At ten o’clock at night, as had been agreed, Marouin was on the Champs

de Mars, then covered with Marshal Brune’s field-artillery. No one had

arrived yet. He walked up and down between the gun-carriages until a

functionary came to ask what he was doing. He was hard put to it to find

an answer: a man is hardly likely to be wandering about in an artillery

park at ten o’clock at night for the mere pleasure of the thing. He

asked to see the commanding officer. The officer came up: M. Marouin

informed him that he was an avocat, attached to the law courts of

Toulon, and told him that he had arranged to meet someone on the Champs

de Mars, not knowing that it was prohibited, and that he was still

waiting for that person. After this explanation, the officer authorised

him to remain, and went back to his quarters. The sentinel, a faithful

adherent to discipline, continued to pace up and down with his measured

step, without troubling any more about the stranger’s presence.

A few moments later a group of several persons appeared from the

direction of Les Lices. The night was magnificent, and the moon

brilliant. Marouin recognised Bonafoux, and went up to him. The captain

at once took him by the hand and led him to the king, and speaking in

turn to each of them—

"Sire," he said, "here is the friend. I told you of."

Then turning to Marouin—

"Here," he said, "is the King of Naples, exile and fugitive, whom I

confide to your care. I do not speak of the possibility that some day he

may get back his crown, that would deprive you of the credit of your

fine action.... Now, be his guide—we will follow at a distance. March!"

The king and the lawyer set out at once together. Murat was dressed in a

blue coat-semi-military, semi-civil, buttoned to the throat; he wore

white trousers and top boots with spurs; he had long hair, moustache,

and thick whiskers, which would reach round his neck.

As they rode along he questioned his host about the situation of his

country house and the facility for reaching the sea in case of a

surprise. Towards midnight the king and Marouin arrived at Bonette; the

royal suite came up in about ten minutes; it consisted of about thirty

individuals. After partaking of some light refreshment, this little

troop, the last of the court of the deposed king, retired to disperse in

the town and its environs, and Murat remained alone with the women, only

keeping one valet named Leblanc.

Murat stayed nearly a month in this retirement, spending all his time in

answering the newspapers which accused him of treason to the Emperor.

This accusation was his absorbing idea, a phantom, a spectre to him; day

and night he tried to shake it off, seeking in the difficult position in

which he had found himself all the reasons which it might offer him for

acting as he had acted. Meanwhile the terrible news of the defeat at

Waterloo had spread abroad. The Emperor who had exiled him was an exile

himself, and he was waiting at Rochefort, like Murat at Toulon, to hear

what his enemies would decide against him. No one knows to this day what

inward prompting Napoleon obeyed when, rejecting the counsels of General

Lallemande and the devotion of Captain Bodin, he preferred England to

America, and went like a modern Prometheus to be chained to the rock of

St. Helena.

We are going to relate the fortuitous circumstance which led Murat to

the moat of Pizzo, then we will leave it to fatalists to draw from this

strange story whatever philosophical deduction may please them. We, as

humble annalists, can only vouch for the truth of the facts we have

already related and of those which will follow.

King Louis XVIII remounted his throne, consequently Murat lost all hope

of remaining in France; he felt he was bound to go. His nephew Bonafoux

fitted out a frigate for the United States under the name of Prince

Rocca Romana. The whole suite went on board, and they began to carry on

to the boat all the valuables which the exile had been able to save from

the shipwreck of his kingdom. First a bag of gold weighing nearly a

hundred pounds, a sword-sheath on which were the portraits of the king,

the queen, and their children, the deed of the civil estates of his

family bound in velvet and adorned with his arms. Murat carried on his

person a belt where some precious papers were concealed, with about a

score of unmounted diamonds, which he estimated himself to be worth four

millions.

When all these preparations for departing were accomplished, it was

agreed that the next day, the 1st of August, at five o’clock, a boat

should fetch the king to the brig from a little bay, ten minutes’ walk

from the house where he was staying. The king spent the night making out

a route for M. Marouin by which he could reach the queen, who was then

in Austria, I think.

It was finished just as it was time to leave, and on crossing the

threshold of the hospitable house where he had found refuge he gave it

to his host, slipped into a volume of a pocket edition of Voltaire.

Below the story of ’Micromegas’ the king had written: [The volume is

still in the hands of M. Marouin, at Toulon.]

Reassure yourself, dear Caroline; although unhappy, I am free. I am

departing, but I do not know whither I am bound. Wherever I may be my

heart will be with you and my children. "J. M."

Ten minutes later Murat and his host were waiting on the beach at

Bonette for the boat which was to take them out to the ship.

They waited until midday, and nothing appeared; and yet on the horizon

they could see the brig which was to be his refuge, unable to lie at

anchor on account of the depth of water, sailing along the coast at the

risk of giving the alarm to the sentinels.

At midday the king, worn out with fatigue and the heat of the sun, was

lying on the beach, when a servant arrived, bringing various

refreshments, which Madame Marouin, being very uneasy, had sent at all

hazards to her husband. The king took a glass of wine and water and ate

an orange, and got up for a moment to see whether the boat he was

expecting was nowhere visible on the vastness of the sea. There was not

a boat in sight, only the brig tossing gracefully on the horizon,

impatient to be off, like a horse awaiting its master.

The king sighed and lay down again on the sand.

The servant went back to Bonette with a message summoning M. Marouin’s

brother to the beach. He arrived in a few minutes, and almost

immediately afterwards galloped off at full speed to Toulon, in order to

find out from M. Bonafoux why the boat had not been sent to the king. On

reaching the captain’s house, he found it occupied by an armed force.

They were making a search for Murat.

The messenger at last made his way through the tumult to the person he

was in search of, and he heard that the boat had started at the

appointed time, and that it must have gone astray in the creeks of Saint

Louis and Sainte Marguerite. This was, in fact, exactly what had

happened.

By five o’clock M. Marouin had reported the news to his brother and the

king. It was bad news. The king had no courage left to defend his life

even by flight, he was in a state of prostration which sometimes

overwhelms the strongest of men, incapable of making any plan for his

own safety, and leaving M. Marouin to do the best he could. Just then a

fisherman was coming into harbour singing. Marouin beckoned to him, and

he came up.

Marouin began by buying all the man’s fish; then, when he had paid him

with a few coins, he let some gold glitter before his eyes, and offered

him three louis if he would take a passenger to the brig which was lying

off the Croix-des-Signaux. The fisherman agreed to do it. This chance of

escape gave back Murat all his strength; he got up, embraced Marouin,

and begged him to go to the queen with the volume of Voltaire. Then he

sprang into the boat, which instantly left the shore.

It was already some distance from the land when the king stopped the man

who was rowing and signed to Marouin that he had forgotten something. On

the beach lay a bag into which Murat had put a magnificent pair of

pistols mounted with silver gilt which the queen had given him, and

which he set great store on. As soon as he was within hearing he shouted

his reason for returning to his host. Marouin seized the valise, and

without waiting for Murat to land he threw it into the boat; the bag

flew open, and one of the pistols fell out. The fisherman only glanced

once at the royal weapon, but it was enough to make him notice its

richness and to arouse his suspicions. Nevertheless, he went on rowing

towards the frigate. M. Marouin seeing him disappear in the distance,

left his brother on the beach, and bowing once more to the king,

returned to the house to calm his wife’s anxieties and to take the

repose of which he was in much need.

Two hours later he was awakened. His house was to be searched in its

turn by soldiers. They searched every nook and corner without finding a

trace of the king. Just as they were getting desperate, the brother came

in; Maroum smiled at him; believing the king to be safe, but by the

new-comer’s expression he saw that some fresh misfortune was in the

wind. In the first moment’s respite given him by his visitors he went up

to his brother.

"Well," he said, "I hope the king is on board?"

"The king is fifty yards away, hidden in the outhouse."

"Why did he come back?"

"The fisherman pretended he was afraid of a sudden squall, and refused

to take him off to the brig."

"The scoundrel!"

The soldiers came in again.

They spent the night in fruitless searching about the house and

buildings; several times they passed within a few steps of the king, and

he could hear their threats and imprecations. At last, half an hour

before dawn, they went away. Marouin watched them go, and when they were

out of sight he ran to the king. He found him lying in a corner, a

pistol clutched in each hand. The unhappy man had been overcome by

fatigue and had fallen asleep. Marouin hesitated a moment to bring him

back to his wandering, tormented life, but there was not a minute to

lose. He woke him.

They went down to the beach at once. A morning mist lay over the sea.

They could not see anything two hundred yards ahead. They were obliged

to wait. At last the first sunbeams began to pierce this nocturnal mist.

It slowly dispersed, gliding over the sea as clouds move in the sky. The

king’s hungry eye roved over the tossing waters before him, but he saw

nothing, yet he could not banish the hope that somewhere behind that

moving curtain he would find his refuge. Little by little the horizon

came into view; light wreaths of mist, like smoke, still floated about

the surface of the water, and in each of them the king thought he

recognised the white sails of his vessel. The last gradually vanished,

the sea was revealed in all its immensity, it was deserted. Not daring

to delay any longer, the ship had sailed away in the night.

"So," said the king, "the die is cast. I will go to Corsica."

The same day Marshal Brune was assassinated at Avignon.

II—CORSICA

Once more on the same beach at Bonette, in the same bay where he had

awaited the boat in vain, still attended by his band of faithful

followers, we find Murat on the 22nd August in the same year. It was no

longer by Napoleon that he was threatened, it was by Louis XVIII that he

was proscribed; it was no longer the military loyalty of Marshal Brune

who came with tears in his eyes to give notice of the orders he had

received, but the ungrateful hatred of M. de Riviere, who had set a

price [48,000 francs.] on the head of the man who had saved his

own.[Conspiracy of Pichegru.] M. de Riviere had indeed written to the

ex-King of Naples advising him to abandon himself to the good faith and

humanity of the King of France, but his vague invitation had not seemed

sufficient guarantee to the outlaw, especially on the part of one who

had allowed the assassination almost before his eyes of a man who

carried a safe-conduct signed by himself. Murat knew of the massacre of

the Mamelukes at Marseilles, the assassination of Brune at Avignon; he

had been warned the day before by the police of Toulon that a formal

order for his arrest was out; thus it was impossible that he should

remain any longer in France. Corsica, with its hospitable towns, its

friendly mountains, its impenetrable forests, was hardly fifty leagues

distant; he must reach Corsica, and wait in its towns, mountains, and

forests until the crowned heads of Europe should decide the fate of the

man they had called brother for seven years.

At ten o’clock at, night the king went down to the shore. The boat which

was to take him across had not reached the rendezvous, but this time

there was not the slightest fear that it would fail; the bay had been

reconnoitred during the day by three men devoted to the fallen fortunes

of the king—Messieurs Blancard, Langlade, and Donadieu, all three naval

officers, men of ability and warm heart, who had sworn by their own

lives to convey Murat to Corsica, and who were in fact risking their

lives in order to accomplish their promise. Murat saw the deserted shore

without uneasiness, indeed this delay afforded him a few more moments of

patriotic satisfaction.

On this little patch of land, this strip of sand, the unhappy exile

clung to his mother France, for once his foot touched the vessel which

was to carry him away, his separation from France would be long, if not

eternal. He started suddenly amidst these thoughts and sighed: he had

just perceived a sail gliding over the waves like a phantom through the

transparent darkness of the southern night. Then a sailor’s song was

heard; Murat recognised the appointed signal, and answered it by burning

the priming of a pistol, and the boat immediately ran inshore; but as

she drew three feet of water, she was obliged to stop ten or twelve feet

from the beach; two men dashed into the water and reached the beach,

while a third remained crouching in the stern-sheets wrapped in his

boat-cloak.

"Well, my good friends," said the king, going towards Blancard and

Langlade until he felt the waves wet his feet "the moment is come, is it

not? The wind is favourable, the sea calm, we must get to sea."

"Yes," answered Langlade, "yes, we must start; and yet perhaps it would

be wiser to wait till to-morrow."

"Why?" asked Murat.

Langlade did not answer, but turning towards the west, he raised his

hand, and according to the habit of sailors, he whistled to call the

wind.

"That’s no good," said Donadieu, who had remained in the boat. "Here are

the first gusts; you will have more than you know what to do with in a

minute.... Take care, Langlade, take care! Sometimes in calling the wind

you wake up a storm."

Murat started, for he thought that this warning which rose from the sea

had been given him by the spirit of the waters; but the impression was a

passing one, and he recovered himself in a moment.

"All the better," he said; "the more wind we have, the faster we shall

go."

"Yes," answered Langlade, "but God knows where it will take us if it

goes on shifting like this."

"Don’t start to-night, sire," said Blancard, adding his voice to those

of his two companions.

"But why not?"

"You see that bank of black cloud there, don’t you? Well, at sunset it

was hardly visible, now it covers a good part of the sky, in an hour

there won’t be a star to be seen."

"Are you afraid?" asked Murat.

"Afraid!" answered Langlade. "Of what? Of the storm? I might as well ask

if your Majesty is afraid of a cannon-ball. We have demurred solely on

your account, sire; do you think seadogs like ourselves would delay on

account of the storm?"

"Then let us go!" cried Murat, with a sigh.

"Good-bye, Marouin.... God alone can reward you for what you have done

for me. I am at your orders, gentlemen."

At these words the two sailors seized the king and hoisted him on to

their shoulders, and carried him into the sea; in another moment he was

on board. Langlade and Blancard sprang in behind him. Donadieu remained

at the helm, the two other officers undertook the management of the

boat, and began their work by unfurling the sails. Immediately the

pinnace seemed to rouse herself like a horse at touch of the spur; the

sailors cast a careless glance back, and Murat feeling that they were

sailing away, turned towards his host and called for a last time—

"You have your route as far as Trieste. Do not forget my wife!...

Good-bye-good-bye——!"

"God keep you, sire!" murmured Marouin.

And for some time, thanks to the white sail which gleamed through the

darkness, he could follow with his eyes the boat which was rapidly

disappearing; at last it vanished altogether. Marouin lingered on the

shore, though he could see nothing; then he heard a cry, made faint by

the distance; it was Murat’s last adieu to France.

When M. Marouin was telling me these details one evening on the very

spot where it all happened, though twenty years had passed, he

remembered clearly the slightest incidents of the embarkation that

night. From that moment he assured me that a presentiment of misfortune

seized him; he could not tear himself away from the shore, and several

times he longed to call the king back, but, like a man in a dream, he

opened his mouth without being able to utter a sound. He was afraid of

being thought foolish, and it was not until one o’clock that is, two and

a half hours after the departure of the boat-that he went home with a

sad and heavy heart.

The adventurous navigators had taken the course from Toulon to Bastia,

and at first it seemed to the king that the sailors’ predictions were

belied; the wind, instead of getting up, fell little by little, and two

hours after the departure the boat was rocking without moving forward or

backward on the waves, which were sinking from moment to moment. Murat

sadly watched the phosphorescent furrow trailing behind the little boat:

he had nerved himself to face a storm, but not a dead calm, and without

even interrogating his companions, of whose uneasiness he took no

account, he lay down in the boat, wrapped in his cloak, closing his eyes

as if he were asleep, and following the flow of his thoughts, which were

far more tumultuous than that of the waters. Soon the two sailors,

thinking him asleep, joined the pilot, and sitting down beside the helm,

they began to consult together.

"You were wrong, Langlade," said Donadieu, "in choosing a craft like

this, which is either too small or else too big; in an open boat we can

never weather a storm, and without oars we can never make any way in a

calm."

"’Fore God! I had no choice. I was obliged to take what I could get, and

if it had not been the season for tunny-fishing I might not even have

got this wretched pinnace, or rather I should have had to go into the

harbour to find it, and they keep such a sharp lookout that I might well

have gone in without coming out again."

"At least it is seaworthy," said Blancard.

"Pardieu, you know what nails and planks are when they have been soaked

in sea-water for ten years. On any ordinary occasion, a man would rather

not go in her from Marseilles to the Chateau d’If, but on an occasion

like this one would willingly go round the world in a nutshell."

"Hush!" said Donadieu. The sailors listened; a distant growl was heard,

but it was so faint that only the experienced ear of a sailor could have

distinguished it.

"Yes, yes," said Langlade, "it is a warning for those who have legs or

wings to regain the homes and nests that they ought never to have left."

"Are we far from the islands?" asked Donadieu quickly.

"About a mile off."

"Steer for them."

"What for?" asked Murat, looking up.

"To put in there, sire, if we can."

"No, no," cried Murat; "I will not land except in Corsica. I will not

leave France again. Besides, the sea is calm and the wind is getting up

again—"

"Down with the sails!" shouted Donadieu. Instantly Langlade and Blancard

jumped forward to carry out the order. The sail slid down the mast and

fell in a heap in the bottom of the boat.

"What are you doing?" cried Murat. "Do you forget that I am king and

that I command you?"

"Sire," said Donadieu, "there is a king more powerful than you—God;

there is a voice which drowns yours—the voice of the tempest: let us

save your Majesty if possible, and demand nothing more of us."

Just then a flash of lightning quivered along the horizon, a clap of

thunder nearer than the first one was heard, a light foam appeared on

the surface of the water, and the boat trembled like a living thing.

Murat began to understand that danger was approaching, then he got up

smiling, threw his hat behind him, shook back his long hair, and

breathed in the storm like the smell of powder—the soldier was ready for

the battle.

"Sire," said Donadieu, "you have seen many a battle, but perhaps you

have never watched a storm if you are curious about it, cling to the

mast, for you have a fine opportunity now."

"What ought I to do?" said Murat. "Can I not help you in any way?"

"No, not just now, sire; later you will be useful at the pumps."

During this dialogue the storm had drawn near; it rushed on the

travellers like a war-horse, breathing out fire and wind through its

nostrils, neighing like thunder, and scattering the foam of the waves

beneath its feet.

Donadieu turned the rudder, the boat yielded as if it understood the

necessity for prompt obedience, and presented the poop to the shock of

wind; then the squall passed, leaving the sea quivering, and everything

was calm again. The storm took breath.

"Will that gust be all?" asked Murat.

"No, your Majesty, that was the advance-guard only; the body of the army

will be up directly."

"And are you not going to prepare for it?" asked the king gaily.

"What could we do?" said Donadieu. "We have not an inch of canvas to

catch the wind, and as long as we do not make too much water, we shall

float like a cork. Look out-sire!"

Indeed, a second hurricane was on its way, bringing rain and lightning;

it was swifter than the first. Donadieu endeavoured to repeat the same

manoeuvre, but he could not turn before the wind struck the boat, the

mast bent like a reed; the boat shipped a wave.

"To the pumps!" cried Donadieu. "Sire, now is the moment to help us—"

Blancard, Langlade, and Murat seized their hats and began to bale out

the boat. The position of the four men was terrible—it lasted three

hours.

At dawn the wind fell, but the sea was still high. They began to feel

the need of food: all the provisions had been spoiled by sea-water, only

the wine had been preserved from its contact.

The king took a bottle and swallowed a little wine first, then he passed

it to his companions, who drank in their turn: necessity had overcome

etiquette. By chance Langlade had on him a few chocolates, which he

offered to the king. Murat divided them into four equal parts, and

forced his companions to take their shares; then, when the meal was

over, they steered for Corsica, but the boat had suffered so much that

it was improbable that it would reach Bastia.

The whole day passed without making ten miles; the boat was kept under

the jib, as they dared not hoist the mainsail, and the wind was so

variable that much time was lost in humouring its caprices.

By evening the boat had drawn a considerable amount of water, it

penetrated between the boards, the handkerchiefs of the crew served to

plug up the leaks, and night, which was descending in mournful gloom,

wrapped them a second time in darkness. Prostrated with fatigue, Murat

fell asleep, Blancard and Langlade took their places beside Donadieu,

and the three men, who seemed insensible to the calls of sleep and

fatigue, watched over his slumbers.

The night was calm enough apparently, but low grumblings were heard now

and then.

The three sailors looked at each other strangely and then at the king,

who was sleeping at the bottom of the boat, his cloak soaked with

sea-water, sleeping as soundly as he had slept on the sands of Egypt or

the snows of Russia.

Then one of them got up and went to the other end of the boat, whistling

between his teeth a Provencal air; then, after examining the sky, the

waves; and the boat, he went back to his comrades and sat down,

muttering, "Impossible! Except by a miracle, we shall never make the

land."

The night passed through all its phases. At dawn there was a vessel in

sight.

"A sail!" cried Donadieu,—"a sail!"

At this cry the king—awoke; and soon a little trading brig hove in

sight, going from Corsica to Toulon.

Donadieu steered for the brig, Blancard hoisted enough sail to work the

boat, and Langlade ran to the prow and held up the king’s cloak on the

end of a sort of harpoon. Soon the voyagers perceived that they had been

sighted, the brig went about to approach them, and in ten minutes they

found themselves within fifty yards of it. The captain appeared in the

bows. Then the king hailed him and offered him a substantial reward if

he would receive them on board and take them to Corsica. The captain

listened to the proposal; then immediately turning to the crew, he gave

an order in an undertone which Donadieu could not hear, but which he

understood probably by the gesture, for he instantly gave Langlade and

Blancard the order to make away from the schooner. They obeyed with the

unquestioning promptitude of sailors; but the king stamped his foot.

"What are you doing, Donadieu? What are you about? Don’t you see that

she is coming up to us?"

"Yes—upon my soul—so she is.... Do as I say, Langlade; ready, Blancard.

Yes, she is coming upon us, and perhaps I was too late in seeing this.

That’s all right—that’s all right: my part now."

Then he forced over the rudder, giving it so violent a jerk that the

boat, forced to change her course suddenly, seemed to rear and plunge

like a horse struggling against the curb; finally she obeyed. A huge

wave, raised by the giant bearing down on the pinnace, carried it on

like a leaf, and the brig passed within a few feet of the stern.

"Ah!.... traitor!" cried the king, who had only just begun to realise

the intention of the captain. At the some time, he pulled a pistol from

his belt, crying "Board her! board her!" and tried to fire on the brig,

but the powder was wet and would not catch. The king was furious, and

went on shouting "Board her! board her!"

"Yes, the wretch, or rather the imbecile," said Donadieu, "he took us

for pirates, and wanted to sink us—as if we needed him to do that!"

Indeed, a single glance at the boat showed that she was beginning to

make water.

The effort—to escape which Donadieu had made had strained the boat

terribly, and the water was pouring in by a number of leaks between the

planks; they had to begin again bailing out with their hats, and went on

at it for ten hours. Then for the second time Donadieu heard the

consoling cry, "A sail! a sail!" The king and his companions immediately

left off bailing; they hoisted the sails again, and steered for the

vessel which was coming towards them, and neglected to fight against the

water, which was rising rapidly.

From that time forth it was a question of time, of minutes, of seconds;

it was a question of reaching the ship before the boat foundered.

The vessel, however, seemed to understand the desperate position of the

men imploring help; she was coming up at full speed. Langlade was the

first to recognise her; she was a Government felucca plying between

Toulon and Bastia. Langlade was a friend of the captain, and he called

his name with the penetrating voice of desperation, and he was heard. It

was high time: the water kept on rising, and the king and his companions

were already up to their knees; the boat groaned in its death-struggle;

it stood still, and began to go round and round.

Just then two or three ropes thrown from the felucca fell upon the boat;

the king seized one, sprang forward, and reached the rope-ladder: he was

saved.

Blancard and Langlade immediately followed. Donadieu waited until the

last, as was his duty, and as he put his foot on the ladder he felt the

other boat begin to go under; he turned round with all a sailor’s calm,

and saw the gulf open its jaws beneath him, and then the shattered boat

capsized, and immediately disappeared. Five seconds more, and the four

men who were saved would have been lost beyond recall! [These details

are well known to the people of Toulon, and I have heard them myself a

score of times during the two stays that I made in that town during 1834

and 1835. Some of the people who related them had them first-hand from

Langlade and Donadieu themselves.]

Murat had hardly gained the deck before a man came and fell at his feet:

it was a Mameluke whom he had taken to Egypt in former years, and had

since married at Castellamare; business affairs had taken him to

Marseilles, where by a miracle he had escaped the massacre of his

comrades, and in spite of his disguise and fatigue he had recognised his

former master.

His exclamations of joy prevented the king from keeping up his

incognito. Then Senator Casabianca, Captain Oletta, a nephew of Prince

Baciocchi, a staff-paymaster called Boerco, who were themselves fleeing

from the massacres of the South, were all on board the vessel, and

improvising a little court, they greeted the king with the title of

"your Majesty." It had been a sudden embarkation, it brought about a

swift change: he was no longer Murat the exile; he was Joachim, the King

of Naples. The exile’s refuge disappeared with the foundered boat; in

its place Naples and its magnificent gulf appeared on the horizon like a

marvellous mirage, and no doubt the primary idea of the fatal expedition

of Calabria was originated in the first days of exultation which

followed those hours of anguish. The king, however, still uncertain of

the welcome which awaited him in Corsica, took the name of the Count of

Campo Melle, and it was under this name that he landed at Bastia on the

25th August. But this precaution was useless; three days after his

arrival, not a soul but knew of his presence in the town.

Crowds gathered at once, and cries of "Long live Joachim!" were heard,

and the king, fearing to disturb the public peace, left Bastia the same

evening with his three companions and his Mameluke. Two hours later he

arrived at Viscovato, and knocked at the door of General Franceschetti,

who had been in his service during his whole reign, and who, leaving

Naples at the same time as the king, had gone to Corsica with his wife,

to live with his father-in-law, M. Colonna Cicaldi.

He was in the middle of supper when a servant told him that a stranger

was asking to speak to him—he went out, and found Murat wrapped in a

military greatcoat, a sailor’s cap drawn down on his head, his beard

grown long, and wearing a soldier’s trousers, boots, and gaiters.

The general stood still in amazement; Murat fixed his great dark eyes on

him, and then, folding his arms:—

"Franceschetti," said he, "have you room at your table for your general,

who is hungry? Have you a shelter under your roof for your king, who is

an exile?"

Franceschetti looked astonished as he recognised Joachim, and could only

answer him by falling on his knees and kissing his hand. From that

moment the general’s house was at Murat’s disposal.

The news of the king’s arrival had hardly been handed about the

neighbourhood before officers of all ranks hastened to Viscovato,

veterans who had fought under him, Corsican hunters who were attracted

by his adventurous character; in a few days the general’s house was

turned into a palace, the village into a royal capital, the island into

a kingdom.

Strange rumours were heard concerning Murat’s intentions. An army of

nine hundred men helped to give them some amount of confirmation. It was

then that Blancard, Donadieu, and Langlade took leave of him; Murat

wished to keep them, but they had been vowed to the rescue of the exile,

not to the fortunes of the king.

We have related how Murat had met one of his former Mamelukes, a man

called Othello, on board the Bastia mailboat. Othello had followed him

to Viscovato, and the ex-King of Naples considered how to make use of

him. Family relations recalled him naturally to Castellamare, and Murat

ordered him to return there, entrusting to him letters for persons on

whose devotion he could depend. Othello started, and reached his

father-in-law’s safely, and thought he could confide in him; but the

latter was horror-struck, and alarmed the police, who made a descent on

Othello one night, and seized the letters.

The next day each man to whom a letter was addressed was arrested and

ordered to answer Murat as if all was well, and to point out Salerno as

the best place for disembarking: five out of seven were dastards enough

to obey; the two remaining, who were two Spanish brothers, absolutely

refused; they were thrown into a dungeon.

However, on the 17th September, Murat left Viscovato; General

Franceschetti and several Corsican officers served as escort; he took

the road to Ajaccio by Cotone, the mountains of Serra and Bosco, Venaco

and Vivaro, by the gorges of the forest of Vezzanovo and Bogognone; he

was received and feted like a king everywhere, and at the gates of the

towns he was met by deputations who made him speeches and saluted him

with the title of "Majesty"; at last, on the 23rd September, he arrived

at Ajaccio. The whole population awaited him outside the walls, and his

entry into the town was a triumphal procession; he was taken to the inn

which had been fixed upon beforehand by the quartermasters. It was

enough to turn the head of a man less impressionable than Murat; as for

him, he was intoxicated with it. As he went into the inn he held out his

hand to Franceschetti.

"You see," he said, "what the Neapolitans will do for me by the way the

Corsicans receive me."

It was the first mention which had escaped him of his plans for the

future, and from that very day he began to give orders for his

departure.

They collected ten little feluccas: a Maltese, named Barbara, former

captain of a frigate of the Neapolitan navy, was appointed

commander-in-chief of the expedition; two hundred and fifty men were

recruited and ordered to hold themselves in readiness for the first

signal.

Murat was only waiting for the answers to Othello’s letters: they

arrived on the afternoon of the 28th. Murat invited all his officers to

a grand dinner, and ordered double pay and double rations to the men.

The king was at dessert when the arrival of M. Maceroni was announced to

him: he was the envoy of the foreign powers who brought Murat the answer

which he had been awaiting so long at Toulon. Murat left the table and

went into another room. M. Maceroni introduced himself as charged with

an official mission, and handed the king the Emperor of Austria’s

ultimatum. It was couched in the following terms:

"Monsieur Maceroni is authorised by these presents to announce to

King Joachim that His Majesty the Emperor of Austria will afford him

shelter in his States on the following terms:—

"1. The king is to take a private name. The queen having adopted

that of Lipano, it is proposed that the king should do likewise.

"2. It will be permitted to the king to choose a town in Bohemia,

Moravia, or the Tyrol, as a place of residence. He could even

inhabit a country house in one of these same provinces without

inconvenience.

"3. The king is to give his word of honour to His Imperial and Royal

Majesty that he will never leave the States of Austria without the

express−permission of the Emperor, and that he is to live like a

private gentleman of distinction, but submitting to the laws in force

in the States of Austria.

"In attestation whereof, and to guard against abuse, the undersigned

has received the order of the Emperor to sign the present

declaration.

"(Signed) PRINCE OF METTERNICH

"PARIS, 1st Sept. 1815."

Murat smiled as he finished reading, then he signed to M. Maceroni to

follow him:

He led him on to the terrace of the house, which looked over the whole

town, and over which a banner floated as it might on a royal castle.

From thence they could see Ajaccio all gay and illuminated, the port

with its little fleet, and the streets crowded with people, as if it

were a fete-day.

Hardly had the crowd set eyes on Murat before a universal cry arose,

"Long live Joachim, brother of Napoleon! Long live the King of Naples!"

Murat bowed, and the shouts were redoubled, and the garrison band played

the national airs.

M. Maceroni did not know how to believe his own eyes and ears.

When the king had enjoyed his astonishment, he invited him to go down to

the drawing-room. His staff were there, all in full uniform: one might

have been at Caserte or at Capo di Monte. At last, after a moment’s

hesitation, Maceroni approached Murat.

"Sir," he said, "what is my answer to be to His Majesty the Emperor of

Austria?"

"Sir," answered Murat, with the lofty dignity which sat so well on his

fine face, "tell my brother Francis what you have seen and heard, and

add that I am setting out this very night to reconquer my kingdom of

Naples."

III—PIZZO

The letters which had made Murat resolve to leave Corsica had been

brought to him by a Calabrian named Luidgi. He had presented himself to

the king as the envoy of the Arab, Othello, who had been thrown into

prison in Naples, as we have related, as well as the seven recipients of

the letters.

The answers, written by the head of the Neapolitan police, indicated the

port of Salerno as the best place for Joachim to land; for King

Ferdinand had assembled three thousand Austrian troops at that point,

not daring to trust the Neapolitan soldiers, who cherished a brilliant

and enthusiastic memory of Murat.

Accordingly the flotilla was directed for the Gulf of Salerno, but

within sight of the island of Capri a violent storm broke over it, and

drove it as far as Paola, a little seaport situated ten miles from

Cosenza. Consequently the vessels were anchored for the night of the 5th

of October in a little indentation of the coast not worthy of the name

of a roadstead. The king, to remove all suspicion from the coastguards

and the Sicilian scorridori, [Small vessels fitted up as ships-of-war.]

ordered that all lights should be extinguished and that the vessels

should tack about during the night; but towards one o’clock such a

violent land-wind sprang up that the expedition was driven out to sea,

so that on the 6th at dawn the king’s vessel was alone.

During the morning they overhauled Captain Cicconi’s felucca, and the

two ships dropped anchor at four o’clock in sight of Santo-Lucido. In

the evening the king commanded Ottoviani, a staff officer, to go ashore

and reconnoitre. Luidgi offered to accompany him. Murat accepted his

services. So Ottoviani and his guide went ashore, whilst Cicconi and his

felucca put out to sea in search of the rest of the fleet.

Towards eleven o’clock at night the lieutenant of the watch descried a

man in the waves swimming to the vessel. As soon as he was within

hearing the lieutenant hailed him. The swimmer immediately made himself

known: it was Luidgi. They put out the boat, and he came on board. Then

he told them that Ottoviani had been arrested, and he had only escaped

himself by jumping into the sea. Murat’s first idea was to go to the

rescue of Ottoviani; but Luidgi made the king realise the danger and

uselessness of such an attempt; nevertheless, Joachim remained agitated

and irresolute until two o’clock in the morning.

At last he gave the order to put to sea again. During the manoeuvre

which effected this a sailor fell overboard and disappeared before they

had time to help him. Decidedly these were ill omens.

On the morning of the 7th two vessels were in sight. The king gave the

order to prepare for action, but Barbara recognised them as Cicconi’s

felucca and Courrand’s lugger, which had joined each other and were

keeping each other company. They hoisted the necessary signals, and the

two captains brought up their vessels alongside the admiral’s.

While they were deliberating as to what route to follow, a boat came up

to Murat’s vessel. Captain Pernice was on board with a lieutenant. They

came to ask the king’s permission to board his ship, not wishing to

remain on Courrand’s, for in their opinion he was a traitor.

Murat sent to fetch him, and in spite of his protestations he was made

to descend into a boat with fifty men, and the boat was moored to the

vessel. The order was carried out at once, and the little squadron

advanced, coasting along the shores of Calabria without losing sight of

them; but at ten o’clock in the evening, just as they came abreast of

the Gulf of Santa-Eufemia, Captain Courrand cut the rope which moored

his boat to the vessel, and rowed away from the fleet.

Murat had thrown himself on to his bed without undressing; they brought

him the news.

He rushed up to the deck, and arrived in time to see the boat, which was

fleeing in the direction of Corsica, grow small and vanish in the

distance. He remained motionless, not uttering a cry, giving no signs of

rage; he only sighed and let his head fall on his breast: it was one

more leaf falling from the exhausted tree of his hopes.

General Franceschetti profited by this hour of discouragement to advise

him not to land in Calabria, and to go direct to Trieste, in order to

claim from Austria the refuge which had been offered.

The king was going through one of those periods of extreme exhaustion,

of mortal depression, when courage quite gives way: he refused flatly at

first, and there at last agreed to do it.

Just then the general perceived a sailor lying on some coils of ropes,

within hearing of all they said; he interrupted himself, and pointed him

out to Murat.

The latter got up, went to see the man, and recognised Luidgi; overcome

with exhaustion, he had fallen asleep on deck. The king satisfied

himself that the sleep was genuine, and besides he had full confidence

in the man. The conversation, which had been interrupted for a moment,

was renewed: it was agreed that without saying anything about the new

plans, they would clear Cape Spartivento and enter the Adriatic; then

the king and the general went below again to the lower deck.

The next day, the 8th October, they found themselves abreast of Pizzo,

when Joachim, questioned by Barbara as to what he proposed to do, gave

the order to steer for Messina. Barbara answered that he was ready to

obey, but that they were in need of food and water; consequently he

offered to go on, board Cicconi’s vessel and to land with him to get

stores. The king agreed; Barbara asked for the passports which he had

received from the allied powers, in order, he said, not to be molested

by the local authorities.

These documents were too important for Murat to consent to part with

them; perhaps the king was beginning to suspect: he refused. Barbara

insisted; Murat ordered him to land without the papers; Barbara flatly

refused.

The king, accustomed to being obeyed, raised his riding-whip to strike

the Maltese, but, changing his resolution, he ordered the soldiers to

prepare their arms, the officers to put on full uniform; he himself set

the example. The disembarkation was decided upon, and Pizzo was to

become the Golfe Juan of the new Napoleon.

Consequently the vessels were steered for land. The king got down into a

boat with twenty-eight soldiers and three servants, amongst whom was

Luidgi. As they drew near the shore General Franceschetti made a

movement as if to land, but Murat stopped him.

"It is for me to land first," he said, and he sprang on shore.

He was dressed in a general’s coat, white breeches and riding-boots, a

belt carrying two pistols, a gold-embroidered hat with a cockade

fastened in with a clasp made of fourteen brilliants, and lastly he

carried under his arm the banner round which he hoped to rally his

partisans. The town clock of Pizzo struck ten. Murat went straight up to

the town, from which he was hardly a hundred yards distant. He followed

the wide stone staircase which led up to it.

It was Sunday. Mass was about to be celebrated, and the whole population

had assembled in the Great Square when he arrived. No one recognised

him, and everyone gazed with astonishment at the fine officer. Presently

he saw amongst the peasants a former sergeant of his who had served in

his guard at Naples. He walked straight up to him and put his hand on

the man’s shoulder.

"Tavella," he said, "don’t you recognise me?"

But as the man made no answer:

"I am Joachim Murat, I am your king," he said. "Yours be the honour to

shout ’Long live Joachim!’ first."

Murat’s suite instantly made the air ring with acclamations, but the

Calabrians remained silent, and not one of his comrades took up the cry

for which the king himself had given the signal; on the contrary, a low

murmur ran through the crowd. Murat well understood this forerunner of

the storm.

"Well," he said to Tavella, "if you won’t cry ’Long live Joachim!’ you

can at least fetch me a horse, and from sergeant I will promote you to

be captain."

Tavella walked away without answering, but instead of carrying out the

king’s behest, went into his house, and did not appear again.

In the meantime the people were massing together without evincing any of

the sympathy that the king had hoped for. He felt that he was lost if he

did not act instantly.

"To Monteleone!" he cried, springing forward towards the road which led

to that town.

"To Monteleone!" shouted his officers and men, as they followed him.

And the crowd, persistently silent, opened to let them pass.

But they had hardly left the square before a great disturbance broke

out. A man named Giorgio Pellegrino came out of his house with a gun and

crossed the square, shouting, "To your arms!"

He knew that Captain Trenta Capelli commanding the Cosenza garrison was

just then in Pizzo, and he was going to warn him.

The cry "To arms!" had more effect on the crowd than the cry "Long live

Joachim!"

Every Calabrian possesses a gun, and each one ran to fetch his, and when

Trenta Capelli and Giorgio Pellegrino came back to the square they found

nearly two hundred armed men there.

They placed themselves at the head of the column, and hastened forward

in pursuit of the king; they came up with him about ten minutes from the

square, where the bridge is nowadays. Seeing them, Murat stopped and

waited for them.

Trenta Capelli advanced, sword in hand, towards the king.

"Sir," said the latter, "will you exchange your captain’s epaulettes for

a general’s? Cry ’Long live Joachim!’ and follow me with these brave

fellows to Monteleone."

"Sire," said Trenta Capelli, "we are the faithful subjects of King

Ferdinand, and we come to fight you, and not to bear you company. Give

yourself up, if you would prevent bloodshed."

Murat looked at the captain with an expression which it would be

impossible to describe; then without deigning to answer, he signed to

Cagelli to move away, while his other hand went to his pistol. Giotgio

Pellegrino perceived the movement.

"Down, captain, down!" he cried. The captain obeyed. Immediately a

bullet whistled over his head and brushed Murat’s head.

"Fire!" commanded Franceschetti.

"Down with your arms!" cried Murat.

Waving his handkerchief in his right hand, he made a step towards the

peasants, but at the same moment a number of shots were fired, an

officer and two or three men fell. In a case like this, when blood has

begun to flow, there is no stopping it.

Murat knew this fatal truth, and his course of action was rapidly

decided on. Before him he had five hundred armed men, and behind him a

precipice thirty feet high: he sprang from the jagged rock on which he

was standing, and alighting on the sand, jumped up safe and sound.

General Franceschetti and his aide-de-camp Campana were able to

accomplish the jump in the same way, and all three went rapidly down to

the sea through the little wood which lay within a hundred yards of the

shore, and which hid them for a few moments from their enemies.

As they came out of the wood a fresh discharge greeted them, bullets

whistled round them, but no one was hit, and the three fugitives went on

down to the beach.

It was only then that the king perceived that the boat which had brought

them to land had gone off again. The three ships which composed the

fleet, far from remaining to guard his landing, were sailing away at

full speed into the open sea.

The Maltese, Barbara, was going off not only with Murat’s fortune, but

with his hopes likewise, his salvation, his very life. They could not

believe in such treachery, and the king took it for some manoeuvre of

seamanship, and seeing a fishing-boat drawn up on the beach on some

nets, he called to his two companions, "Launch that boat!"

They all began to push it down to the sea with the energy of despair,

the strength of agony.

No one had dared to leap from the rock in pursuit of them; their

enemies, forced to make a detour, left them a few moments of liberty.

But soon shouts were heard: Giorgio Pellegrino, Trenta Capelli, followed

by the whole population of Pizzo, rushed out about a hundred and fifty

paces from where Murat, Franceschetti, and Campana were straining

themselves to make the boat glide down the sand.

These cries were immediately followed by a volley. Campana fell, with a

bullet through his heart.

The boat, however, was launched. Franceschetti sprang into it, Murat was

about to follow, but he had not observed that the spurs of his

riding-boots had caught in the meshes of the net. The boat, yielding to

the push he gave it, glided away, and the king fell head foremost, with

his feet on land and his face in the water. Before he had time to pick

himself up, the populace had fallen on him: in one instant they had torn

away his epaulettes, his banner, and his coat, and would have torn him

to bits himself, had not Giorgio Pellegrino and Trenta Capelli taken him

under their protection, and giving him an arm on each side, defended him

in their turn against the people. Thus he crossed the square as a

prisoner where an hour before he had walked as a king.

His captors took him to the castle: he was pushed into the common

prison, the door was shut upon him, and the king found himself among

thieves and murderers, who, not knowing him, took him for a companion in

crime, and greeted him with foul language and hoots of derision.

A quarter of an hour later the door of the gaol opened and Commander

Mattei came in: he found Murat standing with head proudly erect and

folded arms. There was an expression of indefinable loftiness in this

half-naked man whose face was stained with blood and bespattered with

mud. Mattei bowed before him.

"Commander," said Murat, recognising his rank by his epaulettes, "look

round you and tell me whether this is a prison for a king."

Then a strange thing happened: the criminals, who, believing Murat their

accomplice, had welcomed him with vociferations and laughter, now bent

before his royal majesty, which had not overawed Pellegrino and Trenta

Capelli, and retired silently to the depths of their dungeon.

Misfortune had invested Murat with a new power.

Commander Mattei murmured some excuse, and invited Murat to follow him

to a room that he had had prepared for him; but before going out, Murat

put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold and let it

fall in a shower in the midst of the gaol.

"See," he said, turning towards the prisoners, "it shall not be said

that you have received a visit from a king, prisoner and crownless as he

is, without having received largesse."

"Long live Joachim!" cried the prisoners.

Murat smiled bitterly. Those same words repeated by the same number of

voices an hour before in the public square, instead of resounding in the

prison, would have made him King of Naples.

The most important events proceed sometimes from such mere trifles, that

it seems as if God and the devil must throw dice for the life or death

of men, for the rise or fall of empires.

Murat followed Commander Mattei: he led him to a little room which the

porter had put at his disposal. Mattei was going to retire when Murat

called him back.

"Commander," he said, "I want a scented bath."

"Sire, it will be difficult to obtain."

"Here are fifty ducats; let someone buy all the eau de Cologne that can

be obtained. Ah—and let some tailors be sent to me."

"It will be impossible to find anyone here capable of making anything

but a peasant’s clothes."

"Send someone to Monteleone to fetch them from there."

The commander bowed and went out.

Murat was in his bath when the Lavaliere Alcala was announced, a General

and Governor of the town. He had sent damask coverlets, curtains, and

arm-chairs. Murat was touched by this attention, and it gave him fresh

composure. At two o’clock the same day General Nunziante arrived from

Santa-Tropea with three thousand men. Murat greeted his old acquaintance

with pleasure; but at the first word the king perceived that he was

before his judge, and that he had not come for the purpose of making a

visit, but to make an official inquiry.

Murat contented himself with stating that he had been on his way from

Corsica to Trieste with a passport from the Emperor of Austria when

stormy weather and lack of provisions had forced him to put into Pizzo.

All other questions Murat met with a stubborn silence; then at least,

wearied by his importunity—

"General," he said, "can you lend me some clothes after my bath?"

The general understood that he could expect no more information, and,

bowing to the king, he went out. Ten minutes later, a complete uniform

was brought to Murat; he put it on immediately, asked for a pen and ink,

wrote to the commander-in-chief of the Austrian troops at Naples, to the

English ambassador, and to his wife, to tell them of his detention at

Pizzo. These letters written, he got up and paced his room for some time

in evident agitation; at last, needing fresh air, he opened the window.

There was a view of the very beach where he had been captured.

Two men were digging a hole in the sand at the foot of the little

redoubt. Murat watched them mechanically. When the two men had finished,

they went into a neighbouring house and soon came out, bearing a corpse

in their arms.

The king searched his memory, and indeed it seemed to him that in the

midst of that terrible scene he had seen someone fall, but who it was he

no longer remembered. The corpse was quite without covering, but by the

long black hair and youthful outlines the king recognised Campana, the

aide-decamp he had always loved best.

This scene, watched from a prison window in the twilight, this solitary

burial on the shore, in the sand, moved Murat more deeply than his own

fate. Great tears filled his eyes and fell silently down the leonine

face. At that moment General Nunziante came in and surprised him with

outstretched arms and face bathed with tears. Murat heard him enter and

turned round, and seeing the old soldier’s surprise.

"Yes, general," he said, "I weep; I weep for that boy, just twenty-four,

entrusted to me by his parents, whose death I have brought about. I weep

for that vast, brilliant future which is buried in an unknown grave, in

an enemy’s country, on a hostile shore. Oh, Campana! Campana! if ever I

am king again, I will raise you a royal tomb."

The general had had dinner served in an adjacent room. Murat followed

him and sat down to table, but he could not eat. The sight which he had

just witnessed had made him heartbroken, and yet without a line on his

brow that man had been through the battles of Aboukir, Eylau, and

Moscow! After dinner, Murat went into his room again, gave his various

letters to General Nunziante, and begged to be left alone. The general

went away.

Murat paced round his room several times, walking with long steps, and

pausing from time to time before the window, but without opening it.

At last he overcame a deep reluctance, put his hand on the bolt and drew

the lattice towards him.

It was a calm, clear night: one could see the whole shore. He looked for

Campana’s grave. Two dogs scratching the sand showed him the spot.

The king shut the window violently, and without undressing threw himself

onto his bed. At last, fearing that his agitation would be attributed to

personal alarm, he undressed and went to bed, to sleep, or seem to sleep

all night.

On the morning of the 9th the tailors whom Murat had asked for arrived.

He ordered a great many clothes, taking the trouble to explain all the

details suggested by his fastidious taste. He was thus employed when

General Nunziante came in. He listened sadly to the king’s commands. He

had just received telegraphic despatches ordering him to try the King of

Naples by court-martial as a public enemy. But he found the king so

confident, so tranquil, almost cheerful indeed, that he had not the

heart to announce his trial to him, and took upon himself to delay the

opening of operation until he received written instructions. These

arrived on the evening of the 12th. They were couched in the following

terms:

NAPLES, October 9, 1815

"Ferdinand, by the grace of God, etc . . . . wills and decrees

the following:

"Art. 1. General Murat is to be tried by court−martial, the members

whereof are to be nominated by our Minister of War.

"Art. 2. Only half an hour is to be accorded to the condemned for

the exercises of religion.

"(Signed) FERDINAND."

Another despatch from the minister contained the names of the members of

the commission. They were:—

Giuseppe Fosculo, adjutant, commander-in-chief of the staff, president.

Laffaello Scalfaro, chief of the legion of Lower Calabria.

Latereo Natali, lieutenant-colonel of the Royal Marines.

Gennaro Lanzetta, lieutenant-colonel of the Engineers.

W. T. captain of Artillery.

Francois de Venge, ditto.

Francesco Martellari, lieutenant of Artillery.

Francesco Froio, lieutenant in the 3rd regiment of the line.

Giovanni delta Camera, Public Prosecutor to the Criminal Courts of Lower

Calabria.

Francesco Papavassi, registrar.

The commission assembled that night.

On the 13th October, at six o’clock in the morning, Captain Stratti came

into the king’s prison; he was sound asleep. Stratti was going away

again, when he stumbled against a chair; the noise awoke Murat.

"What do you want with me, captain?" asked the king.

Stratti tried to speak, but his voice failed him.

"Ah ha!" said Murat, "you must have had news from Naples."

"Yes, sire," muttered Stratti.

"What are they?" said Murat.

"Your trial, sire."

"And by whose order will sentence be pronounced, if you please? Where

will they find peers to judge me? If they consider me as a king, I must

have a tribunal of kings; if I am a marshal of France, I must have a

court of marshals; if I am a general, and that is the least I can be, I

must have a jury of generals."

"Sire, you are declared a public enemy, and as such you are liable to be

judged by court-martial: that is the law which you instituted yourself

for rebels."

"That law was made for brigands, and not for crowned heads, sir," said

Murat scornfully. "I am ready; let them butcher me if they like. I did

not think King Ferdinand capable of such an action."

"Sire, will you not hear the names of your judges?"

"Yes, sir, I will. It must be a curious list. Read it: I am listening."

Captain Stratti read out the names that we have enumerated. Murat

listened with a disdainful smile.

"Ah," he said, as the captain finished, "it seems that every precaution

has been taken."

"How, sire?"

"Yes. Don’t you know that all these men, with the exception of Francesco

Froio, the reporter; owe their promotion to me? They will be afraid of

being accused of sparing me out of gratitude, and save one voice,

perhaps, the sentence will be unanimous."

"Sire, suppose you were to appear before the court, to plead your own

cause?"

"Silence, sir, silence!" said Murat. "I could, not officially recognise

the judges you have named without tearing too many pages of history.

Such tribunal is quite incompetent; I should be disgraced if I appeared

before it. I know I could not save my life, let me at least preserve my

royal dignity."

At this moment Lieutenant Francesco Froio came in to interrogate the

prisoner, asking his name, his age, and his nationality. Hearing these

questions, Murat rose with an expression of sublime dignity.

"I am Joachim Napoleon, King of the Two Sicilies," he answered, "and I

order you to leave me."

The registrar obeyed.

Then Murat partially dressed himself, and asked Stratti if he could

write a farewell to his wife and children. The Captain no longer able to

speak, answered by an affirmative sign; then Joachim sat down to the

table and wrote this letter:

"DEAR CAROLINE OF MY HEART,—The fatal moment has come: I am to suffer

the death penalty. In an hour you will be a widow, our children will be

fatherless: remember me; never forget my memory. I die innocent; my life

is taken from me unjustly.

"Good-bye, Achilles good-bye, Laetitia; goodbye, Lucien; good-bye,

Louise.

"Show yourselves worthy of me; I leave you in a world and in a kingdom

full of my enemies. Show yourselves superior to adversity, and remember

never to think yourselves better than you are, remembering what you have

been.

"Farewell. I bless you all. Never curse my memory. Remember that the

worst pang of my agony is in dying far from my children, far from my

wife, without a friend to close my eyes. Farewell, my own Caroline.

Farewell, my children. I send you my blessing, my most tender tears, my

last kisses. Farewell, farewell. Never forget your unhappy father,

"Pizzo, Oct. 13, 1815"

[We can guarantee the authenticity of this letter, having copied it

ourselves at Pizzo, from the Lavaliere Alcala’s copy of the original]

Then he cut off a lock of his hair and put it in his letter. Just then

General Nunziante came in; Murat went to him and held out his hand.

"General," he said, "you are a father, you are a husband, one day you

will know what it is to part from your wife and sons. Swear to me that

this letter shall be delivered."

"On my epaulettes," said the general, wiping his eyes. [Madame Murat

never received this letter.]

"Come, come, courage, general," said Murat; "we are soldiers, we know

how to face death. One favour—you will let me give the order to fire,

will you not?"

The general signed acquiescence: just then the registrar came in with

the king’s sentence in his hand.

Murat guessed what it was.

"Read, sir," he said coldly; "I am listening."

The registrar obeyed. Murat was right.

The sentence of death had been carried with only one dissentient voice.

When the reading was finished, the king turned again to Nunziante.

"General," he said, "believe that I distinguish in my mind the

instrument which strikes me and the hand that wields that instrument. I

should never have thought that Ferdinand would have had me shot like a

dog; he does not hesitate apparently before such infamy. Very well. We

will say no more about it. I have challenged my judges, but not my

executioners. What time have you fixed for my execution?"

"Will you fix it yourself, sir?" said the general.

Murat pulled out a watch on which there was a portrait of his wife; by

chance he turned up the portrait, and not the face of the watch; he

gazed at it tenderly.

"See, general," he said, showing it to Nunziante; "it is a portrait of

the queen. You know her; is it not like her?"

The general turned away his head. Murat sighed and put away the watch.

"Well, sire," said the registrar, "what time have you fixed?"

"Ah yes," said Murat, smiling, "I forgot why I took out my watch when I

saw Caroline’s portrait."

Then he looked at his watch again, but this time at its face.

"Well, it shall be at four o’clock, if you like; it is past three

o’clock. I ask for fifty minutes. Is that too much, sir?"

The registrar bowed and went out. The general was about to follow him.

"Shall I never see you again, Nunziante?" said Murat.

"My orders are to be present at your death, sire, but I cannot do it."

"Very well, general. I will dispense with your presence at the last

moment, but I should like to say farewell once more and to embrace you."

"I will be near, sire."

"Thank you. Now leave me alone."

"Sire, there are two priests here."

Murat made an impatient movement.

"Will you receive them?" continued the general.

"Yes; bring them in."

The general went out. A moment later, two priests appeared in the

doorway. One of them was called Francesco Pellegrino, uncle of the man

who had caused the king’s death; the other was Don Antonio Masdea.

"What do you want here?" asked Murat.

"We come to ask you if you are dying a Christian?"

"I am dying as a soldier. Leave me."

Don Francesco Pellegrino retired. No doubt he felt ill at ease before

Joachim. But Antonio Masdea remained at the door.

"Did you not hear me?" asked the king.

"Yes, indeed," answered the old man; "but permit me, sire, to hope that

it was not your last word to me. It is not, the first time that I see

you or beg something of you. I have already had occasion to ask a favour

of you."

"What was that?"

"When your Majesty came to Pizzo in 1810, I asked you for 25,000 francs

to enable us to finish our church. Your Majesty sent me 40,000 francs."

"I must have foreseen that I should be buried there," said Murat,

smiling.

"Ah, sire, I should like to think that you did not refuse my second boon

any more than my first. Sire, I entreat you on my knees."

The old man fell at Murat’s feet.

"Die as a Christian!"

"That would give you pleasure, then, would it?" said the king.

"Sire, I would give the few short days remaining to me if God would

grant that His Holy Spirit should fall upon you in your last hour."

"Well," said Murat, "hear my confession. I accuse myself of having been

disobedient to my parents as a child. Since I reached manhood I have

done nothing to reproach myself with."

"Sire, will you give me an attestation that you die in the Christian

faith?"

"Certainly," said Murat.

And he took a pen and wrote: "I, Joachim Murat, die a Christian,

believing in the Holy Catholic Church, Apostolic and Roman."

He signed it.

"Now, father," continued the king, "if you have a third favour to ask of

me, make haste, for in half an hour it will be too late."

Indeed, the castle clock was striking half-past three. The priest signed

that he had finished.

"Then leave me alone," said Murat; and the old man went out.

Murat paced his room for a few moments, then he sat down on his bed and

let his head fall into his hands. Doubtless, during the quarter of an

hour he remained thus absorbed in his thoughts, he saw his whole life

pass before him, from the inn where he had started to the palace he had

reached; no doubt his adventurous career unrolled itself before him like

some golden dream, some brilliant fiction, some tale from the Arabian

Nights.

His life gleamed athwart the storm like a rainbow, and like a rainbow’s,

its two extremities were lost in clouds—the clouds of birth and death.

At last he roused himself from this inward contemplation, and lifted a

pale but tranquil face. Then he went to the glass and arranged his hair.

His strange characteristics never left him. The affianced of Death, he

was adorning himself to meet his bride.

Four o’clock struck.

Murat went to the door himself and opened it.

General Nunziante was waiting for him.

"Thank you, general," said Murat. "You have kept your word. Kiss me, and

go at once, if you like."

The general threw himself into the king’s arms, weeping, and utterly

unable to speak.

"Courage," said Murat. "You see I am calm." It was this very calmness

which broke the general’s heart. He dashed out of the corridor, and left

the castle, running like a madman.

Then the king walked out into the courtyard.

Everything was ready for the execution.

Nine men and a corporal were ranged before the door of the council

chamber. Opposite them was a wall twelve feet high. Three feet away from

the wall was a stone block: Murat mounted it, thus raising himself about

a foot above the soldiers who were to execute him. Then he took out his

watch,[Madame Murat recovered this watch at the price of 200 Louis]

kissed his wife’s portrait, and fixing his eyes on it, gave the order to

fire. At the word of command five out of the nine men fired: Murat

remained standing. The soldiers had been ashamed to fire on their king,

and had aimed over his head. That moment perhaps displayed most

gloriously the lionlike courage which was Murat’s special attribute. His

face never changed, he did not move a muscle; only gazing at the

soldiers with an expression of mingled bitterness and gratitude, he

said:

"Thank you; my friends. Since sooner or later you will be obliged to aim

true, do not prolong my death-agonies. All I ask you is to aim at the

heart and spare the face. Now——"

With the same voice, the same calm, the same expression, he repeated the

fatal words one after another, without lagging, without hastening, as if

he were giving an accustomed command; but this time, happier than the

first, at the word "Fire!" he fell pierced by eight bullets, without a

sigh, without a movement, still holding the watch in his left hand.

The soldiers took up the body and laid it on the bed where ten minutes

before he had been sitting, and the captain put a guard at the door.

In the evening a man presented himself, asking to go into the

death-chamber: the sentinel refused to let him in, and he demanded an

interview with the governor of the prison. Led before him, he produced

an order. The commander read it with surprise and disgust, but after

reading it he led the man to the door where he had been refused

entrance.

"Pass the Signor Luidgi," he said to the sentinel.

Ten minutes had hardly elapsed before he came out again, holding a

bloodstained handkerchief containing something to which the sentinel

could not give a name.

An hour later, the carpenter brought the coffin which was to contain the

king’s remains. The workman entered the room, but instantly called the

sentinel in a voice of indescribable terror.

The sentinel half opened the door to see what had caused the man’s

panic.

The carpenter pointed to a headless corpse!

At the death of King Ferdinand, that, head, preserved in spirits of

wine, was found in a secret cupboard in his bedroom.

A week after the execution of Pizzo everyone had received his reward:

Trenta Capelli was made a colonel, General Nunziante a marquis, and

Luidgi died from the effects of poison.

*THE MARQUISE DE BRINVILLIERS*

Towards the end of the year 1665, on a fine autumn evening, there was a

considerable crowd assembled on the Pont-Neuf where it makes a turn down

to the rue Dauphine. The object of this crowd and the centre of

attraction was a closely shut, carriage. A police official was trying to

force open the door, and two out of the four sergeants who were with him

were holding the horses back and the other two stopping the driver, who

paid no attention to their commands, but only endeavoured to urge his

horses to a gallop. The struggle had been going on same time, when

suddenly one of the doors violently pushed open, and a young officer in

the uniform of a cavalry captain jumped down, shutting the door as he

did so though not too quickly for the nearest spectators to perceive a

woman sitting at the back of the carriage. She was wrapped in cloak and

veil, and judging by the precautions she, had taken to hide her face

from every eye, she must have had her reasons for avoiding recognition.

"Sir," said the young man, addressing the officer with a haughty air, "I

presume, till I find myself mistaken, that your business is with me

alone; so I will ask you to inform me what powers you may have for thus

stopping my coach; also, since I have alighted, I desire you to give

your men orders to let the vehicle go on."

"First of all," replied the man, by no means intimidated by these lordly

airs, but signing to his men that they must not release the coach or the

horses, "be so good as to answer my questions."

"I am attending," said the young man, controlling his agitation by a

visible effort.

"Are you the Chevalier Gaudin de Sainte-Croix?"

"I am he."

"Captain of the Tracy, regiment?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I arrest you in the king’s name."

"What powers have you?"

"This warrant."

Sainte-Croix cast a rapid glance at the paper, and instantly recognised

the signature of the minister of police: he then apparently confined his

attention to the woman who was still in the carriage; then he returned

to his first question.

"This is all very well, sir," he said to the officer, "but this warrant

contains no other name than mine, and so you have no right to expose

thus to the public gaze the lady with whom I was travelling when you

arrested me. I must beg of you to order your assistants to allow this

carriage to drive on; then take me where you please, for I am ready to

go with you."

To the officer this request seemed a just one: he signed to his men to

let the driver and the horses go on; and, they, who had waited only for

this, lost no time in breaking through the crowd, which melted away

before them; thus the woman escaped for whose safety the prisoner seemed

so much concerned.

Sainte-Croix kept his promise and offered no resistance; for some

moments he followed the officer, surrounded by a crowd which seemed to

have transferred all its curiosity to his account; then, at the corner

of the Quai de d’Horloge, a man called up a carriage that had not been

observed before, and Sainte-Croix took his place with the same haughty

and disdainful air that he had shown throughout the scene we have just

described. The officer sat beside him, two of his men got up behind, and

the other two, obeying no doubt their master’s orders, retired with a

parting direction to the driver.

"The Bastille!"

Our readers will now permit us to make them more fully acquainted with

the man who is to take the first place in the story. The origin of

Gaudin de Sainte-Croix was not known: according to one tale, he was the

natural son of a great lord; another account declared that he was the

offspring of poor people, but that, disgusted with his obscure birth, he

preferred a splendid disgrace, and therefore chose to pass for what he

was not. The only certainty is that he was born at Montauban, and in

actual rank and position he was captain of the Tracy regiment. At the

time when this narrative opens, towards the end of 1665, Sainte-Croix

was about twenty-eight or thirty, a fine young man of cheerful and

lively appearance, a merry comrade at a banquet, and an excellent

captain: he took his pleasure with other men, and was so impressionable

a character that he enjoyed a virtuous project as well as any plan for a

debauch; in love he was most susceptible, and jealous to the point of

madness even about a courtesan, had she once taken his fancy; his

prodigality was princely, although he had no income; further, he was

most sensitive to slights, as all men are who, because they are placed

in an equivocal position, fancy that everyone who makes any reference to

their origin is offering an intentional insult.

We must now see by what a chain of circumstances he had arrived at his

present position. About the year 1660, Sainte-Croix, while in the army,

had made the acquaintance of the Marquis de Brinvilliers, maitre-de-camp

of the Normandy regiment.

Their age was much the same, and so was their manner of life: their

virtues and their vices were similar, and thus it happened that a mere

acquaintance grew into a friendship, and on his return from the field

the marquis introduced Sainte-Croix to his wife, and he became an

intimate of the house. The usual results followed. Madame de

Brinvilliers was then scarcely eight-and-twenty: she had married the

marquis in 1651-that is, nine years before. He enjoyed an income of

30,000 livres, to which she added her dowry of 200,000 livres, exclusive

of her expectations in the future. Her name was Marie-Madeleine; she had

a sister and two brothers: her father, M. de Dreux d’Aubray; was civil

lieutenant at the Chatelet de Paris. At the age of twenty-eight the

marquise was at the height of her beauty: her figure was small but

perfectly proportioned; her rounded face was charmingly pretty; her

features, so regular that no emotion seemed to alter their beauty,

suggested the lines of a statue miraculously endowed with life: it was

easy enough to mistake for the repose of a happy conscience the cold,

cruel calm which served as a mask to cover remorse.

Sainte-Croix and the marquise loved at first sight, and she was soon his

mistress. The marquis, perhaps endowed with the conjugal philosophy

which alone pleased the taste of the period, perhaps too much occupied

with his own pleasure to see what was going on before his eyes, offered

no jealous obstacle to the intimacy, and continued his foolish

extravagances long after they had impaired his fortunes: his affairs

became so entangled that the marquise, who cared for him no longer, and

desired a fuller liberty for the indulgence of her new passion, demanded

and obtained a separation. She then left her husband’s house, and

henceforth abandoning all discretion, appeared everywhere in public with

Sainte-Croix. This behaviour, authorised as it was by the example of the

highest nobility, made no impression upon the. Marquis of Brinvilliers,

who merrily pursued the road to ruin, without worrying about his wife’s

behaviour. Not so M. de Dreux d’Aubray: he had the scrupulosity of a

legal dignitary. He was scandalised at his daughter’s conduct, and

feared a stain upon his own fair name: he procured a warrant for the

arrest of Sainte-Croix wheresoever the bearer might chance to encounter

him. We have seen how it was put in execution when Sainte-Croix was

driving in the carriage of the marquise, whom our readers will doubtless

have recognised as the woman who concealed herself so carefully.

From one’s knowledge of the character of Sainte-Croix, it is easy to

imagine that he had to use great self-control to govern the anger he

felt at being arrested in the middle of the street; thus, although

during the whole drive he uttered not a single word, it was plain to see

that a terrible storm was gathering, soon to break. But he preserved the

same impossibility both at the opening and shutting of the fatal gates,

which, like the gates of hell, had so often bidden those who entered

abandon all hope on their threshold, and again when he replied to the

formal questions put to him by the governor. His voice was calm, and

when they gave him the prison register he signed it with a steady hand.

At once a gaoler, taking his orders from the governor, bade him follow:

after traversing various corridors, cold and damp, where the daylight

might sometimes enter but fresh air never, he opened a door, and

Sainte-Croix had no sooner entered than he heard it locked behind him.

At the grating of the lock he turned. The gaoler had left him with no

light but the rays of the moon, which, shining through a barred window

some eight or ten feet from the ground, shed a gleam upon a miserable

truckle-bed and left the rest of the room in deep obscurity. The

prisoner stood still for a moment and listened; then, when he had heard

the steps die away in the distance and knew himself to be alone at last,

he fell upon the bed with a cry more like the roaring of a wild beast

than any human sound: he cursed his fellow-man who had snatched him from

his joyous life to plunge him into a dungeon; he cursed his God who had

let this happen; he cried aloud to whatever powers might be that could

grant him revenge and liberty.

Just at that moment, as though summoned by these words from the bowels

of the earth, a man slowly stepped into the circle of blue light that

fell from the window-a man thin and pale, a man with long hair, in a

black doublet, who approached the foot of the bed where Sainte-Croix

lay. Brave as he was, this apparition so fully answered to his prayers

(and at the period the power of incantation and magic was still believed

in) that he felt no doubt that the arch-enemy of the human race, who is

continually at hand, had heard him and had now come in answer to his

prayers. He sat up on the bed, feeling mechanically at the place where

the handle of his sword would have been but two hours since, feeling his

hair stand on end, and a cold sweat began to stream down his face as the

strange fantastic being step by step approached him. At length the

apparition paused, the prisoner and he stood face to face for a moment,

their eyes riveted; then the mysterious stranger spoke in gloomy tones.

"Young man," said he, "you have prayed to the devil for vengeance on the

men who have taken you, for help against the God who has abandoned you.

I have the means, and I am here to proffer it. Have you the courage to

accept?"

"First of all," asked Sainte-Croix; "who are you?"

"Why seek you to know who I am," replied the unknown, "at the very

moment when I come at your call, and bring what you desire?"

"All the same," said Sainte-Croix, still attributing what he heard to a

supernatural being, "when one makes a compact of this kind, one prefers

to know with whom one is treating."

"Well, since you must know," said the stranger, "I am the Italian

Exili."

Sainte-Croix shuddered anew, passing from a supernatural vision to a

horrible reality. The name he had just heard had a terrible notoriety at

the time, not only in France but in Italy as well. Exili had been driven

out of Rome, charged with many poisonings, which, however, could not be

satisfactorily brought home to him. He had gone to Paris, and there, as

in his native country, he had drawn the eyes of the authorities upon

himself; but neither in Paris nor in Rome was he, the pupil of Rene and

of Trophana, convicted of guilt. All the same, though proof was wanting,

his enormities were so well accredited that there was no scruple as to

having him arrested. A warrant was out against him: Exili was taken up,

and was lodged in the Bastille. He had been there about six months when

Sainte-Croix was brought to the same place. The prisoners were numerous

just then, so the governor had his new guest put up in the same room as

the old one, mating Exili and Sainte-Croix, not knowing that they were a

pair of demons. Our readers now understand the rest. Sainte-Croix was

put into an unlighted room by the gaoler, and in the dark had failed to

see his companion: he had abandoned himself to his rage, his

imprecations had revealed his state of mind to Exili, who at once seized

the occasion for gaining a devoted and powerful disciple, who once out

of prison might open the doors for him, perhaps, or at least avenge his

fate should he be incarcerated for life.

The repugnance felt by Sainte-Croix for his fellow-prisoner did not last

long, and the clever master found his pupil apt. Sainte-Croix, a strange

mixture of qualities good and evil, had reached the supreme crisis of

his life, when the powers of darkness or of light were to prevail.

Maybe, if he had met some angelic soul at this point, he would have been

led to God; he encountered a demon, who conducted him to Satan.

Exili was no vulgar poisoner: he was a great artist in poisons,

comparable with the Medici or the Borgias. For him murder was a fine

art, and he had reduced it to fixed and rigid rules: he had arrived at a

point when he was guided not by his personal interest but by a taste for

experiment. God has reserved the act of creation for Himself, but has

suffered destruction to be within the scope of man: man therefore

supposes that in destroying life he is God’s equal. Such was the nature

of Exili’s pride: he was the dark, pale alchemist of death: others might

seek the mighty secret of life, but he had found the secret of

destruction.

For a time Sainte-Croix hesitated: at last he yielded to the taunts of

his companion, who accused Frenchmen of showing too much honour in their

crimes, of allowing themselves to be involved in the ruin of their

enemies, whereas they might easily survive them and triumph over their

destruction. In opposition to this French gallantry, which often

involves the murderer in a death more cruel than that he has given, he

pointed to the Florentine traitor with his amiable smile and his deadly

poison. He indicated certain powders and potions, some of them of dull

action, wearing out the victim so slowly that he dies after long

suffering; others violent and so quick, that they kill like a flash of

lightning, leaving not even time for a single cry. Little by little

Sainte-Croix became interested in the ghastly science that puts the

lives of all men in the hand of one. He joined in Exili’s experiments;

then he grew clever enough to make them for himself; and when, at the

year’s end, he left the Bastille, the pupil was almost as accomplished

as his master.

Sainte-Croix returned into that society which had banished him,

fortified by a fatal secret by whose aid he could repay all the evil he

had received. Soon afterwards Exili was set free—how it happened is not

known—and sought out Sainte-Croix, who let him a room in the name of his

steward, Martin de Breuille, a room situated in the blind, alley off the

Place Maubert, owned by a woman called Brunet.

It is not known whether Sainte-Croix had an opportunity of seeing the

Marquise de Brinvilliers during his sojourn in the Bastille, but it is

certain that as soon as he was a free man the lovers were more attached

than ever. They had learned by experience, however, of what they had to

fear; so they resolved that they would at once make trial of

Sainte-Croix’s newly acquired knowledge, and M. d’Aubray was selected by

his daughter for the first victim. At one blow she would free herself

from the inconvenience of his rigid censorship, and by inheriting his

goods would repair her own fortune, which had been almost dissipated by

her husband. But in trying such a bold stroke one must be very sure of

results, so the marquise decided to experiment beforehand on another

person. Accordingly, when one day after luncheon her maid, Francoise

Roussel, came into her room, she gave her a slice of mutton and some

preserved gooseberries for her own meal. The girl unsuspiciously ate

what her mistress gave her, but almost at once felt ill, saying she had

severe pain in the stomach, and a sensation as though her heart were

being pricked with pins. But she did not die, and the marquise perceived

that the poison needed to be made stronger, and returned it to

Sainte-Croix, who brought her some more in a few days’ time.

The moment had come for action. M. d’Aubray, tired with business, was to

spend a holiday at his castle called Offemont. The marquise offered to

go with him. M. d’Aubray, who supposed her relations with Sainte-Croix

to be quite broken off, joyfully accepted. Offemont was exactly the

place for a crime of this nature. In the middle of the forest of Aigue,

three or four miles from Compiegne, it would be impossible to get

efficient help before the rapid action of the poison had made it

useless.

M. d’Aubray started with his daughter and one servant only. Never had

the marquise been so devoted to her father, so especially

attentive, as she was during this journey. And M. d’Aubray, like

Christ—who though He had no children had a father’s heart—loved his

repentant daughter more than if she had never strayed. And then the

marquise profited by the terrible calm look which we have already

noticed in her face: always with her father, sleeping in a room

adjoining his, eating with him, caring for his comfort in every

way, thoughtful and affectionate, allowing no other person to do

anything for him, she had to present a smiling face, in which the

most suspicious eye could detect nothing but filial tenderness,

though the vilest projects were in her heart. With this mask she

one evening offered him some soup that was poisoned. He took it;

with her eyes she saw him put it to his lips, watched him drink it

down, and with a brazen countenance she gave no outward sign of

that terrible anxiety that must have been pressing on her heart.

When he had drunk it all, and she had taken with steady hands the

cup and its saucer, she went back to her own room, waited and

listened....

The effect was rapid. The marquise heard her father moan; then she heard

groans. At last, unable to endure his sufferings, he called out to his

daughter. The marquise went to him. But now her face showed signs of the

liveliest anxiety, and it was for M. d’Aubray to try to reassure her

about himself! He thought it was only a trifling indisposition, and was

not willing that a doctor should be disturbed. But then he was seized by

a frightful vomiting, followed by such unendurable pain that he yielded

to his daughter’s entreaty that she should send for help. A doctor

arrived at about eight o’clock in the morning, but by that time all that

could have helped a scientific inquiry had been disposed of: the doctor

saw nothing, in M. d’Aubray’s story but what might be accounted for by

indigestion; so he dosed him, and went back to Compiegne.

All that day the marquise never left the sick man. At night she had a

bed made up in his room, declaring that no one else must sit up with

him; thus she, was able to watch the progress of the malady and see with

her own eyes the conflict between death and life in the body of her

father. The next day the doctor came again: M. d’Aubray was worse; the

nausea had ceased, but the pains in the stomach were now more acute; a

strange fire seemed to burn his vitals; and a treatment was ordered

which necessitated his return to Paris. He was soon so weak that he

thought it might be best to go only so far as Compiegne, but the

marquise was so insistent as to the necessity for further and better

advice than anything he could get away from home, that M. d’Aubray

decided to go. He made the journey in his own carriage, leaning upon his

daughter’s shoulder; the behaviour of the marquise was always the same:

at last M. d’Aubray reached Paris. All had taken place as the marquise

desired; for the scene was now changed: the doctor who had witnessed the

symptoms would not be present at the death; no one could discover the

cause by studying the progress of the disorder; the thread of

investigation was snapped in two, and the two ends were now too distant

to be joined again. In spite, of every possible attention, M. d’Aubray

grew continually worse; the marquise was faithful to her mission, and

never left him for an hour. At last, after four days of agony, he died

in his daughter’s arms, blessing the woman who was his murderess. Her

grief then broke forth uncontrolled. Her sobs and tears were so vehement

that her brothers’ grief seemed cold beside hers. Nobody suspected a

crime, so no autopsy was held; the tomb was closed, and not the

slightest suspicion had approached her.

But the marquise had only gained half her purpose. She had now more

freedom for her love affairs, but her father’s dispositions were not so

favourable as she expected: the greater part of his property, together

with his business, passed to the elder brother and to the second

brother, who was Parliamentary councillor; the position of, the marquise

was very little improved in point of fortune.

Sainte-Croix was leading a fine and joyous life. Although nobody

supposed him to be wealthy, he had a steward called Martin, three

lackeys called George, Lapierre, and Lachaussee, and besides his coach

and other carriages he kept ordinary bearers for excursions at night. As

he was young and good-looking, nobody troubled about where all these

luxuries came from. It was quite the custom in those days that a

well-set-up young gentleman should want for nothing, and Sainte-Croix

was commonly said to have found the philosopher’s stone. In his life in

the world he had formed friendships with various persons, some noble,

some rich: among the latter was a man named Reich de Penautier,

receiver-general of the clergy and treasurer of the States of Languedoc,

a millionaire, and one of those men who are always successful, and who

seem able by the help of their money to arrange matters that would

appear to be in the province of God alone. This Penautier was connected

in business with a man called d’Alibert, his first clerk, who died all

of a sudden of apoplexy. The attack was known to Penautier sooner than

to his own family: then the papers about the conditions of partnership

disappeared, no one knew how, and d’Alibert’s wife and child were

ruined. D’Alibert’s brother-in-law, who was Sieur de la Magdelaine, felt

certain vague suspicions concerning this death, and wished to get to the

bottom of it; he accordingly began investigations, which were suddenly

brought to an end by his death.

In one way alone Fortune seemed to have abandoned her favourite: Maitre

Penautier had a great desire to succeed the Sieur of Mennevillette, who

was receiver of the clergy, and this office was worth nearly 60,000

livres. Penautier knew that Mennevillette was retiring in favour of his

chief clerk, Messire Pierre Hannyvel, Sieur de Saint-Laurent, and he had

taken all the necessary, steps for buying the place over his head: the

Sieur de Saint-Laurent, with the full support of the clergy, obtained

the reversion for nothing—a thing that never happened before. Penautier

then offered him 40,000 crowns to go halves, but Saint-Laurent refused.

Their relations, however, were not broken off, and they continued to

meet. Penautier was considered such a lucky fellow that it was generally

expected he would somehow or other get some day the post he coveted so

highly. People who had no faith in the mysteries of alchemy declared

that Sainte-Croix and Penautier did business together.

Now, when the period for mourning was over, the relations of the

marquise and Sainte-Croix were as open and public as before: the two

brothers d’Aubray expostulated with her by the medium of an older sister

who was in a Carmelite nunnery, and the marquise perceived that her

father had on his death bequeathed the care and supervision of her to

her brothers. Thus her first crime had been all but in vain: she had

wanted to get rid of her father’s rebukes and to gain his fortune; as a

fact the fortune was diminished by reason of her elder brothers, and she

had scarcely enough to pay her debts; while the rebukes were renewed

from the mouths of her brothers, one of whom, being civil lieutenant,

had the power to separate her again from her lover. This must be

prevented. Lachaussee left the service of Sainte-Croix, and by a

contrivance of the marquise was installed three months later as servant

of the elder brother, who lived with the civil lieutenant. The poison to

be used on this occasion was not so swift as the one taken by M.

d’Aubray so violent a death happening so soon in the same family might

arouse suspicion. Experiments were tried once more, not on animals—for

their different organisation might put the poisoner’s science in the

wrong—but as before upon human subjects; as before, a ’corpus vili’ was

taken. The marquise had the reputation of a pious and charitable lady;

seldom did she fail to relieve the poor who appealed: more than this,

she took part in the work of those devoted women who are pledged to the

service of the sick, and she walked the hospitals and presented wine and

other medicaments. No one was surprised when she appeared in her

ordinary way at l’Hotel-Dieu. This time she brought biscuits and cakes

for the convalescent patients, her gifts being, as usual, gratefully

received. A month later she paid another visit, and inquired after

certain patients in whom she was particularly interested: since the last

time she came they had suffered a relapse—the malady had changed in

nature, and had shown graver symptoms. It was a kind of deadly fatigue,

killing them by a slows strange decay. She asked questions of the

doctors but could learn nothing: this malady was unknown to them, and

defied all the resources of their art. A fortnight later she returned.

Some of the sick people were dead, others still alive, but desperately

ill; living skeletons, all that seemed left of them was sight, speech,

and breath. At the end of two months they were all dead, and the

physicians had been as much at a loss over the post-mortems as over the

treatment of the dying.

Experiments of this kind were reassuring; so Lachaussee had orders to

carry out his instructions. One day the civil lieutenant rang his bell,

and Lachaussee, who served the councillor, as we said before, came up

for orders. He found the lieutenant at work with his secretary, Couste.

What he wanted was a glass of wine and water. In a moment Lachaussee

brought it in. The lieutenant put the glass to his lips, but at the

first sip pushed it away, crying, "What have you brought, you wretch? I

believe you want to poison me." Then handing the glass to his secretary,

he added, "Look at it, Couste: what is this stuff?" The secretary put a

few drops into a coffee-spoon, lifting it to his nose and then to his

mouth: the drink had the smell and taste of vitriol. Meanwhile

Lachaussee went up to the secretary and told him he knew what it must

be: one of the councillor’s valets had taken a dose of medicine that

morning, and without noticing he must have brought the very glass his

companion had used. Saying this, he took the glass from the secretary’s

hand, put it to his lips, pretending to taste it himself, and then said

he had no doubt it was so, for he recognised the smell. He then threw

the wine into the fireplace.

As the lieutenant had not drunk enough to be upset by it, he soon forgot

this incident and the suspicions that had been aroused at the moment in

his mind. Sainte-Croix and the marquise perceived that they had made a

false step, and at the risk of involving several people in their plan

for vengeance, they decided on the employment of other means. Three

months passed without any favourable occasion presenting itself; at

last, on one of the early days of April 1670, the lieutenant took his

brother to his country place, Villequoy, in Beauce, to spend the Easter

vacation. Lachaussee was with his master, and received his instructions

at the moment of departure.

The day after they arrived in the country there was a pigeon-pie for

dinner: seven persons who had eaten it felt indisposed after the meal,

and the three who had not taken it were perfectly well. Those on whom

the poisonous substance had chiefly acted were the lieutenant, the

councillor, and the commandant of the watch. He may have eaten more, or

possibly the poison he had tasted on the former occasion helped, but at

any rate the lieutenant was the first to be attacked with vomiting two

hours later, the councillor showed the same symptoms; the commandant and

the others were a prey for several hours to frightful internal pains;

but from the beginning their condition was not nearly so grave as that

of the two brothers. This time again, as usual, the help of doctors was

useless. On the 12th of April, five days after they had been poisoned,

the lieutenant and his brother returned to Paris so changed that anyone

would have thought they had both suffered a long and cruel illness.

Madame de Brinvilliers was in the country at the time, and did not come

back during the whole time that her brothers were ill. From the very

first consultation in the lieutenant’s case the doctors entertained no

hope. The symptoms were the same as those to which his father had

succumbed, and they supposed it was an unknown disease in the family.

They gave up all hope of recovery. Indeed, his state grew worse and

worse; he felt an unconquerable aversion for every kind of food, and the

vomiting was incessant. The last three days of his life he complained

that a fire was burning in his breast, and the flames that burned within

seemed to blaze forth at his eyes, the only part of his body that

appeared to live, so like a corpse was all the rest of him. On the 17th

of June 1670 he died: the poison had taken seventy-two days to complete

its work. Suspicion began to dawn: the lieutenant’s body was opened, and

a formal report was drawn up. The operation was performed in the

presence of the surgeons Dupre and Durant, and Gavart, the apothecary,

by M. Bachot, the brothers’ private physician. They found the stomach

and duodenum to be black and falling to pieces, the liver burnt and

gangrened. They said that this state of things must have been produced

by poison, but as the presence of certain bodily humours sometimes

produces similar appearances, they durst not declare that the

lieutenant’s death could not have come about by natural causes, and he

was buried without further inquiry.

It was as his private physician that Dr. Bachot had asked for the

autopsy of his patient’s brother. For the younger brother seemed to have

been attacked by the same complaint, and the doctor hoped to find from

the death of the one some means for preserving the life of the other.

The councillor was in a violent fever, agitated unceasingly both in body

and mind: he could not bear any position of any kind for more than a few

minutes at a time. Bed was a place of torture; but if he got up, he

cried for it again, at least for a change of suffering. At the end of

three months he died. His stomach, duodenum, and liver were all in the

same corrupt state as his brother’s, and more than that, the surface of

his body was burnt away. This, said the doctors; was no dubious sign of

poisoning; although, they added, it sometimes happened that a

’cacochyme’ produced the same effect. Lachaussee was so far from being

suspected, that the councillor, in recognition of the care he had

bestowed on him in his last illness, left him in his will a legacy of a

hundred crowns; moreover, he received a thousand francs from

Sainte-Croix and the marquise.

So great a disaster in one family, however, was not only sad but

alarming. Death knows no hatred: death is deaf and blind, nothing more,

and astonishment was felt at this ruthless destruction of all who bore

one name. Still nobody suspected the true culprits, search was

fruitless, inquiries led nowhere: the marquise put on mourning for her

brothers, Sainte-Croix continued in his path of folly, and all things

went on as before. Meanwhile Sainte-Croix had made the acquaintance of

the Sieur de Saint Laurent, the same man from whom Penautier had asked

for a post without success, and had made friends with him. Penautier had

meanwhile become the heir of his father-in-law, the Sieur Lesecq, whose

death had most unexpectedly occurred; he had thereby gained a second

post in Languedoc and an immense property: still, he coveted the place

of receiver of the clergy. Chance now once more helped him: a few days

after taking over from Sainte-Croix a man-servant named George, M. de

Saint-Laurent fell sick, and his illness showed symptoms similar to

those observed in the case of the d’Aubrays, father and sons; but it was

more rapid, lasting only twenty-four hours. Like them, M. de

Saint-Laurent died a prey to frightful tortures. The same day an officer

from the sovereign’s court came to see him, heard every detail connected

with his friend’s death, and when told of the symptoms said before the

servants to Sainfray the notary that it would be necessary to examine

the body. An hour later George disappeared, saying nothing to anybody,

and not even asking for his wages. Suspicions were excited; but again

they remained vague. The autopsy showed a state of things not precisely

to be called peculiar to poisoning cases the intestines, which the fatal

poison had not had time to burn as in the case of the d’Aubrays, were

marked with reddish spots like flea-bites. In June Penautier obtained

the post that had been held by the Sieur de Saint-Laurent.

But the widow had certain suspicions which were changed into something

like certainty by George’s flight. A particular circumstance aided and

almost confirmed her doubts. An abbe who was a friend of her husband,

and knew all about the disappearance of George, met him some days

afterwards in the rue des Masons, near the Sorbonne. They were both on

the same side, and a hay-cart coming along the street was causing a

block. George raised his head and saw the abbe, knew him as a friend of

his late master, stooped under the cart and crawled to the other side,

thus at the risk of being crushed escaping from the eyes of a man whose

appearance recalled his crime and inspired him with fear of punishment.

Madame de Saint-Laurent preferred a charge against George, but though he

was sought for everywhere, he could never be found. Still the report of

these strange deaths, so sudden and so incomprehensible, was bruited

about Paris, and people began to feel frightened. Sainte-Croix, always

in the gay world, encountered the talk in drawing-rooms, and began to

feel a little uneasy. True, no suspicion pointed as yet in his

direction; but it was as well to take precautions, and Sainte-Croix

began to consider how he could be freed from anxiety. There was a post

in the king’s service soon to be vacant, which would cost 100,000

crowns; and although Sainte-Croix had no apparent means, it was rumoured

that he was about to purchase it. He first addressed himself to

Belleguise to treat about this affair with Penautier. There was some

difficulty, however, to be encountered in this quarter. The sum was a

large one, and Penautier no longer required help; he had already come

into all the inheritance he looked for, and so he tried to throw cold

water on the project.

Sainte-Croix thus wrote to Belleguise:

"DEAR FRIEND,—Is it possible that you need any more talking to about the

matter you know of, so important as it is, and, maybe, able to give us

peace and quiet for the rest of our days! I really think the devil must

be in it, or else you simply will not be sensible: do show your common

sense, my good man, and look at it from all points of view; take it at

its very worst, and you still ought to feel bound to serve me, seeing

how I have made everything all right for you: all our interests are

together in this matter. Do help me, I beg of you; you may feel sure I

shall be deeply grateful, and you will never before have acted so

agreeably both for me and for yourself. You know quite enough about it,

for I have not spoken so openly even to my own brother as I have to you.

If you can come this afternoon, I shall be either at the house or quite

near at hand, you know where I mean, or I will expect you tomorrow

morning, or I will come and find you, according to what you

reply.—Always yours with all my heart."