the floor pierced in several places, but nothing unusual was discovered.
Would they have to give it up? Already the officer was making signs to
this effect, when the man who had remained at first below with Monsieur
de Lamotte, and who, standing in shadow, had carefully watched Derues
when he was brought down, came forward, and pointing to the recess under
the stairs, said—
"Examine this corner. The prisoner glanced involuntarily in this
direction when he came down; I have watched him, and it is the only sign
he has given. I was the only person who could see him, and he did not
see me. He is very clever, but one can’t be for ever on one’s guard, and
may the devil take me if I haven’t scented the hiding-place."
"Wretch!" said Derues to himself, "then you have had your hand on me for
a whole hour, and amused yourself by prolonging my agony! Oh! I ought to
have known it; I have found my master. Never mind, you shall learn
nothing from my face, nor yet from the decaying body you will find;
worms and poison can only have left an unrecognisable corpse."
An iron rod sunk into the ground, encountered a hard substance some four
feet below. Two men set to work, and dug with energy. Every eye was
fixed upon this trench increasing in depth with every shovelful of earth
which the two labourers cast aside. Monsieur de Lamotte was nearly
fainting, and his emotion impressed everyone except Derues. At length
the silence was broken by the spades striking heavily on wood, and the
noise made everyone shudder. The chest was uncovered and hoisted out of
the trench; it was opened, and the body of a woman was seen, clad only
in a chemise, with a red and white headband, face downwards. The body
was turned over, and Monsieur de Lamotte recognised his wife, not yet
disfigured.
The feeling of horror was so great that no one spoke or uttered a sound.
Derues, occupied in considering the few chances which remained to him,
had not observed that, by the officer’s order, one of the guards had
left the cellar before the men began to dig. Everybody had drawn back
both from the corpse and the murderer, who alone had not moved, and who
was repeating prayers. The flame of the torches placed on the ground
cast a reddish light on this silent and terrible scene.
Derues started and turned round on hearing a terrified cry behind him.
His wife had just been brought to the cellar. The commissioner seized
her with one hand, and taking a torch in the other, compelled her to
look down on the body.
"It is Madame de Lamotte!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, yes," she answered, overwhelmed with terror,—"yes, I recognise
her!"
Unable to support the sight any longer, she grew pale and fainted away.
She and her husband were removed separately. One would have supposed the
discovery was already known outside, for the people showered curses and
cries of "Assassin!" and "Poisoner!" on the carriage which conveyed
Derues. He remained silent during the drive, but before re-entering his
dungeon, he said—
"I must have been mad when I sought to hide the death and burial of
Madame de Lamotte from public knowledge. It is the only sin I have
committed, and, innocent of aught else, I resign myself as a Christian
to the judgment of God."
It was the only line of defence which remained open to him, and he clung
to it, with the hope of imposing on the magistrates by redoubled
hypocrisy and pious observances. But all this laboriously constructed
scaffolding of lies was shaken to its base and fell away piece by piece.
Every moment brought fresh and overwhelming revelations. He professed
that Madame de Lamotte had died suddenly in his house, and that, fearing
suspicion, he had buried her secretly. But the doctors called on to
examine the body declared that she had been poisoned with corrosive
sublimate and opium. The pretended payment was clearly an odious
imposture, the receipt a forgery! Then, like a threatening spectre,
arose another question, to which he found no reply, and his own
invention turned against him.
Why, knowing his mother was no more, had he taken young de Lamotte to
Versailles? What had become of the youth? What had befallen, him? Once
on the track, the cooper with whom he had lodged on the 12th of February
was soon discovered, and an Act of Parliament ordered the exhumation of
the corpse buried under the name of Beaupre, which the cooper identified
by a shirt which he had given for the burial. Derues, confounded by the
evidence, asserted that the youth died of indigestion and venereal
disease. But the doctors again declared the presence of corrosive
sublimate and opium. All this evidence of guilt he met with assumed
resignation, lamenting incessantly for Edouard, whom he declared he had
loved as his own son. "Alas!" he said, "I see that poor boy every night!
But it softens my grief to know that he was not deprived of the last
consolations of religion! God, who sees me, and who knows my innocence,
will enlighten the magistrates, and my honour will be vindicated."
The evidence being complete, Derues was condemned by sentence of the
Chatelet, pronounced April 30th, and confirmed by Parliament, May 5th.
We give the decree as it is found in the archives:
"This Court having considered the trial held before the Provost of
Paris, or his Deputy-Lieutenant at the Chatelet, for the satisfaction of
the aforesaid Deputy at the aforesaid Chatelet, at the request of the
Deputy of the King’s Attorney General at the aforesaid Court, summoner
and plaintiff, against Antoine-Francois Derues, and Marie-Louise
Nicolais, his wife, defendants and accused, prisoners in the prisons of
the Conciergerie of the Palace at Paris, who have appealed from the
sentence given at the aforesaid trial, the thirtieth day of April 1777,
by which the aforesaid Antoine-Francois Derues has been declared duly
attainted and convicted of attempting unlawfully to appropriate without
payment, the estate of Buissony Souef, belonging to the Sieur and Dame
de Saint Faust de Lamotte, from whom he had bought the said estate by
private contract on the twenty-second day of December 1775, and also of
having unworthily abused the hospitality shown by him since the
sixteenth day of December last towards the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte,
who arrived in Paris on the aforesaid day in order to conclude with him
the bargain agreed on in December 1775, and who, for this purpose, and
at his request, lodged with her son in the house of the said Derues, who
of premeditated design poisoned the said Dame de Lamotte, whether by a
medicine composed and prepared by him on the thirtieth day of January
last, or by the beverages and drinks administered by him after the
aforesaid medicine (he having taken the precaution to send his servant
into the country for two or three days), and to keep away strangers from
the room where the said Dame de Lamotte was lying), from the effects of
which poison the said Dame de Lamotte died on the night of the said
thirty-first day of January last; also of having kept her demise secret,
and of having himself enclosed in a chest the body of the said Dame de
Lamotte, which he then caused to be secretly transported to a cellar in
the rue de la Mortellerie hired by him for this purpose, under the
assumed name of Ducoudray, wherein he buried it himself, or caused it to
be buried; also of having persuaded the son of the above Dame de Lamotte
(who, with his mother, had lodged in his house from the time of their
arrival in Paris until the fifteenth day of January, last,—and who had
then been placed in a school that the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte was at
Versailles and desired him to join her there, and, under this pretence,
of having conducted the said younger Sieur de Lamotte, the twelfth day
of February (after having given him some chocolate), to the aforesaid
town of Versailles, to a lodging hired at a cooper’s, and of having
there wilfully poisoned him, either in the chocolate taken by the said
younger Sieur de Lamotte before starting, or in beverages and
medicaments which the said Derues himself prepared, mixed, and
administered to the aforesaid Sieur de Lamotte the younger, during the
eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth days of February last,
having kept him lying ill in the aforesaid hired room, and having
refused to call in physicians or surgeons, notwithstanding the progress
of the malady, and the representations made to him on the subject,
saying that he himself was a physician and surgeon; from which poison
the said Sieur de Lamotte the younger died on the fifteenth day of
February last, at nine o’clock in the evening, in the arms of the
aforesaid Derues, who, affecting the deepest grief, and shedding tears,
actually exhorted the aforesaid Sieur de Lamotte to confession, and
repeated the prayers for the dying; after which he himself laid out the
body for burial, saying that the deceased had begged him to do so, and
telling the people of the house that he had died of venereal disease;
also of having caused him to be buried the next day in the churchyard of
the parish church of Saint Louis at the aforesaid Versailles, and of
having entered the deceased in the register of the said parish under a
false birthplace, and the false name of Beaupre, which name the said
Derues had himself assumed on arriving at the said lodging, and had
given to the said Sieur de Lamotte the younger, whom he declared to be
his nephew. Also, to cover these atrocities, and in order to appropriate
to himself the aforesaid estate of Buisson-Souef, he is convicted of
having calumniated the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte, and of having used
various manoeuvres and practised several deceptions, to wit—
"First, in signing, or causing to be signed, the names of the above Dame
de Lamotte to a deed of private contract between the said Derues and his
wife on one side and the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte by right of a power
of attorney given by her husband on the other (the which deed is dated
the twelfth day of February, and was therefore written after the decease
of the said Dame de Lamotte); by which deed the said Dame de Lamotte
appears to change the previous conventions agreed on in the first deed
of the twenty-second of December in the year 1775, and acknowledges
receipt from the said Derues of a sum of one hundred thousand livres, as
being the price of the estate of Buisson;
"Secondly, in signing before a notary, the ninth day of February last, a
feigned acknowledgment for a third part of a hundred thousand livres, in
order to give credence to the pretended payment made by him;
"Thirdly, in announcing and publishing, and attesting even by oath at
the time of an examination before the commissioner Mutel, that he had
really paid in cash to the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte the aforesaid
hundred thousand livres, and that she, being provided with this money,
had fled with her son and a certain person unknown;
"Fourthly, in depositing with a notary the deed of private contract
bearing the pretended receipt for the above sum of one hundred thousand
livres, and pursuing at law the execution of this deed and of his claim
to the possession of the said estate;
"Fifthly, in signing or causing to be signed by another person, before
the notaries of the town of Lyons, whither he had gone for this purpose,
a deed dated the twelfth day of March, by which the supposed Dame de
Lamotte appeared to accept the payment of the hundred thousand livres,
and to give authority to the Sieur de Lamotte, her husband, to receive
the arrears of the remainder of the price of the said estate, the which
deed he produced as a proof of the existence of the said Dame de
Lamotte;
"Sixthly, in causing to be sent, by other hands, under the name of the
aforesaid Dame de Lamotte, to a lawyer, on the eighth day o f April 1777
(at a time when he was in prison, and had been compelled to abandon the
fable that he had paid the aforesaid sum of one hundred thousand livres
in hard cash, and had substituted a pretended payment made in notes),
the notes pretended to have been given by him in payment to the said
Dame de Lamotte;
"Seventh, and finally, in maintaining constantly, until the discovery of
the body of the aforesaid Dame de Lamotte, that the said Dame was still
alive, and that he had seen her at the town of Lyons, as has been stated
above.
"In atonement has been condemned, etc. etc. etc.
"His goods are hereby declared acquired and confiscated to the King, or
to whomsoever His Majesty shall appoint, first deducting the sum of two
hundred livres as fine for the King, in case the confiscation is not to
the sole profit of His Majesty; and also the sum of six hundred livres
for masses to be said for the repose of the souls of the aforesaid Dame
de Lamotte and her son. And, before being executed, the said
Antoine-Francois Derues shall suffer the question ordinary and
extraordinary, in order that from his mouth may be learned the truth of
these facts, and also the names of his accomplices. And the decision of
the judges in the proceedings with regard to the above-mentioned
Marie-Louise Nicolais, wife of Derues, is delayed until after the
execution of the above sentence. It is also decreed that the mortuary
act of the aforesaid de Lamotte the younger, dated the sixteenth day of
February last, in the register of deaths belonging to the parish church
of Saint-Louis at Versailles, be amended, and his correct names be
substituted, in order that the said Sieur de Lamotte, the father, and
other persons interested, may produce said names before the magistrates
if required. And it is also decreed that this sentence be printed and
published by the deputy of the Attorney-General at the Chatelet, and
affixed to the walls in the usual places and cross roads of the town,
provostship and viscounty of Paris, and wherever else requisite.
"With regard to the petition of Pierre-Etienne de Saint-Faust de
Lamotte, a Royal Equerry, Sieur de Grange-Flandre, Buisson-Souef,
Valperfond, and other places, widower and inheritor of Marie Francois
Perier, his wife, according to their marriage contract signed before
Baron and partner, notaries at Paris, the fifth day of September 1762,
whereby he desires to intervene in the action brought against Derues and
his accomplices, concerning the assassination and poisoning committed on
the persons of the wife and son of the said Sieur de Saint-Faust de
Lamotte, on the accusation made by him to the Deputy Attorney-General of
the King at the Chatelet at present pending in the Court, on the report
of the final judgment given in the said action the 30th of April last,
and which allowed the intervention; it is decreed that there shall be
levied on the goods left by the condemned, before the rights of the
Treasury, and separate from them, the sum of six thousand livres, or
such other sum as it shall please the Court to award; from which sum the
said Saint-Faust de Lamotte shall consent to deduct the sum of two
thousand seven hundred and forty-eight livres, which he acknowledges has
been sent or remitted to him by the said Derues and his wife at
different times; which first sum of six thousand livres, or such other,
shall be employed by the said Sieur de Saint-Faust de Lamotte, who is
authorised to found therewith, in the parish church of Saint Nicholas de
Villeneuve-le-Roy, in which parish the estate of Buisson-Souef is
situate, and which is mentioned in the action, an annual and perpetual
service for the repose of the souls of the wife and son of the said
Sieur de Saint-Faust de Lamotte, of which an act shall be inserted in
the decree of intervention, and a copy of this act or decree shall be
inscribed upon a stone which shall be set in the wall of the said church
of Saint Nicholas de Villeneuve-le-Roy, in such place as is expedient.
And the deed of contract for private sale, made between the late spouse
of the said Sieur de Saint-Faust de Lamotte and the above-named Derues
and his wife, is hereby declared null and void, as having had no value
in absence of any payment or realisation of contract before a notary;
and the pretended agreement of the twelfth day of February last, as also
all other deeds fabricated by the said Derues or others, named in the
above action, as also any which may hereafter be presented, are hereby
declared to be null and void.
"The Court declares the judgment pronounced by the magistrates of the
Chatelet against the above named Derues to be good and right, and his
appeal against the same to be bad and ill-founded.
"It is decreed that the sentence shall lose its full and entire effect
with regard to Marie-Louise Nicolais, who is condemned to the ordinary
fine of twelve livres. The necessary relief granted on the petition of
Pierre-Etienne de Saint-Faust de Lamotte, the second day of May this
present month, and delay accorded until after the suspended judgment
pronounced with regard to the said Marie-Louise Nicolais.
"(Signed) De Gourgues, President.
"OUTREMONT, Councillor."
Derues’ assurance and calmness never deserted him for one moment. For
three-quarters of an hour he harangued the Parliament, and his defence
was remarkable both for its presence of mind and the art with which he
made the most of any circumstances likely to suggest doubts to the
magistrates and soften the severity of the first sentence. Found guilty
on every point, he yet protested that he was innocent of poisoning.
Remorse, which often merely means fear of punishment, had no place in
his soul, and torture he seemed not to dread. As strong in will as he
was weak in body, he desired to die like a martyr in the faith of his
religion, which was hypocrisy, and the God whom he gloried on the
scaffold was the god of lies.
On May 6th, at seven in the morning, the sentence of execution was read
to him. He listened calmly, and when it was finished, remarked:
"I had not anticipated so severe a sentence."
A few hours later the instruments of torture were got ready. He was told
that this part of his punishment would be remitted if he would confess
his crimes and the names of his accomplices. He replied:
"I have no more to say. I know what terrible torture awaits me, I know I
must die to-day, but I have nothing to confess."
He made no resistance when his knees and legs were bound, and endured
the torture courageously. Only, in a moment of agony, he exclaimed:
"Accursed money! has thou reduced me to this?"
Thinking that pain would overcome his resolution, the presiding
magistrate bent towards him, and said:
"Unhappy man! confess thy crime, since death is near at hand."
He recovered his firmness, and, looking at the magistrate, replied:
"I know it, monseigneur; I have perhaps not three hours to live."
Thinking that his apparently feeble frame could not endure the last
wedges, the executioner was ordered to stop. He was unbound and laid on
a mattress, and a glass of wine was brought, of which he only drank a
few drops; after this, he made his confession to the priest. For,
dinner, they brought him soup and stew, which he ate eagerly, and
inquiring of the gaoler if he could have something more, an entree was
brought in addition. One might have thought that this final repast
heralded, not death but deliverance. At length three o’clock struck the
hour appointed for leaving the prison.
According to the report of credible persons whom we have consulted,
Paris on this occasion presented a remarkable appearance, which those
who saw it were never able to forget. The great anthill was troubled to
its very lowest depth. Whether by accident or design, the same day had
been fixed for a function which ought to have proved a considerable
counter attraction. A great festival in honour of a German prince was
given on the Plaine de Grenelle, at which all the court was present; and
probably more than one great lady regretted missing the emotions of the
Place de Greve, abandoned to the rabble and the bourgeoisie. The rest of
the city was deserted, the streets silent, the houses closed. A stranger
transported suddenly into such a solitude might have reasonably thought
that during the night the town had been smitten by the Angel of Death,
and that only a labyrinth of vacant buildings remained, testifying to
the life and turmoil of the preceding day. A dark and dense atmosphere
hung over the abandoned town; lightning furrowed the heavy motionless
clouds; in the distance the occasional rumble of thunder was heard,
answered by the cannon of the royal fete. The crowd was divided between
the powers of heaven and earth: the terrible majesty of the Eternal on
one side, on the other the frivolous pomp of royalty—eternal punishment
and transient grandeur in opposition. Like the waters of a flood leaving
dry the fields which they have covered, so the waves of the multitude
forsook their usual course. Thousands of men and women crowded together
along the route which the death-cart would take; an ocean of heads
undulated like the ears in a wheatfield. The old houses, hired at high
rates, quivered under the weight of eager spectators, and the window
sashes had been removed to afford a better view.
Attired in the shirt worn by condemned criminals, and bearing a placard
both in front and behind, with the words "Wilful Poisoner," Derues
descended the great staircase of the Chatelet with a firm step. It was
at this moment, on seeing the crucifix, that he exclaimed, "O Christ, I
shall suffer like Thee!" He mounted the tumbril, looking right and left
amongst the crowd. During the progress he recognised and bowed to
several of his old associates, and bade adieu in a clear voice to the
former mistress of his ’prentice days, who has recorded that she never
saw him look so pleasant. Arrived at the door of Notre Dame, where the
clerk was awaiting him, he descended from the tumbril without
assistance, took a lighted wax taper weighing two pounds in his hand,
and did penance, kneeling, bareheaded and barefooted, a rope round his
neck, repeating the words of the death-warrant. He then reascended the
cart in the midst of the cries and execrations of the populace, to which
he appeared quite insensible. One voice only, endeavouring to dominate
the tumult, caused him to turn his head: it was that of the hawker who
was crying his sentence, and who broke off now and then to say—
"Well! my poor gossip Derues, how do you like that fine carriage you’re
in? Oh yes, mutter your prayers and look up to heaven as much as you
like, you won’t take us in now. Ah! thief who said I stole from you!
Wasn’t I right when I said I should be selling your sentence some day?"
Then, adding her own wrongs to the list of crimes, she declared that the
Parliament had condemned him as much for having falsely accused her of
theft as for having poisoned Madame de Lamotte and her son!
When arrived at the scaffold, he gazed around him, and a sort of shiver
of impatience ran through the crowd. He smiled, and as if anxious to
trick mankind for the last time, asked to be taken to the Hotel de
Ville, which was granted, in the hope that he would at last make some
confession; but he only persisted in saying that he was guiltless of
poisoning. He had an interview with his wife, who nearly fainted on
seeing him, and remained for more than a quarter of an hour unable to
say a word. He lavished tender names upon her, and professed much
affliction at seeing her in so miserable a condition.
When she was taken away, he asked permission to embrace her, and took a
most touching farewell. His last words have been preserved.
"My dear wife," he said, "I recommend our beloved children to your care:
bring them up in the fear of God. You must go to Chartres, you will
there see the bishop, on whom I had the honour of waiting when I was
there last, and who has always been kind to me; I believe he has thought
well of me, and that I may hope he will take pity on you and on our
children."
It was now seven in the evening, and the crowd began to murmur at the
long delay. At length the criminal reappeared. An onlooker who saw him
go to the Hotel de Ville, and who was carried by the movement of the
crowd to the foot of the scaffold, says that when handed over to the
executioner he took off his clothes himself. He kissed the instrument of
punishment with devotion, then extended himself on the St. Andrew’s
cross, asking with a resigned smile that they would make his sufferings
as short as possible. As soon as his head was covered, the executioner
gave the signal. One would have thought a very few blows would have
finished so frail a being, but he seemed as hard to kill as the venomous
reptiles which must be crushed and cut to pieces before life is extinct,
and the coup de grace was found necessary. The executioner uncovered his
head and showed the confessor that the eyes were closed and that the
heart had ceased to beat. The body was then removed from the cross, the
hands and feet fastened together, and it was thrown on the funeral pile.
While the execution was proceeding the people applauded. On the morrow
they bought up the fragments of bone, and hastened to buy lottery
tickets, in the firm conviction that these precious relics would bring
luck to the fortunate possessors!
In 1777, Madame Derues was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, and
confined at the Salpetriere. She was one of the first victims who
perished in the prison massacres.
*LA CONSTANTIN—1660*
CHAPTER I
Before beginning our story, we must warn the reader that it will not be
worth his while to make researches among contemporary or other records
as to the personage whose name it bears. For in truth neither Marie
Leroux, widow of Jacques Constantin, nor her accomplice, Claude
Perregaud, was of sufficient importance to find a place on any list of
great criminals, although it is certain that they were guilty of the
crimes with which they were charged. It may seem strange that what
follows is more a history of the retribution which overtook the
criminals than a circumstantial description of the deeds for which they
were punished; but the crimes were so revolting, and so unsuitable for
discussion, that it was impossible for us to enter into any details on
the subject, so that what we offer in these pages is, we confess quite
openly, not a full, true, and particular account of a certain series of
events leading up to a certain result; it is not even a picture wherein
that result is depicted with artistic completeness, it is only an
imperfect narrative imperfectly rounded off. We feel sure, however, that
the healthy-minded reader will be grateful for our reticence and total
disregard of proportion. In spite of the disadvantage which such a theme
imposes on any writer with a deep sense of responsibility, we have
resolved to let in some light on these obscure figures; for we can
imagine no more effective way of throwing into high relief the low
morals and deep corruption into which all classes of society had sunk at
the termination of the factious dissensions of the Fronde, which formed
such a fitting prelude to the licence of the reign of the grand roi.
After this explanation, we shall, without further preamble, introduce
the reader to a little tavern in Paris, situated in the rue
Saint-Andre-des-Arts, on an evening in November 1658.
It was about seven o’clock. Three gentlemen were seated at one of the
tables in a low, smoky room. They had already emptied several bottles,
and one of them seemed to have just suggested some madcap scheme to the
others, the thought of which sent them off into shouts of laughter.
"Pardu!" said one of them, who was the first to recover his breath, "I
must say it would be an excellent trick."
"Splendid!" said another; "and if you like, Commander de Jars, we can
try it this very evening."
"All right, my worthy king’s treasurer, provided my pretty nephew here
won’t be too much shocked," and as he spoke de Jars gave to the youngest
of the three a caressing touch on the cheek with the back of his hand.
"That reminds me, de Jars!" said the treasurer, "that word you have just
said piques my curiosity. For some months now this little fellow here,
Chevalier de Moranges, follows you about everywhere like your shadow.
You never told us you had a nephew. Where the devil did you get him?"
The commander touched the chevalier’s knee under the table, and he, as
if to avoid speaking, slowly filled and emptied his glass.
"Look here," said the treasurer, "do you want to hear a few plain words,
such as I shall rap out when God takes me to task about the peccadilloes
of my past life? I don’t believe a word about the relationship. A nephew
must be the son of either a brother or a sister. Now, your only sister
is an abbess, and your late brother’s marriage was childless. There is
only one way of proving the relationship, and that is to confess that
when your brother was young and wild he and Love met, or else Madame
l’Abbesse——."
"Take care, Treasurer Jeannin! no slander against my sister!"
"Well, then, explain; you can’t fool me! May I be hanged if I leave this
place before I have dragged the secret out of you! Either we are friends
or we are not. What you tell no one else you ought to tell me. What!
would you make use of my purse and my sword on occasion and yet have
secrets from me? It’s too bad: speak, or our friendship is at an end! I
give you fair warning that I shall find out everything and publish it
abroad to court and city: when I strike a trail there’s no turning me
aside. It will be best for you to whisper your secret voluntarily into
my ear, where it will be as safe as in the grave."
"How full of curiosity you are, my good friend!" said de Jars, leaning
one elbow on the table, and twirling the points of his moustache with
his hand; "but if I were to wrap my secret round the point of a dagger
would you not be too much afraid of pricking your fingers to pull it
off?"
"Not I," said the king’s treasurer, beginning to twirl his moustache
also: "the doctors have always told me that I am of too full a
complexion and that it would do me all the good in the world to be bled
now and then. But what would be an advantage to me would be dangerous to
you. It’s easy to see from your jaundiced phiz that for you
blood-letting is no cure."
"And you would really go that length? You would risk a duel if I refused
to let you get to the bottom of my mystery?"
"Yes, on my honour! Well, how is it to be?"
"My dear boy," said de Jars to the youth, "we are caught, and may as
well yield gracefully. You don’t know this big fellow as well as I do.
He’s obstinacy itself. You can make the most obstinate donkey go on by
pulling its tail hard enough, but when Jeannin gets a notion into his
pate, not all the legions of hell can get it out again. Besides that,
he’s a skilful fencer, so there’s nothing for it but to trust him."
"Just as you like," said the young man; "you know all my circumstances
and how important it is that my secret should be kept."
"Oh! among Jeannin’s many vices there are a few virtues, and of these
discretion is the greatest, so that his curiosity is harmless. A quarter
of an hour hence he will let himself be killed rather than reveal what
just now he is ready to risk his skin to find out, whether we will or
no."
Jeannin nodded approvingly, refilled the glasses, and raising his to his
lips, said in a tone of triumph—
"I am listening, commander."
"Well, if it must be, it must. First of all, learn that my nephew is not
my nephew at all."
"Go on."
"That his name is not Moranges."
"And the next?"
"I am not going to reveal his real name to you."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know it myself, and no more does the chevalier."
"What’ nonsense!"
"No nonsense at all, but the sober truth. A few months ago the chevalier
came to Paris, bringing me a letter of introduction from a German whom I
used to know years ago. This letter requested me to look after the
bearer and help him in his investigations. As you said just now, Love
and someone once met somewhere, and that was about all was known as to
his origin. Naturally the young man wants to cut a figure in the world,
and would like to discover the author of his existence, that he may have
someone at hand to pay the debts he is going to incur. We have brought
together every scrap of information we could collect as to this person,
hoping to find therein a clue that we could follow up. To be quite open
with you, and convince you at the same time how extremely prudent and
discreet we must be, I must tell you that we think we have found one,
and that it leads to no less a dignitary than a Prince of the Church.
But if he should get wind of our researches too soon everything would be
at an end, don’t you see? So keep your tongue between your teeth."
"Never fear," said Jeannin.
"Now, that’s what I call speaking out as a friend should. I wish you
luck, my gallant Chevalier de Moranges, and until you unearth your
father, if you want a little money, my purse is at your service. On my
word, de Jars, you must have been born with a caul. There never was your
equal for wonderful adventures. This one promises well-spicy intrigues,
scandalous revelations, and you’ll be in the thick of it all. You’re a
lucky fellow! It’s only a few months since you had the most splendid
piece of good fortune sent you straight from heaven. A fair lady falls
in love with you and makes you carry her off from the convent of La
Raquette. But why do you never let anyone catch a glimpse of her? Are
you jealous? Or is it that she is no such beauty, after all, but old and
wrinkled, like that knave of a Mazarin?"
"I know what I’m about," answered de Jars, smiling; "I have my very good
reasons. The elopement caused a great deal of indignation, and it’s not
easy to get fanatics to listen to common sense. No, I am not in the
least jealous; she is madly in love with me. Ask my nephew."
"Does he know her?"
"We have no secrets from each other; the confidence between us is
without a flaw. The fair one, believe me, is good to look on, and is
worth all the ogling, fan-flirting baggages put together that one sees
at court or on the balconies of the Palais Roy: ah! I’ll answer for
that. Isn’t she, Moranges?"
"I’m quite of your opinion," said the youth; exchanging with de jars a
singularly significant look; "and you had better treat her well, uncle,
or I shall play you some trick."
"Ah! ah!" cried Jeannin. "You poor fellow! I very much fear that you are
warming a little serpent in your bosom. Have an eye to this dandy with
the beardless chin! But joking apart, my boy, are you really on good
terms with the fair lady?"
"Certainly I am."
"And you are not uneasy, commander?"
"Not the least little bit."
"He is quite right. I answer for her as for my self, you know; as long
as he loves her she will love him; as long as he is faithful she will be
faithful. Do you imagine that a woman who insists on her lover carrying
her off can so easily turn away from the man of her choice? I know her
well; I have had long talks with her, she and I alone: she is
feather-brained, given to pleasure, entirely without prejudices and
those stupid scruples which spoil the lives of other women; but a good
sort on the whole; devoted to my uncle, with no deception about her; but
at the same time extremely jealous, and has no notion of letting herself
be sacrificed to a rival. If ever she finds herself deceived, good-bye
to prudence and reserve, and then—"
A look and a touch of the commander’s knee cut this panegyric short, to
which the treasurer was listening with open-eyed astonishment.
"What enthusiasm!" he exclaimed. "Well, and then——"
"Why, then," went on the young man, with a laugh, "if my uncle behaves
badly, I, his nephew, will try to make up for his wrong-doing: he can’t
blame me then. But until then he may be quite easy, as he well knows."
"Oh yes, and in proof of that I am going to take Moranges with me
to-night. He is young and inexperienced, and it will be a good lesson
for him to see how a gallant whose amorous intrigues did not begin
yesterday sets about getting even with a coquette. He can turn it to
account later on.
"On my word," said Jeannin, "my notion is that he is in no great need of
a teacher; however, that’s your business, not mine. Let us return to
what we were talking about just now. Are we agreed; and shall we amuse
ourselves by paying out the lady in, her own coin?"
"If you like."
"Which of us is to begin?"
De Jars struck the table with the handle of his dagger.
"More wine, gentlemen?" said the drawer, running up.
"No, dice; and be quick about it."
"Three casts each and the highest wins," said Jeannin. "You begin."
"I throw for myself and nephew." The dice rolled on the table.
"Ace and three."
"It’s my turn now. Six and five."
"Pass it over. Five and two."
"We’re equal. Four and two."
"Now let me. Ace and blank."
"Double six."
"You have won."
"And I’m off at once," said Jeannin, rising, and muffling himself in his
mantle, "It’s now half-past seven. We shall see each other again at
eight, so I won’t say good-bye."
"Good luck to you!"
Leaving the tavern and turning into the rue Pavee, he took the direction
of the river.
CHAPTER II
In 1658, at the corner of the streets Git-le-Coeur and Le Hurepoix (the
site of the latter being now occupied by the Quai des Augustins as far
as Pont Saint-Michel), stood the great mansion which Francis I had
bought and fitted up for the Duchesse d’Etampes. It was at this period
if not in ruins at least beginning to show the ravages of time. Its rich
interior decorations had lost their splendour and become antiquated.
Fashion had taken up its abode in the Marais, near the Place Royale, and
it was thither that profligate women and celebrated beauties now enticed
the humming swarm of old rakes and young libertines. Not one of them all
would have thought of residing in the mansion, or even in the quarter,
wherein the king’s mistress had once dwelt. It would have been a step
downward in the social scale, and equivalent to a confession that their
charms were falling in the public estimation. Still, the old palace was
not empty; it had, on the contrary, several tenants. Like the provinces
of Alexander’s empire, its vast suites of rooms had been subdivided; and
so neglected was it by the gay world that people of the commonest
description strutted about with impunity where once the proudest nobles
had been glad to gain admittance. There in semi-isolation and despoiled
of her greatness lived Angelique-Louise de Guerchi, formerly companion
to Mademoiselle de Pons and then maid of honour to Anne of Austria. Her
love intrigues and the scandals they gave rise to had led to her
dismissal from court. Not that she was a greater sinner than many who
remained behind, only she was unlucky enough or stupid enough to be
found out. Her admirers were so indiscreet that they had not left her a
shred of reputation, and in a court where a cardinal is the lover of a
queen, a hypocritical appearance of decorum is indispensable to success.
So Angelique had to suffer for the faults she was not clever enough to
hide. Unfortunately for her, her income went up and down with the number
and wealth of her admirers, so when she left the court all her
possessions consisted of a few articles she had gathered together out of
the wreck of her former luxury, and these she was now selling one by one
to procure the necessaries of life, while she looked back from afar with
an envious eye at the brilliant world from which she had been exiled,
and longed for better days. All hope was not at an end for her. By a
strange law which does not speak well for human nature, vice finds
success easier to attain than virtue. There is no courtesan, no matter
how low she has fallen, who cannot find a dupe ready to defend against
the world an honour of which no vestige remains. A man who doubts the
virtue of the most virtuous woman, who shows himself inexorably severe
when he discovers the lightest inclination to falter in one whose
conduct has hitherto been above reproach, will stoop and pick up out of
the gutter a blighted and tarnished reputation and protect and defend it
against all slights, and devote his life to the attempt to restore
lustre to the unclean thing dulled by the touch of many fingers. In her
days of prosperity Commander de Jars and the king’s treasurer had both
fluttered round Mademoiselle de Guerchi, and neither had fluttered in
vain. Short as was the period necessary to overcome her scruples, in as
short a period it dawned on the two candidates for her favour that each
had a successful rival in the other, and that however potent as a reason
for surrender the doubloons of the treasurer had been, the personal
appearance of the commander had proved equally cogent. As both had felt
for her only a passing fancy and not a serious passion, their
explanations with each other led to no quarrel between them; silently
and simultaneously they withdrew from her circle, without even letting
her know they had found her out, but quite determined to revenge,
themselves on her should a chance ever offer. However, other affairs of
a similar nature had intervened to prevent their carrying out this
laudable intention; Jeannin had laid siege to a more inaccessible
beauty, who had refused to listen to his sighs for less than 30 crowns,
paid in advance, and de Jars had become quite absorbed by his adventure
with the convent boarder at La Raquette, and the business of that young
stranger whom he passed off as his nephew. Mademoiselle de Guerchi had
never seen them again; and with her it was out of sight out of mind. At
the moment when she comes into our story she was weaving her toils round
a certain Duc de Vitry, whom she had seen at court, but whose
acquaintance she had never made, and who had been absent when the
scandalous occurrence which led to her disgrace came to light. He was a
man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, who idled his life
away: his courage was undoubted, and being as credulous as an old
libertine, he was ready to draw his sword at any moment to defend the
lady whose cause he had espoused, should any insolent slanderer dare to
hint there was a smirch on her virtue. Being deaf to all reports, he
seemed one of those men expressly framed by heaven to be the consolation
of fallen women; such a man as in our times a retired opera-dancer or a
superannuated professional beauty would welcome with open arms. He had
only one fault—he was married. It is true he neglected his wife,
according to the custom of the time, and it is probably also true that
his wife cared very little about his infidelities. But still she was an
insurmountable obstacle to the fulfilment of Mademoiselle de Guerchi’s
hopes, who but for her might have looked forward to one day becoming a
duchess.
For about three weeks, however, at the time we are speaking of, the duke
had neither crossed her threshold nor written. He had told her he was
going for a few days to Normandy, where he had large estates, but had
remained absent so long after the date he had fixed for his return that
she began to feel uneasy. What could be keeping him? Some new flame,
perhaps. The anxiety of the lady was all the more keen, that until now
nothing had passed between them but looks of languor and words of love.
The duke had laid himself and all he possessed at the feet of Angelique,
and Angelique had refused his offer. A too prompt surrender would have
justified the reports so wickedly spread against her; and, made wise by
experience, she was resolved not to compromise her future as she had
compromised her past. But while playing at virtue she had also to play
at disinterestedness, and her pecuniary resources were consequently
almost exhausted. She had proportioned the length of her resistance to
the length of her purse, and now the prolonged absence of her lover
threatened to disturb the equilibrium which she had established between
her virtue and her money. So it happened that the cause of the lovelorn
Duc de Vitry was in great peril just at the moment when de Jars and
Jeannin resolved to approach the fair one anew. She was sitting lost in
thought, pondering in all good faith on the small profit it was to a
woman to be virtuous, when she heard voices in the antechamber. Then her
door opened, and the king’s treasurer walked in.
As this interview and those which follow took place in the presence of
witnesses, we are obliged to ask the reader to accompany us for a time
to another part of the same house.
We have said there were several tenants: now the person who occupied the
rooms next to those in which Mademoiselle de Guerchi lived was a
shopkeeper’s widow called Rapally, who was owner of one of the
thirty-two houses which then occupied the bridge Saint-Michel. They had
all been constructed at the owner’s cost, in return for a lease for
ever. The widow Rapally’s avowed age was forty, but those who knew her
longest added another ten years to that: so, to avoid error, let us say
she was forty-five. She was a solid little body, rather stouter than was
necessary for beauty; her hair was black, her complexion brown, her eyes
prominent and always moving; lively, active, and if one once yielded to
her whims, exacting beyond measure; but until then buxom and soft, and
inclined to pet and spoil whoever, for the moment, had arrested her
volatile fancy. Just as we make her acquaintance this happy individual
was a certain Maitre Quennebert, a notary of Saint Denis, and the comedy
played between him and the widow was an exact counterpart of the one
going on in the rooms of Mademoiselle de Guerchi, except that the roles
were inverted; for while the lady was as much in love as the Duc de
Vitry, the answering devotion professed by the notary was as insincere
as the disinterested attachment to her lover displayed by the whilom
maid of honour.
Maitre Quennebert was still young and of attractive appearance, but his
business affairs were in a bad way. For long he had been pretending not
to understand the marked advances of the widow, and he treated her with
a reserve and respect she would fain have dispensed with, and which
sometimes made her doubt of his love. But it was impossible for her as a
woman to complain, so she was forced to accept with resignation the
persistent and unwelcome consideration with which he surrounded her.
Maitre Quennebert was a man of common sense and much experience, and had
formed a scheme which he was prevented from carrying out by an obstacle
which he had no power to remove. He wanted, therefore, to gain time, for
he knew that the day he gave the susceptible widow a legal right over
him he would lose his independence. A lover to whose prayers the adored
one remains deaf too long is apt to draw back in discouragement, but a
woman whose part is restricted to awaiting those prayers, and answering
with a yes or no, necessarily learns patience. Maitre Quennebert would
therefore have felt no anxiety as to the effect of his dilatoriness on
the widow, were it not for the existence of a distant cousin of the late
Monsieur Rapally, who was also paying court to her, and that with a
warmth much greater than had hitherto been displayed by himself. This
fact, in view of the state of the notary’s affairs, forced him at last
to display more energy. To make up lost ground and to outdistance his
rival once more, he now began to dazzle the widow with fine phrases and
delight her with compliments; but to tell the truth all this trouble was
superfluous; he was beloved, and with one fond look he might have won
pardon for far greater neglect.
An hour before the treasurer’s arrival there had been a knock at the
door of the old house, and Maitre Quennebert, curled, pomaded, and
prepared for conquest, had presented himself at the widow’s. She
received him with a more languishing air than usual, and shot such
arrows at him from her eyes that to escape a fatal wound he pretended
to give way by degrees to deep sadness. The widow, becoming alarmed,
asked with tenderness—
"What ails you this evening?"
He rose, feeling he had nothing to fear from his rival, and, being
master of the field, might henceforth advance or recede as seemed best
for his interests.
"What ails me?" he repeated, with a deep sigh. "I might deceive you,
might give you a misleading answer, but to you I cannot lie. I am in
great trouble, and how to get out of it I don’t know."
"But tell me what it is," said the widow, standing up in her turn.
Maitre Quennebert took three long strides, which brought him to the far
end of the room, and asked—
"Why do you want to know? You can’t help me. My trouble is of a kind a
man does not generally confide to women."
"What is it? An affair of honour?
"Yes."
"Good God! You are going to fight!" she exclaimed, trying to seize him
by the arm. "You are going to fight!"
"Ah! if it were nothing worse than that!" said Quennebert, pacing up and
down the room: "but you need not be alarmed; it is only a money trouble.
I lent a large sum, a few months ago, to a friend, but the knave has run
away and left me in the lurch. It was trust money, and must be replaced
within three days. But where am I to get two thousand francs?"
"Yes, that is a large sum, and not easy to raise at such short notice."
"I shall be obliged to have recourse to some Jew, who will drain me dry.
But I must save my good name at all costs."
Madame Rapally gazed at him in consternation. Maitre Quennebert,
divining her thought, hastened to add—
"I have just one-third of what is needed."
"Only one-third?"
"With great care, and by scraping together all I possess, I can make up
eight hundred livres. But may I be damned in the next world, or punished
as a swindler in this, and one’s as bad as the other to me, if I can
raise one farthing more."
"But suppose someone should lend you the twelve hundred francs, what
then?"
"Pardieu! I should accept them," cried the notary as if he had not the
least suspicion whom she could mean. "Do you happen to know anyone, my
dear Madame Rapally?"
The widow nodded affirmatively, at the same time giving him a passionate
glance.
"Tell me quick the name of this delightful person, and I shall go to him
to-morrow morning. You don’t know what a service you are rendering me.
And I was so near not telling you of the fix I was in, lest you should
torment yourself uselessly. Tell me his name."
"Can you not guess it?"
"How should I guess it?"
"Think well. Does no one occur to you?"
"No, no one," said Quennebert, with the utmost innocence.
"Have you no friends?"
"One or two."
"Would they not be glad to help you?"
"They might. But I have mentioned the matter to no one."
"To no one?"
"Except you."
"Well?"
"Well, Madame Rapally—I hope I don’t understand you; it’s not possible;
you would not humiliate me. Come, come, it’s a riddle, and I am too
stupid to solve it. I give it up. Don’t tantalise me any longer; tell me
the name."
The widow, somewhat abashed by this exhibition of delicacy on the part
of Maitre Quennebert, blushed, cast down her eyes, and did not venture
to speak.
As the silence lasted some time, it occurred to the notary that he had
been perhaps too hasty in his supposition, and he began to cast round
for the best means of retrieving his blunder.
"You do not speak," he said; "I see it was all a joke."
"No," said the widow at last in a timid voice, "it was no joke; I was
quite in earnest. But the way you take things is not very encouraging."
"What do you mean?"
"Pray, do you imagine that I can go on while you glare at me with that
angry frown puckering your forehead, as if you had someone before you
who had tried to insult you?"
A sweet smile chased the frown from the notary’s brow. Encouraged by the
suspension of hostilities, Madame Rapally with sudden boldness
approached him, and, pressing one of his hands in both her own,
whispered—
"It is I who am going to lend you the money."
He repulsed her gently, but with an air of great dignity, and said—
"Madame, I thank you, but I cannot accept."
"Why can’t you?"
At this he began to walk round and round the room, while the widow, who
stood in the middle, turned as upon a pivot, keeping him always in view.
This circus-ring performance lasted some minutes before Quennebert stood
still and said—
"I cannot be angry with you, Madame Rapally, I know your offer was made
out of the kindness of your heart,—but I must repeat that it is
impossible for me to accept it."
"There you go again! I don’t understand you at all! Why can’t you
accept? What harm would it do?"
"If there were no other reason, because people might suspect that I
confided my difficulties to you in the hope of help."
"And supposing you did, what then? People speak hoping to be understood.
You wouldn’t have minded asking anyone else."
"So you really think I did come in that hope?"
"Mon Dieu! I don’t think anything at all that you don’t want. It was I
who dragged the confidence from you by my questions, I know that very
well. But now that you have told me your secret, how can you hinder me
from sympathising with you, from desiring to aid you? When I learned
your difficulty, ought I to have been amused, and gone into fits of
laughter? What! it’s an insult to be in a position to render you a
service! That’s a strange kind of delicacy!"
"Are you astonished that I should feel so strongly about it?"
"Nonsense! Do you still think I meant to offend you? I look on you as
the most honourable man in the world. If anyone were to tell me that he
had seen you commit a base action, I should reply that it was a lie.
Does that satisfy you?"
"But suppose they got hold of it in the city, suppose it were reported
that Maitre Quennebert had taken money from Madame de Rapally, would it
be the same as if they said Maitre Quennebert had borrowed twelve
hundred livres from Monsieur Robert or some other business man?"
"I don’t see what difference it could make."
"But I do."
"What then?"
"It’s not easy to express, but——"
"But you exaggerate both the service and the gratitude you ought to
feel. I think I know why you refuse. You’re ashamed to take it as a
gift, aren’t you."
"Yes, I am."
"Well, I’m not going to make you a gift. Borrow twelve hundred livres
from me. For how long do you want the money?"
"I really don’t know how soon I can repay you."
"Let’s say a year, and reckon the interest. Sit down there, you baby,
and write out a promissory note."
Maitre Quennebert made some further show of resistance, but at last
yielded to the widow’s importunity. It is needless to say that the whole
thing was a comedy on his part, except that he really needed the money.
But he did not need it to replace a sum of which a faithless friend had
robbed him, but to satisfy his own creditors, who, out of all patience
with him, were threatening to sue him, and his only reason for seeking
out Madame de Rapally was to take advantage of her generous disposition
towards himself. His feigned delicacy was intended to induce her to
insist so urgently, that in accepting he should not fall too much in her
esteem, but should seem to yield to force. And his plan met with
complete success, for at the end of the transaction he stood higher than
ever in the opinion of his fair creditor, on account of the noble
sentiments he had expressed. The note was written out in legal form and
the money counted down on the spot.
"How glad I am!" said she then, while Quennebert still kept up some
pretence of delicate embarrassment, although he could not resist casting
a stolen look at the bag of crowns lying on the table beside his cloak.
"Do you intend to go back to Saint Denis to-night?"
Even had such been his intention, the notary would have taken very good
care not to say so; for he foresaw the accusations of imprudence that
would follow, the enumeration of the dangers by the way; and it was
quite on the cards even that, having thus aroused his fears, his fair
hostess should in deference to them offer him hospitality for the night,
and he did not feel inclined for an indefinitely prolonged tete-a-tete.
"No;" he said, "I am going to sleep at Maitre Terrasson’s, rue des
Poitevins; I have sent him word to expect me. But although his house is
only a few yards distant, I must leave you earlier than I could have
wished, on account of this money."
"Will you think of me?"
"How can you ask?" replied Quennebert, with a sentimental expression.
"You have compelled me to accept the money, but—I shall not be happy
till I have repaid you. Suppose this loan should make us fall out?"
"You may be quite sure that if you don’t pay when the bill falls due, I
shall have recourse to the law."
"Oh, I know that very well."
"I shall enforce all my rights as a creditor."
"I expect nothing else."
"I shall show no pity."
And the widow gave a saucy laugh and shook her finger at him.
"Madame Rapally," said the notary, who was most anxious to bring this
conversation to an end, dreading every moment that it would take a
languishing tone,-"Madame Rapally, will you add to your goodness by
granting me one more favour?"
"What is it?"
"The gratitude that is simulated is not difficult to bear, but genuine,
sincere gratitude, such as I feel, is a heavy burden, as I can assure
you. It is much easier to give than to receive. Promise me, then, that
from now till the year is up there shall be no more reference between us
to this money, and that we shall go on being good friends as before.
Leave it to me to make arrangements to acquit myself honourably of my
obligations towards you. I need say no more; till a year’s up, mum’s the
word."
"It shall be as you desire, Maitre Quennebert," answered Madame Rapally,
her eyes shining with delight. "It was never my intention to lay you
under embarrassing obligations, and I leave it all to you. Do you know
that I am beginning to believe in presentiments?"
"You becoming superstitious! Why, may I ask?"
"I refused to do a nice little piece of ready-money business this
morning."
"Did you?"
"Yes, because I had a sort of feeling that made me resist all temptation
to leave myself without cash. Imagine! I received a visit to-day from a
great lady who lives in this house—in the suite of apartments next to
mine."
"What is her name?"
"Mademoiselle de Guerchi."
"And what did she want with you?"
"She called in order to ask me to buy, for four hundred livres, some of
her jewels which are well worth six hundred, for I understand such
things; or should I prefer it to lend her that sum and keep the jewels
as security? It appears that mademoiselle is in great straits. De
Guerchi—do you know the name?"
"I think I have heard it."
"They say she has had a stormy past, and has been greatly talked of; but
then half of what one hears is lies. Since she came to live here she has
been very quiet. No visitors except one—a nobleman, a duke—wait a
moment! What’s his name? The Duc-Duc de Vitry; and for over three weeks
even he hasn’t been near her. I imagine from this absence that they have
fallen out, and that she is beginning to feel the want of money."
"You seem to be intimately acquainted with this young woman’s affairs."
"Indeed I am, and yet I never spoke to her till this morning."
"How did you get your information, then?"
"By chance. The room adjoining this and one of those she occupies were
formerly one large room, which is now divided into two by a partition
wall covered with tapestry; but in the two corners the plaster has
crumbled away with time, and one can see into the room through slits in
the tapestry without being seen oneself. Are you inquisitive?"
"Not more than you, Madame Rapally."
"Come with me. Someone knocked at the street door a few moments ago;
there’s no one else in the house likely to have visitors at this hour.
Perhaps her admirer has come back."
"If so, we are going to witness a scene of recrimination or
reconciliation. How delightful!"
Although he was not leaving the widow’s lodgings, Maitre Quennebert took
up his hat and cloak and the blessed bag of crown pieces, and followed
Madame Rapally on tiptoe, who on her side moved as slowly as a tortoise
and as lightly as she could. They succeeded in turning the handle of the
door into the next room without making much noise.
"’Sh!" breathed the widow softly; "listen, they are speaking."
She pointed to the place where he would find a peep-hole in one corner
of the room, and crept herself towards the corresponding corner.
Quennebert, who was by no means anxious to have her at his side,
motioned to her to blow out the light. This being done, he felt secure,
for he knew that in the intense darkness which now enveloped them she
could not move from her place without knocking against the furniture
between them, so he glued his face to the partition. An opening just
large enough for one eye allowed him to see everything that was going on
in the next room. Just as he began his observations, the treasurer at
Mademoiselle de Guerchi’s invitation was about to take a seat near her,
but not too near for perfect respect. Both of them were silent, and
appeared to labour under great embarrassment at finding themselves
together, and explanations did not readily begin. The lady had not an
idea of the motive of the visit, and her quondam lover feigned the
emotion necessary to the success of his undertaking. Thus Maitre
Quennebert had full time to examine both, and especially Angelique. The
reader will doubtless desire to know what was the result of the notary’s
observation.
CHAPTER III
ANGELIQUE-LOUISE DE GUERCHI was a woman of about twenty-eight years of
age, tall, dark, and well made. The loose life she had led had, it is
true, somewhat staled her beauty, marred the delicacy of her complexion,
and coarsened the naturally elegant curves of her figure; but it is such
women who from time immemorial have had the strongest attraction for
profligate men. It seems as if dissipation destroyed the power to
perceive true beauty, and the man of pleasure must be aroused to
admiration by a bold glance and a meaning smile, and will only seek
satisfaction along the trail left by vice. Louise-Angelique was
admirably adapted for her way of life; not that her features wore an
expression of shameless effrontery, or that the words that passed her
lips bore habitual testimony to the disorders of her existence, but that
under a calm and sedate demeanour there lurked a secret and indefinable
charm. Many other women possessed more regular features, but none of
them had a greater power of seduction. We must add that she owed that
power entirely to her physical perfections, for except in regard to the
devices necessary to her calling, she showed no cleverness, being
ignorant, dull and without inner resources of any kind. As her
temperament led her to share the desires she excited, she was really
incapable of resisting an attack conducted with skill and ardour, and if
the Duc de Vitry had not been so madly in love, which is the same as
saying that he was hopelessly blind, silly, and dense to everything
around him, he might have found a score of opportunities to overcome her
resistance. We have already seen that she was so straitened in money
matters that she had been driven to try to sell her jewels that very,
morning.
Jeannin was the first to ’break silence.
"You are astonished at my visit, I know, my charming Angelique. But you
must excuse my thus appearing so unexpectedly before you. The truth is,
I found it impossible to leave Paris without seeing you once more."
"Thank you for your kind remembrance," said she, "but I did not at all
expect it."
"Come, come, you are offended with me."
She gave him a glance of mingled disdain and resentment; but he went on,
in a timid, wistful tone—
"I know that my conduct must have seemed strange to you, and I
acknowledge that nothing can justify a man for suddenly leaving the
woman he loves—I do not dare to say the woman who loves him—without a
word of explanation. But, dear Angelique, I was jealous."
"Jealous!" she repeated incredulously.
"I tried my best to overcome the feeling, and I hid my suspicions from
you. Twenty times I came to see you bursting with anger and determined
to overwhelm you with reproaches, but at the sight of your beauty I
forgot everything but that I loved you. My suspicions dissolved before a
smile; one word from your lips charmed me into happiness. But when I was
again alone my terrors revived, I saw my rivals at your feet, and rage
possessed me once more. Ah! you never knew how devotedly I loved you."
She let him speak without interruption; perhaps the same thought was in
her mind as in Quennebert’s, who, himself a past master in the art of
lying; was thinking—
"The man does not believe a word of what he is saying."
But the treasurer went on—
"I can see that even now you doubt my sincerity."
"Does my lord desire that his handmaiden should be blunt? Well, I know
that there is no truth in what you say."
"Oh! I can see that you imagine that among the distractions of the world
I have kept no memory of you, and have found consolation in the love of
less obdurate fair ones. I have not broken in on your retirement; I have
not shadowed your steps; I have not kept watch on your actions; I have
not surrounded you with spies who would perhaps have brought me the
assurance, ’If she quitted the world which outraged her, she was not
driven forth by an impulse of wounded pride or noble indignation; she
did not even seek to punish those who misunderstood her by her absence;
she buried herself where she was unknown, that she might indulge in
stolen loves.’ Such were the thoughts that came to me, and yet I
respected your hiding-place; and to-day I am ready to believe you true,
if you will merely say, ’I love no one else!’"
Jeannin, who was as fat as a stage financier, paused here to gasp; for
the utterance of this string of banalities, this rigmarole of
commonplaces, had left him breathless. He was very much dissatisfied
with his performance; and ready to curse his barren imagination. He
longed to hit upon swelling phrases and natural and touching gestures,
but in vain. He could only look at Mademoiselle de Guerchi with a
miserable, heart-broken air. She remained quietly seated, with the same
expression of incredulity on her features.
So there was nothing for it but to go on once more.
"But this one assurance that I ask you will not give. So what I
have—been told is true: you have given your love to him."
She could not check a startled movement.
"You see it is only when I speak of him that I can overcome in you the
insensibility which is killing me. My suspicions were true after all:
you deceived me for his sake. Oh! the instinctive feeling of jealousy
was right which forced me to quarrel with that man, to reject the
perfidious friendship which he tried to force upon me. He has returned
to town, and we shall meet! But why do I say ’returned’? Perhaps he only
pretended to go away, and safe in this retreat has flouted with
impunity, my despair and braved my vengeance!"
Up to this the lady had played a waiting game, but now she grew quite
confused, trying to discover the thread of the treasurer’s thoughts. To
whom did he refer? The Duc de Vitry? That had been her first impression.
But the duke had only been acquainted with her for a few months—since
she had—left Court. He could not therefore have excited the jealousy of
her whilom lover; and if it were not he, to whom did the words about
rejecting "perfidious friendship," and "returned to town," and so on,
apply? Jeannin divined her embarrassment, and was not a little proud of
the tactics which would, he was almost sure; force her to expose
herself. For there are certain women who can be thrown into cruel
perplexity by speaking to them of their love-passages without affixing a
proper name label to each. They are placed as it were on the edge of an
abyss, and forced to feel their way in darkness. To say "You have loved"
almost obliges them to ask "Whom?"
Nevertheless, this was not the word uttered by Mademoiselle de Guerchi
while she ran through in her head a list of possibilities. Her answer
was—
"Your language astonishes me; I don’t understand what you mean."
The ice was broken, and the treasurer made a plunge. Seizing one of
Angelique’s hands, he asked—
"Have you never seen Commander de Jars since then?"
"Commander de Jars!" exclaimed Angelique.
"Can you swear to me, Angelique, that you love him not?"
"Mon Dieu! What put it into your head that I ever cared for him? It’s
over four months since I saw him last, and I hadn’t an idea whether he
was alive or dead. So he has been out of town? That’s the first I heard
of it."
"My fortune is yours, Angelique! Oh! assure me once again that you do
not love him—that you never loved him!" he pleaded in a faltering voice,
fixing a look of painful anxiety upon her.
He had no intention of putting her out of countenance by the course he
took; he knew quite well that a woman like Angelique is never more at
her ease than when she has a chance of telling an untruth of this
nature. Besides, he had prefaced this appeal by the magic words, "My
fortune’ is yours!" and the hope thus aroused was well worth a perjury.
So she answered boldly and in a steady voice, while she looked straight
into his eyes—
"Never!"
"I believe you!" exclaimed Jeannin, going down on his knees and covering
with his kisses the hand he still held. "I can taste happiness again.
Listen, Angelique. I am leaving Paris; my mother is dead, and I am going
back to Spain. Will you follow me thither?"
"I—-follow you?"
"I hesitated long before finding you out, so much did I fear a repulse.
I set out to-morrow. Quit Paris, leave the world which has slandered
you, and come with me. In a fortnight we shall be man and wife."
"You are not in earnest!"
"May I expire at your feet if I am not! Do you want me to sign the oath
with my blood?"
"Rise," she said in a broken voice. "Have I at last found a man to love
me and compensate me for all the abuse that has been showered on my
head? A thousand times I thank you, not for what you are doing for me,
but for the balm you pour on my wounded spirit. Even if you were to say
to me now, ’After all, I am obliged to give you up’ the pleasure of
knowing you esteem me would make up for all the rest. It would be
another happy memory to treasure along with my memory of our love, which
was ineffaceable, although you so ungratefully suspected me of having
deceived you."
The treasurer appeared fairly intoxicated with joy. He indulged in a
thousand ridiculous extravagances and exaggerations, and declared
himself the happiest of men. Mademoiselle de Guerchi, who was desirous
of being prepared for every peril, asked him in a coaxing tone—
"Who can have put it into your head to be jealous of the commander? Has
he been base enough to boast that I ever gave him my love?"
"No, he never said anything about you; but someway I was afraid."
She renewed her assurances. The conversation continued some time in a
sentimental tone. A thousand oaths, a thousand protestations of love
were, exchanged. Jeannin feared that the suddenness of their journey
would inconvenience his mistress, and offered to put it off for some
days; but to this she would not consent, and it was arranged that the
next day at noon a carriage should call at the house and take Angelique
out of town to an appointed place at which the treasurer was to join
her.
Maitre Quennebert, eye and ear on the alert, had not lost a word of this
conversation, and the last proposition of the treasurer changed his
ideas.
"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "it looks as if this good man were really
going to let himself be taken in and done for. It is singular how very
clear-sighted we can be about things that don’t touch us. This poor fly
is going to let himself be caught by a very clever spider, or I’m much
mistaken. Very likely my widow is quite of my opinion, and yet in what
concerns herself she will remain stone-blind. Well, such is life! We
have only two parts to choose between: we must be either knave or fool.
What’s Madame Rapally doing, I wonder?"
At this moment he heard a stifled whisper from the opposite corner of
the room, but, protected by the distance and the darkness, he let the
widow murmur on, and applied his eye once more to his peephole. What he
saw confirmed his opinion. The damsel was springing up and down,
laughing, gesticulating, and congratulating herself on her unexpected
good fortune.
"Just imagine! He loves me like that!" she was saying to herself. "Poor
Jeannin! When I remember how I used to hesitate. How fortunate that
Commander de Jars, one of the most vain and indiscreet of men, never
babbled about me! Yes, we must leave town to-morrow without fail. I must
not give him time to be enlightened by a chance word. But the Duc de
Vitry? I am really sorry for him. However, why did he go away, and send
no word? And then, he’s a married man. Ah! if I could only get back
again to court some day!... Who would ever have expected such a thing?
Good God! I must keep talking to myself, to be sure I’m not dreaming.
Yes, he was there, just now, at my feet, saying to me, ’Angelique, you
are going to become my wife.’ One thing is sure, he may safely entrust
his honour to my care. It would be infamous to betray a man who loves me
as he does, who will give me his name. Never, no, never will I give him
cause to reproach me! I would rather——"
A loud and confused noise on the stairs interrupted this soliloquy. At
one moment bursts of laughter were heard, and the next angry voices.
Then a loud exclamation, followed by a short silence. Being alarmed at
this disturbance in a house which was usually so quiet, Mademoiselle de
Guerchi approached the door of her room, intending either to call for
protection or to lock herself in, when suddenly it was violently pushed
open. She recoiled with fright, exclaiming—
"Commander de Jars!"
"On my word!" said Quennebert behind the arras, "’tis as amusing as a
play! Is the commander also going to offer to make an honest woman of
her? But what do I see?"
He had just caught sight of the young man on whom de Jars had bestowed
the title and name of Chevalier de Moranges, and whose acquaintance the
reader has already made at the tavern in the rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts.
His appearance had as great an effect on the notary as a thunderbolt. He
stood motionless, trembling, breathless; his knees ready to give way
beneath him; everything black before his eyes. However, he soon pulled
himself together, and succeeded in overcoming the effects of his
surprise and terror. He looked once more through the hole in the
partition, and became so absorbed that no one in the whole world could
have got a word from him just then; the devil himself might have
shrieked into his ears unheeded, and a naked sword suspended over his
head would not have induced him to change his place.
CHAPTER IV
Before Mademoiselle de Guerchi had recovered from her fright the
commander spoke.
"As I am a gentleman, my beauty, if you were the Abbess of Montmartre,
you could not be more difficult of access. I met a blackguard on the
stairs who tried to stop me, and whom I was obliged to thrash soundly.
Is what they told me on my return true? Are you really doing penance,
and do you intend to take the veil?"
"Sir," answered Angelique, with great dignity, "whatever may be my
plans, I have a right to be surprised at your violence and at your
intrusion at such an hour."
"Before we go any farther," said de Jars, twirling round on his heels,
"allow me to present to you my nephew, the Chevalier de Moranges."
"Chevalier de Moranges!" muttered Quennebert, on whose memory in that
instant the name became indelibly engraven.
"A young man," continued the commander, "who has come back with me from
abroad. Good style, as you see, charming appearance. Now, you young
innocent, lift up your great black eyes and kiss madame’s hand; I allow
it."
"Monsieur le commandeur, leave my room; begone, or I shall call——"
"Whom, then? Your lackeys? But I have beaten the only one you keep, as I
told you, and it will be some time before he’ll be in a condition to
light me downstairs: ’Begone,’ indeed! Is that the way you receive an
old friend? Pray be seated, chevalier."
He approached Mademoiselle de Guerchi, and, despite her resistance,
seized hold of one of her hands, and forcing her to sit down, seated
himself beside her.
"That’s right, my girl," said he; "now let us talk sense. I understand
that before a stranger you consider yourself obliged to appear
astonished at my ways of going on. But he knows all about us, and
nothing he may see or hear will surprise him. So a truce to prudery! I
came back yesterday, but I could not make out your hiding-place till
to-day. Now I’m not going to ask you to tell me how you have gone on in
my absence. God and you alone know, and while He will tell me nothing,
you would only tell me fibs, and I want to save you from that venial sin
at least. But here I am, in as good spirits as ever, more in love than
ever, and quite ready to resume my old habits."
Meantime the lady, quite subdued by his noisy entrance and ruffianly
conduct, and seeing that an assumption of dignity would only draw down
on her some fresh impertinence, appeared to resign herself to her
position. All this time Quennebert never took his eyes from the
chevalier, who sat with his face towards the partition. His elegantly
cut costume accentuated his personal advantages. His jet black hair
brought into relief the whiteness of his forehead; his large dark eyes
with their veined lids and silky lashes had a penetrating and peculiar
expression—a mixture of audacity and weakness; his thin and somewhat
pale lips were apt to curl in an ironical smile; his hands were of
perfect beauty, his feet of dainty smallness, and he showed with an
affectation of complaisance a well-turned leg above his ample boots, the
turned down tops of which, garnished with lace, fell in irregular folds
over his ankles in the latest fashion. He did not appear to be more than
eighteen years of age, and nature had denied his charming face the
distinctive sign of his sex for not the slightest down was visible on
his chin, though a little delicate pencilling darkened his upper lip:
His slightly effeminate style of beauty, the graceful curves of his
figure, his expression, sometimes coaxing, sometimes saucy, reminding
one of a page, gave him the appearance of a charming young scapegrace
destined to inspire sudden passions and wayward fancies. While his
pretended uncle was making himself at home most unceremoniously,
Quennebert remarked that the chevalier at once began to lay siege to his
fair hostess, bestowing tender and love-laden glances on her behind that
uncle’s back. This redoubled his curiosity.
"My dear girl," said the commander, "since I saw you last I have come
into a fortune of one hundred thousand livres, neither more nor less.
One of my dear aunts took it into her head to depart this life, and her
temper being crotchety and spiteful she made me her sole heir, in order
to enrage those of her relatives who had nursed her in her illness. One
hundred thousand livres! It’s a round sum—enough to cut a great figure
with for two years. If you like, we shall squander it together, capital
and interest. Why do you not speak? Has anyone else robbed me by any
chance of your heart? If that were so, I should be in despair, upon my
word-for the sake of the fortunate individual who had won your favour;
for I will brook no rivals, I give you fair warning."
"Monsieur le commandeur," answered Angelique, "you forget, in speaking
to me in that manner, I have never given you any right to control my
actions."
"Have we severed our connection?"
At this singular question Angelique started, but de Jars continued—
"When last we parted we were on the best of terms, were we not? I know
that some months have elapsed since then, but I have explained to you
the reason of my absence. Before filling up the blank left by the
departed we must give ourselves space to mourn. Well, was I right in my
guess? Have you given me a successor?"
Mademoiselle de Guerchi had hitherto succeeded in controlling her
indignation, and had tried to force herself to drink the bitter cup of
humiliation to the dregs; but now she could bear it no longer. Having
thrown a look expressive of her suffering at the young chevalier, who
continued to ogle her with great pertinacity, she decided on bursting
into tears, and in a voice broken by sobs she exclaimed that she was
miserable at being treated in this manner, that she did not deserve it,
and that Heaven was punishing her for her error in yielding to the
entreaties of the commander. One would have sworn she was sincere and
that the words came from her heart. If Maitre Quennebert had not
witnessed the scene with Jeannin, if he had not known how frail was the
virtue of the weeping damsel, he might have been affected by her
touching plaint. The chevalier appeared to be deeply moved by
Angelique’s grief, and while his, uncle was striding up and down the
room and swearing like a trooper, he gradually approached her and
expressed by signs the compassion he felt.
Meantime the notary was in a strange state of mind. He had not yet made
up his mind whether the whole thing was a joke arranged between de Jars
and Jeannin or not, but of one thing he was quite convinced, the
sympathy which Chevalier de Moranges was expressing by passionate sighs
and glances was the merest hypocrisy. Had he been alone, nothing would
have prevented his dashing head foremost into this imbroglio, in scorn
of consequence, convinced that his appearance would be as terrible in
its effect as the head of Medusa. But the presence of the widow
restrained him. Why ruin his future and dry up the golden spring which
had just begun to gush before his eyes, for the sake of taking part in a
melodrama? Prudence and self-interest kept him in the side scenes.
The tears of the fair one and the glances of the chevalier awoke no
repentance in the breast of the commander; on the contrary, he began to
vent his anger in terms still more energetic. He strode up and down the
oaken floor till it shook under his spurred heels; he stuck his plumed
hat on the side of his head, and displayed the manners of a bully in a
Spanish comedy. Suddenly he seemed to have come to a swift resolution:
the expression of his face changed from rage to icy coldness, and
walking up to Angelique, he said, with a composure more terrible than
the wildest fury—
"My rival’s name?"
"You shall never learn it from me!"
"Madame, his name?"
"Never! I have borne your insults too long. I am not responsible to you
for my actions."
"Well, I shall learn it, in spite of you, and I know to whom to apply.
Do you think you can play fast and loose with me and my love? No, no! I
used to believe in you; I turned, a deaf ear to your traducers. My mad
passion for you became known; I was the jest and the butt of the town.
But you have opened my eyes, and at last I see clearly on whom my
vengeance ought to fall. He was formerly my friend, and I would believe
nothing against him; although I was often warned, I took no notice. But
now I will seek him out, and say to him, ’You have stolen what was mine;
you are a scoundrel! It must be your life, or mine!’ And if, there is
justice in heaven, I shall kill him! Well, madame, you don’t ask me the
name of this man! You well know whom I mean!"
This threat brought home to Mademoiselle de Guerchi how imminent was her
danger. At first she had thought the commander’s visit might be a snare
laid to test her, but the coarseness of his expressions, the cynicism of
his overtures in the presence of a third person, had convinced her she
was wrong. No man could have imagined that the revolting method of
seduction employed could meet with success, and if the commander had
desired to convict her of perfidy he would have come alone and made use
of more persuasive weapons. No, he believed he still had claims on her,
but even if he had, by his manner of enforcing them he had rendered them
void. However, the moment he threatened to seek out a rival whose
identity he designated quite clearly, and reveal to him the secret it
was so necessary to her interests to keep hidden, the poor girl lost her
head. She looked at de Jars with a frightened expression, and said in a
trembling voice—
"I don’t know whom you mean."
"You don’t know? Well, I shall commission the king’s treasurer, Jeannin
de Castille, to come here to-morrow and tell you, an hour before our
duel."
"Oh no! no! Promise me you will not do that!" cried she, clasping her
hands.
"Adieu, madame."
"Do not leave me thus! I cannot let you go till you give me your
promise!"
She threw herself on her knees and clung with both her hands to de Jars’
cloak, and appealing to Chevalier de Moranges, said—
"You are young, monsieur; I have never done you any harm; protect me,
have pity on me, help me to soften him!"
"Uncle," said the chevalier in a pleading tone, "be generous, and don’t
drive this woman to despair."
"Prayers are useless!" answered the commander.
"What do you want me to do?" said Angelique. "Shall I go into a convent
to atone? I am ready to go. Shall I promise never to see him again? For
God’s sake, give me a little time; put off your vengeance for one single
day! To-morrow evening, I swear to you, you will have nothing more to
fear from me. I thought myself forgotten by you and abandoned; and how
should I think otherwise? You left me without a word of farewell, you
stayed away and never sent me a line! And how do you know that I did not
weep when you deserted me, leaving me to pass my days in monotonous
solitude? How do you know that I did not make every effort to find out
why you were so long absent from my side? You say you had left town but
how was I to know that? Oh! promise me, if you love me, to give up this
duel! Promise me not to seek that man out to-morrow!"
The poor creature hoped to work wonders with her eloquence, her tears,
her pleading glances. On hearing her prayer for a reprieve of
twenty-four hours, swearing that after that she would never see Jeannin
again, the commander and the chevalier were obliged to bite their lips
to keep from laughing outright. But the former soon regained his
self-possession, and while Angelique, still on her knees before him,
pressed his hands to her bosom, he forced her to raise her head, and
looking straight into her eyes, said—
"To-morrow, madame, if not this evening, he shall know everything, and a
meeting shall take place."
Then pushing her away, he strode towards the door.
"Oh! how unhappy I am!" exclaimed Angelique.
She tried to rise and rush after him, but whether she was really
overcome by her feelings, or whether she felt the one chance of
prevailing left her was to faint, she uttered a heartrending cry, and
the chevalier had no choice but to support her sinking form.
De Jars, on seeing his nephew staggering under this burden, gave a loud
laugh, and hurried away. Two minutes later he was once more at the
tavern in the rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts.
"How’s this? Alone?" said Jeannin.
"Alone."
"What have you done with the chevalier?"
"I left him with our charmer, who was unconscious, overcome with grief,
exhausted Ha! ha! ha! She fell fainting into his arms! Ha! ha! ha!"
"It’s quite possible that the young rogue, being left with her in such a
condition, may cut me out."
"Do you think so?—Ha! ha! ha!"
And de Jars laughed so heartily and so infectiously that his worthy
friend was obliged to join in, and laughed till he choked.
In the short silence which followed the departure of the commander,
Maitre Quennebert could hear the widow still murmuring something, but he
was less disposed than ever to attend to her.
"On my word," said he, "the scene now going on is more curious than all
that went before. I don’t think that a man has ever found himself in
such a position as mine. Although my interests demand that I remain here
and listen, yet my fingers are itching to box the ears of that Chevalier
de Moranges. If there were only some way of getting at a proof of all
this! Ah! now we shall hear something; the hussy is coming to herself."
And indeed Angelique had opened her eyes and was casting wild looks
around her; she put her hand to her brow several times, as if trying to
recall clearly what had happened.
"Is he gone?" she exclaimed at last. "Oh, why did you let him go? You
should not have minded me, but kept him here."
"Be calm," answered the chevalier, "be calm, for heaven’s sake. I shall
speak to my uncle and prevent his ruining your prospects. Only don’t
weep any more, your tears break my heart. Ah, my God! how cruel it is to
distress you so! I should never be able to withstand your tears; no
matter what reason I had for anger, a look from you would make me
forgive you everything."
"Noble young man!" said Angelique.
"Idiot!" muttered Maitre Quennebert; "swallow the honey of his words, do
But how the deuce is it going to end? Not Satan himself ever invented
such a situation."
"But then I could never believe you guilty without proof, irrefutable
proof; and even then a word from you would fill my mind with doubt and
uncertainty again. Yes, were the whole world to accuse you and swear to
your guilt, I should still believe your simple word. I am young, madam,
I have never known love as yet—until an instant ago I had no idea that
more quickly than an image can excite the admiration of the eye, a
thought can enter the heart and stir it to its depths, and features that
one may never again behold leave a lifelong memory behind. But even if a
woman of whom I knew absolutely nothing were to appeal to me,
exclaiming, ’I implore your help, your protection!’ I should, without
stopping to consider, place my sword and my arm at her disposal, and
devote myself to her service. How much more eagerly would I die for you,
madam, whose beauty has ravished my heart! What do you demand of me?
Tell me what you desire me to do."
"Prevent this duel; don’t allow an interview to take place between your
uncle and the man whom he mentioned. Tell me you will do this, and I
shall be safe; for you have never learned to lie; I know."
"Of course he hasn’t, you may be sure of that, you simpleton!" muttered
Maitre Quennebert in his corner. "If you only knew what a mere novice
you are at that game compared with the chevalier! If you only knew whom
you had before you!"
"At your age," went on Angelique, "one cannot feign—the heart is not yet
hardened, and is capable of compassion. But a dreadful idea occurs to
me—a horrible suspicion! Is it all a devilish trick—a snare arranged in
joke? Tell me that it is not all a pretence! A poor woman encounters so
much perfidy. Men amuse themselves by troubling her heart and confusing
her mind; they excite her vanity, they compass her round with homage,
with flattery, with temptation, and when they grow tired of fooling her,
they despise and insult her. Tell me, was this all a preconcerted plan?
This love, this jealousy, were they only acted?"
"Oh, madame," broke in the chevalier, with an expression of the deepest
indignation, "how can you for an instant imagine that a human heart
could be so perverted? I am not acquainted with the man whom the
commander accused you of loving, but whoever he may be I feel sure that
he is worthy of your love, and that he would never have consented to
such a dastardly joke. Neither would my uncle; his jealousy mastered him
and drove him mad—
"But I am not dependent on him; I am my own master, and can do as I
please. I will hinder this duel; I will not allow the illusion and
ignorance of him who loves you and, alas that I must say it, whom you
love, to be dispelled, for it is in them he finds his happiness. Be
happy with him! As for me, I shall never see you again; but the
recollection of this meeting, the joy of having served you, will be my
consolation."
Angelique raised her beautiful eyes, and gave the chevalier a long look
which expressed her gratitude more eloquently than words.
"May I be hanged!" thought Maitre Quennebert, "if the baggage isn’t
making eyes at him already! But one who is drowning clutches at a
straw."
"Enough, madam," said the chevalier; "I understand all you would say.
You thank me in his name, and ask me to leave you: I obey-yes, madame, I
am going; at the risk of my life I will prevent this meeting, I will
stifle this fatal revelation. But grant me one last prayer-permit me to
look forward to seeing you once more before I leave this city, to which
I wish I had never come. But I shall quit it in a day or two, to-morrow
perhaps—as soon as I know that your happiness is assured. Oh! do not
refuse my last request; let the light of your eyes shine on me for the
last time; after that I shall depart—I shall fly far away for ever. But
if perchance, in spite of every effort, I fail, if the commander’s
jealousy should make him impervious to my entreaties—to my tears, if he
whom you love should come and overwhelm you with reproaches and then
abandon you, would you drive me from your presence if I should then say,
’I love you’? Answer me, I beseech you."
"Go!" said she, "and prove worthy of my gratitude—or my love."
Seizing one of her hands, the chevalier covered it with passionate
kisses.
"Such barefaced impudence surpasses everything I could have imagined!"
murmured Quennebert: "fortunately, the play is over for to-night; if it
had gone on any longer, I should have done something foolish. The lady
hardly imagines what the end of the comedy will be."
Neither did Quennebert. It was an evening of adventures. It was written
that in the space of two hours Angelique was to run the gamut of all the
emotions, experience all the vicissitudes to which a life such as she
led is exposed: hope, fear, happiness, mortification, falsehood, love
that was no love, intrigue within intrigue, and, to crown all, a totally
unexpected conclusion.
CHAPTER V
The chevalier was still holding Angelique’s hand when a step resounded
outside, and a voice was heard.
"Can it be that he has come back?" exclaimed the damsel, hastily freeing
herself from the passionate embrace of the chevalier. "It’s not
possible! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! it’s his voice!"
She grew pale to the lips, and stood staring at the door with
outstretched arms, unable to advance or recede.
The chevalier listened, but felt sure the approaching voice belonged
neither to the commander nor to the treasurer.
"’His voice’?" thought Quennebert to himself. "Can this be yet another
aspirant to her favour?"
The sound came nearer.
"Hide yourself!" said Angelique, pointing to a door opposite to the
partition behind which the widow and the notary were ensconced. "Hide
yourself there!—there’s a secret staircase—you can get out that way."
"I hide myself!" exclaimed Moranges, with a swaggering air. "What are
you thinking of? I remain."
It would have been better for him to have followed her advice, as may
very well have occurred to the youth two minutes later, as a tall,
muscular young man entered in a state of intense excitement. Angelique
rushed to meet him, crying—
"Ah! Monsieur le duc, is it you?"
"What is this I hear, Angelique?" said the Duc de Vitry. "I was told
below that three men had visited you this evening; but only two have
gone out—where is the third? Ha! I do not need long to find him," he
added, as he caught sight of the chevalier, who stood his ground bravely
enough.
"In Heaven’s name!" cried Angelique,—"in Heaven’s name, listen to me!"
"No, no, not a word. Just now I am not questioning you. Who are you,
sir?"
The chevalier’s teasing and bantering disposition made him even at that
critical moment insensible to fear, so he retorted insolently—
"Whoever I please to be, sir; and on my word I find the tone in which
you put your question delightfully amusing."
The duke sprang forward in a rage, laying his hand on his sword.
Angelique tried in vain to restrain him.
"You want to screen him from my vengeance, you false one!" said he,
retreating a few steps, so as to guard the door. "Defend your life,
sir!"
"Do you defend yours!"
Both drew at the same moment.
Two shrieks followed, one in the room, the other behind the tapestry,
for neither Angelique nor the widow had been able to restrain her alarm
as the two swords flashed in air. In fact the latter had been so
frightened that she fell heavily to the floor in a faint.
This incident probably saved the young man’s life; his blood had already
begun to run cold at the sight of his adversary foaming with rage and
standing between him and the door, when the noise of the fall distracted
the duke’s attention.
"What was that?" he cried. "Are there other enemies concealed here too?"
And forgetting that he was leaving a way of escape free, he rushed in
the direction from which the sound came, and lunged at the
tapestry-covered partition with his sword. Meantime the chevalier,
dropping all his airs of bravado, sprang from one end of the room to the
other like a cat pursued by a dog; but rapid as were his movements, the
duke perceived his flight, and dashed after him at the risk of breaking
both his own neck and the chevalier’s by a chase through unfamiliar
rooms and down stairs which were plunged in darkness.
All this took place in a few seconds, like a flash of lightning. Twice,
with hardly any interval, the street door opened and shut noisily, and
the two enemies were in the street, one pursued and the other pursuing.
"My God! Just to think of all that has happened is enough to make one
die of fright!" said Mademoiselle de Guerchi. "What will come next, I
should like to know? And what shall I say to the duke when he comes
back?"
Just at this instant a loud cracking sound was heard in the room.
Angelique stood still, once more struck with terror, and recollecting
the cry she had heard. Her hair, which was already loosened, escaped
entirely from its bonds, and she felt it rise on her head as the figures
on the tapestry moved and bent towards her. Falling on her knees and
closing her eyes, she began to invoke the aid of God and all the saints.
But she soon felt herself raised by strong arms, and looking round, she
found herself in the presence of an unknown man, who seemed to have
issued from the ground or the walls, and who, seizing the only light
left unextinguished in the scuffle, dragged her more dead than alive
into the next room.
This man was, as the reader will have already guessed, Maitre
Quennebert. As soon as the chevalier and the duke had disappeared, the
notary had run towards the corner where the widow lay, and having made
sure that she was really unconscious, and unable to see or hear
anything, so that it would be quite safe to tell her any story he
pleased next day, he returned to his former position, and applying his
shoulder to the partition, easily succeeded in freeing the ends of the
rotten laths from the nails which held there, and, pushing them before
him, made an aperture large enough to allow of his passing through into
the next apartment. He applied himself to this task with such vigour,
and became so absorbed in its accomplishment, that he entirely forgot
the bag of twelve hundred livres which the widow had given him.
"Who are you? What do you want with me?" cried Mademoiselle de Guerchi,
struggling to free herself.
"Silence!" was Quennebert’s answer.
"Don’t kill me, for pity’s sake!"
"Who wants to kill you? But be silent; I don’t want your shrieks to call
people here. I must be alone with you for a few moments. Once more I
tell you to be quiet, unless you want me to use violence. If you do what
I tell you, no harm shall happen to you."
"But who are you, monsieur?"
"I am neither a burglar nor a murderer; that’s all you need to know; the
rest is no concern of yours. Have you writing materials at hand?"
"Yes, monsieur; there they are, on that table."
"Very well. Now sit down at the table."
"Why?"
"Sit down, and answer my questions."
"The first man who visited you this evening was M. Jeannin, was he not?"
"Yes, M. Jeannin de Castille."
"The king’s treasurer?"
"Yes."
"All right. The second was Commander de Jars, and the young man he
brought with him was his nephew, the Chevalier de Moranges. The last
comer was a duke; am I not right?"
"The Duc de Vitry."
"Now write from my dictation."
He spoke very slowly, and Mademoiselle de Guerchi, obeying his commands,
took up her pen.
"’To-day,’" dictated Quennebert,—"’to-day, this twentieth day of the
month of November, in the year of the Lord 1658, I—
"What is your full name?"
"Angelique-Louise de Guerchi."
"Go on! ’I, Angelique-Louise de Guerchi, was visited, in the rooms
which—I occupy, in the mansion of the Duchesse d’Etampes, corner of the
streets Git-le-Coeur and du Hurepoix, about half-past seven o’clock in
the evening, in the first place, by Messire Jeannin de Castille, King’s
Treasurer; in the second place, by Commander de Jars, who was
accompanied by a young man, his nephew, the Chevalier de Moranges; in
the third place, after the departure of Commander de Jars, and while I
was alone with the Chevalier de Moranges, by the Duc de Vitry, who drew
his sword upon the said chevalier and forced him to take flight.’
"Now put in a line by itself, and use capitals "’DESCRIPTION OF THE
CHEVALIER DE MORANGES."
"But I only saw him for an instant," said Angelique, "and I can’t
recall——
"Write, and don’t talk. I can recall everything, and that is all that is
wanted."
"’Height about five feet.’ The chevalier," said Quennebert, interrupting
himself, "is four feet eleven inches three lines and a half, but I don’t
need absolute exactness." Angelique gazed at him in utter stupefaction.
"Do you know him, then?" she asked.
"I saw him this evening for the first time, but my eye is very accurate.
"’Height about five feet; hair black, eyes ditto, nose aquiline, mouth
large, lips compressed, forehead high, face oval, complexion pale, no
beard.’
"Now another line, and in capitals: "’SPECIAL MARKS.’
"’A small mole on the neck behind the right ear, a smaller mole on the
left hand.’
"Have you written that? Now sign it with your full name."
"What use are you going to make of this paper?"
"I should have told you before, if I had desired you to know. Any
questions are quite useless. I don’t enjoin secrecy on you, however,"
added the notary, as he folded the paper and put it into his doublet
pocket. "You are quite free to tell anyone you like that you have
written the description of the Chevalier de Moranges at the dictation of
an unknown man, who got into your room you don’t know how, by the
chimney or through the ceiling perhaps, but who was determined to leave
it by a more convenient road. Is there not a secret staircase? Show me
where it is. I don’t want to meet anyone on my way out."
Angelique pointed out a door to him hidden by a damask curtain, and
Quennebert saluting her, opened it and disappeared, leaving Angelique
convinced that she had seen the devil in person. Not until the next day
did the sight of the displaced partition explain the apparition, but
even then so great was her fright, so deep was the terror which the
recollection of the mysterious man inspired, that despite the permission
to tell what had happened she mentioned her adventure to no one, and did
not even complain to her neighbour, Madame Rapally, of the
inquisitiveness which had led the widow to spy on her actions.
CHAPTER VI
We left de Jars and Jeannin, roaring with laughter, in the tavern in the
rue Saint Andre-des-Arts.
"What!" said the treasurer, "do you really think that Angelique thought
I was in earnest in my offer?—that she believes in all good faith I
intend to marry her?"
"You may take my word for it. If it were not so, do you imagine she
would have been in such desperation? Would she have fainted at my threat
to tell you that I had claims on her as well as you? To get married!
Why, that is the goal of all such creatures, and there is not one of
them who can understand why a man of honour should blush to give her his
name. If you had only seen her terror, her tears! They would have either
broken your heart or killed you with laughter."
"Well," said Jeannin, "it is getting late. Are we going to wait for the
chevalier?"
"Let us call, for him."