "MY DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND

SISTERS,—

"In the middle of the month of September last year I received, through

the grand-duke’s special commission of inquiry, whose humanity you have

already appreciated, your dear letters of the end of August and the

beginning of September, which had such magical influence that they

inundated me with joy by transporting me into the inmost circle of your

hearts.

"You, my tender father, you write to me on the sixty-seventh anniversary

of your birth, and you bless me by the outpouring of your most tender

love.

"You, my well-beloved mother, you deign to promise the continuance of

your maternal affection, in which I have at all times constantly

believed; and thus I have received the blessings of both of you, which,

in my present position, will exercise a more beneficent influence upon

me than any of the things that all the kings of the earth, united

together, could grant me. Yes, you strengthen me abundantly by your

blessed love, and I render thanks to you, my beloved parents, with that

respectful submission that my heart will always inculcate as the first

duty of a son.

"But the greater your love and the more affectionate your letters, the

more do I suffer, I must acknowledge, from the voluntary sacrifice that

we have imposed upon ourselves in not seeing one another; and the only

reason, my dear parents, why I have delayed to reply to you, was to give

myself time to recover the strength which I have lost.

"You too, dear brother-in-law and dear sister, assure me of your sincere

and uninterrupted attachment. And yet, after the fright that I have

spread among you all, you seem not to know exactly what to think of me;

but my heart, full of gratitude for your past kindness, comforts itself;

for your actions speak and tell me that, even if you wished no longer to

love me as I love you, you would not be able to do otherwise. These

actions mean more to me at this hour than any possible protestations,

nay, than even the tenderest words.

"And you also, my kind brother, you would have consented to hurry with

our beloved mother to the shores of the Rhine, to this place where the

real links of the soul were welded between us, where we were doubly

brothers; but tell me, are you not really here, in thought and in

spirit, when I consider the rich fountain of consolation brought me by

your cordial and tender letter?

"And, you, kind sister-in-law, as you showed yourself from the first, in

your delicate tenderness, a true sister, so I find you again at present.

There are still the same tender relations, still the same sisterly

affection; your consolations, which emanate from a deep and submissive

piety, have fallen refreshingly into the depths of my heart. But, dear

sister-in-law, I must tell you, as well as the others, that you are too

liberal towards me in dispensing your esteem and praises, and your

exaggeration has cast me back face to face with my inmost judge, who has

shown me in the mirror of my conscience the image of my every weakness.

"You, kind Julia, you desire nothing else but to save me from the fate

that awaits me; and you assure me in your own name and in that of you

all, that you, like the others, would rejoice to endure it in my place;

in that I recognise you fully, and I recognise, too, those sweet and

tender relations in which we have been brought up from childhood. Oh, be

comforted, dear Julia; thanks to the protection of God, I promise you:

that it will be easy for me, much easier than I should have thought, to

bear what falls to my lot. Receive, then, all of you, my warm and

sincere thanks for having thus rejoiced my heart.

"Now that I know from these strengthening letters that, like the

prodigal son, the love and goodness of my family are greater on my

return than at my departure, I will, as carefully as possible, paint for

you my physical and moral state, and I pray God to supplement my words

by His strength, so that my letter may contain an equivalent of what

yours brought to me, and may help you to reach that state of calm and

serenity to which I have myself attained.

"Hardened, by having gained power over myself, against the good and ill

of this earth, you knew already that of late years I have lived only for

moral joys, and I must say that, touched by my efforts, doubtless, the

Lord, who is the sacred fount of all that is good, has rendered me apt

in seeking them and in tasting them to the full. God is ever near me, as

formerly, and I find in Him the sovereign principle of the creation of

all things; in Him, our holy Father, not only consolation and strength,

but an unalterable Friend, full of the holiest love, who will accompany

me in all places where I may need His consolations. Assuredly, if He had

turned from me, or if I had turned away my eyes from Him, I should now

find myself very unfortunate and wretched; but by His grace, on the

contrary, lowly and weak creature as I am, He makes me strong and

powerful against whatever can befall me.

"What I have hitherto revered as sacred, what I have desired as good

what I have aspired to as heavenly, has in no respect changed now. And I

thank God for it, for I should now be in great despair if I were

compelled to recognise that my heart had adored deceptive images and

enwrapped itself in fugitive chimeras. Thus my faith in these ideas and

my pure love for them, guardian angels of my spirit as they are,

increase moment by moment, and will go on increasing to my end, and I

hope that I may pass all the more easily from this world into eternity.

I pass my silent life in Christian exaltation and humility, and I

sometimes have those visions from above through which I have, from my

birth, adored heaven upon earth, and which give me power to raise myself

to the Lord upon the eager wings of my prayers. My illness, though long,

painful, and cruel, has always been sufficiently mastered by my will to

let me busy myself to some result with history, positive sciences, and

the finer parts of religious education, and when my suffering became

more violent and for a time interrupted these occupations, I struggled

successfully, nevertheless, against ennui; for the memories of the past,

my resignation to the present, and my faith in the future were rich

enough and strong enough in me and round me to prevent my falling from

my terrestrial paradise. According to my principles, I would never, in

the position in which I am and in which I have placed myself, have been

willing to ask anything for my own comfort; but so much kindness and

care have been lavished upon me, with so much delicacy and

humanity,—which alas! I am unable to return—by every person with whom I

have been brought into contact, that wishes which I should not have

dared to frame in the most private recesses of my heart have been more

than exceeded. I have never been so much overcome by bodily pains that I

could not say within myself, while I lifted my thoughts to heaven, ’Come

what may of this ray.’ And great as these gains have been, I could not

dream of comparing them with those sufferings of the soul that we feel

so profoundly and poignantly in the recognition of our weaknesses and

faults.

"Moreover, these pains seldom now cause me to lose consciousness; the

swelling and inflammation never made great headway, and the fever has

always been moderate, though for nearly ten months I have been forced to

remain lying on my back, unable to raise myself, and although more than

forty pints of matter have come from my chest at the place where the

heart is. No, on the contrary, the wound, though still open, is in a

good state; and I owe that not only to the excellent nursing around me,

but also to the pure blood that I received from you, my mother. Thus I

have lacked neither earthly assistance nor heavenly encouragement. Thus,

on the anniversary of my birth, I had every reason—oh, not to curse the

hour in which I was born, but, on the contrary, after serious

contemplation of the world, to thank God and you, my dear parents, for

the life that you have given me! I celebrated it, on the 18th of

October, by a peaceful and ardent submission to the holy will of God. On

Christmas Day I tried to put myself into the temper of children who are

devoted to the Lord; and with God’s help the new year will pass like its

predecessor, in bodily pain, perhaps, but certainly in spiritual joy.

And with this wish, the only one that I form, I address myself to you,

my dear parents, and to you and yours, my dear brothers and sisters.

"I cannot hope to see a twenty-fifth new year; so may the prayer that I

have just made be granted! May this picture of my present state afford

you some tranquillity, and may this letter that I write to you from the

depths of my heart not only prove to you that I am not unworthy of the

inexpressible love that you all display, but, on the contrary, ensure

this love to me for eternity.

"Within the last few days I have also received your dear letter of the

2nd of December, my kind mother, and the grand-duke’s commission has

deigned to let me also read my kind brother’s letter which accompanied

yours. You give me the best of news in regard to the health of all of

you, and send me preserved fruits from our dear home. I thank you for

them from the bottom of my heart. What causes me most joy in the matter

is that you have been solicitously busy about me in summer as in winter,

and that you and my dear Julia gathered them and prepared them for me at

home, and I abandon my whole soul to that sweet enjoyment.

"I rejoice sincerely at my little cousin’s coming into the world; I

joyfully congratulate the good parents and the grandparents; I transport

myself, for his baptism, into that beloved parish, where I offer him my

affection as his Christian brother, and call down on him all the

blessings of heaven.

"We shall be obliged, I think, to give up this correspondence, so as not

to inconvenience the grand-duke’s commission. I finish, therefore, by

assuring you, once more, but for the last time, perhaps, of my profound

filial submission and of my fraternal affection.—Your most tenderly

attached "KARL-LUDWIG SAND."

Indeed, from that moment all correspondence between Karl and his family

ceased, and he only wrote to them, when he knew his fate, one more

letter, which we shall see later on.

We have seen by what attentions Sand was surrounded; their humanity

never flagged for an instant. It is the truth, too, that no one saw in

him an ordinary murderer, that many pitied him under their breath, and

that some excused him aloud. The very commission appointed by the

grand-duke prolonged the affair as much as possible; for the severity of

Sand’s wounds had at first given rise to the belief that there would be

no need of calling in the executioner, and the commission was well

pleased that God should have undertaken the execution of the judgment.

But these expectations were deceived: the skill of the doctor defeated,

not indeed the wound, but death: Sand did not recover, but he remained

alive; and it began to be evident that it would be needful to kill him.

Indeed, the Emperor Alexander, who had appointed Kotzebue his

councillor, and who was under no misapprehension as to the cause of the

murder, urgently demanded that justice should take its course. The

commission of inquiry was therefore obliged to set to work; but as its

members were sincerely desirous of having some pretext to delay their

proceedings, they ordered that a physician from Heidelberg should visit

Sand and make an exact report upon his case; as Sand was kept lying down

and as he could not be executed in his bed, they hoped that the

physician’s report, by declaring it impossible for the prisoner to rise,

would come to their assistance and necessitate a further respite.

The chosen doctor came accordingly to Mannheim, and introducing himself

to Sand as though attracted by the interest that he inspired, asked him

whether he did not feel somewhat better, and whether it would be

impossible to rise. Sand looked at him for an instant, and then said,

with a smile—

"I understand, sir; they wish to know whether I am strong enough to

mount a scaffold: I know nothing about it myself, but we will make the

experiment together."

With these words he rose, and accomplishing, with superhuman courage,

what he had not attempted for fourteen months, walked twice round the

room, came back to his bed, upon which he seated himself, and said:

"You see, sir, I am strong enough; it would therefore be wasting

precious time to keep my judges longer about my affair; so let them

deliver their judgment, for nothing now prevents its execution."

The doctor made his report; there was no way of retreat; Russia was

becoming more and more pressing, and an the 5th of May 1820 the high

court of justice delivered the following judgment, which was confirmed

on the 12th by His Royal Highness the Grand-Duke of Baden:

"In the matters under investigation and after administration of the

interrogatory and hearing the defences, and considering the united

opinions of the court of justice at Mannheim and the further

consultations of the court of justice which declare the accused, Karl

Sand of Wonsiedel, guilty of murder, even on his own confession, upon

the person of the Russian imperial Councillor of State, Kotzebue; it is

ordered accordingly, for his just punishment and for an example that may

deter other people, that he is to be put from life to death by the

sword.

"All the costs of these investigations, including these occasioned by

his public execution, will be defrayed from the funds of the law

department, on account of his want of means."

We see that, though it condemned the accused to death, which indeed

could hardly be avoided, the sentence was both in form and substance as

mild as possible, since, though Sand was convicted, his poor family was

not reduced by the expenses of a long and costly trial to complete ruin.

Five days were still allowed to elapse, and the verdict was not

announced until the 17th. When Sand was informed that two councillors of

justice were at the door, he guessed that they were coming to read his

sentence to him; he asked a moment to rise, which he had done but once

before, in the instance already narrated, during fourteen months. And

indeed he was so weak that he could not stand to hear the sentence, and

after having greeted the deputation that death sent to him, he asked to

sit down, saying that he did so not from cowardice of soul but from

weakness of body; then he added, "You are welcome, gentlemen; for I have

suffered so much for fourteen months past that you come to me as angels

of deliverance."

He heard the sentence quite unaffectedly and with a gentle smile upon

his lips; then, when the reading was finished, he said—

"I look for no better fate, gentlemen, and when, more than a year ago, I

paused on the little hill that overlooks the town, I saw beforehand the

place where my grave would be; and so I ought to thank God and man for

having prolonged my existence up to to-day."

The councillors withdrew; Sand stood up a second time to greet them on

their departure, as he had done on their entrance; then he sat down

again pensively in his chair, by which Mr. G, the governor of the

prison, was standing. After a moment of silence, a tear appeared at each

of the condemned man’s eyelids, and ran down his cheeks; then, turning

suddenly to Mr. G——, whom he liked very much, he said, "I hope that my

parents would rather see me die by this violent death than of some slow

and shameful disease. As for me, I am glad that I shall soon hear the

hour strike in which my death will satisfy those who hate me, and those

whom, according to my principles, I ought to hate."

Then he wrote to his family.

"MANNHEIM

"17th of the month of spring, 1820

"DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND SISTERS,—You should have received my last

letters through the grand-duke’s commission; in them I answered yours,

and tried to console you for my position by describing the state of my

soul as it is, the contempt to which I have attained for everything

fragile and earthly, and by which one must necessarily be overcome when

such matters are weighed against the fulfilment of an idea, or that

intellectual liberty which alone can nourish the soul; in a word, I

tried to console you by the assurance that the feelings, principles, and

convictions of which I formerly spoke are faithfully preserved in me and

have remained exactly the same; but I am sure all this was an

unnecessary precaution on my part, for there was never a time when you

asked anything else of me than to have God before my eyes and in my

heart; and you have seen how, under your guidance, this precept so

passed into my soul that it became my sole object of happiness for this

world and the next; no doubt, as He was in and near me, God will be in

and near you at the moment when this letter brings you the news of my

sentence. I die willingly, and the Lord will give me strength to die as

one ought to die.

"I write to you perfectly quiet and calm about all things, and I hope

that your lives too will pass calmly and tranquilly until the moment

when our souls meet again full of fresh force to love one another and to

share eternal happiness together.

"As for me, such as I have lived as long as I have known myself—that is

to say, in a serenity full of celestial desires and a courageous and

indefatigable love of liberty, such I am about to die.

"May God be with you and with me!—Your son, brother, and friend,

"KARL-LUDWIG SAND."

From that moment his serenity remained un troubled; during the whole day

he talked more gaily than usual, slept well, did not awake until

half-past seven, said that he felt stronger, and thanked God for

visiting him thus.

The nature of the verdict had been known since the day before, and it

had been learned that the execution was fixed for the 20th of May—that

is to say, three full days after the sentence had been read to the

accused.

Henceforward, with Sand’s permission, persons who wished to speak to him

and whom he was not reluctant to see, were admitted: three among these

paid him long and noteworthy visits.

One was Major Holzungen, of the Baden army, who was in command of the

patrol that had arrested him, or rather picked him up, dying, and

carried him to the hospital. He asked him whether he recognised him, and

Sand’s head was so clear when he stabbed himself, that although he saw

the major only for a moment and had never seen him again since, he

remembered the minutest details of the costume which he had been wearing

fourteen months previously, and which was the full-dress uniform. When

the talk fell upon the death to which Sand was to submit at so early an

age, the major pitied him; but Sand answered, with a smile, "There is

only one difference between you and me, major; it is that I shall die

for my convictions, and you will die for someone else’s convictions."

After the major came a young student from Jena whom Sand had known at

the university. He happened to be in the duchy of Baden and wished to

visit him. Their recognition was touching, and the student wept much;

but Sand consoled him with his usual calmness and serenity.

Then a workman asked to be admitted to see Sand, on the plea that he had

been his schoolfellow at Wonsiedel, and although he did not remember his

name, he ordered him to be let in: the workman reminded him that he had

been one of the little army that Sand had commanded on the day of the

assault of St. Catherine’s tower. This indication guided Sand, who

recognised him perfectly, and then spoke with tender affection of his

native place and his dear mountains. He further charged him to greet his

family, and to beg his mother, father, brothers, and sisters once more

not to be grieved on his account, since the messenger who undertook to

deliver his last wards could testify in how calm and joyful a temper he

was awaiting death.

To this workman succeeded one of the guests whom Sand had met on the

staircase directly after Kotzebue’s death. He asked him whether he

acknowledged his crime and whether he felt any repentance. Sand replied,

"I had thought about it during a whole year. I have been thinking of it

for fourteen months, and my opinion has never varied in any respect: I

did what I should have done."

After the departure of this last visitor, Sand sent for Mr. G——, the

governor of the prison, and told him that he should like to talk to the

executioner before the execution, since he wished to ask for

instructions as to how he should hold himself so as to render the

operation most certain and easy. Mr. G——made some objections, but Sand

insisted with his usual gentleness, and Mr. G——at last promised that the

man in question should be asked to call at the prison as soon as he

arrived from Heidelberg, where he lived.

The rest of the day was spent in seeing more visitors and in

philosophical and moral talks, in which Sand developed his social and

religious theories with a lucidity of expression and an elevation of

thought such as he had, perhaps, never before shown. The governor of the

prison from whom I heard these details, told me that he should all his

life regret that he did not know shorthand, so that he might have noted

all these thoughts, which would have formed a pendant to the Phaedo.

Night came. Sand spent part of the evening writing; it is thought that

he was composing a poem; but no doubt he burned it, for no trace of it

was found. At eleven he went to bed, and slept until six in the morning.

Next day he bore the dressing of his wound, which was always very

painful, with extraordinary courage, without fainting, as he sometimes

did, and without suffering a single complaint to escape him: he had

spoken the truth; in the presence of death God gave him the grace of

allowing his strength to return. The operation was over; Sand was lying

down as usual, and Mr. G——was sitting on the foot of his bed, when the

door opened and a man came in and bowed to Sand and to Mr. G——. The

governor of the prison immediately stood up, and said to Sand in a voice

the emotion of which he could not conceal, "The person who is bowing to

you is Mr. Widemann of Heidelberg, to whom you wished to speak."

Then Sand’s face was lighted up by a strange joy; he sat up and said,

"Sir, you are welcome." Then, making his visitor sit down by his bed,

and taking his hand, he began to thank him for being so obliging, and

spoke in so intense a tone and so gentle a voice, that Mr. Widemann,

deeply moved, could not answer. Sand encouraged him to speak and to give

him the details for which he wished, and in order to reassure him, said,

"Be firm, sir; for I, on my part, will not fail you: I will not move;

and even if you should need two or three strokes to separate my head

from my body, as I am told is sometimes the case, do not be troubled on

that account."

Then Sand rose, leaning on Mr. G——, to go through with the executioner

the strange and terrible rehearsal of the drama in which he was to play

the leading part on the morrow. Mr. Widemann made him sit in a chair and

take the required position, and went into all the details of the

execution with him. Then Sand, perfectly instructed, begged him not to

hurry and to take his time. Then he thanked him beforehand; "for," added

he, "afterwards I shall not be able." Then Sand returned to his bed,

leaving the executioner paler and more trembling than himself. All these

details have been preserved by Mr. G——; for as to the executioner, his

emotion was so great that he could remember nothing.

After Mr. Widemann, three clergymen were introduced, with whom Sand

conversed upon religious matters: one of them stayed six hours with him,

and on leaving him told him that he was commissioned to obtain from him

a promise of not speaking to the people at the place of execution. Sand

gave the promise, and added, "Even if I desired to do so, my voice has

become so weak that people could not hear it."

Meanwhile the scaffold was being erected in the meadow that extends on

the left of the road to Heidelberg. It was a platform five to six feet

high and ten feet wide each way. As it was expected that, thanks to the

interest inspired by the prisoner and to the nearness to Whitsuntide,

the crowd would be immense, and as some movement from the universities

was apprehended, the prison guards had been trebled, and General

Neustein had been ordered to Mannheim from Carlsruhe, with twelve

hundred infantry, three hundred and fifty cavalry, and a company of

artillery with guns.

On, the afternoon of the 19th there arrived, as had been foreseen, so

many students, who took up their abode in the neighbouring villages,

that it was decided to put forward the hour of the execution, and to let

it take place at five in the morning instead of at eleven, as had been

arranged. But Sand’s consent was necessary for this; for he could not be

executed until three full days after the reading of his sentence, and as

the sentence had not been read to him till half-past ten Sand had a

right to live till eleven o’clock.

Before four in the morning the officials went into the condemned man’s

room; he was sleeping so soundly that they were obliged to awaken him.

He opened his eyes with a smile, as was his custom, and guessing why

they came, asked, "Can I have slept so well that it is already eleven in

the morning?" They told him that it was not, but that they had come to

ask his permission to put forward the time; for, they told him, some

collision between the students and the soldiers was feared, and as the

military preparations were very thorough, such a collision could not be

otherwise than fatal to his friends. Sand answered that he was ready

that very moment, and only asked time enough to take a bath, as the

ancients were accustomed to do before going into battle. But as the

verbal authorisation which he had given was not sufficient, a pen and

paper were given to Sand, and he wrote, with a steady hand and in his

usual writing:

"I thank the authorities of Mannheim for anticipating my most eager

wishes by making my execution six hours earlier.

"Sit nomen Domini benedictum.

"From the prison room, May 20th, day of my deliverance. "KARL-LUDWIG

SAND."

When Sand had given these two lines to the recorder, the physician came

to him to dress his wound, as usual. Sand looked at him with a smile,

and then asked, "Is it really worth the trouble?"

"You will be stronger for it," answered the physician.

"Then do it," said Sand.

A bath was brought. Sand lay down in it, and had his long and beautiful

hair arranged with the greatest care; then his toilet being completed,

he put on a frock-coat of the German shape—that is to say, short and

with the shirt collar turned back aver the shoulders, close white

trousers, and high boots. Then Sand seated himself on his bed and prayed

some time in a low voice with the clergy; then, when he had finished, he

said these two lines of Korner’s:

"All that is earthly is ended,

And the life of heaven begins."

He next took leave of the physician and the priests, saying to them, "Do

not attribute the emotion of my voice to weakness but to gratitude."

Then, upon these gentlemen offering to accompany him to the scaffold, he

said, "There is no need; I am perfectly prepared, at peace with God and

with my conscience. Besides, am I not almost a Churchman myself?" And

when one of them asked whether he was not going out of life in a spirit

of hatred, he returned, "Why, good heavens! have I ever felt any?"

An increasing noise was audible from the street, and Sand said again

that he was at their disposal and that he was ready. At this moment the

executioner came in with his two assistants; he was dressed in a long

wadded black coat, beneath which he hid his sword. Sand offered him his

hand affectionately; and as Mr. Widemann, embarrassed by the sword which

he wished to keep Sand from seeing, did not venture to come forward,

Sand said to him, "Come along and show me your sword; I have never seen

one of the kind, and am curious to know what it is like."

Mr. Widemann, pale and trembling, presented the weapon to him; Sand

examined it attentively, and tried the edge with his finger.

"Come," said he, "the blade is good; do not tremble, and all will go

well." Then, turning to Mr. G——, who was weeping, he said to him, "You

will be good enough, will you not, to do me the service of leading me to

the scaffold?"

Mr. G——made a sign of assent with his head, for he could not answer.

Sand took his arm, and spoke for the third time, saying once more,

"Well, what are you waiting for, gentlemen? I am ready."

When they reached the courtyard, Sand saw all the prisoners weeping at

their windows. Although he had never seen them, they were old friends of

his; for every time they passed his door, knowing that the student who

had killed Kotzebue lay within, they used to lift their chain, that he

might not be disturbed by the noise.

All Mannheim was in the streets that led to the place of execution, and

many patrols were passing up and down. On the day when the sentence was

announced the whole town had been sought through for a chaise in which

to convey Sand to the scaffold, but no one, not even the coach-builders,

would either let one out or sell one; and it had been necessary,

therefore, to buy one at Heidelberg without saying for what purpose.

Sand found this chaise in the courtyard, and got into it with Mr. G——.

Turning to him, he whispered in his ear, "Sir, if you see me turn pale,

speak my name to me, my name only, do you hear? That will be enough."

The prison gate was opened, and Sand was seen; then every voice cried

with one impulse, "Farewell, Sand, farewell!"

And at the same time flowers, some of which fell into the carriage, were

thrown by the crowd that thronged the street, and from the windows. At

these friendly cries and at this spectacle, Sand, who until then had

shown no moment of weakness, felt tears rising in spite of himself, and

while he returned the greetings made to him on all sides, he murmured in

a low voice, "O my God, give me courage!"

This first outburst over, the procession set out amid deep silence; only

now and again some single voice would call out, "Farewell, Sand!" and a

handkerchief waved by some hand that rose out of the crowd would show

from what point the last call came. On each side of the chaise walked

two of the prison officials, and behind the chaise came a second

conveyance with the municipal authorities.

The air was very cold: it had rained all night, and the dark and cloudy

sky seemed to share in the general sadness. Sand, too weak to remain

sitting up, was half lying upon the shoulder of Mr. G——-, his companion;

his face was gentle, calm and full of pain; his brow free and open, his

features, interesting though without regular beauty, seemed to have aged

by several years during the fourteen months of suffering that had just

elapsed. The chaise at last reached the place of execution, which was

surrounded by a battalion of infantry; Sand lowered his eyes from heaven

to earth and saw the scaffold. At this sight he smiled gently, and as he

left the carriage he said, "Well, God has given me strength so far."

The governor of the prison and the chief officials lifted him that he

might go up the steps. During that short ascent pain kept him bowed, but

when he had reached the top he stood erect again, saying, "Here then is

the place where I am to die!"

Then before he came to the chair on which he was to be seated for the

execution, he turned his eyes towards Mannheim, and his gaze travelled

over all the throng that surrounded him; at that moment a ray of

sunshine broke through the clouds. Sand greeted it with a smile and sat

down.

Then, as, according to the orders given, his sentence was to be read to

him a second time, he was asked whether he felt strong enough to hear it

standing. Sand answered that he would try, and that if his physical

strength failed him, his moral strength would uphold him. He rose

immediately from the fatal chair, begging Mr. G——to stand near enough to

support him if he should chance to stagger. The precaution was

unnecessary, Sand did not stagger.

After the judgment had been read, he sat down again and said in a loud

voice, "I die trusting in God."

But at these words Mr. G———interrupted him.

"Sand," said he, "what did you promise?"

"True," he answered; "I had forgotten." He was silent, therefore, to the

crowd; but, raising his right hand and extending it solemnly in the air,

he said in a low voice, so that he might be heard only by those who were

around him, "I take God to witness that I die for the freedom of

Germany."

Then, with these words, he did as Conradin did with his glove; he threw

his rolled-up handkerchief over the line of soldiers around him, into

the midst of the people.

Then the executioner came to cut off his hair; but Sand at first

objected.

"It is for your mother," said Mr. Widemann.

"On your honour, sir?" asked Sand.

"On my honour."

"Then do it," said Sand, offering his hair to the executioner.

Only a few curls were cut off, those only which fell at the back, the

others were tied with a ribbon on the top of the head. The executioner

then tied his hands on his breast, but as that position was oppressive

to him and compelled him on account of his wound to bend his head, his

hands were laid flat on his thighs and fixed in that position with

ropes. Then, when his eyes were about to be bound, he begged Mr.

Widemann to place the bandage in such a manner that he could see the

light to his last moment. His wish was fulfilled.

Then a profound and mortal stillness hovered over the whole crowd and

surrounded the scaffold. The executioner drew his sword, which flashed

like lightning and fell. Instantly a terrible cry rose at once from

twenty thousand bosoms; the head had not fallen, and though it had sunk

towards the breast still held to the neck. The executioner struck a

second time, and struck off at the same blow the head and a part of the

hand.

In the same moment, notwithstanding the efforts of the soldiers, their

line was broken through; men and women rushed upon the scaffold, the

blood was wiped up to the last drop with handkerchiefs; the chair upon

which Sand had sat was broken and divided into pieces, and those who

could not obtain one, cut fragments of bloodstained wood from the

scaffold itself.

The head and body were placed in a coffin draped with black, and carried

back, with a large military escort, to the prison. At midnight the body

was borne silently, without torches or lights, to the Protestant

cemetery, in which Kotzebue had been buried fourteen months previously.

A grave had been mysteriously dug; the coffin was lowered into it, and

those who were present at the burial were sworn upon the New Testament

not to reveal the spot where Sand was buried until such time as they

were freed from their oath. Then the grave was covered again with the

turf, that had been skilfully taken off, and that was relaid on the same

spot, so that no new grave could be perceived; then the nocturnal

gravediggers departed, leaving guards at the entrance.

There, twenty paces apart, Sand and Kotzebue rest: Kotzebue opposite the

gate in the most conspicuous spot of the cemetery, and beneath a tomb

upon which is engraved this inscription:

"The world persecuted him without pity, Calumny was his sad portion, He

found no happiness save in the arms of his wife, And no repose save in

the bosom of death. Envy dogged him to cover his path with thorns, Love

bade his roses blossom; May Heaven pardon him As he pardons earth!"

In contrast with this tall and showy monument, standing, as we have

said, in the most conspicuous spot of the cemetery, Sand’s grave must be

looked for in the corner to the extreme left of the entrance gate; and a

wild plum tree, some leaves of which every passing traveller carries

away, rises alone upon the grave, which is devoid of any inscription.

As for the meadow in which Sand was executed, it is still called by the

people "Sand’s Himmelsfartsweise," which signifies "The manner of Sand’s

ascension."

Toward the end of September, 1838, we were at Mannheim, where I had

stayed three days in order to collect all the details I could find about

the life and death of Karl-Ludwig Sand. But at the end of these three

days, in spite of my active investigations, these details still remained

extremely incomplete, either because I applied in the wrong quarters, or

because, being a foreigner, I inspired some distrust in those to whom I

applied. I was leaving Mannheim, therefore, somewhat disappointed, and

after having visited the little Protestant cemetery where Sand and

Kotzebue are buried at twenty paces from each other, I had ordered my

driver to take the road to Heidelberg, when, after going a few yards,

he, who knew the object of my inquiries, stopped of himself and asked me

whether I should not like to see the place where Sand was executed. At

the same time he pointed to a little mound situated in the middle of a

meadow and a few steps from a brook. I assented eagerly, and although

the driver remained on the highroad with my travelling companions, I

soon recognised the spot indicated, by means of some relics of cypress

branches, immortelles, and forget-me-nots scattered upon the earth. It

will readily be understood that this sight, instead of diminishing my

desire for information, increased it. I was feeling, then, more than

ever dissatisfied at going away, knowing so little, when I saw a man of

some five-and-forty to fifty years old, who was walking a little

distance from the place where I myself was, and who, guessing the cause

that drew me thither, was looking at me with curiosity. I determined to

make a last effort, and going up to him, I said, "Oh, sir, I am a

stranger; I am travelling to collect all the rich and poetic traditions

of your Germany. By the way in which you look at me, I guess that you

know which of them attracts me to this meadow. Could you give me any

information about the life and death of Sand?"

"With what object, sir?" the person to whom I spoke asked me in almost

unintelligible French.

"With a very German object, be assured, sir," I replied. "From the

little I have learned, Sand seems to me to be one of those ghosts that

appear only the greater and the more poetic for being wrapped in a

shroud stained with blood. But he is not known in France; he might be

put on the same level there with a Fieschi or a Meunier, and I wish, to

the best of my ability, to enlighten the minds of my countrymen about

him."

"It would be a great pleasure to me, sir, to assist in such an

undertaking; but you see that I can scarcely speak French; you do not

speak German at all; so that we shall find it difficult to understand

each other."

"If that is all," I returned, "I have in my carriage yonder an

interpreter, or rather an interpretress, with whom you will, I hope, be

quite satisfied, who speaks German like Goethe, and to whom, when you

have once begun to speak to her, I defy you not to tell everything."

"Let us go, then, sir," answered the pedestrian. "I ask no better than

to be agreeable to you."

We walked toward the carriage, which was still waiting on the highroad,

and I presented to my travelling companion the new recruit whom I had

just gained. The usual greetings were exchanged, and the dialogue began

in the purest Saxon. Though I did not understand a word that was said,

it was easy for me to see, by the rapidity of the questions and the

length of the answers, that the conversation was most interesting. At

last, at the end of half an hours growing desirous of knowing to what

point they had come, I said, "Well?"

"Well," answered my interpreter, "you are in luck’s way, and you could

not have asked a better person."

"The gentleman knew Sand, then?"

"The gentleman is the governor of the prison in which Sand was

confined."

"Indeed?"

"For nine months—that is to say, from the day he left the hospital— this

gentleman saw him every day."

"Excellent!"

"But that is not all: this gentleman was with him in the carriage that

took him to execution; this gentleman was with him on the scaffold;

there’s only one portrait of Sand in all Mannheim, and this gentleman

has it."

I was devouring every word; a mental alchemist, I was opening my

crucible and finding gold in it.

"Just ask," I resumed eagerly, "whether the gentleman will allow us to

take down in writing the particulars that he can give me."

My interpreter put another question, then, turning towards me, said,

"Granted."

Mr. G——got into the carriage with us, and instead of going on to

Heidelberg, we returned to Mannheim, and alighted at the prison.

Mr. G—-did not once depart from the ready kindness that he had shown. In

the most obliging manner, patient over the minutest trifles, and

remembering most happily, he went over every circumstance, putting

himself at my disposal like a professional guide. At last, when every

particular about Sand had been sucked dry, I began to ask him about the

manner in which executions were performed. "As to that," said he, "I can

offer you an introduction to someone at Heidelberg who can give you all

the information you can wish for upon the subject."

I accepted gratefully, and as I was taking leave of Mr. G——, after

thanking him a thousand times, he handed me the offered letter. It bore

this superscription: "To Herr-doctor Widemann, No. III High Street,

Heidelberg."

I turned to Mr. G——once more.

"Is he, by chance, a relation of the man who executed Sand?" I asked.

"He is his son, and was standing by when the head fell.".

"What is his calling, then?"

"The same as that of his father, whom he succeeded."

"But you call him ’doctor’?"

"Certainly; with us, executioners have that title."

"But, then, doctors of what?"

"Of surgery."

"Really?" said I. "With us it is just the contrary; surgeons are called

executioners."

"You will find him, moreover," added Mr. G——, "a very distinguished

young man, who, although he was very young at that time, has retained a

vivid recollection of that event. As for his poor father, I think he

would as willingly have cut off his own right hand as have executed

Sand; but if he had refused, someone else would have been found. So he

had to do what he was ordered to do, and he did his best."

I thanked Mr. G——, fully resolving to make use of his letter, and we

left for Heidelberg, where we arrived at eleven in the evening.

My first visit next day was to Dr. Widernann. It was not without some

emotion, which, moreover, I saw reflected upon, the faces of my

travelling companions, that I rang at the door of the last judge, as the

Germans call him. An old woman opened the door to us, and ushered us

into a pretty little study, on the left of a passage and at the foot of

a staircase, where we waited while Mr. Widemann finished dressing. This

little room was full of curiosities, madrepores, shells, stuffed birds,

and dried plants; a double-barrelled gun, a powder-flask, and a game-bag

showed that Mr. Widemann was a hunter.

After a moment we heard his footstep, and the door opened. Mr. Widemann

was a very handsome young man, of thirty or thirty-two, with black

whiskers entirely surrounding his manly and expressive face; his morning

dress showed a certain rural elegance. He seemed at first not only

embarrassed but pained by our visit. The aimless curiosity of which he

seemed to be the object was indeed odd. I hastened to give him Mr. G——’s

letter and to tell him what reason brought me. Then he gradually

recovered himself, and at last showed himself no less hospitable and

obliging towards us than he to whom we owed the introduction had been,

the day before.

Mr. Widemann then gathered together all his remembrances; he, too, had

retained a vivid recollection of Sand, and he told us among other things

that his father, at the risk of bringing himself into ill odour, had

asked leave to have a new scaffold made at his own expense, so that no

other criminal might be executed upon the altar of the martyr’s death.

Permission had been given, and Mr. Widemann had used the wood of the

scaffold for the doors and windows of a little country house standing in

a vineyard. Then for three or four years this cottage became a shrine

for pilgrims; but after a time, little by little, the crowd grew less,

and at the present day, when some of those who wiped the blood from the

scaffold with their handkerchiefs have became public functionaries,

receiving salaries from Government, only foreigners ask, now and again,

to see these strange relics.

Mr. Widemann gave me a guide; for, after hearing everything, I wanted to

see everything. The house stands half a league away from Heidelberg, on

the left of the road to Carlsruhe, and half-way up the mountain-side. It

is perhaps the only monument of the kind that exists in the world.

Our readers will judge better from this anecdote than from anything more

we could say, what sort of man he was who left such a memory in the

hearts of his gaoler and his executioner.

*URBAIN GRANDIER—1634*

CHAPTER I

On Sunday, the 26th of November, 1631, there was great excitement in the

little town of Loudun, especially in the narrow streets which led to the

church of Saint-Pierre in the marketplace, from the gate of which the

town was entered by anyone coming from the direction of the abbey of

Saint-Jouin-les-Marmes. This excitement was caused by the expected

arrival of a personage who had been much in people’s mouths latterly in

Loudun, and about whom there was such difference of opinion that

discussion on the subject between those who were on his side and those

who were against him was carried on with true provincial acrimony. It

was easy to see, by the varied expressions on the faces of those who

turned the doorsteps into improvised debating clubs, how varied were the

feelings with which the man would be welcomed who had himself formally

announced to friends and enemies alike the exact date of his return.

About nine o’clock a kind of sympathetic vibration ran through the

crowd, and with the rapidity of a flash of lightning the words, "There

he is! there he is!" passed from group to group. At this cry some

withdrew into their houses and shut their doors and darkened their

windows, as if it were a day of public mourning, while others opened

them wide, as if to let joy enter. In a few moments the uproar and

confusion evoked by the news was succeeded by the deep silence of

breathless curiosity.

Then, through the silence, a figure advanced, carrying a branch of

laurel in one hand as a token of triumph. It was that of a young man of

from thirty-two to thirty-four years of age, with a graceful and

well-knit frame, an aristocratic air and faultlessly beautiful features

of a somewhat haughty expression. Although he had walked three leagues

to reach the town, the ecclesiastical garb which he wore was not only

elegant but of dainty freshness. His eyes turned to heaven, and singing

in a sweet voice praise to the Lord, he passed through the streets

leading to the church in the market-place with a slow and solemn gait,

without vouchsafing a look, a word, or a gesture to anyone. The entire

crowd, falling into step, marched behind him as he advanced, singing

like him, the singers being the prettiest girls in Loudun, for we have

forgotten to say that the crowd consisted almost entirely of women.

Meanwhile the object of all this commotion arrived at length at the

porch of the church of Saint-Pierre. Ascending the steps, he knelt at

the top and prayed in a low voice, then rising he touched the church

doors with his laurel branch, and they opened wide as if by magic,

revealing the choir decorated and illuminated as if for one of the four

great feasts of the year, and with all its scholars, choir boys,

singers, beadles, and vergers in their places. Glancing around, he for

whom they were waiting came up the nave, passed through the choir, knelt

for a second time at the foot of the altar, upon which he laid the

branch of laurel, then putting on a robe as white as snow and passing

the stole around his neck, he began the celebration of the mass before a

congregation composed of all those who had followed him. At the end of

the mass a Te Deum was sung.

He who had just rendered thanks to God for his own victory with all the

solemn ceremonial usually reserved for the triumphs of kings was the

priest Urbain Grandier. Two days before, he had been acquitted, in

virtue of a decision pronounced by M. d’Escoubleau de Sourdis,

Archbishop of Bordeaux, of an accusation brought against him of which he

had been declared guilty by a magistrate, and in punishment of which he

had been condemned to fast on bread and water every Friday for three

months, and forbidden to exercise his priestly functions in the diocese

of Poitiers for five years and in the town of Loudun for ever.

These are the circumstances under which the sentence had been passed and

the judgment reversed.

Urbain Grandier was born at Rovere, a village near Sable, a little town

of Bas-Maine. Having studied the sciences with his father Pierre and his

uncle Claude Grandier, who were learned astrologers and alchemists, he

entered, at the age of twelve, the Jesuit college at Bordeaux, having

already received the ordinary education of a young man. The professors

soon found that besides his considerable attainments he had great

natural gifts for languages and oratory; they therefore made of him a

thorough classical scholar, and in order to develop his oratorical

talent encouraged him to practise preaching. They soon grew very fond of

a pupil who was likely to bring them so much credit, and as soon as he

was old enough to take holy orders they gave him the cure of souls in

the parish of Saint-Pierre in Loudun, which was in the gift of the

college. When he had been some months installed there as a

priest-in-charge, he received a prebendal stall, thanks to the same

patrons, in the collegiate church of Sainte-Croix.

It is easy to understand that the bestowal of these two positions on so

young a man, who did not even belong to the province, made him seem in

some sort a usurper of rights and privileges belonging to the people of

the country, and drew upon him the envy of his brother-ecclesiastics.

There were, in fact, many other reasons why Urbain should be an object

of jealousy to these: first, as we have already said, he was very

handsome, then the instruction which he had received from his father had

opened the world of science to him and given him the key to a thousand

things which were mysteries to the ignorant, but which he fathomed with

the greatest ease. Furthermore, the comprehensive course of study which

he had followed at the Jesuit college had raised him above a crowd of

prejudices, which are sacred to the vulgar, but for which he made no

secret of his contempt; and lastly, the eloquence of his sermons had

drawn to his church the greater part of the regular congregations of the

other religious communities, especially of the mendicant orders, who had

till then, in what concerned preaching, borne away the palm at Loudun.

As we have said, all this was more than enough to excite, first

jealousy, and then hatred. And both were excited in no ordinary degree.

We all know how easily the ill-natured gossip of a small town can rouse

the angry contempt of the masses for everything which is beyond or above

them. In a wider sphere Urbain would have shone by his many gifts, but,

cooped up as he was within the walls of a little town and deprived of

air and space, all that might have conduced to his success in Paris led

to his destruction at Loudun.

It was also unfortunate for Urbain that his character, far from winning

pardon for his genius, augmented the hatred which the latter inspired.

Urbain, who in his intercourse with his friends was cordial and

agreeable, was sarcastic, cold, and haughty to his enemies. When he had

once resolved on a course, he pursued it unflinchingly; he jealously

exacted all the honour due to the rank at which he had arrived,

defending it as though it were a conquest; he also insisted on enforcing

all his legal rights, and he resented the opposition and angry words of

casual opponents with a harshness which made them his lifelong enemies.

The first example which Urbain gave of this inflexibility was in 1620,

when he gained a lawsuit against a priest named Meunier. He caused the

sentence to be carried out with such rigour that he awoke an

inextinguishable hatred in Meunier’s mind, which ever after burst forth

on the slightest provocation.

A second lawsuit, which he likewise gained; was one which he undertook

against the chapter of Sainte-Croix with regard to a house, his claim to

which the chapter, disputed. Here again he displayed the same

determination to exact his strict legal rights to the last iota, and

unfortunately Mignon, the attorney of the unsuccessful chapter, was a

revengeful, vindictive, and ambitious man; too commonplace ever to

arrive at a high position, and yet too much above his surroundings to be

content with the secondary position which he occupied. This man, who was

a canon of the collegiate church of Sainte-Croix and director of the

Ursuline convent, will have an important part to play in the following

narrative. Being as hypocritical as Urbain was straightforward, his

ambition was to gain wherever his name was known a reputation for

exalted piety; he therefore affected in his life the asceticism of an

anchorite and the self-denial of a saint. As he had much experience in

ecclesiastical lawsuits, he looked on the chapter’s loss of this one, of

which he had in some sort guaranteed the success, as a personal

humiliation, so that when Urbain gave himself airs of triumph and

exacted the last letter of his bond, as in the case of Meunier, he

turned Mignon into an enemy who was not only more relentless but more

dangerous than the former.

In the meantime, and in consequence of this lawsuit, a certain Barot, an

uncle of Mignon and his partner as well, got up a dispute with Urbain,

but as he was a man below mediocrity, Urbain required in order to crush

him only to let fall from the height of his superiority a few of those

disdainful words which brand as deeply as a red-hot iron. This man,

though totally wanting in parts, was very rich, and having no children

was always surrounded by a horde of relatives, every one of whom was

absorbed in the attempt to make himself so agreeable that his name would

appear in Barot’s will. This being so, the mocking words which were

rained down on Barot spattered not only himself but also all those who

had sided with him in the quarrel, and thus added considerably to the

tale of Urbain’s enemies.

About this epoch a still graver event took place. Amongst the most

assiduous frequenters of the confessional in his church was a young and

pretty girl, Julie by name, the daughter of the king’s attorney,

Trinquant—Trinquant being, as well as Barot, an uncle of Mignon. Now it

happened that this young girl fell into such a state of debility that

she was obliged to keep her room. One of her friends, named Marthe

Pelletier, giving up society, of which she was very fond, undertook to

nurse the patient, and carried her devotion so far as to shut herself up

in the same room with her. When Julie Trinquant had recovered and was

able again to take her place in the world, it came out that Marthe

Pelletier, during her weeks of retirement, had given birth to a child,

which had been baptized and then put out to nurse. Now, by one of those

odd whims which so often take possession of the public mind, everyone in

Loudun persisted in asserting that the real mother of the infant was not

she who had acknowledged herself as such—that, in short, Marthe

Pelletier had sold her good name to her friend Julie for a sum of money;

and of course it followed as a matter about which there could be no

possible doubt, that Urbain was the father.

Trinquant hearing of the reports about his daughter, took upon himself

as king’s attorney to have Marthe Pelletier arrested and imprisoned.

Being questioned about the child, she insisted that she was its mother,

and would take its maintenance upon herself. To have brought a child

into the world under such circumstances was a sin, but not a crime;

Trinquant was therefore obliged to set Marthe at liberty, and the abuse

of justice of which he was guilty served only to spread the scandal

farther and to strengthen the public in the belief it had taken up.

Hitherto, whether through the intervention of the heavenly powers, or by

means of his own cleverness, Urbain Grandier had come out victor in

every struggle in which he had engaged, but each victory had added to the

number of his enemies, and these were now so numerous that any other

than he would have been alarmed, and have tried either to conciliate

them or to take precautions against their malice; but Urbain, wrapped in

his pride, and perhaps conscious of his innocence, paid no attention to

the counsels of his most faithful followers, but went on his way

unheeding.

All the opponents whom till now Urbain had encountered had been entirely

unconnected with each other, and had each struggled for his own

individual ends. Urbain’s enemies, believing that the cause of his

success was to be found in the want of cooperation among themselves, now

determined to unite in order to crush him. In consequence, a conference

was held at Barot’s, at which, besides Barot himself, Meunier,

Trinquant, and Mignon took part, and the latter had also brought with

him one Menuau, a king’s counsel and his own most intimate friend, who

was, however, influenced by other motives than friendship in joining the

conspiracy. The fact was, that Menuau was in love with a woman who had

steadfastly refused to show him any favour, and he had got firmly fixed

in his head that the reason for her else inexplicable indifference and

disdain was that Urbain had been beforehand with him in finding an

entrance to her heart. The object of the meeting was to agree as to the

best means of driving the common enemy out of Loudon and its

neighbourhood.

Urbain’s life was so well ordered that it presented little which his

enemies could use as a handle for their purpose. His only foible seemed

to be a predilection for female society; while in return all the wives

and daughters of the place, with the unerring instinct of their sex,

seeing, that the new priest was young, handsome, and eloquent, chose

him, whenever it was possible, as their spiritual director. As this

preference had already offended many husbands and fathers, the decision

the conspirators arrived at was that on this side alone was Grandier

vulnerable, and that their only chance of success was to attack him

where he was weakest. Almost at once, therefore, the vague reports which

had been floating about began to attain a certain definiteness: there

were allusions made, though no name was mentioned, to a young girl in

Loudun; who in spite of Grandier’s frequent unfaithfulness yet remained

his mistress-in-chief; then it began to be whispered that the young

girl, having had conscientious scruples about her love for Urbain, he

had allayed them by an act of sacrilege—that is to say, he had, as

priest, in the middle of the night, performed the service of marriage

between himself and his mistress. The more absurd the reports, the more

credence did they gain, and it was not long till everyone in Loudun

believed them true, although no one was able to name the mysterious

heroine of the tale who had had the courage to contract a marriage with

a priest; and considering how small Loudun was, this was most

extraordinary.

Resolute and full of courage as was Grandier, at length he could not

conceal from himself that his path lay over quicksands: he felt that

slander was secretly closing him round, and that as soon as he was well

entangled in her shiny folds, she would reveal herself by raising her

abhorred head, and that then a mortal combat between them would begin.

But it was one of his convictions that to draw back was to acknowledge

one’s guilt; besides, as far as he was concerned, it was probably too

late for him to retrace his steps. He therefore went on his way, as

unyielding, as scornful, and as haughty as ever.

Among those who were supposed to be most active in spreading the

slanders relative to Urbain was a man called Duthibaut, a person of

importance in the province, who was supposed by the townspeople to hold

very advanced views, and who was a "Sir Oracle" to whom the commonplace

and vulgar turned for enlightenment. Some of this man’s strictures on

Grandier were reported to the latter, especially some calumnies to which

Duthibaut had given vent at the Marquis de Bellay’s; and one day,

Grandier, arrayed in priestly garments, was about to enter the church of

Sainte-Croix to assist in the service, he encountered Duthibaut at the

entrance, and with his usual haughty disdain accused him of slander.

Duthibaut, who had got into the habit of saying and doing whatever came

into his head without fear of being called to account, partly because of

his wealth and partly because of the influence he had gained over the

narrow-minded, who are so numerous in a small provincial town, and who

regarded him as being much above them, was so furious at this public

reprimand, that he raised his cane and struck Urbain.

The opportunity which this affront afforded Grandier of being revenged

on all his enemies was too precious to be neglected, but, convinced,

with too much reason, that he would never obtain justice from the local

authorities, although the respect due to the Church had been infringed,

in his person he decided to appeal to King Louis XIII, who deigned to

receive him, and deciding that the insult offered to a priest robed in

the sacred vestments should be expiated, sent the cause to the high

court of Parliament, with instructions that the case against Duthibaut

should be tried and decided there.

Hereupon Urbain’s enemies saw they had no time to lose, and took

advantage of his absence to make counter accusations against him. Two

worthies beings, named Cherbonneau and Bugrau, agreed to become

informers, and were brought before the ecclesiastical magistrate at

Poitiers. They accused Grandier of having corrupted women and girls, of

indulging in blasphemy and profanity, of neglecting to read his breviary

daily, and of turning God’s sanctuary into a place of debauchery and

prostitution. The information was taken down, and Louis Chauvet, the

civil lieutenant, and the archpriest of Saint-Marcel and the Loudenois,

were appointed to investigate the matter, so that, while Urbain was

instituting proceedings against Duthibaut in Paris, information was laid

against himself in Loudun. This matter thus set going was pushed forward

with all the acrimony so common in religious prosecutions; Trinquant

appeared as a witness, and drew many others after him, and whatever

omissions were found in the depositions were interpolated according to

the needs of the prosecution. The result was that the case when fully

got up appeared to be so serious that it was sent to the Bishop of

Poitiers for trial. Now the bishop was not only surrounded by the

friends of those who were bringing the accusations against Grandier, but

had himself a grudge against him. It had happened some time before that

Urbain, the case being urgent, had dispensed with the usual notice of a

marriage, and the bishop, knowing this, found in the papers laid before

him, superficial as they were, sufficient evidence against Urbain to

justify him in issuing a warrant for his apprehension, which was drawn

up in the following words:

"Henri-Louis, Chataignier de la Rochepezai, by divine mercy Bishop of

Poitiers, in view of the charges and informations conveyed to us by the

archpriest of Loudun against Urbain Grandier, priest-in-charge of the

Church of Saint-Pierre in the Market-Place at Loudun, in virtue of a

commission appointed by us directed to the said archpriest, or in his

absence to the Prior of Chassaignes, in view also of the opinion given

by our attorney upon the said charges, have ordered and do hereby order

that Urbain Grandier, the accused, be quietly taken to the prison in our

palace in Poitiers, if it so be that he be taken and apprehended, and if

not, that he be summoned to appear at his domicile within three days, by

the first apparitor-priest, or tonsured clerk, and also by the first

royal sergeant, upon this warrant, and we request the aid of the secular

authorities, and to them, or to any one of them, we hereby give power

and authority to carry out this decree notwithstanding any opposition or

appeal, and the said Grandier having been heard, such a decision will be

given by our attorney as the facts may seem to warrant.

"Given at Dissay the 22nd day of October 1629, and signed in the

original as follows:

"HENRI-LOUIS, Bishop of Poitiers."

Grandier was, as we have said, at Paris when these proceedings were

taken against him, conducting before the Parliament his case against

Duthibaut. The latter received a copy of the decision arrived at by the

bishop, before Grandier knew of the charges that had been formulated

against him, and having in the course of his defence drawn a terrible

picture of the immorality of Grandier’s life, he produced as a proof of

the truth of his assertions the damning document which had been put into

his hands. The court, not knowing what to think of the turn affairs had

taken, decided that before considering the accusations brought by

Grandier, he must appear before his bishop to clear himself of the

charges, brought against himself. Consequently he left Paris at once,

and arrived at Loudun, where he only stayed long enough to learn what

had happened in his absence, and then went on to Poitiers in order to

draw up his defence. He had, however, no sooner set foot in the place

than he was arrested by a sheriff’s officer named Chatry, and confined

in the prison of the episcopal palace.

It was the middle of November, and the prison was at all times cold and

damp, yet no attention was paid to Grandier’s request that he should be

transferred to some other place of confinement. Convinced by this that

his enemies had more influence than he had supposed, he resolved to

possess his soul in patience, and remained a prisoner for two months,

during which even his warmest friends believed him lost, while Duthibaut

openly laughed at the proceedings instituted against himself, which he

now believed would never go any farther, and Barot had already selected

one of his heirs, a certain Ismael Boulieau, as successor to Urbain as

priest and prebendary.

It was arranged that the costs of the lawsuit should be defrayed out of

a fund raised by the prosecutors, the rich paying for the poor; for as

all the witnesses lived at Loudun and the trial was to take place at

Poitiers, considerable expense would be incurred by the necessity of

bringing so many people such a distance; but the lust of vengeance

proved stronger than the lust of gold; the subscription expected from

each being estimated according to his fortune, each paid without a

murmur, and at the end of two months the case was concluded.

In spite of the evident pains taken by the prosecution to strain the

evidence against the defendant, the principal charge could not be

sustained, which was that he had led astray many wives and daughters in

Loudun. No one woman came forward to complain of her ruin by Grandier;

the name of no single victim of his alleged immorality was given. The

conduct of the case was the most extraordinary ever seen; it was evident

that the accusations were founded on hearsay and not on fact, and yet a

decision and sentence against Grandier were pronounced on January 3rd,

1630. The sentence was as follows: For three months to fast each Friday

on bread and water by way of penance; to be inhibited from the

performance of clerical functions in the diocese of Poitiers for five

years, and in the town of Loudun for ever.

Both parties appealed from this decision: Grandier to the Archbishop of

Bordeaux, and his adversaries, on the advice of the attorney to the

diocese, pleading a miscarriage of justice, to the Parliament of Paris;

this last appeal being made in order to overwhelm Grandier and break his

spirit. But Grandier’s resolution enabled him to face this attack

boldly: he engaged counsel to defend his case before the Parliament,

while he himself conducted his appeal to the Archbishop of Bordeaux. But

as there were many necessary witnesses, and it was almost impossible to

bring them all such a great distance, the archiepiscopal court sent the

appeal to the presidial court of Poitiers. The public prosecutor of

Poitiers began a fresh investigation, which being conducted with

impartiality was not encouraging to Grandier’s accusers. There had been

many conflicting statements made by the witnesses, and these were now

repeated: other witnesses had declared quite openly that they had been

bribed; others again stated that their depositions had been tampered

with; and amongst these latter was a certain priest named Mechin, and

also that Ishmael Boulieau whom Barot had been in such a hurry to select

as candidate for the reversion of Grandier’s preferments. Boulieau’s

deposition has been lost, but we can lay Mechin’s before the reader, for

the original has been preserved, just as it issued from his pen:

"I, Gervais Mechin, curate-in-charge of the Church of Saint-Pierre in

the Market Place at Loudun, certify by these presents, signed by my

hand, to relieve my conscience as to a certain report which is being

spread abroad, that I had said in support of an accusation brought by

Gilles Robert, archpriest, against Urbain Grandier, priest-in-charge of

Saint-Pierre, that I had found the said Grandier lying with women and

girls in the church of Saint Pierre, the doors being closed.

"ITEM. that on several different occasions, at unsuitable hours both day

and night, I had seen women and girls disturb the said Grandier by going

into his bedroom, and that some of the said women remained with him from

one o’clock in the after noon till three o’clock the next morning, their

maids bringing them their suppers and going away again at once.

"ITEM. that I had seen the said Grandier in the church, the doors being

open, but that as soon as some women entered he closed them.

"As I earnestly desire that such reports should cease, I declare by

these presents that I have never seen the said Grandier with women or

girls in the church, the doors being closed; that I have never found him

there alone with women or girls; that when he spoke to either someone

else was always present, and the doors were open; and as to their

posture, I think I made it sufficiently clear when in the witness-box

that Grandier was seated and the women scattered over the church;

furthermore, I have never seen either women or girls enter Grandier’s

bedroom either by day or night, although it is true that I have heard

people in the corridor coming and going late in the evening, who they

were I cannot say, but a brother of the said Grandier sleeps close by;

neither have I any knowledge that either women or girls, had their

suppers brought to the said room. I have also never said that he

neglected the reading of his breviary, because that would be contrary to

the truth, seeing that on several occasions he borrowed mine and read

his hours in it. I also declare that I have never seen him close the

doors of the church, and that whenever I have seen him speaking to women

I have never noticed any impropriety; I have not ever seen him touch

them in any way, they have only spoken together; and if anything is

found in my deposition contrary to the above, it is without my

knowledge, and was never read to me, for I would not have signed it, and

I say and affirm all this in homage to the truth.

"Done the last day of October 1630, "(Signed) G. MECHIN."

In the face of such proofs of innocence none of the accusations could be

considered as established and so, according to the decision of the

presidial court of Poitiers, dated the 25th of May 1634, the decision of

the bishop’s court was reversed, and Grandier was acquitted of the

charges brought against him. However, he had still to appear before the

Archbishop of Bordeaux, that his acquittal might be ratified. Grandier

took advantage of a visit which the archbishop paid to his abbey at

Saint-Jouin-les-Marmes, which was only three leagues from Loudun, to

make this appearance; his adversaries, who were discouraged by the

result of the proceedings at Poitiers, scarcely made any defence, and

the archbishop, after an examination which brought clearly to light the

innocence of the accused, acquitted and absolved him.

The rehabilitation of Grandier before his bishop had two important

results: the first was that it clearly established his innocence, and

the second that it brought into prominence his high attainments and

eminent qualities. The archbishop seeing the persecutions to which he

was subjected, felt a kindly interest in him, and advised him to

exchange into some other diocese, leaving a town the principal

inhabitants of which appeared to have vowed him a relentless hate. But

such an abandonment of his rights was foreign to the character of

Urbain, and he declared to his superior that, strong in His Grace’s

approbation and the testimony of his own conscience, he would remain in

the place to which God had called him. Monseigneur de Sourdis did not

feel it his duty to urge Urbain any further, but he had enough insight

into his character to perceive that if Urbain should one day fall, it

would be, like Satan, through pride; for he added another sentence to

his decision, recommending him to fulfil the duties of his office with

discretion and modesty, according to the decrees of the Fathers and the

canonical constitutions. The triumphal entry of Urbain into Loudun with

which we began our narrative shows the spirit in which he took his

recommendation.

CHAPTER II

Urbain Granadier was not satisfied with the arrogant demonstration by

which he signalised his return, which even his friends had felt to be

ill advised; instead of allowing the hate he had aroused to die away or

at least to fall asleep by letting the past be past, he continued with

more zeal than ever his proceedings against Duthibaut, and succeeded in

obtaining a decree from the Parliament of La Tournelle, by which

Duthibaut was summoned before it, and obliged to listen bareheaded to a

reprimand, to offer apologies, and to pay damages and costs.

Having thus got the better of one enemy, Urbain turned on the others,

and showed himself more indefatigable in the pursuit of justice than

they had been in the pursuit of vengeance. The decision of the

archbishop had given him a right to a sum of money for compensation, and

interest thereon, as well as to the restitution of the revenues of his

livings, and there being some demur made, he announced publicly that he

intended to exact this reparation to the uttermost farthing, and set

about collecting all the evidence which was necessary for the success of

a new lawsuit for libel and forgery which he intended to begin. It was

in vain that his friends assured him that the vindication of his

innocence had been complete and brilliant, it was in vain that they

tried to convince him of the danger of driving the vanquished to

despair, Urbain replied that he was ready to endure all the persecutions

which his enemies might succeed in inflicting on him, but as long as he

felt that he had right upon his side he was incapable of drawing back.

Grandier’s adversaries soon became conscious of the storm which was

gathering above their heads, and feeling that the struggle between

themselves and this man would be one of life or death, Mignon, Barot,

Meunier, Duthibaut, and Menuau met Trinquant at the village of

Pindadane, in a house belonging to the latter, in order to consult about

the dangers which threatened them. Mignon had, however, already begun to

weave the threads of a new intrigue, which he explained in full to the

others; they lent a favourable ear, and his plan was adopted. We shall

see it unfold itself by degrees, for it is the basis of our narrative.

We have already said that Mignon was the director of the convent of

Ursulines at Loudun: Now the Ursuline order was quite modern, for the

historic controversies to which the slightest mention of the martyrdom

of St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins gave rise, had long

hindered the foundation of an order in the saint’s honour. However, in

1560 Madame Angele de Bresse established such an order in Italy, with

the same rules as the Augustinian order. This gained the approbation of

Pope Gregory XIII in 1572. In 1614, Madeleine Lhuillier, with the

approval of Pope Paul V, introduced this order into France, by founding

a convent at Paris, whence it rapidly spread over the whole kingdom,

so-that in 1626, only six years before the time when the events just

related took place, a sisterhood was founded in the little town of

Loudun.

Although this community at first consisted entirely of ladies of good

family, daughters of nobles, officers, judges, and the better class of

citizens, and numbered amongst its founders Jeanne de Belfield, daughter

of the late Marquis of Cose, and relative of M. de Laubardemont,

Mademoiselle de Fazili, cousin of the cardinal-duke, two ladies of the

house of Barbenis de Nogaret, Madame de Lamothe, daughter of the Marquis

Lamothe-Barace of Anjou, and Madame d’Escoubleau de Sourdis, of the same

family as the Archbishop of Bordeaux, yet as these nuns had almost all

entered the convent because of their want of fortune, the community

found itself at the time of its establishment richer in blood than in

money, and was obliged instead of building to purchase a private house.

The owner of this house was a certain Moussaut du Frene, whose brother

was a priest. This brother, therefore, naturally became the first

director of these godly women. Less than a year after his appointment he

died, and the directorship became vacant.

The Ursulines had bought the house in which they lived much below its

normal value, for it was regarded as a haunted house by all the town.

The landlord had rightly thought that there was no better way of getting

rid of the ghosts than to confront them with a religious sisterhood, the

members of which, passing their days in fasting and prayer, would be

hardly likely to have their nights disturbed by bad spirits; and in

truth, during the year which they had already passed in the house, no

ghost had ever put in an appearance—a fact which had greatly increased

the reputation of the nuns for sanctity.

When their director died, it so happened that the boarders took

advantage of the occasion to indulge in some diversion at the expense of

the older nuns, who were held in general detestation by the youth of the

establishment on account of the rigour with which they enforced the

rules of the order. Their plan was to raise once more those spirits

which had been, as everyone supposed, permanently relegated to outer

darkness. So noises began to be heard on the roof of the house, which

resolved themselves into cries and groans; then growing bolder, the

spirits entered the attics and garrets, announcing their presence by

clanking of chains; at last they became so familiar that they invaded

the dormitories, where they dragged the sheets off the sisters and

abstracted their clothes.

Great was the terror in the convent, and great the talk in the town, so

that the mother superior called her wisest, nuns around her and asked

them what, in their opinion, would be the best course to take in the

delicate circumstances in which they found themselves. Without a

dissentient voice, the conclusion arrived at was, that the late director

should be immediately replaced by a man still holier than he, if such a

man could be found, and whether because he possessed a reputation for

sanctity, or for some other reason, their choice fell on Urbain

Grandier. When the offer of the post was brought to him, he answered

that he was already responsible for two important charges, and that he

therefore had not enough time to watch over the snow-white flock which

they wished to entrust to him, as a good shepherd should, and he

recommended the lady superior to seek out another more worthy and less

occupied than himself.

This answer, as may be supposed, wounded the self-esteem of the sisters:

they next turned their eyes towards Mignon, priest and canon of the

collegiate church of Sainte-Croix, and he, although he felt deeply hurt

that they had not thought first of him, accepted the position eagerly;

but the recollection that Grandier had been preferred before himself

kept awake in, him one of those bitter hatreds which time, instead of

soothing, intensifies. From the foregoing narrative the reader can see

to what this hate led.

As soon as the new director was appointed, the mother superior confided

to him the kind of foes which he would be expected to vanquish. Instead

of comforting her by the assurance that no ghosts existing, it could not

be ghosts who ran riot in the house, Mignon saw that by pretending to

lay these phantoms he could acquire the reputation for holiness he so

much desired. So he answered that the Holy Scriptures recognised the

existence of ghosts by relating how the witch of Endor had made the

shade of Samuel appear to Saul. He went on to say that the ritual of the

Church possessed means of driving away all evil spirits, no matter how

persistent they were, provided that he who undertook the task were pure

in thought and deed, and that he hoped soon, by the help of God, to rid

the convent of its nocturnal visitants, whereupon as a preparation for

their expulsion he ordered a three days’ fast, to be followed by a

general confession.

It does not require any great cleverness to understand how easily Mignon

arrived at the truth by questioning the young penitents as they came

before him. The boarders who had played at being ghosts confessed their

folly, saying that they had been helped by a young novice of sixteen

years of age, named Marie Aubin. She acknowledged that this was true; it

was she who used to get up in the middle of the night, and open the

dormitory door, which her more timid room-mates locked most carefully

from within every night, before going to bed—a fact which greatly

increased their terror when, despite their precautions, the ghosts still

got in. Under pretext of not exposing them to the anger of the superior,

whose suspicions would be sure to be awakened if the apparitions were to

disappear immediately after the general confession, Mignon directed them

to renew their nightly frolics from time to time, but at longer and

longer intervals. He then sought an interview with the superior, and

assured her that he had found the minds of all those under her charge so

chaste and pure that he felt sure through his earnest prayers he would

soon clear the convent of the spirits which now pervaded it.

Everything happened as the director had foretold, and the reputation for

sanctity of the holy man, who by watching and praying had delivered the

worthy Ursulines from their ghostly assailants, increased enormously in

the town of Loudun.

CHAPTER III

Hardly had tranquillity been restored when Mignon, Duthibaut, Menuau,

Meunier, and Barot, having lost their cause before the Archbishop of

Bordeaux, and finding themselves threatened by Grandier with a

prosecution for libel and forgery, met together to consult as to the

best means of defending themselves before the unbending severity of this

man, who would, they felt, destroy them if they did not destroy him.

The result of this consultation was that very shortly afterwards queer

reports began to fly about; it was whispered that the ghosts whom the

pious director had expelled had again invaded the convent, under an

invisible and impalpable form, and that several of the nuns had given,

by their words and acts, incontrovertible proofs of being possessed.

When these reports were mentioned to Mignon, he, instead of denying

their truth, cast up his eyes to heaven and said that God was certainly

a great and merciful God, but it was also certain that Satan was very

clever, especially when he was barked by that false human science called

magic. However, as to the reports, though they were not entirely without

foundation, he would not go so far as to say that any of the sisters

were really possessed by devils, that being a question which time alone

could decide.

The effect of such an answer on minds already prepared to listen to the

most impossible things, may easily be guessed. Mignon let the gossip go

its rounds for several months without giving it any fresh food, but at

length, when the time was ripe, he called on the priest of Saint-Jacques

at Chinon, and told him that matters had now come to such a pass in the

Ursuline convent that he felt it impossible to bear up alone under the

responsibility of caring for the salvation of the afflicted nuns, and he

begged him to accompany him to the convent. This priest, whose name was

Pierre Barre, was exactly the man whom Mignon needed in such a crisis.

He was of melancholy temperament, and dreamed dreams and saw visions;

his one ambition was to gain a reputation for asceticism and holiness.

Desiring to surround his visit with the solemnity befitting such an

important event, he set out for Loudun at the head of all his

parishioners, the whole procession going on foot, in order to arouse

interest and curiosity; but this measure was quite needless it took less

than that to set the town agog.

While the faithful filled the churches offering up prayers for the

success of the exorcisms, Mignon and Barre entered upon their task at

the convent, where they remained shut up with the nuns for six hours. At

the end of this time Barre appeared and announced to his parishioners

that they might go back to Chinon without him, for he had made up his

mind to remain for the present at Loudun, in order to aid the venerable

director of the Ursuline convent in the holy work he had undertaken; he

enjoined on them to pray morning and evening, with all possible fervour,

that, in spite of the serious dangers by which it was surrounded, the

good cause might finally triumph. This advice, unaccompanied as it was

by any explanation, redoubled the curiosity of the people, and the

belief gained ground that it was not merely one or two nuns who were

possessed of devils, but the whole sisterhood. It was not very long

before the name of the magician who had worked this wonder began to be

mentioned quite openly: Satan, it was said, had drawn Urbain Grandier

into his power, through his pride. Urbain had entered into a pact with

the Evil Spirit by which he had sold him his soul in return for being

made the most learned man on earth. Now, as Urbain’s knowledge was much

greater than that of the inhabitants of Loudun, this story gained

general credence in the town, although here and there was to be found a

man sufficiently enlightened to shrug his shoulders at these

absurdities, and to laugh at the mummeries, of which as yet he saw only

the ridiculous side.

For the next ten or twelve days Mignon and Barre spent the greater part

of their time at the convent; sometimes remaining there for six hours at

a stretch, sometimes the entire day. At length, on Monday, the 11th of

October, 1632, they wrote to the priest of Venier, to Messire Guillaume

Cerisay de la Gueriniere, bailiff of the Loudenois, and to Messire Louis

Chauvet, civil lieutenant, begging them to visit the Ursuline convent,

in order to examine two nuns who were possessed by evil spirits, and to

verify the strange and almost incredible manifestations of this

possession. Being thus formally appealed to, the two magistrates could

not avoid compliance with the request. It must be confessed that they

were not free from curiosity, and felt far from sorry at being able to

get to the bottom of the mystery of which for some time the whole town

was talking. They repaired, therefore, to the convent, intending to make

a thorough investigation as to the reality of the possession and as to

the efficacy of the exorcisms employed. Should they judge that the nuns

were really possessed, and that those who tried to deliver them were in

earnest, they would authorise the continuation of the efforts at

exorcism; but if they were not satisfied on these two points, they would

soon put an end to the whole thing as a comedy. When they reached the

door, Mignon, wearing alb and stole, came to meet them. He told them

that the feelings of the nuns had for more than two weeks been harrowed

by the apparition of spectres and other blood-curdling visions, that the

mother superior and two nuns had evidently been possessed by evil

spirits for over a week; that owing to the efforts of Barre and some

Carmelite friars who were good enough to assist him against their common

enemies, the devils had been temporarily driven out, but on the previous

Sunday night, the 10th of October, the mother superior, Jeanne de

Belfield, whose conventual name was Jeanne des Anges, and a lay sister

called Jeanne Dumagnoux, had again been entered into by the same

spirits. It had, however, been discovered by means of exorcisms that a

new compact, of which the symbol and token was a bunch of roses, had

been concluded, the symbol and token of the first having been three

black thorns. He added that during the time of the first possession the

demons had refused to give their names, but by the power of his

exorcisms this reluctance had been overcome, the spirit which had

resumed possession of the mother superior having at length revealed that

its name was Ashtaroth, one of the greatest enemies of God, while the

devil which had entered into the lay sister was of a lower order, and

was called Sabulon. Unfortunately, continued Mignon, just now the two

afflicted nuns were resting, and he requested the bailiff and the civil

lieutenant to put off their inspection till a little later. The two

magistrates were just about to go away, when a nun appeared, saying that

the devils were again doing their worst with the two into whom they had

entered. Consequently, they accompanied Mignon and the priest from

Venier to an upper room, in which were seven narrow beds, of which two

only were occupied, one by the mother superior and the other by the lay

sister. The superior, who was the more thoroughly possessed of the two,

was surrounded by the Carmelite monks, the sisters belonging to the

convent, Mathurin Rousseau, priest and canon of Sainte-Croix, and

Mannouri, a surgeon from the town.

No sooner did the two magistrates join the others than the superior was

seized with violent convulsions, writhing and uttering squeals in exact

imitation of a sucking pig. The two magistrates looked on in profound

astonishment, which was greatly increased when they saw the patient now

bury herself in her bed, now spring right out of it, the whole

performance being accompanied by such diabolical gestures and grimaces

that, if they were not quite convinced that the possession was genuine,

they were at least filled with admiration of the manner in which it was

simulated. Mignon next informed the bailiff and the civil lieutenant,

that although the superior had never learned Latin she would reply in

that language to all the questions addressed to her, if such were their

desire. The magistrates answered that as they were there in order to

examine thoroughly into the facts of the case, they begged the exorcists

to give them every possible proof that the possession was real. Upon

this, Mignon approached the mother superior, and, having ordered

everyone to be silent, placed two of his fingers in her mouth, and,

having gone through the form of exorcism prescribed by the ritual, he

asked the following questions word for word as they are given,

D. Why have you entered into the body of this young girl?

R. Causa animositatis. Out of enmity.

D. Per quod pactum? By what pact?

R. Per flores. By flowers.

D. Quales? What flowers?

R. Rosas. Roses.

D. Quis misfit? By whom wert thou sent?

At this question the magistrates remarked that the superior hesitated to

reply; twice she opened her mouth in vain, but the third time she said

in a weak voice—

D. Dic cognomen? What is his surname?

R. Urbanus. Urbain.

Here there was again the same hesitation, but as if impelled by the will

of the exorcist she answered:

R. Grandier. Grandier.

D. Dic qualitatem? What is his profession?

R. Sacerdos. A priest.

D. Cujus ecclesiae? Of what church?

R. Sancti Petri. Saint−Pierre.

D. Quae persona attulit

flores? Who brought the flowers?

R. Diabolica. Someone sent by the devil.

As the patient pronounced the last word she recovered her senses, and

having repeated a prayer, attempted to swallow a morsel of bread which

was offered her; she was, however, obliged to spit it out, saying it was

so dry she could not get it down.

Something more liquid was then brought, but even of that she could

swallow very little, as she fell into convulsions every few minutes.

Upon this the two officials, seeing there was nothing more to be got out

of the superior, withdrew to one of the window recesses and began to

converse in a low tone; whereupon Mignon, who feared that they had not

been sufficiently impressed, followed them, and drew their attention to

the fact that there was much in what they had just seen to recall the

case of Gaufredi, who had been put to death a few years before in

consequence of a decree of the Parliament of Aix, in Provence. This

ill-judged remark of Mignon showed so clearly what his aim was that the

magistrates made no reply. The civil lieutenant remarked that he had

been surprised that Mignon had not made any attempt to find out the

cause of the enmity of which the superior had spoken, and which it was

so important to find out; but Mignon excused himself by saying that he

had no right to put questions merely to gratify curiosity. The civil

lieutenant was about to insist on the matter being investigated, when

the lay sister in her turn went into a fit, thus extricating Mignon from

his embarrassment. The magistrates approached the lay sister’s bed at

once, and directed Mignon to put the same questions to her as to the

superior: he did so, but all in vain; all she would reply was, "To the

other! To the other!"

Mignon explained this refusal to answer by saying that the evil spirit

which was in her was of an inferior order, and referred all questioners

to Ashtaroth, who was his superior. As this was the only explanation,

good or bad, offered them by Mignon, the magistrates went away, and drew

up a report of all they had seen and heard without comment, merely

appending their signatures.

But in the town very few people showed the same discretion and reticence

as the magistrates. The bigoted believed, the hypocrites pretended to

believe; and the worldly-minded, who were numerous, discussed the

doctrine of possession in all its phases, and made no secret of their

own entire incredulity. They wondered, and not without reason it must be

confessed, what had induced the devils to go out of the nuns’ bodies for

two days only, and then come back and resume possession, to the

confusion of the exorcists; further, they wanted to know why the mother

superior’s devil spoke Latin, while the lay sister’s was ignorant of

that tongue; for a mere difference of rank in the hierarchy of hell did

not seem a sufficient explanation of such a difference in education;

Mignon’s refusal to go on with his interrogations as to the cause of the

enmity made them, they said, suspect that, knowing he had reached the

end of Ashtaroth’s classical knowledge, he felt it useless to try to

continue the dialogue in the Ciceronian idiom. Moreover, it was well

known that only a few days before all Urbain’s worst enemies had met in

conclave in the village of Puidardane; and besides, how stupidly Mignon

had shown his hand by mentioning Gaufredi, the priest who had been

executed at Aix: lastly, why had not a desire for impartiality been

shown by calling in other than Carmelite monks to be present at the

exorcism, that order having a private quarrel with Grandier? It must be

admitted that this way of looking at the case was not wanting in

shrewdness.

On the following day, October 12th, the bailiff and the civil

lieutenant, having heard that exorcisms had been again tried without

their having been informed beforehand, requested a certain Canon

Rousseau to accompany them, and set out with him and their clerk for the

convent. On arriving, they asked for Mignon, and on his appearance they

told him that this matter of exorcism was of such importance that no

further steps were to be taken in it without the authorities being

present, and that in future they were to be given timely notice of every

attempt to get rid of the evil spirits. They added that this was all the

more necessary as Mignon’s position as director of the sisterhood and

his well-known hate for Grandier would draw suspicions on him unworthy

of his cloth, suspicions which he ought to be the first to wish to see

dissipated, and that quickly; and that, therefore, the work which he had

so piously begun would be completed by exorcists appointed by the court.

Mignon replied that, though he had not the slightest objection to the

magistrates being present at all the exorcisms, yet he could not promise

that the spirits would reply to anyone except himself and Barre. Just at

that moment Barre came on the scene, paler and more gloomy than ever,

and speaking with the air of a man whose word no one could help

believing, he announced that before their arrival some most

extraordinary things had taken place. The magistrates asked what things,

and Barre replied that he had learned from the mother superior that she

was possessed, not by one, but by seven devils, of whom Ashtaroth was

the chief; that Grandier had entrusted his pact with the devil, under

the symbol of a bunch of roses, to a certain Jean Pivart, to give to a

girl who had introduced it into the convent garden by throwing it over

the wall; that this took place in the night between Saturday and Sunday

"hora secunda nocturna" (two hours after midnight); that those were the

very words the superior had used, but that while she readily named

Pivart, she absolutely refused to give the name of the girl; that on

asking what Pivart was; she had replied, "Pauper magus" (a poor

magician); that he then had pressed her as to the word magus, and that

she had replied "Magicianus et civis" (magician and citizen); and that

just as she said those words the magistrates had arrived, and he had

asked no more questions.

The two officials listened to this information with the seriousness

befitting men entrusted with high judicial functions, and announced to

the two priests that they proposed to visit the possessed women and

witness for themselves the miracles that were taking place. The clerics

offered no opposition, but said they feared that the devils were

fatigued and would refuse to reply; and, in fact, when the officials

reached the sickroom the two patients appeared to have regained some

degree of calm. Mignon took advantage of this quiet moment to say mass,

to which the two magistrates listened devoutly and tranquilly, and while

the sacrifice was being offered the demons did not dare to move. It was

expected that they would offer some opposition at the elevation of the

Host, but everything passed off without disturbance, only the lay

sister’s hands and feet twitched a great deal; and this was the only

fact which the magistrates thought worthy of mention in their report for

that morning. Barre assured them, however, that if they would return

about three o’clock the devils would probably have recovered

sufficiently from their fatigue to give a second performance.

As the two gentlemen had determined to see the affair to the end, they

returned to the convent at the hour named, accompanied by Messire Irenee

de Sainte-Marthe, sieur Deshurneaux; and found the room in which the

possessed were lying full of curious spectators; for the exorcists had

been true prophets—the devils were at work again.

The superior, as always, was the more tormented of the two, as was only

to be expected, she having seven devils in her all at once; she was

terribly convulsed, and was writhing and foaming at the mouth as if she

were mad. No one could long continue in such a condition without serious

injury to health; Barre therefore asked the devil-in-chief how soon he

would come out. "Cras mane" (To-morrow morning), he replied. The

exorcist then tried to hurry him, asking him why he would not come out

at once; whereupon the superior murmured the word "Pactum" (A pact); and

then "Sacerdos" (A priest), and finally "Finis," or "Finit," for even

those nearest could not catch the word distinctly, as the devil, afraid

doubtless of perpetrating a barbarism, spoke through the nun’s closely

clenched teeth. This being all decidedly unsatisfying, the magistrates

insisted that the examination should continue, but the devils had again

exhausted themselves, and refused to utter another word. The priest even

tried touching the superior’s head with the pyx, while prayers and

litanies were recited, but it was all in vain, except that some of the

spectators thought that the contortions of the patient became more

violent when the intercessions of certain saints were invoked, as for

instance Saints Augustine Jerome, Antony, and Mary Magdalene. Barre next

directed the mother superior to dedicate her heart and soul to God,

which she did without difficulty; but when he commanded her to dedicate

her body also, the chief devil indicated by fresh convulsions that he

was not going to allow himself to be deprived of a domicile without

resistance, and made those who had heard him say that he would leave the

next morning feel that he had only said so under compulsion; and their

curiosity as to the result became heightened. At length, however,

despite the obstinate resistance of the demon, the superior succeeded in

dedicating her body also to God, and thus victorious her features

resumed their usual expression, and smiling as if nothing had happened,

she turned to Barre and said that there was no vestige of Satan left in

her. The civil lieutenant then asked her if she remembered the questions

she had been asked and the answers she had given, but she replied that

she remembered nothing; but afterwards, having taken some refreshment,

she said to those around her that she recollected perfectly how the

first possession, over which Mignon had triumphed, had taken place: one

evening about ten o’clock, while several nuns were still in her room,

although she was already in bed, it seemed to her that someone took her

hand and laid something in it, closing her fingers; at that instant she

felt a sharp pain as if she had been pricked by three pins, and hearing

her scream, the nuns came to her bedside to ask what ailed her. She held

out her hand, and they found three black thorns sticking in it, each

having made a tiny wound. Just as she had told this tale, the lay

sister, as if to prevent all commentary, was seized with convulsions,

and Barre recommenced his prayers and exorcisms, but was soon

interrupted by shrieks; for one of the persons present had seen a black

cat come down the chimney and disappear. Instantly everyone concluded it

must be the devil, and began to seek it out. It was not without great

difficulty that it was caught; for, terrified at the sight of so many

people and at the noise, the poor animal had sought refuge under a

canopy; but at last it was secured and carried to the superior’s

bedside, where Barre began his exorcisms once more, covering the cat

with signs of the cross, and adjuring the devil to take his true shape.

Suddenly the ’touriere’, (the woman who received the tradespeople,) came

forward, declaring the supposed devil to be only her cat, and she

immediately took possession of it, lest some harm should happen to it.

The gathering had been just about to separate, but Barre fearing that

the incident of the cat might throw a ridiculous light upon the evil

spirits, resolved to awake once more a salutary terror by announcing

that he was going to burn the flowers through which the second spell had

been made to work. Producing a bunch of white roses, already faded, he

ordered a lighted brazier to be brought. He then threw the flowers on

the glowing charcoal, and to the general astonishment they were consumed

without any visible effect: the heavens still smiled, no peal of thunder

was heard, and no unpleasant odour diffused itself through the room.

Barre feeling that the baldness of this act of destruction had had a bad

effect, predicted that the morrow would bring forth wondrous things;

that the chief devil would speak more distinctly than hitherto; that he

would leave the body of the superior, giving such clear signs of his

passage that no one would dare to doubt any longer that it was a case of

genuine possession. Thereupon the criminal lieutenant, Henri Herve, who

had been present during the exorcism, said they must seize upon the

moment of his exit to ask about Pivart, who was unknown at Loudun,

although everyone who lived there knew everybody else. Barre replied in

Latin, "Et hoc dicet epuellam nominabit" (He will not only tell about

him, but he will also name the young girl). The young girl whom the

devil was to name was, it may be recollected, she who had introduced the

flowers into the convent, and whose name the demon until now had

absolutely refused to give. On the strength of these promises everyone

went home to await the morrow with impatience.

CHAPTER IV

That evening Grandier asked the bailiff for an audience. At first he had

made fun of the exorcisms, for the story had been so badly concocted,

and the accusations were so glaringly improbable, that he had not felt

the least anxiety. But as the case went on it assumed such an important

aspect, and the hatred displayed by his enemies was so intense, that the

fate of the priest Gaufredi, referred to by Mignon, occurred to Urbain’s

mind, and in order to be beforehand with his enemies he determined to

lodge a complaint against them. This complaint was founded on the fact

that Mignon had performed the rite of exorcism in the presence of the

civil lieutenant, the bailiff, and many other persons, and had caused

the nuns who were said to be possessed, in the hearing of all these

people, to name him, Urbain, as the author of their possession. This

being a falsehood and an attack upon his honour, he begged the bailiff,

in whose hands the conduct of the affair had been specially placed, to

order the nuns to be sequestered, apart from the rest of the sisterhood

and from each other, and then to have each separately examined. Should

there appear to be any evidence of possession, he hoped that the bailiff

would be pleased to appoint clerics of well-known rank and upright

character to perform whatever exorcisms were needful; such men having no

bias against him would be more impartial than Mignon and his adherents.

He also called upon the bailiff to have an exact report drawn up of

everything that took place at the exorcisms, in order that, if

necessary, he as petitioner might be able to lay it before anyone to

whose judgment he might appeal. The bailiff gave Grandier a statement of

the conclusions at which he had arrived, and told him that the exorcisms

had been performed that day by Barre, armed with the authority of the

Bishop of Poitiers himself. Being, as we have seen, a man of common

sense and entirely unprejudiced in the matter, the bailiff advised

Grandier to lay his complaint before his bishop; but unfortunately he

was under the authority of the Bishop of Poitiers, who was so prejudiced

against him that he had done everything in his power to induce the

Archbishop of Bordeaux to refuse to ratify the decision in favour of

Grandier, pronounced by the presidial court. Urbain could not hide from

the magistrate that he had nothing to hope for from this quarter, and it

was decided that he should wait and see what the morrow would bring

forth, before taking any further step.

The impatiently expected day dawned at last, and at eight o’clock in the

morning the bailiff, the king’s attorney, the civil lieutenant, the

criminal lieutenant, and the provost’s lieutenant, with their respective

clerks, were already at the convent. They found the outer gate open, but

the inner door shut. In a few moments Mignon came to them and brought

them into a waiting-room. There he told them that the nuns were

preparing for communion, and that he would be very much obliged to them

if they would withdraw and wait in a house across the street, just

opposite the convent, and that he would send them word when they could

come back. The magistrates, having first informed Mignon of Urbain’s

petition, retired as requested.