THE FATE OF D'ACHÉ
D'Aché, however, had not renounced his plans; the arrest of Le
Chevalier, Mme. de Combray and Mme. Acquet was not enough to discourage
him. It was, after all, only one stake lost, and he was the sort to
continue the game. It is not even certain that he took the precaution,
when Licquet was searching for him all over Normandy, to leave the
Château of Montfiquet at Mandeville, where he had lived since his
journey to England in the beginning of 1807. Ten months after the
robbery of Quesnay he was known to be in the department of the Eure;
Licquet, who had just terminated his enquiry, posted to Louviers,
d'Aché, he found, had been there three days previously. From where had
he come? From Tournebut, where, in spite of the search made, he could
have lived concealed for six months in some well-equipped hiding-place?
Unlikely as this seems, Licquet was inclined to believe it, so much was
his own cunning disconcerted by the audacious cleverness of his rival.
The letter in which he reports to Réal his investigation in the Eure, is
stamped with deep discouragement; he did not conceal the fact that the
pursuit of d'Aché was a task as deceptive as it was useless. Perhaps he
also thought that Le Chevalier's case was a precedent to be followed;
d'Aché would have been a very undesirable prisoner to bring before a
tribunal, and to get rid of him without scandal would be the best thing
for the State. Licquet felt that an excess of zeal, bringing on a
spectacular arrest such as that of Georges Cadoudal, would be
ill-received in high quarters, and he therefore showed some nonchalance
in his search for the conspirator.
D'Aché, meanwhile, showed little concern on learning of the capture of
his accomplices. Lost in his illusions he took no care for his own
safety, and remained at Mandeville, organising imaginary legions on
paper, arranging the stages of the King's journey to Paris, and
discussing with the Montfiquets certain points of etiquette regarding
the Prince's stay at their château on the day following his arrival in
France. One day, however, when they were at table--it was in the spring
of 1808--a stranger arrived at the Château de Mandeville, and asked for
M. Alexandre (the name taken by d'Aché, it will be remembered, at
Bayeux). D'Aché saw the man himself, and thinking his manner suspicious,
and his questions indiscreet, he treated him as a spy and showed him the
door, but not before the intruder had launched several threats at him.
This occurrence alarmed M. de Montfiquet, and he persuaded his guest to
leave Mandeville for a time. During the following night they both
started on foot for Rubercy, where M. Gilbert de Mondejen, a great
friend and confidant of d'Aché's, was living in hiding from the police
in the house of a Demoiselle Genneville. This old lady, who was an
ardent royalist, welcomed the fugitives warmly; they were scarcely
seated at breakfast, however, when a servant gave the alarm. "Here come
the soldiers!" she cried.
D'Aché and Mondejen rushed from the room and bounded across the porch
into the courtyard just as the gendarmes burst in at the gate. They
would have been caught if a horse had not slipped on the wet pavement
and caused some confusion, during which they shut themselves into a
barn, escaped by a door at the back, and jumping over hedges and ditches
gained a little wood on the further side of the Tortoue brook.
But d'Aché had been seen, and from that day he was obliged to resume his
wandering existence, living in the woods by day and tramping by night.
He was entirely without resources, for he had no money, but was certain
of finding a refuge, in case of need, in this region where malcontents
abounded and all doors opened to them. In this way he reached the forest
of Serisy, a part of which had formerly belonged to the Montfiquets; it
was here that the abandoned mines were situated that had been mentioned
to Licquet as Allain's place of refuge. Though obliged to abandon the
Château de Mandeville, where, as well as at Rubercy, the gendarmes had
made a search, d'Aché did not lack shelter around Bayeux. A Madame
Chivré, who lived on the outskirts of the town, had for fifteen years
been the providence of the most desperate Chouans, and d'Aché was sure
of a welcome from her; but he stayed only a few days.
Mme. Amfrye also assisted him. This woman who never went out except to
church, and was seen every morning with eyes downcast, walking to
Saint-Patrice with her servant carrying her prayer book, was one of the
fiercest royalists of the region. She looked after the emigrants' funds
and took charge of their correspondence. Once a week a priest rang her
door-bell; it was the Abbé Nicholas, curé of Vierville, a little fishing
village. The Abbé, whose charity was proverbial, and accounted for his
visits to Mme. Amfrye, was in reality a second David l'Intrépide; mass
said and his beads told, he got into a boat and went alone to the
islands of Saint-Marcouf, where an exchange of letters was made with the
English emissaries, the good priest bringing his packet back to Bayeux
under his soutane.
D'Aché could also hide with Mademoiselle Dumesnil, or Mlle. Duquesnay de
Montfiquet, to both of whom he had been presented by Mme. de Vaubadon,
an ardent royalist who had rendered signal service to the party during
the worst days of the Terror. She was mentioned among the Normans who
had shown most intelligent and devoted zeal for the cause.
Born de Mesnildot, niece of Tourville, she had married shortly before
the Revolution M. le Tellier de Vaubadon, son of a member of the Rouen
Parliament, a handsome man, amiable, loyal, elegant, and most charmingly
sociable. She was medium-sized, not very pretty, but attractive, with a
very white skin, tawny hair, and graceful carriage. Two sons were born
of this union, and on the outbreak of the Revolution M. de Vaubadon
emigrated. After several months of retreat in the Château of Vaubadon,
the young woman tired of her grass-widowhood, which seemed as if it
would be eternal, and returned to Bayeux where she had numerous
relations. The Terror was over; life was reawakening, and the gloomy
town gave itself up to it gladly. "Never were balls, suppers, and
concerts more numerous, animated and brilliant in Bayeux than at this
period." Mme. de Vaubadon's success was marked. When some of her papers
were seized in the year IX the following note from an adorer was found:
"All the men who have had the misfortune to see you have been mortally
wounded. I therefore implore you not to stay long in this town, not to
leave your apartment but at dusk, and veiled. We hope to cure our
invalids by cold baths and refreshing drinks; but be gracious enough not
to make incurables."
So that her children should not be deprived of their father's fortune,
which the nation could sequestrate as the property of an _émigré_, Mme.
de Vaubadon, like many other royalists, had sued for a divorce. All
those who had had recourse to this extremity had asked for an annulment
of the decree as soon as their husbands could return to France, and had
resumed conjugal relations. But Mme. de Vaubadon did not consider her
divorce a mere formality; she intended to remain free, and even brought
suit against her husband for the settlement of her property. This act,
which was severely criticised by the aristocracy of Bayeux, alienated
many of her friends and placed her somewhat on the outskirts of
society. From that time lovers were attributed to her, and it is certain
that her conduct became more light. She scarcely concealed her liaison
with Guérin de Bruslart, the leader of the Norman Chouans, the successor
of Frotté, and a true type of the romantic brigand, who managed to live
for ten years in Normandy and even in Paris, without falling into one of
the thousand traps set for him by Fouché. Bruslart arrived at his
mistress's house at night, his belt bristling with pistols and poniards,
and "always ready for a desperate hand-to-hand fight."
Together with this swaggerer Mme. de Vaubadon received a certain
Ollendon, a Chouan of doubtful reputation, who was said to have gone
over to the police through need of money. Mme. de Vaubadon, since her
divorce, had herself been in a precarious position. She had dissipated
her own fortune, which had already been greatly lessened by the
Revolution. She was now reduced to expedients, and seeing closed to her
the doors of many of the houses in Bayeux to which her presence had
formerly given tone, she went to Caen and settled in the Rue Guilbert
nearly opposite the Rue Coupée.
Whether it was that Ollendon had decided to profit by her relations with
the Chouans, or that Fouché had learned that she was in need and would
not refuse good pay for her services, Mme. de Vaubadon was induced to
enter into communication with the police. The man whom in 1793 Charlotte
Corday had immortally branded with a word, Senator Doulcet de
Pontécoulant, undertook to gain this recruit for the imperial
government.
If certain traditions are to be trusted, Pontécoulant, who was supposed
to be one of Acquet de Férolles' protectors, had insinuated to Mme. de
Vaubadon that "her intrigues with the royalists had long been known in
high places, and an order for her arrest and that of d'Aché, who was
said to be her lover, was about to be issued." "You understand," he
added, "that the Emperor is as merciful as he is powerful, that he has a
horror of punishment and only wants to conciliate, but that he must
crush, at all costs, the aid given to England by the agitation on the
coasts. Redeem your past. You know d'Aché's retreat: get him to leave
France; his return will be prevented, but the certainty of his
embarkation is wanted, and you will be furnished with agents who will be
able to testify to it."
In this way Mme. de Vaubadon would be led to the idea of revealing
d'Aché's retreat, believing that it was only a question of getting him
over to England; but facts give slight support to this sugared version
of the affair. After the particularly odious drama that we are about to
relate, all who had taken part in it tried to prove for themselves a
moral alibi, and to throw on subordinates the horror of a crime that had
been long and carefully prepared. Fouché, whom few memories disturbed,
was haunted by this one, and attributed to himself a rôle as chivalrous
as unexpected. According to him, d'Aché, in extremity, had tried a bold
stroke. This man, who, since Georges' death, had so fortunately escaped
all the spies of France, had of his own will suddenly presented himself
before the Minister of Police, to convert him to royalist doctrines!
Fouché had shown a loyalty that equalled his visitor's boldness. "I do
not wish," he said, "to take advantage of your boldness and have you
arrested _hic et nunc_; I give you three days to get out of France;
during this time I will ignore you completely; on the fourth day I will
set my men on you, and if you are taken you must bear the consequences."
This is honourable, but without doubt false. Besides the improbability
of this conspirator offering himself without reason to the man who had
hunted him so long, it is difficult to imagine that such a meeting could
have taken place without any mention of it being made in the
correspondence in the case. None of the letters exchanged between the
Minister of Police and the prefects makes any allusion to this visit; it
seems to accord so little with the character of either that it must be
relegated to the ranks of the legends with which Fouché sought to hide
his perfidies. It is certain that a snare was laid for d'Aché, that Mme.
de Vaubadon was the direct instrument, that Pontécoulant acted as
intermediary between the minister and the woman; but the inventor of the
stratagem is unknown. A simple recital of the facts will show that all
three of those named are worthy to have combined in it.
Public rumour asserts that Mme. de Vaubadon had been d'Aché's mistress,
but she did not now know where he was hidden. In the latter part of
August, 1809, she went to Bayeux to find out from her friend Mlle.
Duquesnay de Montfiquet if d'Aché was in the neighbourhood, and if so,
with whom. Mlle. de Montfiquet, knowing Mme. de Vaubadon to be one of
the outlaw's most intimate friends, told her that he had been living in
the town for a long time, and that she went to see him every week. The
matter ended there, and after paying some visits, Mme. de Vaubadon
returned by coach the same evening to Caen.
It became known later that she had a long interview with Pontécoulant
the next day, during which it was agreed that she should deliver up
d'Aché, in return for which Fouché would pay her debts and give her a
pension. But she attached a strange condition to the bargain; she
refused "to act with the authorities, and only undertook to keep her
promise if they put at her disposal, while leaving her completely
independent, a non-commissioned officer of gendarmerie, whom she was to
choose herself, and who would blindly obey her orders, without having to
report to his chiefs." Perhaps the unfortunate woman hoped to retain
d'Aché's life in her keeping, and save him by some subterfuge, but she
had to deal with Pontécoulant, Réal and Fouché, three experienced
players whom it was difficult to deceive. They accepted her conditions,
only desiring to get hold of d'Aché, and determined to do away with him
as soon as they should know where to catch him.
On Thursday, September 5th, Mme. de Vaubadon reappeared in Bayeux, and
went to Mlle. Duquesnay de Montfiquet to tell her of the imminent danger
d'Aché was in, and to beg her to ensure his safety by putting her in
communication with him. We now follow the story of a friend of Mme. de
Vaubadon's family who tried to prove her innocent, if not of treachery,
at least of the crime that was the result of it. Mlle. de Montfiquet had
great confidence in her friend's loyalty, but not in her discretion, and
obstinately refused to take Mme. de Vaubadon to d'Aché. The former,
fearing that action would be taken without her, returned to the charge,
but encountered a firm determination to be silent that rendered her
insistence fruitless. In despair at the possibility of having aroused
suspicions that might lead to the disappearance of d'Aché, she resolved
not to leave the place.
"I do not wish to be seen in Bayeux," she said to her friend, "I am
going to sleep here."
"But I have only one bed."
"I will share it with you."
During the night, as the two women's thoughts kept them from sleeping,
Mme. de Vaubadon changed her tactics.
"You have no means of saving him," she hinted, "whilst all my plans are
laid. I have at my disposal a boat that for eight or nine hundred francs
will take him to England; I have some one to take him to the coast, and
two sailors to man the boat. If you will not tell me his retreat, at
least make a rendezvous where my guide can meet him. If you refuse he
may be arrested to-morrow, tried, and shot, and the responsibility for
his death will fall on you."
Mlle. de Montfiquet gave up; she promised to persuade d'Aché to go to
England. It was now Friday, September 6th. It was settled that at ten
o'clock in the evening of the following day she herself should take him
to the village of Saint-Vigor-le-Grand, at the gates of Bayeux. She
would advance alone to meet the guide sent by Mme. de Vaubadon; the men
would say "Samson," to which Mlle. de Montfiquet would answer "Félix,"
and only after the exchange of these words would she call d'Aché, hidden
at a distance.
Mme. de Vaubadon returned to Caen, arriving at home before midday. Most
of the frequenters of her salon at this period were aspirants for her
favours, and among whom was a young man of excellent family, M. Alfred
de Formigny, very much in love, and consequently very jealous of
Ollendon, who was then supposed to be the favoured lover. In the evening
of this day, M. de Formigny went to Mme. de Vaubadon's. He was told that
she was not at home, but as he saw a light on the ground floor, and
thought he could distinguish the silhouette of a man against the
curtains, he watched the house and ascertained that its mistress was
having an animated conversation with a visitor whose back only could be
seen, and whom he believed to be his rival. Wishing to make sure of it,
and determined to have an explanation, he stood sentinel before the door
of the house. "Soon a man wrapped in a cloak came out, who, seeing that
he was watched, pulled the folds of it up to his eyes. M. de Formigny,
certain that it was Ollendon, threw himself on the man, and forced off
the cloak." But he felt very sheepish when he found himself face to face
with Foison, quartermaster of gendarmerie, who, not less annoyed,
growled out a few oaths, and hastily made off. The same evening M. de
Formigny told his adventure to some of his friends, but his indiscretion
had no consequences, it seemed, Mme. de Vaubadon's reputation being so
much impaired that a new scandal passed unnoticed.
Meanwhile Mlle. de Montfiquet had kept her promise. As soon as her
friend left her, she went to Mlle. Dumesnil's, where d'Aché had lived
for the last six weeks, and told him of Mme. de Vaubadon's proposition.
The offer was so tempting, it seemed so truly inspired by the most
zealous and thoughtful affection, and came from so trusted a friend,
that he did not hesitate to accept. It appears, however, that he was not
in much danger in Bayeux, and took little pains to conceal himself, for
on Saturday morning he piously took the sacrament at the church of
Saint-Patrice, then returned to Mlle. Dumesnil's and arranged some
papers. As soon as it was quite dark that evening Mlle. de Montfiquet
came to fetch him, and found him ready to start. He was dressed in a
hunting jacket of blue cloth, trousers of ribbed green velvet and a
waistcoat of yellow piqué. He put two loaded English pistols in the
pockets of his jacket and carried a sword-cane. Mlle. de Montfiquet gave
him a little book of "Pensées Chrétiennes," in which she had written
her name; then, accompanied by her servant, she led him across the
suburbs to Saint-Vigor-le-Grand. She found Mme. de Vaubadon's guide at
the rendezvous before the church door; it was Foison, whom she
recognised. The passwords exchanged, d'Aché came forward, kissed Mlle.
de Montfiquet's hand, bade her adieu, and started with the gendarme. The
anxious old lady followed him several steps at a distance, and saw
standing at the end of the wall of the old priory of Saint-Vigor, two
men in citizen's dress, who joined the travellers. All four took the
cross road that led by the farm of Caugy to Villiers-le-Sec. They
wished, by crossing the Seule at Reviers, to get to the coast at
Luc-sur-Mer, seven leagues from Bayeux, where the embarkation was to
take place.
* * * * *
When d'Aché and his companions left Bayeux, Luc-sur-Mer was in a state
of excitement. The next day, Sunday, lots were to be drawn for the
National Guard, and the young people of the village, knowing that this
fête was only "conscription in disguise," had threatened to prevent the
ceremony, to surround the Mairie and burn the registers and the
recruiting papers. What contributed to the general uneasiness was the
fact that four men who were known to be gendarmes in disguise had been
hovering about, chiefly on the beach; they had had the audacity to
arrest two gunners, coast-guards in uniform and on duty, and demand
their papers. A serious brawl had ensued. At night the same men
"suddenly thrust a dark lantern in the face of every one they met."
M. Boullée, the Mayor of Luc, lived at the hamlet of
Notre-Dame-de-la-Délivrande, some distance from the town, and in much
alarm at the disturbances watched with his servants through part of the
night of the 7th-8th. At one o'clock in the morning, while he was with
them in a room on the ground floor, a shot was heard outside and a ball
struck the window frame. They rushed to the door, and in the darkness
saw a man running away; the cartouche was still burning in the
courtyard. M. Boullée immediately sent to the coast-guards to inform
them of the fact, and to ask for a reinforcement of two men who did not
arrive till near four o'clock. Having passed the night patrolling at
some distance from La Délivrande, they had not heard the shot that had
alarmed the mayor, but towards half-past three had heard firing and a
loud "Help, help!" in the direction of the junction of the road from
Bayeux with that leading to the sea.
It was now dawn and M. Boullée, reassured by the presence of the two
gunners, resolved to go out and explore the neighbourhood. On the road
to Luc, about five hundred yards from his house, a peasant hailed him,
and showed him, behind a hayrick almost on the edge of the road, the
body of a man. The face had received so many blows as to be almost
unrecognisable; the left eye was coming out of the socket; the hair was
black, but very grey on the temples, and the beard thin and short. The
man lay on his back, with a loaded pistol on each side, about two feet
from the body; the blade and sheath of a sword-cane had rolled a little
way off, and near them was the broken butt-end of a double-barrelled
gun. On raising the corpse to search the pockets, the hands were found
to be strongly tied behind the back. No papers were found that could
give any clue to his identity, but only a watch, thirty francs in
silver, and a little book on the first page of which was written the
name "Duquesnay de Montfiquet."
The growing daylight now made an investigation possible. Traces of blood
were found on the road to Luc from the place where the body lay, to its
junction with the road to Bayeux, a distance of about two hundred yards.
It was evident that the murder had been committed at the spot where the
two roads met, and that the assassins had carried the corpse to the
fields and behind the hayrick to retard discovery of the crime. The
disguised gendarmes whose presence had so disturbed the townsfolk had
disappeared. A horse struck by a ball was lying in a ditch. It was
raised, and though losing a great deal of blood, walked as far as the
village of Mathieu, on the road to Caen, where it was stabled.
These facts having been ascertained, M. Boullée's servants and the
peasants whom curiosity had attracted to the spot, escorted the dead
body, which had been put on a wheelbarrow, to La Délivrande. It was laid
in a barn near the celebrated chapel of pilgrimages, and there the
autopsy took place at five in the afternoon. It was found that "death
was due to a wound made by the blade of the sword-cane; the weapon,
furiously turned in the body, had lacerated the intestines." Three balls
had, besides, struck the victim, and five buckshot had hit him full in
the face and broken several teeth; of two balls fired close to the body,
one had pierced the chest above the left breast, and the other had
broken the left thigh, and one of the murderers had struck the face so
violently that his gun had broken against the skull.
The mayor had been occupied with the drawing of lots all day, and only
found time to write and inform the prefect of the murder when the
doctors had completed their task. He was in great perplexity, for the
villagers unanimously accused the gendarmes of the mysterious crime. It
was said that at dawn that morning the quartermaster Foison and four of
his men had gone into an inn at Mathieu, one of them carrying a gun with
the butt-end broken. While breakfasting, these "gentlemen," not seeing a
child lying in a closed bed, had taken from a tin box some "yellow
coins" which they divided, and the inference drawn was that the
gendarmes had plundered a traveller whom they knew to be well-supplied,
and sure of impunity since they could always plead a case of rebellion,
had got rid of him by murder. This was the sense of the letter sent to
Caffarelli by the Mayor of Luc on the evening of the 8th. The next
morning Foison appeared at La Délivrande to draw up the report. When
Boullée asked him a few questions about the murder, he answered in so
arrogant and menacing a tone as to make any enquiry impossible. Putting
on a bold face, he admitted that he had been present at the scene of the
crime. He said that while he was patrolling the road to Luc with four of
his men, two individuals appeared whom he asked for their papers. One of
them immediately fled, and the other discharged his pistols; the
gendarmes seized him, and in spite of his desperate resistance succeeded
in bringing him down. He stayed dead on the ground, "having been struck
several times during the struggle."
"But his pistols were still loaded," said some one.
Foison made no reply.
"But his hands were tied," said the mayor.
Foison tried to deny it.
"Here are the bands," said Boullée, drawing from his pocket the ribbon
taken from the dead man's hands. And as Captain Mancel, who presided at
the interview, remarked that those were indeed the bands used by
gendarmes, Foison left the room with more threats, swearing that he owed
an account to no one.
The news of the crime had spread with surprising rapidity, and
indignation was great wherever it was heard. In writing to Réal,
Caffarelli echoed public feeling:
"How did it happen that four gendarmes were unable to seize a man who
had struggled for a long time? How came it that he was, in a way,
mutilated? Why, after having killed this man, did they leave him there,
without troubling to comply with any of the necessary formalities? Ask
these questions, M. le Comte; the public is asking them and finds no
answer. What is the reply, if, moreover, as is said, the person was
seized, his hands tightly tied behind his back, and then shot? What are
the terrible consequences to be expected from these facts if they are
true? How will the gendarmes be able to fulfil their duties without fear
of being treated as assassins or wild beasts?"
It must be mentioned that as soon as the crime was committed, Foison had
gone to Caen and given Pontécoulant the papers found on d'Aché, which
contained information as to the political and military situation on the
coast of Normandy, and on the possibility of a disembarkation.
Pontécoulant had immediately posted off, and on the morning of the 11th
told Fouché verbally of the manner in which Foison and Mme. de Vaubadon
had acquitted themselves of their mission. It remained to be seen how
the public would take things, and Caffarelli's letter presaged no good;
what would it be when it became known that the gendarme assassins had
acted with the authorisation of the government? Happily, a confusion
arose that retarded the discovery of the truth. In the hope of
determining the dead man's identity, the Mayor of Luc had exposed the
body to view, and many had come to see it, including some people from
Caen. Four of these had unanimously recognised the corpse as that of a
clock-maker of Paris, named Morin-Cochu, well known at the fairs of
Lower Normandy. Fouché allowed the public to follow this false trail,
and it was wonderful to see his lieutenants, Desmarets, Veyrat, Réal
himself, looking for Morin-Cochu all over Paris as if they were
ignorant of the personality of their victim. And when Morin-Cochu was
found alive and well in his shop in the Rue Saint-Denis, which he had
not left for four years, they began just as zealously to look for his
agent Festau, who might well be the murdered man.
Caffarelli, however, was not to be caught in this clumsy trap. He knew
how matters stood now, and showed his indignation. He wrote very
courageously to Réal: "You will doubtless ask me, M. le Comte, why I
have not tried to show up the truth? My answer is simple: it is publicly
rumoured that the expedition of the gendarmes was ordered by M. the
Senator Comte de P----, to whom were given the papers found on the
murdered man, and who has gone to Paris, no doubt to transmit them to
his Excellency the Minister of Police. Ought I not to respect the secret
of the authorities?"
And all that had occurred in his department for the two last years that
it had not been considered advisable to tell him of, all the
irregularities that in his desire for peace he had thought he should
shut his eyes to, all the affronts that he had patiently endured, came
back to his mind. He felt his heart swell with disgust at cowardly acts,
dishonourable tools, and odious snares, and nobly explained his
feelings:
"Certainly I am not jealous of executing severe measures and I should
like never to have any of that kind to enforce. But I owe it to myself
as well as to the dignity of my office not to remain prefect in name
only, and if any motives whatever can destroy confidence in me to this
point on important matters I must simply be told of it and I shall know
how to resign without murmuring. It is not permissible to treat a man
whose honesty and zeal cannot be mistaken, in the manner in which I have
been treated for some time. I cannot conceal from you, M. le Comte, that
I am keenly wounded at the measures that have been taken towards me. It
has been thought better to put faith in people of tarnished and
despicable reputation, the terror of families, than in a man who has
only sought the good of the country he represented, and known no other
ambition than that of acting wisely."
And this letter, so astonishing from the pen of an imperial prefect, was
a sort of revenge for all the poor people for whom the police had laid
such odious traps; it would remind Fouché of all the Licquets and
Foisons who in the exercise of justice found matter for repugnant
comedies. It was surprising that Licquet had had no hand in the affair
of La Délivrande. Had he breathed it to Réal? It is possible, though
there is no indication of his interference, albeit his manner is
recognised in the scenario of the snare to which d'Aché fell a victim,
and in the fact that he appeared at the end, coming from Rouen with his
secretary Dupont, and the husband of the woman Levasseur who was said to
have been d'Aché's mistress.
On the morning of September 23d, a meeting took place at seven o'clock
at the Mayor of Luc's house. The doctors who had held the autopsy were
there, Captain Mancel and Foison, who was in great agitation, although
he tried to hide it, at having to assist at the exhumation of his
victim. They started for the cemetery, and the grave-digger did his
work. After fifteen minutes the shovel struck the board that covered
d'Aché's body, and soon after the corpse was seen. The beard had grown
thick and strong. Foison gazed at it. It was indeed the man with whom he
had travelled a whole night, chatting amiably while each step brought
him nearer to the assassins who were waiting for him. Licquet moved
about with complete self-control, talking of the time when he had known
the man who lay there, his face swollen but severe, his nose thin as an
eagle's beak, his lips tightened. Suddenly the detective remembered a
sign that he had formerly noted, and ordered the dead man's boots to be
removed. All present could then see that d'Aché's "toe-nails were so
grown over into his flesh that he walked on them." Foison also saw, and
wishing to brave this corpse, more terrifying for him than for any one
else, he stooped and opened the dead lips with the end of his cane. A
wave of fetid air struck the assassin full in the face, and he fell
backward with a cry of fear.
This incident terminated the enquiry; the body was returned to the
earth, and those who had been present at the exhumation started for La
Délivrande. Foison walked alone behind the others; no one spoke to him,
and when they arrived at the mayor's, where all had been invited to
dine, he remained on the threshold which he dared not cross, knowing
that for the rest of his life he would never again enter the house of an
honest man.
The same evening at Caen, where everything was known, although Fouché
was still looking for Morin-Cochu, the vengeance of the corpse
annihilating Foison was the topic of all conversations. There was a
certain gaiety in the town, that was proud of its prefect's attitude.
When the curtain went up at the theatre, while all the young "swells"
were in the orchestra talking of the event that was agitating "society,"
they saw a blonde woman with a red scarf on her shoulders in one of the
boxes. The first one that saw her could not believe his eyes: it was
Mme. de Vaubadon! The name was at first whispered, then a murmur went
round that at last broke into an uproar. The whole theatre rose
trembling, and with raised fists cried: "Down with the murderess! She is
the woman with the red shawl; it is stained with d'Aché's blood. Death
to her!"
The unhappy woman tried to put on a bold face, and remained calm; it is
supposed that Pontécoulant was in the theatre, and perhaps she hoped
that he, at least, would champion her. But when she understood that in
that crowd, among whom many perhaps had loved her, no one now would
defend her, she rose and left her box, while some of the most excited
hustled into the corridor to hoot her in passing. She at last escaped
and got to her house in the Rue Guilbert, and the next day she left Caen
forever.
Less culpable certainly, and now pitied by all to whom d'Aché's death
recalled the affair of Quesnay, Mme. Acquet was spending her last days
in the conciergerie at Rouen. After the petition for a reprieve on
account of her pregnancy, and the visit of two doctors, who said they
could not admit the truth of her plea, Ducolombier used all his efforts
to obtain grace from the Emperor. As soon as the sentence was pronounced
he had hurried to Paris in quest of means of approaching his Majesty.
His relative, Mme. de Saint-Léonard, wife of the Mayor of Falaise,
joined him there, and got her relatives in official circles to interest
themselves. But the Emperor was then living in a state of continual
agitation; Laeken, Mayence and Cassel were as familiar stopping-places
as Saint-Cloud and Fontainebleau, and even if a few minutes' audience
could be obtained, what hope was there of fixing his attention on the
life of an insignificant woman? Chauveau-Lagarde advised the
intervention of Mme. Acquet's three girls, the eldest now twelve, and
the youngest not eight years old. Mourning garments were hastily bought
for them, and they were sent to Paris on January 24th, with a Mlle.
Bodinot. Every day they pursued the Emperor's carriage through the town,
as he went to visit the manufactories. Timoléon, Mme. de Saint-Léonard,
and Mlle. de Séran took turns with the children; they went to Malmaison,
to Versailles, to Meudon. At last, on March 2d, at Sèvres, one of the
children succeeded in getting to the door of the imperial carriage, and
put a petition into the hands of an officer, but it probably never
reached the Emperor, for this step that had cost so much money and
trouble remained ineffectual.
There are among Mme. de Combray's papers more than ten drafts of
petitions addressed to the Emperor's brothers, to Josephine, and even to
foreign princes. But each of them had much to ask for himself, and all
were afraid to importune the master. The latter was now in Germany,
cutting his way to Vienna, and poor Mme. Acquet would have had slight
place in his thoughts in spite of the illusions of her friends, had he
ever even heard her name. In April the little Acquets returned to Mme.
Dusaussay in Rouen. She wrote to Timoléon:
"I am not surprised that you were not satisfied with the children; until
now they have only been restrained by fear, and the circumstances of the
journey to Paris brought them petting and kindness of which they have
taken too much advantage. If worse trouble comes to Mme. Acquet, we will
do our best to keep them in ignorance of it, and it is to be hoped the
same can be done for your mother."
And so all hope of grace seemed lost for the poor woman, and it would
have been very easy to forget her in prison, for who could be specially
interested in her death? Neither Fouché, Réal, the prefect nor even
Licquet, who, once the verdict was given, seemed to have lost all
animosity towards his victims. Only the imperial procurer,
Chapais-Marivaux, seemed determined on the execution of the sentence. He
had already caused two consultations to be held on the subject of Mme.
Acquet's health. The specialists could not or would not decide upon it,
and this gave some hope to Mme. de Combray, who from her cell in Bicêtre
still presided over all efforts made for her daughter, and continued to
hold a firm hand over her family.
As the Emperor had now entered Vienna in triumph, the Marquise thought
it a good time to implore once more the conqueror's pity. She sent for
her son Timoléon on June 1st. She had decided to send her two eldest
grandchildren to Vienna with their aunt Mme. d'Houël and the faithful
Ducolombier, who offered to undertake the long journey. Chauveau-Lagarde
drew up a petition for the children to give to Napoleon, and they left
Rouen about July 10th, arriving in Vienna the fortnight following the
battle of Wagram. Ducolombier at once sought a means of seeing the
Emperor. Hurried by the Marquise, who allowed no discussion of the
methods that seemed good to her, he had started without recommendations,
letters of introduction or promises of an audience, and had to wait for
chance to give him a moment's interview with Napoleon. He established
himself with Mme. d'Houël and the children at Schoebrünn, where the
imperial quarters were, and by dint of solicitations obtained the
privilege of going into the court of the château with other supplicants.
The Emperor was away; he had wished to revisit the scene of his
brilliant victory, and during the whole day Ducolombier and his
companions waited his return on the porch of the château. Towards
evening the gate opened, the guard took up arms, drums beat and the
Emperor appeared on horseback in the immense courtyard, preceded by his
guides and his mameluke, and followed by a numerous staff. The hearts of
the poor little Acquets must have beaten fast when they saw this master
of the world from whom they were going to beg their mother's life. In a
moment the Emperor was upon them; Ducolombier pushed them; they fell on
their knees.
Seeing these mourning figures, Napoleon thought he had before him the
widow and orphans of some officer killed during the campaign. He raised
the children kindly.
"Sire! Give us back our mother!" they sobbed.
The Emperor, much surprised, took the petition from Mme. d'Houël's hands
and read it through. There were a few moments of painful silence; he
raised his eyes to the little girls, asked Ducolombier a few brief
questions, then suddenly starting on,
"I cannot," he said drily.
And he disappeared among the groups humbly bowing in the hall. Some one
who witnessed the scene relates that the Emperor was very much moved
when reading the petition. "He changed colour several times, tears were
in his eyes and his voice trembled." The Duke of Rovigo asserted that
pardon would be granted; the Emperor's heart had already pronounced it,
but he was very angry with the minister of police, who after having made
a great fuss over this affair and got all the credit, left him supreme
arbiter without having given him any information concerning it.
"If the case is a worthy one," said Napoleon, "why did he not send me
word of it? and if it is not, why did he give passports to a family whom
I am obliged to send away in despair?"
The poor children had indeed to return to France, knowing that they
took, as it were, her death sentence to their mother. Each relay that
brought them nearer to her was a step towards the scaffold; nothing
could now save the poor woman, and she waited in resignation. Never,
since Le Chevalier's death, had she lost the impassive manner that had
astonished the spectators in court. Whether solitude had altered her
ardent nature, or whether she looked on death as the only possible end
to her adventurous existence, she seemed indifferent as to her fate, and
thought no longer of the future. Licquet had long abandoned her; he had
been "her last friend." Of all the survivors of the affair of Quesnay
she was the only one left in the conciergerie, the others having gone to
serve their terms in Bicêtre or other fortresses.
Whilst it had seemed possible that Mme. Acquet's friends might obtain
the Emperor's interest in her case, she had received great care and
attention, but since the return of her daughters from Vienna things had
changed. She had become once more "the woman Acquet," and the interest
that had been taken in her gave place to brutal indifference. On August
23d (and this date probably accords with the return of the children and
their aunt) Chapais-Marivaux, in haste to end the affair, sent three
health-officers to examine her, but these good people, knowing the
consequence of their diagnosis, declared that "the symptoms made it
impossible for them to pronounce an opinion on the state of the
prisoner."
Chapais-Marivaux took a month to find doctors who would not allow pity
to interfere with their professional duty, and on October 6th the
prefect wrote to Réal: "M. le Procureur-Général has just had the woman
Acquet examined by four surgeons, three of whom had not seen her before.
They have certified that she is not pregnant, and so she is to be
executed to-day."
We know nothing of the way in which she prepared for death, nor of the
feeling which the news of her imminent execution must have occasioned in
the prison; but when she was handed over to the executioner for the
final arrangements, Mme. Acquet wrote two or three letters to beg that
her children might never fall into her husband's hands. Her toilet was
then made; her beautiful black hair, which she had cut off on coming to
the conciergerie two years previously, fell now under the executioner's
scissors; she put on a sort of jacket of white flannel, and her hands
were tied behind her back. She was now ready; it was half past four in
the afternoon, the doors opened, and a squad of gendarmes surrounded the
cart.
The cortège went by the "Gros-Horloge" to the "Vieux-Marché." Some one
who saw Mme. Acquet pass, seated in the cart beside the executioner
Ferey, says that "her white dress and short black hair blowing in her
face made the paleness of her skin conspicuous; she was neither downcast
nor bold; the sentence was cried aloud beside the cart."
She died calmly, as she had lived for months. At five o'clock she
appeared on the platform, very white and very tranquil; unresisting, she
let them tie her; without fear or cry she lay on the board which swung
and carried her under the knife. Her head fell without anything
happening to retard the execution, and the authorities congratulated
themselves on the fact in the report sent to Réal that evening: "The
thing caused no greater sensation than that ordinarily produced by
similar events; the rather large crowd did not give the slightest
trouble."
And those who had stayed to watch the scaffold disappeared before the
gendarmes escorting the men who had come to take away the body. A few
followed it to the cemetery of Saint-Maur where the criminals were
usually buried. The basket was emptied into a ditch that had been dug
not far from a young tree to which some unknown hand had attached a
black ribbon, to mark the spot which neither cross nor tombstone might
adorn. The rain and wind soon destroyed this last sign; and nothing now
remains to show the corner of earth in the deserted and abandoned
cemetery in which still lies the body of the woman whose rank in other
times would have merited the traditional epitaph: "A very high, noble
and powerful lady."