A
SERVANT
OF
SATAN
[Illustration: PRADO]
Romantic Career of
PRADO
The ASSASSIN!
_The
Great Riddle
which the French Police
WERE UNABLE TO SOLVE._
FAR
AND NEAR
SERIES, NO. 8. - 1889.
STREET & SMITH NEW YORK.
[Illustration: The SELECT SERIES]
THE SELECT SERIES
OF
POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS.
This Series is issued monthly, and fully illustrated. The following are
the latest issues:
No. 22—A HEART'S BITTERNESS, by Bertha M. Clay.
No. 21—THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta.
No. 20—INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Urner.
No. 19—A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison.
No. 18—ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
No. 17—THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis.
No. 16—SIBYL'S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
No. 15—THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming.
No. 14—FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford.
No. 13—THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore.
No. 12—THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. V. Victor.
No. 11—BADLY MATCHED, by Helen Corwin Pierce.
[Illustration: Yours truly
Prado.]
THE FAR AND NEAR SERIES—NO. 8.
ISSUED MONTHLY.
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $3.00 PER YEAR. JUNE, 1889.
_Entered at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter._
A SERVANT OF SATAN.
Romantic Career of PRADO the Assassin.
From Notes Communicated to a Friend on the Eve of His Execution.
An Extraordinary Record of Crime in Many Lands—He
was Reared in a Royal Palace.
The Great Riddle which the French Police were Unable to Solve.
By LOUIS BERARD.
NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
31 Rose Street.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889,
BY STREET & SMITH,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
PREFACE.
“Prado was a wonderful fellow,” said Chief Inspector Byrnes, of the New
York police, recently, “and for criminal ingenuity and devilishness
stands without a peer. I question whether cupidity lay at the
foundation of his diabolical work, inclining to the belief that some
great wrong worked on his mind and embittered him against the wealthier
members of the class of women whom he selected as his victims.
Certainly the opening chapters of the story would indicate as much.
The fact that this recital of Prado's crimes is made up from notes
furnished by the man himself makes it unusually interesting, and the
splendidly written and graphically illustrated story will find a place
in the scrap-book of every police detective in the country.
“I do not think a career like Prado's in Paris could be possible in
this city. Our police system is so different from that of Paris that we
can weave a net about criminals much easier. We do not have to unreel
miles of red tape before starting out on a hunt for criminals, but
are at work with scores of detectives, aided by the entire force, if
necessary, before a victim of murder is fairly cold. We seek motives,
study the antecedents and acquaintances of the slain, and, following
clew after clew, we make it so warm for an assassin that he seeks
safety rather than a duplication of crime. Prado, however, was an
assassin far above the average of men in intelligence and ingenuity,
and gave evidence of having moved in high circles of society, and I
should not be surprised if the story will make clear his identity to
students of the ‘Almanac de Gotha.’”—_New York World._
A SERVANT OF SATAN.
PROLOGUE.
It was at Madrid, in the month of April, 1880, that I first made the
acquaintance of the extraordinary man, who, under the pseudonym of
“Prado” met his fate beneath the Paris guillotine. I had just driven
back into town from witnessing the execution by the “garrote” of the
regicide Francisco Otero, and was in the act of stepping from my
brougham, when suddenly the crowd assembled on the Puerto del Sol
parted as if by magic to give place to a runaway carriage. I had
barely time to note the frantic efforts of the coachman to stop the
onward course of the frightened horses, when there was a terrible
crash, and the victoria was shattered to splinters against one of the
heavy posts on the square. The coachman, still clutching hold of the
reins, was torn from the box, and dragged some hundred yards farther
along the ground, before the horses were stopped and he could be
induced to release his hold of the ribbons. To the surprise of all the
spectators, he escaped with a few bruises. His master, however—the
only other occupant of the carriage—was less fortunate. Hurled by the
shock with considerable violence to the pavement, almost at my very
feet, he remained unconscious for some minutes. When at length he
recovered his senses, and attempted to rise with my assistance, it was
found that he had broken his ankle, and was unable to stand upright.
Placing him in my trap, I drove him to the address which he gave me—a
house in the Calle del Barquillo—and on our arrival there, assisted
the door porter and some of the other servants to carry him up stairs
to a very handsome suite of apartments on the second floor. On taking
my departure, he overwhelmed me with thanks for what he was pleased
to call my kindness, and entreated me to do him the favor of calling,
handing me at the same time a card bearing the name of Comte Linska de
Castillon.
A couple of days later, happening to be in the neighborhood of the
Calle del Barquillo, I dropped in to see how he was getting on. He
received me with the greatest cordiality, and so interesting was
his conversation that it was quite dark before I left the house. It
turned out that he, too, had been present at the execution of the
wretched Otero, and that he was on his way home when his horses became
frightened and bolted. After discussing all the horrible details of the
death of the regicide, the conversation took the direction of capital
punishment in foreign countries—a theme about which he displayed the
most wonderful knowledge.
From the graphic manner in which he described the strange tortures
and cruel methods of punishment practiced at the courts of the native
princes in India and China, it was evident that he was speaking of
scenes which he had witnessed, and not from mere hearsay. He seemed
equally well acquainted with the terrors of lynch law in the frontier
territories of the United States, and with the military executions of
spies and deserters in warfare. In short, it became clear to me that he
was a great traveler, and that he was as well acquainted with America
and Asia as he was with the ins and outs of almost every capital in
Europe. His French, his Spanish, his German, and his English, were all
equally without a trace of foreign accent. His manners were perfect,
and displayed unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. Although not
above the ordinary stature, he was a man of very compact and muscular
build. Dressed in the most perfect and quiet taste, his appearance,
without being foppish, was one of great _chic_ and elegance. No trace
of jewelry was to be seen about his person. His hands and feet were
small and well shaped; his mustache was black, as were also his large
and luminous eyes. His hair, slightly gray toward the temples, showed
traces of age, or, perhaps, of a hard life. But the most remarkable
thing about him was his smile, which seemed to light up his whole face,
and which was singularly winning and frank. I confess I took a great
fancy to the man, who at the time was exceedingly popular in Madrid
society. He was to be seen in many of the most exclusive _salons_, was
present at nearly all the ministerial and diplomatic receptions, and
apparently enjoyed universal consideration. Our intimacy continued
for about a couple of years, during the course of which I had the
opportunity of rendering him one or two more slight services. Toward
the end of 1882, I was obliged to leave Madrid rather suddenly, being
summoned to Torquay by the dangerous illness of my mother, who is an
English woman, and I did not return to Spain until several years later,
when I found that Comte Linska de Castillon had meanwhile gone under—in
a financial sense—and had disappeared from the surface.
It is unnecessary to describe here the horror and consternation with
which I learned that “Prado,” the man charged with numerous robberies
and with the murder of the demi-mondaine, Marie Aguetant, was no other
than my former friend, Comte Linska de Castillon. Of course, I made
a point of attending the trial. I confess, however, that I had some
difficulty in recognizing in the rather unprepossessing individual
in the prisoner's dock the once elegant _viveur_ whom I had known at
Madrid. His features had become somewhat bloated and coarse, as if by
hard living, his dress was careless and untidy, his hair gray and his
eyes heavy. It was only on the rare occasions when he smiled that his
face resumed traces of its former appearance. Day after day I sat in
court and listened to the evidence against him. The impression which
the latter left on my mind was that, however guilty he undoubtedly had
been of other crimes—possibly even of murder—he was, nevertheless,
innocent of the death of Marie Aguetant, the charge on which he was
executed. The crime was too brutal and too coarse in its method to have
been perpetrated by his hand. Moreover, the evidence against him in the
matter was not direct, but only circumstantial. Neither the jewelry
nor the bonds which he was alleged to have stolen from the murdered
woman have ever been discovered. Neither has the weapon with which the
deed was committed been found, and the only evidence against him was
that of two women, both of loose morals, and both of whom considered
themselves to have been betrayed by him. The one, Eugenie Forrestier, a
well-known _femme galante_, saw in the trial a means of advertising her
charms, which she has succeeded in doing in a most profitable manner.
The other, Mauricette Courouneau, the mother of his child, had fallen
in love with a young German and was under promise to marry him as soon
as ever the trial was completed, and “Prado's head had rolled into the
basket of Monsieur de Paris.”
Shortly after the sentence had been pronounced upon the man whom I had
known as “Comte Linska de Castillon” I visited him in his prison, and
subsequently at his request called several times again to see him.
He seemed very calm and collected. Death apparently had no terrors
for him, and on one occasion he recalled the curious coincidence that
our first meeting had been on our way home from the execution of the
regicide Otero. The only thing which he seemed to dread was that
his aged father—his one and solitary affection in the world—should
learn of his disgrace. In answer to my repeated inquiries as to who
his father was he invariably put me off with a smile, exclaiming,
“Demain, demain!” (to-morrow). He appeared, however, to be filled with
the most intense bitterness against the other members of his family,
step-mother, half-brothers and sisters, who, he declared, had been the
first cause of his estrangement from his father and of his own ruin.
[Illustration: “YOU WILL FIND BOTH IN THIS SEALED PACKET.”]
Although condemned criminals are never informed of the date of their
execution until a couple of hours before they are actually led to the
scaffold, yet “Prado,” or “Castillon” appeared to have an intuition of
the imminence of his death. For two days before it took place, when I
was about to take leave, after paying him one of my customary visits,
he suddenly exclaimed:
“I may not see you again. It is possible that this may be our last
interview. You are the only one of my former friends who has shown me
the slightest kindness or sympathy in my trouble. It would be useless
to thank you. I am perfectly aware that my whole record must appear
repulsive to you, and that your conduct toward me has been prompted by
pity more than by any other sentiment. Were you, however, to know my
true story you would pity me even more. The statements which I made
to M. Guillo, the Judge d'Instruction who examined me, were merely
invented on the spur of the moment, for the purpose of showing him that
my powers of imagination were, at any rate, as brilliant as his own. No
one, not even my lawyer, knows my real name or history. You will find
both in this sealed packet. It contains some notes which I have jotted
down while in prison, concerning my past career.”
As he said this he placed a bulky parcel in my hand.
“I want you, however,” he continued, “to promise me two things. The
first is that you will not open the outer covering thereof until after
my execution; the second, that you will make no mention or reference
to the name inscribed on the inner envelope until you see the death of
its possessor announced in the newspapers. It is the name of my poor
old father. He is in failing health and can scarcely live much longer.
When he passes away you are at liberty to break the seals and to use
the information contained therein in any form you may think proper. The
only object I have in now concealing my identity is to spare the old
gentleman any unnecessary sorrow and disgrace.”
He uttered these last words rather sadly and paused for a few minutes
before proceeding.
“With regard to the remainder of my family,” said he at last, “I am
totally indifferent about their feelings in the matter.”
“One word more, my dear Berard,” he continued. “I am anxious that
these papers should some day or other be made known to the world.
They will convince the public that at any rate I am innocent of the
brutal murder for which I am about to suffer death. My crimes have
been numerous; they have been committed in many different lands, and
I have never hesitated to put people out of the way when I found them
to be dangerous to my interests. But whatever I may have done has been
accomplished with skill and delicacy. My misdeeds have been those of
a man of birth, education, and breeding, whereas the slayer of Marie
Aguetant was, as you will find out one of these days, but a mere vulgar
criminal of low and coarse instincts, the scum indeed of a Levantine
gutter.
“And now good-by my dear Berard. I rely on you to respect the wishes of
a man who is about to disappear into Nirwana. You see,” he added with a
smile, “I am something of a Buddhist.”
Almost involuntarily I grasped both his hands firmly in mine. I was
deeply moved. All the powers of attraction which he had formerly
exercised on me at Madrid came again to the surface, and it was he who
gently pushed me out of the cell in order to cut short a painful scene.
Two days later one of the most remarkable criminals of the age expiated
his numerous crimes on the scaffold in the square in front of the
Prison de la Grande Roquette.
Late last night, when alone in my library, I broke the seals of the
outer envelope of the parcel which he had confided to me. When I saw
the name inscribed on the inner covering I started from my chair. It
was a name of worldwide fame, one of the most brilliant in the “Almanac
de Gotha,” and familiar in every court in Europe. However, mindful
of my promise to the dead, I locked the package away in my safe. My
curiosity, however, was not put to a very severe test, for about a week
later the papers of every country in Europe announced the death of the
statesman and soldier whose name figured on the cover of the parcel of
documents.
Without further delay I broke the seals of the inner wrapper. The whole
night through and far on into the next day, I sat poring over the
sheets of closely written manuscript—the confessions of the man who had
been guillotined under the assumed name of “Prado.” They revealed an
astounding career of crime and adventure in almost every corner of the
globe, and thoroughly impressed me with the conviction that, however
innocent he may have been of the murder of Marie Aguetant, yet he fully
deserved the penalty which was finally meted out to him. Of scruples
or of any notions of morality he had none, and so cold-blooded and
repulsive is the cynicism which this servant of Satan at times displays
in the notes concerning his life which he placed at my disposal, I
have been forced to use considerable discretion in editing them. While
careful to reproduce all the facts contained in the manuscript, I have
toned down a certain Zola-like realism of expression impossible to
render in print, and have shaped the disjointed memoranda and jottings
into a consecutive narrative.
One word more before finally introducing the real Prado to the world.
However great my desire to accede to the last wish of my former friend,
I cannot bring myself to disclose to the general public the real name
of the unfortunate family to which he belonged. There are too many
innocent members thereof who would be irretrievably injured by its
disclosure.
But the pseudonym which I have employed is so transparent, and the
history of the great house in question so well known, that all who have
any acquaintance of the inner ring of European society will have no
difficulty in recognizing its identity.
LOUIS BERARD.
CHAPTER I.
A SECRET MARRIAGE.
Count Frederick von Waldberg, who was tried and guillotined at Paris
under the name of Prado, was born at Berlin in 1849 and was named
after King Frederick William IV. of Prussia, who, together with Queen
Elizabeth, was present at the christening and acted as sponsor. This
somewhat exceptional distinction was due to the fact that the child's
father, Count Heinrich von Waldberg, was not only one of the favorite
aides-de-camp generals of his majesty, but had also been a friend and
companion of the monarch from his very boyhood.
Although at the time the general had not yet achieved the great
reputation as a statesman which he subsequently attained, yet he
was already known throughout Europe as an ambassador of rare skill
and diplomacy, and as one of the most influential personages of the
Berlin Court. Married in 1847 to a princess of the reigning house of
Kipper-Deutmolde, a woman of singular beauty, little Frederick was the
first and only offspring of their union. The child was scarcely a year
old when the mother died at Potsdam, after only a few days' illness,
leaving the whole of her fortune in trust for the boy. The general was
inconsolable, and so intense was his grief that for some days it was
feared that his mind would give way. The very kindest sympathy was
displayed by both the king and his consort, the latter in particular
being deeply moved by the motherless condition of little Frederick.
During the next three years the child spent much of his time in her
majesty's private apartments, both at Berlin and Potsdam, and, herself
childless, Queen Elizabeth did her utmost to act the part of a mother
to the pretty curly headed boy.
After four years of widowhood the general became convinced that it was
not “good for man to be alone,” and cast his eyes about him in search
of another wife. Greatly to the disgust of the beauties of the Prussian
capital, who were only too ready to surrender their hands and their
hearts to the high rank and station of Count von Waldberg, his choice
fell on an Italian lady, whose sole recommendation in his eyes was, as
he publicly proclaimed to his friends, that she bore certain traces of
resemblance to his dead princess.
Several children were born of this second marriage, and, as usual in
such cases, poor little Frederick suffered the ordinary fate of a
step-child. The new Countess von Waldberg could not bring herself to
forgive the boy for being the heir to a large fortune, while her own
children had nothing but a meager portion to which they could look
forward. Moreover she was intensely jealous of the marked favor and
interest which both the king and the queen displayed toward their
godson whenever the family came to Berlin. As, however, the general
spent the first ten years of his second marriage at the foreign
capitals to which he was accredited as ambassador, Frederick but
rarely saw his royal friends. His childhood was thoroughly embittered
by the repellent attitude of his step-mother and of his half brothers
and sisters toward him. His father, it is true, was always kind and
affectionate; but engrossed by the cares and duties of his office, he
often allowed whole days to pass without seeing his eldest son, whose
time was wholly spent in the company of servants, grooms, and other
inferiors.
At the age of fifteen he was entered at the School of Cadets at
Brandenburg, and while there was frequently detached to act as page
of honor at the various court functions at Berlin and Potsdam. He was
scarcely eighteen years old when he received his first commission as
ensign in a regiment of the foot-guards, Queen Elizabeth making him a
present of his first sword on the occasion.
Frederick, in receipt of a handsome allowance from the trustees of his
mother's fortune, now entered on a course of the wildest dissipation.
The fame of his exploits on several occasions reached the ears of the
king, who kindly, but firmly, reproved the lad for his conduct, and
urged him to remember what was due to names so honored as those of
his father and his dead mother. Nothing, however, seemed to have any
effect in checking the career of reckless and riotous extravagance
on which he had embarked, and at length, after being subjected to
numerous reprimands and sentences of arrest, he was punished by being
transferred to a line regiment engaged in frontier duty on the Russian
border. His dismay at being thus exiled from the court and capital
to the wilds of Prussian Poland was impossible to describe, and he
bade farewell to his numerous friends of both sexes as if he had been
banished for life to the mines of Siberia. The most painful parting of
all was from a pretty little girl, whom he had taken from behind the
counter of “Louise's” famous flower shop, and installed as his mistress
in elegant apartments near the “Thier Garten.”
Rose Hartmann was a small and captivating blonde, with dark-blue eyes,
fringed with long black lashes. The lovers were at that time in the
honey-moon of their liaison, and while Frederick was sincerely and
deeply attached to the girl, she on her side was chiefly attracted
by the luxuries and pleasures which he had placed within her reach.
Whereas he was almost heart-broken at the idea of leaving her, she
only apprehended in the separation a sudden end to all the advantages
of a life of ease and indulgence and a return to her former obscure
existence. To make a long story short, she played her cards so well
during the last days of the young lieutenant's stay at Berlin, that
on the eve of his departure she induced him to contract a secret
marriage with her. It is needless to add that this was a fatal step,
as far as the future career of Frederick was concerned. But he was
scarcely nineteen years old at the time, and in the hands of a clever
and designing woman several years his senior. Of course, they adopted
every possible measure to prevent their altered relations from becoming
known, for in the first place German officers are prohibited, under
severe penalties, from marrying without having previously obtained
an official authorization from the Minister of War; and secondly,
Frederick was perfectly aware of the intense indignation with which
both his father and the royal family would regard such a terrible
misalliance. Two days after the ceremony Frederick left for his new
garrison, promising Rose that he would make speedy arrangements whereby
she would be enabled to rejoin him.
In due course he arrived at his destination—a dreary-looking village in
the neighborhood of Biala—and was received with considerable coldness
by his new colonel and fellow-officers who did not particularly
relish the notion that their regiment should be regarded as a kind of
penitentiary for offending guardsmen. The commander, in particular,
was a thorough martinet, who looked with extreme disfavor on all the
mannerisms and dandified airs of the young count. Thoroughly out of
sympathy with his uncongenial messmates, Frederick soon began to feel
oppressed by the monotony and solitude of his existence, and repeatedly
urged Rose by letter and telegram to join him. This, however, she
was in no hurry to do, as she naturally preferred the gay life of
the capital, with plenty of money to spend and numerous admirers, to
the dreariness and discomfort of a Polish village in the middle of
winter. At length, however, Frederick's letters grew so pressing that
delay was no longer possible, and she started for Biala with a perfect
mountain of luggage. On her arrival there she was met by her husband,
who was beside himself with joy at seeing her again. Of course, it was
more than ever necessary that their true relationship should remain a
secret, and accordingly Rose took up her residence under an assumed
name at the solitary inn of the village where Frederick was quartered.
Every moment that he could spare from his military duties he spent
with her, and it is scarcely necessary to state that their apparently
questionable relations were soon the talk of the whole place. The
person, however, who felt herself the most aggrieved by the presence
of Rose in the village was the colonel's wife, who was profoundly
indignant that the “woman” of a mere lieutenant should presume to
cover herself with costly furs and wear magnificent diamonds, whereas
she—good lady—was forced to content herself with cloaks lined with
rabbit-skin and a total absence of jewelry. Morning, noon, and night
she assailed her lord and master on the subject, and to such a pitch of
irritation she had brought him by her vituperations that, when at the
end of a week he finally decided to summon Count von Waldberg to his
presence, he was in a frame of mind bordering on frenzy.
“Your conduct, sir, is a scandal and a disgrace to the regiment,” was
the greeting which he offered to the young lieutenant, as the latter
stepped into his room. “You appear to be lost to all sense of decency
and shame.”
Frederick, pale to the very lips, stepped rapidly forward and looked
his chief defiantly in the face, exclaiming as he did so:
“I am at a loss to understand, colonel, in what manner I have merited
such a torrent of abuse.”
“You know perfectly well to what I am alluding,” retorted the colonel.
“How dare you bring that infernal woman to this place, and install her
right under our very nose here at the inn? I don't intend to have any
of these Berlin ways here. If you can't do without her, have the good
taste, at least, to keep her at Biala, where there are houses for women
of that class.”
With almost superhuman efforts to remain calm, the young officer
murmured hoarsely:
“I must insist, sir, on your speaking of the lady——”
“Lady, indeed!” fairly yelled the colonel, who was becoming black in
the face with rage; “that vile——”
As he uttered these words he was felled to the ground by a terrific
blow in the face from Frederick, who exclaimed as he struck him:
“She is my wife, you scoundrel!”