fancied she heard a voice shouting at intervals, "Oh! do open the door!
For God's sake, do open the door!" At last La Martinière's anxiety rose
to such a pitch that, taking up the lighted candle, she ran out into
the passage. There she heard quite plainly the voice of the person
knocking, "For God's sake! do open the door, please!" "Certainly,"
thought she, "that surely is not the way a robber would knock. Who
knows whether it is not some poor man being pursued and wants
protection from Mademoiselle, who is always ready to do an act of
kindness? But let us be cautious." Opening a window, she called out,
asking who was down making such a loud noise at the house-door so late
at night, awakening everybody up out of their sleep; and she
endeavoured to give her naturally deep voice as manly a tone as she
possibly could.
By the glimmer of the moon, which now broke through the dark clouds,
she could make out a tall figure, enveloped in a light-grey mantle,
having his broad-brimmed hat pulled down right over his eyes. Then she
shouted in a loud voice, so as to be heard by the man below, "Baptiste,
Claude, Pierre, get up and go and see who this good-for-nothing
vagabond is, who is trying to break into the house." But the voice from
below made answer gently, and in a tone that had a plaintive ring in
it, "Oh! La Martinière, I know quite well that it is you, my good
woman, however much you try to disguise your voice; I also know that
Baptiste has gone into the country, and that you are alone in the house
with your mistress. You may confidently undo the door for me; you need
have no fear. For I must positively speak with your mistress, and this
very minute." "Whatever are you thinking about?" replied La Martinière.
"You want to speak to Mademoiselle in the middle of the night? Don't
you know that she has been gone to bed a long time, and that for no
price would I wake her up out of her first sound sleep, which at her
time of life she has so much need of?" The person standing below said,
"But I know that your mistress has only just laid aside her new romance
_ Clélie_, at which she labours so unremittingly; and she is now
writing certain verses which she intends to read to the Marchioness de
Maintenon2 to-morrow. I implore you, Madame Martinière, have pity and
open me the door. I tell you the matter involves the saving of an
unfortunate man from ruin,--that the honour, freedom, nay, that the
life of a man is dependent upon this moment, and I _must_ speak to
Mademoiselle. Recollect how your mistress's anger would rest upon you
for ever, if she learned that you had had the hard-heartedness to turn
an unfortunate man away from her door when he came to supplicate her
assistance." "But why do you come to appeal to my mistress's compassion
at this unusual hour? Come again early in the morning," said La
Martinière. The person below replied, "Does Destiny, then, heed times
and hours when it strikes, like the fatal flash, fraught with
destruction? When there is but a single moment longer in which rescue
is still possible, ought assistance to be delayed? Open me the door;
you need have nothing to fear from a poor defenceless wretch, who is
deserted of all the world, pursued and distressed by an awful fate,
when he comes to beseech Mademoiselle to save him from threatening
danger?" La Martinière heard the man below moaning and sobbing with
anguish as he said these words, and at the same time the voice was the
voice of a young man, gentle, and gifted with the power of appealing
straight to the heart She was greatly touched; without much further
deliberation she fetched the keys.
But hardly had she got the door opened when the figure enveloped in the
mantle burst tumultuously in, and striding past Martinière into the
passage, cried wildly, "Lead me to your mistress!" In terror Martinière
lifted up the candle, and its light fell upon a young man's face,
deathly pale and fearfully agitated. Martinière almost dropped on the
floor with fright, for the man now threw open his mantle and showed the
bright hilt of a stiletto sticking out of the bosom of his doublet. His
eyes flashed fire as he fixed them upon her, crying still more wildly
than before, "Lead me to your mistress, I tell you." Martinière now
believed Mademoiselle was in the most imminent danger; and her
affection for her beloved mistress, whom she honoured, moreover, as her
good and faithful mother, burnt up stronger in her heart, enkindling a
courage which she had not conceived herself capable of showing. Hastily
pulling to the door of her chamber, which she had left standing open,
she planted herself before it, and said in a strong firm voice, "I tell
you what, your mad behaviour in the house here, corresponds but ill
with your plaintive words outside; I see clearly that I let my pity be
excited on a wrong occasion. You neither ought to, nor shall you, speak
to my mistress now. If your intentions are not evil, you need not fear
daylight; so come again to-morrow and state your business then. Now,
begone with you out of the house." The man heaved a deep and painful
sigh, and fixing Martinière with a formidable look, grasped his
stiletto. She silently commended her soul to Heaven, but manfully stood
her ground, and boldly met the man's gaze, at the same time drawing
herself closer to the door, for through it the man would have to go to
get to her mistress's chamber. "Let me go to your mistress, I tell
you!" cried the man again. "Do what you will," replied Martinière, "I
shall not stir from this place. Go on and finish your wicked deed; but
remember that you also will die a shameful death at the Place Grève,
like your atrocious partners in crime." "Ah! yes, you are right, La
Martinière," replied the man, "I do look like a villainous robber and
cut-throat, and am armed like one, but my partners have not been
executed,--no, not yet." Therewith, hurling looks of furious wrath at
the poor woman, who was almost dead with terror, he drew his stiletto.
"O God! O God!" she exclaimed, expecting her death-blow; but at this
moment there was heard a rattle of arms in the street, and the hoof-
strokes of horses. "The _Maréchaussée_!3 the _Maréchaussée_! Help!
Help!" screamed Martinière. "You abominable woman, you are determined
to ruin me. All is lost now--it's all over. But here, here--take this.
Give that to your mistress this very night--to-morrow if you like."
Whispering these words, he snatched the light from La Martinière,
extinguished it, and then forced a casket into her hands. "By your
hopes of salvation, I conjure you, give this casket to Mademoiselle,"
cried the man; and he rushed out of the house.
Martinière fell to the floor; at length she rose up with difficulty,
and groped her way back in the darkness to her own room, where she sank
down in an arm-chair completely exhausted, unable to utter a sound.
Then she heard the keys rattle, which she had left in the lock of the
street-door. The door was closed and locked, and she heard cautious,
uncertain footsteps approaching her room. She sat riveted to the chair
without power to move, expecting something terrible to happen. But her
sensations may be imagined when the door opened, and by the light of
the night-taper she recognised at the first glance that it was honest
Baptiste, looking very pale and greatly troubled. "In the name of all
the saints!" he began, "tell me, Dame Martinière, what has happened?
Oh! the anxiety and fear I have had! I don't know what it was, but
something drove me away from the wedding last evening. I couldn't help
myself; I had to come. On getting into our street, I thought. Dame
Martinière sleeps lightly, she'll be sure to hear me, thinks I, if I
tap softly and gently at the door, and will come out and let me in.
Then there comes a strong patrol on horseback as well as on foot, all
armed to the teeth, and they stop me and won't let me go on. But
luckily Desgrais the lieutenant of the _Maréchaussée_, is amongst them,
who knows me quite well; and when they put their lanterns under my
nose, he says, 'Why, Baptiste, where are you coming from at this time
o' night? You'd better stay quietly in the house and take care of it
There's some deviltry at work, and we are hoping to make a good capture
to-night.' You wouldn't believe how heavy these words fell on my heart.
Dame Martinière. And then when I put my foot on the threshold, there
comes a man, all muffled up, rushing out of the house with a drawn
dagger in his hand, and he runs over me--head over heels. The door was
open, and the keys sticking in the lock. Oh! tell me what it all
means." Martinière, relieved of her terrible fear and anxiety, related
all that had taken place.
Then she and Baptiste went out into the passage, and there they found
the candlestick lying on the floor where the stranger had thrown it as
he ran away. "It is only too certain," said Baptiste, "that our
Mademoiselle would have been robbed, ay, and even murdered, I make no
doubt. The fellow knew, as you say, that you were alone with
Mademoiselle,--why, he also knew that she was awake with her writings.
I would bet anything it was one of those cursed rogues and thieves who
force their way right into the houses, cunningly spying out everything
that may be of use to them in carrying out their infernal plans. And as
for that little casket, Dame Martinière--I think we'd better throw it
into the Seine where it's deepest. Who can answer for it that there's
not some wicked monster got designs on our good lady's life, and that
if she opens the box she won't fall down dead like old Marquis de
Tournay did, when he opened a letter that came from somebody he didn't
know?"
After a long consultation the two faithful souls made up their minds to
tell their mistress everything next morning, and also to place the
mysterious casket in her hands, for of course it could be opened with
proper precautions. After minutely weighing every circumstance
connected with the suspicious stranger's appearance, they were both of
the same opinion, namely, that there was some special mystery connected
with the matter, which they durst not attempt to control single-handed;
they must leave it to their good lady to unriddle.
Baptiste's apprehensions were well founded. Just at that time Paris was
the scene of the most abominable atrocities, and exactly at the same
period the most diabolical invention of Satan was made, to offer the
readiest means for committing these deeds.
Glaser, a German apothecary, the best chemist of his age, had busied
himself, as people of his profession were in the habit of doing, with
alchemistical experiments. He had made it the object of his endeavour
to discover the Philosopher's Stone. His coadjutor was an Italian of
the name of Exili. But this man only practised alchemy as a blind. His
real object was to learn all about the mixing and decoction and
sublimating of poisonous compounds, by which Glaser on his part hoped
to make his fortune; and at last he succeeded in fabricating that
subtle poison4 that is without smell and without taste, that kills
either on the spot or gradually and slowly, without ever leaving the
slightest trace in the human body, and that deceives all the skill and
art of the physicians, since, not suspecting the presence of poison,
they fail not to ascribe the death to natural causes. Circumspectly as
Exili5 went to work, he nevertheless fell under the suspicion of being
a seller of poison, and was thrown into the Bastille. Soon afterwards
Captain Godin de Sainte Croix was confined in the same dungeon. This
man had for a long time been living in relations with the Marchioness
de Brinvillier,6 which brought disgrace on all the family; so at last,
as the Marquis continued indifferent to his wife's shameful conduct,
her father, Dreux d'Aubray, _Civil Lieutenant_ of Paris, compelled the
guilty pair to part by means of a warrant which was executed upon the
Captain. Passionate, unprincipled, hypocritically feigning to be pious,
and yet inclined from his youth up to all kinds of vice, jealous,
revengeful even to madness, the Captain could not have met with any
more welcome information than that contained in Exili's diabolical
secret, since it would give him the power to annihilate all his
enemies. He became an eager scholar of Exili, and soon came to be as
clever as his master, so that, on being liberated from the Bastille, he
was in a position to work on unaided.
Before an abandoned woman, De Brinvillier became through Sainte Croix's
instrumentality a monster. He contrived to induce her to poison
successively her own father, with whom she was living, tending with
heartless hypocrisy his declining days, and then her two brothers, and
finally her sister,--her father out of revenge, and the others on
account of the rich family inheritance. From the histories of several
poisoners we have terrible examples how the commission of crimes of
this class becomes at last an all-absorbing passion. Often, without any
further purpose than the mere vile pleasure of the thing, just as
chemists make experiments for their own enjoyment, have poisoners
destroyed persons whose life or death must have been to them a matter
of perfect indifference.
The sudden decease of several poor people in the Hotel Dieu some time
afterwards excited the suspicion that the bread had been poisoned which
Brinvillier, in order to acquire a reputation for piety and
benevolence, used to distribute there every week. At any rate, it is
undoubtedly true that she was in the habit of serving the guests whom
she invited to her house with poisoned pigeon pie. The Chevalier de
Guet and several other persons fell victims to these hellish banquets.
Sainte Croix, his confederate La Chaussée,7 and Brinvillier were able
for a long time to enshroud their horrid deeds behind an impenetrable
veil. But of what avail is the infamous cunning of reprobate men when
the Divine Power has decreed that punishment shall overtake the guilty
here on earth?
The poisons which Sainte Croix prepared were of so subtle a nature that
if the powder (called by the Parisians _Pondre de Succession_, or
Succession Powder) were prepared with the face exposed, a single
inhalation of it might cause instantaneous death. Sainte Croix
therefore, when engaged in its manufacture, always wore a mask made of
fine glass. One day, just as he was pouring a prepared powder into a
phial, his mask fell off, and, inhaling the fine particles of the
poison, he fell down dead on the spot. As he had died without heirs,
the officers of the law hastened to place his effects under seal.
Amongst them they found a locked box, which contained the whole of the
infernal arsenal of poisons that the abandoned wretch Sainte Croix had
had at command; they also found Brinvillier's letters, which left no
doubt as to her atrocious crimes. She fled to Liége, into a convent
there. Desgrais, an officer of the _Maréchaussée_, was sent after her.
In the disguise of a monk he arrived at the convent where she had
concealed herself, and contrived to engage the terrible woman in a love
intrigue, and finally, under the pretext of a secret meeting, to entice
her out to a lonely garden beyond the precincts of the town. Directly
she arrived at the appointed place she was surrounded by Desgrais'
satellites, whilst her monkish lover was suddenly converted into an
officer of the _Maréchaussée_, who compelled her to get into the
carriage which stood ready near the garden; and, surrounded by the
police troop, she was driven straight off to Paris. La Chaussée had
been already beheaded somewhat earlier; Brinvillier suffered the same
death, after which her body was burned and the ashes scattered to the
winds.
Now that the monster who had been able to direct his secret murderous
weapons against both friend and foe alike unpunished was out of the
world, the Parisians breathed freely once more. But it soon became
known abroad that the villain Sainte Croix's abominable art had been
handed down to certain successors. Like a malignant invisible spirit,
murder insinuated itself into the most intimate circles, even the
closest of those formed by relationship and love and friendship, and
laid a quick sure grasp upon its unfortunate victims. He who was seen
one day in the full vigour of health, tottered about the next a weak
wasting invalid, and no skill of the physician could save him from
death. Wealth, a lucrative office, a beautiful and perhaps too young a
wife--any of these was sufficient to draw down upon the possessor this
persecution unto death. The most sacred ties were severed by the
cruellest mistrust. The husband trembled at his wife, the father at his
son, the sister at the brother. The dishes remained untouched, and the
wine at the dinner, which a friend put before his friends; and there
where formerly jest and mirth had reigned supreme, savage glances were
now spying about for the masked murderer. Fathers of families were
observed buying provisions in remote districts with uneasy looks and
movements, and preparing them themselves in the first dirty cook-shop
they came to, since they feared diabolical treachery in their own
homes. And yet even the greatest and most well-considered precautions
were in many cases of no avail.
In order to put a stop to this iniquitous state of things, which
continued to gain ground and grow greater day by day, the king
appointed a special court of justice for the exclusive purpose of
inquiring into and punishing these secret crimes. This was the so-
called _Chambre Ardente_, which held its sittings not far from the
Bastille, its acting president being La Regnie.8 For a considerable
period all his efforts, however zealously they were prosecuted,
remained fruitless; it was reserved for the crafty Desgrais to discover
the most secret haunts of the criminals. In the Faubourg St. Germain
there lived an old woman called Voisin, who made a regular business of
fortune-telling and raising departed spirits; and with the help of her
confederates Le Sage and Le Vigoureux, she managed to excite fear and
astonishment in the minds of persons who could not be called exactly
either weak or credulous. But she did more than this. A pupil of Exili,
like La Croix, she, like him, concocted the same subtle poison that
killed and left no trace behind it; and so she helped in this way
profligate sons to get early possession of their inheritance, and
depraved wives to another and younger husband. Desgrais wormed his way
into her secret; she confessed all; the _Chambre Ardente_ condemned her
to be burned alive, and the sentence was executed in the Place Grève.
Amongst her effects was found a list of all the persons who had availed
themselves of her assistance; and hence it was that not only did
execution follow upon execution, but grave suspicion fell even upon
persons of high position. Thus it was believed that Cardinal Bonzy had
obtained from La Voisin the means of bringing to an untimely end all
those persons to whom, as Archbishop of Narbonne, he was obliged to pay
annuities. So also the Duchess de Bouillon, and the Countess de
Soissons,9 whose names were found on the list, were accused of having
had dealings with the diabolical woman; and even Francois Henri de
Montmorenci, Boudebelle, Duke of Luxemburg,10 peer and marshal of the
kingdom, was not spared. He too was prosecuted by the terrible _Chambre
Ardente_. He voluntarily gave himself up to be imprisoned in the
Bastille, where through Louvois'11 and La Regnie's hatred he was
confined in a cell only six feet long. Months passed before it was made
out satisfactorily that the Duke's transgression did not deserve any
blame: he had once had his horoscope cast by Le Sage.
It is certain that the President La Regnie was betrayed by his blind
zeal into acts of cruelty and arbitrary violence. The tribunal acquired
the character of an Inquisition; the most trifling suspicion was
sufficient to entail strict incarceration; and it was left to chance to
establish the innocence of a person accused of a capital crime.
Moreover, La Regnie was hideous in appearance, and of a malicious
temperament, so that he soon drew down upon himself the hatred of those
whose avenger or protector he was appointed to be. The Duchess de
Bouillon, being asked by him during her trial if she had seen the
devil, replied, "I fancy I can see him at this moment."12
But whilst the blood of the guilty and the suspected alike was flowing
in streams in the Place Grève, and after a time the secret poisonings
became less and less frequent, a new kind of outrage came to light, and
again filled the city with dismay. It seemed as if a band of miscreant
robbers were in league together for the purpose of getting into their
possession all the jewellery they could. No sooner was any valuable
ornament purchased than, no matter how or where kept, it vanished in an
inconceivable way. But what was still worse, any one who ventured to
wear jewellery on his person at night was robbed, and often murdered
even, either in the public street or in the dark passage of a house.
Those who escaped with their lives declared that they had been knocked
down by a blow on the head, which felled them like a lightning flash,
and that on awaking from their stupor they had found that they had been
robbed and were lying in quite a different place from that where they
had received the blow. All who were murdered, some of whom were found
nearly every morning lying either in the streets or in the houses, had
all one and the same fatal wound,--a dagger-thrust in the heart,
killing, according to the judgment of the surgeons, so instantaneously
and so surely that the victim would drop down like a stone, unable to
utter a sound. Who was there at the voluptuous court of Louis XIV. who
was not entangled in some clandestine intrigue, and stole to his
mistress at a late hour, often carrying a valuable present about him?
The robbers, as if they were in league with spirits, knew almost
exactly when anything of this sort was on foot. Often the unfortunate
did not reach the house where he expected to meet with the reward of
his passion; often he fell on the threshold, nay, at the very chamber
door of his mistress, who was horrified at finding the bloody corpse.
In vain did Argenson, the Minister of Police, order the arrest of every
person from amongst the populace against whom there was the least
suspicion; in vain did La Regnie rage and try to extort confessions; in
vain did they strengthen their watch and their patrols;--they could not
find a trace of the evil-doers. The only thing that did to a certain
extent avail was to take the precaution of going armed to the teeth and
have a torch carried before one; and yet instances were not wanting in
which the servant was annoyed by stones thrown at him, whilst at the
same moment his master was murdered and robbed. It was especially
remarkable that, in spite of all inquiries in every place where traffic
in jewellery was in any way possible, not the smallest specimen of the
stolen ornaments ever came to light, and so in this way also no clue
was found which might have been followed.
Desgrais was furious that the miscreants should thus baffle all his
cunning. The quarter of the town in which he happened to be stationed
was spared; whilst in the others, where nobody apprehended any evil,
these robberies and murders claimed their richest victims.
Desgrais hit upon the ruse of making several Desgrais one after the
other, so exactly alike in gait, posture, speech, figure, and face,
that the myrmidons of the police themselves did not know which was the
real Desgrais. Meanwhile, at the risk of his own life, he used to watch
alone in the most secret haunts and lairs of crime, and follow at a
distance first this man and then that, who at his own instance carried
some valuable jewellery about his person. These men, however, were not
attacked; and hence the robbers must be acquainted with this
contrivance also. Desgrais absolutely despaired.