quite distracted in fact. "What's the matter? What news? Have you got a
clue?" cried the President "Oh! your excellency," began Desgrais,
stammering with rage, "oh! your excellency--last night--not far from
the Louvre--the Marquis de la Fare13 was attacked in my presence." "By
Heaven then!" shouted La Regnie, exultant with joy, "we have them."
"But first listen to me," interrupted Desgrais with a bitter smile,
"and hear how it all came about. Well then, I was standing near the
Louvre on the watch for these devils who mock me, and my heart was on
fire with fury. Then there came a figure close past me without noticing
me, walking with unsteady steps and looking behind him. By the faint
moonlight I saw that it was Marquis de la Fare. I was not surprised to
see him; I knew where he was stealing to. But he had not gone more than
ten or twelve paces past me when a man started up right out of the
earth as it seemed and knocked him down, and stooped over him. In the
sudden surprise and on the impulse of the moment, which would else have
delivered the murderer into my hands, I was thoughtless enough to cry
out; and I was just bursting out of my hiding-place with a rush,
intending to throw myself upon him, when I got entangled in my mantle
and fell down. I saw the man hurrying away on the wings of the wind; I
made haste and picked myself up and ran after him; and as I ran I blew
my horn; from the distance came the answering whistles of the man; the
streets were all alive; there was a rattle of arms and a trampling of
horses in all directions. 'Here! here! Desgrais! Desgrais!' I shouted
till the streets echoed. By the bright moonlight I could always see the
man in front of me, doubling here and there to deceive me. We came to
the Rue Nicaise, and there his strength appeared to fail him: I
redoubled my efforts; and he only led me by fifteen paces at the
most"---- "You caught him up; you seized him; the patrol came up?"
cried La Regnie, his eyes flashing, whilst he seized Desgrais by the
arm as though he were the flying murderer. "Fifteen paces," continued
Desgrais in a hollow voice and with difficulty drawing his breath--
"fifteen paces from me the man sprang aside into the shade and
disappeared through the wall." "Disappeared?--through the wall? Are you
mad?" cried La Regnie, taking a couple of steps backwards and striking
his hands together.
"From this moment onwards," continued Desgrais, rubbing his brow like a
man tormented by hateful thoughts, "your excellency may call me a
madman or an insane ghost-seer, but it was just as I have told you. I
was standing staring at the wall like one petrified when several men of
the patrol hurried up breathless, and along with them Marquis de la
Fare, who had picked himself up, with his drawn sword in his hand. We
lighted the torches, and sounded the wall backwards and forwards,--not
an indication of a door or a window or an opening. It was a strong
stone wall bounding a yard, and was joined on to a house in which live
people against whom there has never risen the slightest suspicion. To-
day I have again taken a careful survey of the whole place. It must be
the Devil himself who is mystifying us."
Desgrais' story became known in Paris. People's heads were full of the
sorceries and incantations and compacts with Satan of Voisin,
Vigoureuse, and the reprobate priest Le Sage; and as in the eternal
nature of us men, the leaning to the marvellous and the wonderful so
often outweighs all the authority of reason, so the public soon began
to believe simply and solely that as Desgrais in his mortification had
said, Satan himself really did protect the abominable wretches, who
must have sold their souls to him. It will readily be believed that
Desgrais' story received all sorts of ornamental additions. An account
of the adventure, with a woodcut on the title-page representing a grim
Satanic form before which the terrified Desgrais was sinking in the
earth, was printed and largely sold at the street corners. This alone
was enough to overawe the people, and even to rob the myrmidons of the
police of their courage, who now wandered about the streets at night
trembling and quaking, hung about with amulets and soaked in holy
water.
Argenson perceived that the exertions of the _Chambre Ardente_ were of
no avail, and he appealed to the king to appoint a tribunal with still
more extensive powers to deal with this new epidemic of crime, to hunt
up the evil-doers, and to punish them. The king, convinced that he had
already vested too much power in the _Chambre Ardente_ and shaken with
horror at the numberless executions which the bloodthirsty La Regnie
had decreed, flatly refused to entertain the proposed plan.
Another means was chosen to stimulate the king's interest in the
matter.
Louis was in the habit of spending the afternoon in Madame de
Maintenon's salons, and also despatching state business therewith his
ministers until a late hour at night. Here a poem was presented to him
in the name of the jeopardised lovers, complaining that, whenever
gallantry bid them honour their mistress with a present, they had
always to risk their lives on the fulfilment of the injunction. There
was always both honour and pleasure to be won in shedding their blood
for their lady in a knightly encounter; but it was quite another thing
when they had to deal with a stealthy malignant assassin, against whom
they could not arm themselves. Would Louis, the bright polar star of
all love and gallantry, cause the resplendent beams of his glory to
shine and dissipate this dark night, and so unveil the black mystery
that was concealed within it? The god-like hero, who had broken his
enemies to pieces, would now (they hoped) draw his sword glittering
with victory, and, as Hercules did against the Lernean serpent, or
Theseus the Minotaur, would fight against the threatening monster which
was gnawing away all the raptures of love, and darkening all their joy
and converting it into deep pain and grief inconsolable.
Serious as the matter was, yet the poem did not lack clever and witty
turns, especially in the description of the anxieties which the lovers
had to endure as they stole by secret ways to their mistresses, and of
how their apprehensions proved fatal to all the rapturous delights of
love and to every dainty gallant adventure before it could even develop
into blossom. If it be added that the poem was made to conclude with a
magniloquent panegyric upon Louis XIV., the king could not fail to read
it with visible signs of satisfaction. Having reached the end of it, he
turned round abruptly to Madame de Maintenon, without lifting his eyes
from the paper, and read the poem through again aloud; after which he
asked her with a gracious smile what was her opinion with respect to
the wishes of the jeopardised lovers.
De Maintenon, faithful to the serious bent of her mind, and always
preserving a certain colour of piety, replied that those who walked
along secret and forbidden paths were not worthy of any special
protection, but that the abominable criminals did call for special
measures to be taken for their destruction. The king, dissatisfied with
this wavering answer, folded up the paper, and was going back to the
Secretary of State, who was working in the next room, when on casting a
glance sideways his eye fell upon Mademoiselle de Scudéri, who was
present in the salon and had taken her seat in a small easy-chair not
far from De Maintenon. Her he now approached, whilst the pleasant smile
which at first had played about his mouth and on his cheeks, but had
then disappeared, now won the upper hand again. Standing immediately in
front of Mademoiselle, and unfolding the poem once more, he said
softly, "Our Marchioness will not countenance in any way the
gallantries of our amorous gentlemen, and give us evasive answers of a
kind that are almost quite forbidden. But you, Mademoiselle, what is
your opinion of this poetic petition?" De Scudéri rose respectfully
from her chair, whilst a passing blush flitted like the purple sunset
rays in evening across the venerable lady's pale cheeks, and she said,
bowing gently and casting down her eyes,
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour."
(A lover who is afraid of robbers is not worthy of love.)
The king, greatly struck by the chivalric spirit breathed in these few
words, which upset the whole of the poem with its yards and yards of
tirades, cried with sparkling eyes, "By St. Denis, you are right.
Mademoiselle! Cowardice shall not be protected by any blind measures
which would affect the innocent along with the guilty; Argenson and La
Regnie must do their best as they are."
All these horrors of the day La Martinière depicted next morning in
startling colours when she related to her mistress the occurrence of
the previous night; and she handed over to her the mysterious casket in
fear and trembling. Both she and Baptiste, who stood in the corner as
pale as death, twisting and doubling up his night-cap, and hardly able
to speak in his fear and anxiety,--both begged Mademoiselle in the most
piteous terms and in the names of all the saints, to use the utmost
possible caution in opening the box. De Scudéri, weighing the locked
mystery in her hand, and subjecting it to a careful scrutiny, said
smiling, "You are both of you ghost-seers! That I am not rich, that
there are not sufficient treasures here to be worth a murder, is known
to all these abandoned assassins, who, you yourself tell me, spy out
all that there is in a house, as well as it is to me and you. You think
they have designs upon my life? Who could make capital out of the death
of an old lady of seventy-three, who never did harm to anybody in the
world except the miscreants and peace-breakers in the romances which
she writes herself, who makes middling verses which can excite nobody's
envy, who will have nothing to leave except the state dresses of an old
maid who sometimes went to court, and a dozen or two well-bound books
with gilt edges? And then you, Martinière,--you may describe the
stranger's appearance as frightful as you like, yet I cannot believe
that his intentions were evil. So then----"
La Martinière recoiled some paces, and Baptiste, uttering a stifled
"Oh!" almost sank upon his knees as Mademoiselle proceeded to press
upon a projecting steel knob; then the lid flew back with a noisy jerk.
But how astonished was she to see a pair of gold bracelets, richly set
with jewels, and a necklace to match. She took them out of the case;
and whilst she was praising the exquisite workmanship of the necklace,
Martinière was eyeing the valuable bracelets, and crying time after
time, that the vain Lady Montespan herself had no such ornaments as
these. "But what is it for? what does it all mean?" said De Scudéri.
But at this same moment she observed a small slip of paper folded
together, lying at the bottom of the casket. She hoped, and rightly, to
find in it an explanation of the mystery. She had hardly finished
reading the contents of the scrip when it fell from her trembling
hands. She sent an appealing glance towards Heaven, and then fell back
almost fainting into her chair. Terrified, Martinière sprang to her
assistance, and so also did Baptiste. "Oh! what an insult!" she
exclaimed, her voice half-choked with tears, "Oh! what a burning shame!
Must I then endure this in my old age? Have I then gone and acted with
wrong and foolish levity like some young giddy thing? O God, are words
let fall half in jest capable of being stamped with such an atrocious
interpretation? And am I, who have been faithful to virtue, and of
blameless piety from my earliest childhood until now,--am I to be
accused of the crime of making such a diabolical compact?"
Mademoiselle held her handkerchief to her eyes and wept and sobbed
bitterly, so that Martinière and Baptiste were both of them confused
and rendered helpless by embarrassed constraint, not knowing what to do
to help their mistress in her great trouble.
Martinière picked up the ominous strip of paper from the floor. Upon it
was written--
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour.
"Your sagacious mind, honoured lady, has saved us from great
persecution. We only exercise the right of the stronger over the weak
and the cowardly in order to appropriate to ourselves treasures that
would else be disgracefully squandered. Kindly accept these jewels as a
token of our gratitude. They are the most brilliant that we have been
enabled to meet with for a long time; and yet you, honoured lady, ought
to be adorned with jewellery even still finer than this is. We trust
you will not withdraw from us your friendship and kind remembrance.
"THE INVISIBLES."14
"Is it possible?" exclaimed De Scudéri after she had to some extent
recovered herself, "is it possible for men to carry their shameless
insolence, their godless scorn, to such lengths?" The sun shone
brightly through the dark-red silk window curtains and made the
brilliants which lay on the table beside the open casket to sparkle in
the reddish gleam. Chancing to cast her eyes upon them, De Scudéri hid
her face with abhorrence, and bade Martinière take the fearful
jewellery away at once, that very moment, for the blood of the murdered
victims was still adhering to it. Martinière at once carefully locked
the necklace and bracelets in the casket again, and thought that the
wisest plan would be to hand it over to the Minister of Police, and to
confide to him every thing connected with the appearance of the young
man who had caused them so much uneasiness, and the way in which he had
placed the casket in her hands.
De Scudéri rose to her feet and slowly paced up and down the room in
silence, as if she were only now reflecting what was to be done. She
then bade Baptiste fetch a sedan chair, while Martinière was to dress
her, for she meant to go straight to the Marchioness de Maintenon.
She had herself carried to the Marchioness's just at the hour when she
knew she should find that lady alone in her salons. The casket with the
jewellery De Scudéri also took with her.
Of course the Marchioness was greatly astonished to see Mademoiselle,
who was generally a pattern of dignity, amiability (notwithstanding her
advanced age), and gracefulness, come in with tottering steps, pale,
and excessively agitated. "By all the saints, what's happened to you?"
she cried when she saw the poor troubled lady, who, almost distracted
and hardly able to walk erect, hurried to reach the easy-chair which De
Maintenon pushed towards her. At length, having recovered her power of
speech somewhat, Mademoiselle related what a deep insult--she should
never get over it--her thoughtless jest in answer to the petition of
the jeopardised lovers had brought upon her. The Marchioness, after
learning the whole of the story by fragments, arrived at the conclusion
that De Scudéri took the strange occurrence far too much to heart, that
the mockery of depraved wretches like these could never come home to a
pious, noble mind like hers, and finally she requested to see the
ornaments.
De Scudéri gave her the open casket; and the Marchioness, on seeing the
costly jewellery, could not help uttering a loud cry of admiration. She
took out the necklace and the bracelets, and approached the window with
them, where first she let the sun play upon the stones, and then she
held them up close to her eyes in order to see better the exquisite
workmanship of the gold, and to admire the marvellous skill with which
every little link in the elaborate chain was finished. All at once the
Marchioness turned round abruptly towards Mademoiselle and cried, "I
tell you what, Mademoiselle, these bracelets and necklace must have
been made by no less a person than René Cardillac."
René Cardillac was at that time the most skilful goldsmith in Paris,
and also one of the most ingenious as well as one of the most eccentric
men of the age. Rather small than great, but broad-shouldered and with
a strong and muscular frame, Cardillac, although considerably more than
fifty, still possessed the strength and activity of youth. And his
strength, which might be said to be something above the common, was
further evidenced by his abundant curly reddish hair, and his thick-set
features and the sultry gleam upon them. Had not Cardillac been known
throughout all Paris, as one of the most honest and honourable of men,
disinterested, frank, without any reserve, always ready to help, the
very peculiar appearance of his eyes, which were small, deep-set,
green, and glittering, might have drawn upon him the suspicion of
lurking malice and viciousness.
As already said, Cardillac was the greatest master in his trade, not
only in Paris, but also perhaps of his age. Intimately acquainted with
the properties of precious stones, he knew how to treat them and set
them in such a manner that an ornament which had at first been looked
upon as wanting in lustre, proceeded out of Cardillac's shop possessing
a dazzling magnificence. Every commission he accepted with burning
avidity, and fixed a price that seemed to bear no proportion whatever
to the work to be done--so small was it. Then the work gave him no
rest; both night and day he was heard hammering in his work-shop, and
often when the thing was nearly finished he would suddenly conceive a
dislike to the form; he had doubts as to the elegance of the setting of
some or other of the jewels, of a little link--quite a sufficient
reason for throwing all into the crucible, and beginning the entire
work over again. Thus every individual piece of jewellery that he
turned out was a perfect and matchless masterpiece, utterly astounding
to the person who had given the commission.
But it was now hardly possible to get any work that was once finished
out of his hands. Under a thousand pretexts he put off the owner from
week to week, and from month to month. It was all in vain to offer him
double for the work; he would not take a single _Louis d'or_15 more
than the price bargained for. When at last he was obliged to yield to
the insistence of his customer, he could not help betraying all the
signs of the greatest annoyance, nay, of even fury seething in his
heart. If the piece of work which he had to deliver up was something of
more than ordinary importance, especially anything of great value,
worth many thousands owing to the costliness of the jewels or the
extreme delicacy of the gold-work, he was capable of running about like
a madman, cursing himself, his labour, and all about him. But then if
any person came up behind him and shouted, "René Cardillac, would you
not like to make a beautiful necklace for my betrothed?--bracelets for
my sweet-heart," or so forth, he would suddenly stop still, and looking
at him with his little eyes, would ask, as he rubbed his hands, "Well,
what have you got?" Thereupon the other would produce a small jewel-
case, and say, "Oh! some jewels--see; they are nothing particular, only
common things, but in your hands"---- Cardillac does not let him finish
what he has to say, but snatching the case out of his hand takes out
the stones (which are in reality of but little value) and holds them up
to the light, crying enraptured, "Ho! ho! common things, are they? Not
at all! Pretty stones--magnificent stones; only let me make them up for
you. And if you're not squeamish to a handful or two of _Louis d'or_, I
can add a few more little gems, which shall sparkle in your eyes like
the great sun himself." The other says, "I will leave it all to you,
Master René, and pay you what you like."
Then, without making any difference whether his customer is a rich
citizen only or an eminent nobleman of the court, Cardillac throws his
arms impetuously round his neck and embraces him and kisses him, saying
that now he is quite happy again, and the work will be finished in a
week's time. Running off home with breathless speed and up into his
workshop, he begins to hammer away, and at the week's end has produced
a masterpiece of art But when the customer comes prepared to pay with
joy the insignificant sum demanded, and expecting to take the finished
ornament away with him, Cardillac gets testy, rude, obstinate, and hard
to deal with. "But, Master Cardillac, recollect that my wedding is to-
morrow."--"But what have I to do with your wedding? come again in a
fortnight's time." "The ornament is finished; here is your money; and I
must have it." "And I tell you that I've lots of things to alter in it,
and I shan't let you have it to-day." "And I tell you that if you won't
deliver up the ornament by fair means--of course I am willing to pay
you double for it--you shall soon see me march up with Argenson's
serviceable underlings."--"Well, then, may Satan torture you with
scores of red-hot pincers, and hang three hundredweight on the necklace
till it strangle your bride." And therewith, thrusting the jewellery
into the bridegroom's breast pocket, Cardillac seizes him by the arm
and turns him roughly out of the door, so that he goes stumbling all
down the stairs. Then Cardillac puts his head out of the window and
laughs like a demon on seeing the poor young man limp out of the house,
holding his handkerchief to his bloody nose.
But one thing there was about him that was quite inexplicable. Often,
after he had enthusiastically taken a piece of work in hand, he would
implore his customer by the Virgin and all the saints, with every sign
of deep and violent agitation, and with moving protestations, nay,
amidst tears and sobs, that he might be released from his engagement.
Several persons who were most highly esteemed of the king and the
people had vainly offered large sums of money to get the smallest piece
of work from him. He threw himself at the king's feet and besought as a
favour at his hands that he might not be asked to do any work for him.
In the same way he refused every commission from De Maintenon; he even
rejected with aversion and horror the proposal she made him to
fabricate for her a little ring with emblematic ornaments, which was to
be presented to Racine.
Accordingly De Maintenon now said, "I would wager that if I sent for
Cardillac to come here to tell me at least for whom he made these
ornaments, he would refuse to come, since he would probably fear it was
some commission; and he never will make anything for me on any account.
And yet he has, it seems, dropped something of his inflexible obstinacy
some time ago, for I hear that he now labours more industriously than
ever, and delivers up his work at once, though still not without much
inward vexation and turning away of his face." De Scudéri, who was
greatly concerned that the ornaments should, if it could possibly be
managed, come soon into the hands of the proper owner, thought they
might send express word to Master Whimsicality that they did not want
him to do any work, but only to pass his opinion upon some jewels. This
commended itself to the Marchioness. Cardillac was sent for; and, as
though he had been already on the way, after a brief interval he
stepped into the room.