confounded by something so utterly unexpected that he forgets the
claims of propriety such as the moment demands, he first made a low and
reverential obeisance to this venerable lady, and then only did he turn
to the Marchioness. She, pointing to the jewellery, which now lay
glittering on the dark-green table-cloth, asked him hastily if it was
of his workmanship. Hardly glancing at it, and keeping his eyes
steadily fixed upon De Maintenon, Cardillac hurriedly packed the
necklace and bracelets into the casket, which stood beside them, and
pushed it violently away from him. Then he said, whilst a forbidding
smile gleamed in his red face, "By my honour, noble lady, he would have
but a poor acquaintance with René Cardillac's workmanship who should
believe for a single moment that any other goldsmith in the world could
set a piece of jewellery like that is done. Of course it's my
handiwork." "Then tell me," continued the Marchioness, "for whom you
made these ornaments." "For myself alone," replied Cardillac. "Ah! I
dare say your ladyship finds that strange," he continued, since both
she and De Scudéri had fixed their eyes upon him astounded, the former
full of mistrust, the latter of anxious suspense as to what turn the
matter would take next; "but it is so. Merely out of love for my
beautiful handicraft I picked out all my best stones and gladly set to
work upon them, exercising more industry and care over them than I had
ever done over any stones before. A short time ago the ornaments
disappeared in some inconceivable way out of my workshop." "Thank
Heaven!" cried De Scudéri, whilst her eyes sparkled with joy, and she
jumped up from her chair as quick and nimble as a young girl; then
going up to Cardillac, she placed both her hands upon his shoulders,
and said, "Here, Master René, take your property back again, which
these rascally miscreants stole from you." And she related every detail
of how she had acquired possession of the ornaments, to all of which
Cardillac listened silently, with his eyes cast down upon the floor.
Only now and again he uttered an indistinct "Hm!--So!--Ho! ho!" now
throwing his hands behind his back, and now softly stroking his chin
and cheeks.
When De Scudéri came to the end of her story, Cardillac appeared to be
struggling with some new and striking thought which had occurred to him
during the course of it, and as though he were labouring with some
rebellious resolve that refused to conform to his wishes. He rubbed his
forehead, sighed, drew his hand across his eyes, as if to check tears
which were gushing from them. At length he seized the casket which De
Scudéri was holding out towards him, and slowly sinking upon one knee,
said, "These jewels have been decreed to you, my noble and respected
lady, by Destiny. Yes, now I know that it was you I thought about when
I was labouring at them, and that it was for you I worked. Do not
disdain to accept these ornaments, nor refuse to wear them; they are
indeed the best things I have made for a very long time." "Why, why,
Master René," replied De Scudéri, in a charming, jesting manner; "what
are you thinking about? Would it become me at my years to trick myself
out with such bright gems? And what makes you think of giving me such
an over-rich present? Nay, nay, Master René. Now if I were beautiful
like the Marchioness de Fontange,16 and rich too, I assure you I should
not let these ornaments pass out of my hands; but what do these
withered arms want with vain show, and this covered neck with
glittering ornaments?" Meanwhile Cardillac had risen to his feet again;
and whilst persistently holding out the casket towards De Scudéri he
said, like one distracted--and his looks were wild and uneasy,--"Have
pity upon me, Mademoiselle, and take the ornaments. You don't know what
great respect I cherish in my heart for your virtue and your high good
qualities. Accept this little present as an effort on my behalf to show
my deep respect and devotion." But as De Scudéri still continued to
hesitate, De Maintenon took the casket out of Cardillac's hands,
saying, "Upon my word, Mademoiselle, you are always talking about your
great age. What have we, you and I, to do with years and their burdens?
And aren't you acting just like a shy young thing, who would only too
well like to take the sweet fruit that is offered to her if she could
only do so without stirring either hand or finger? Don't refuse to
accept from our good Master René as a free gift what scores of others
could never get, in spite of all their gold and all their prayers and
entreaties."
Whilst speaking De Maintenon had forced the casket into Mademoiselle's
hand; and now Cardillac again fell upon his knees and kissed De
Scudéri's gown and hands, sighing and gasping, weeping and sobbing;
then he jumped up and ran off like a madman, as fast as he could run,
upsetting chairs and tables in his senseless haste, and making the
glasses and porcelain tumble together with a ring and jingle and clash.
De Scudéri cried out quite terrified, "Good Heavens! what's happened to
the man?" But the Marchioness, who was now in an especially lively mood
and in such a pert humour as was in general quite foreign to her, burst
out into a silvery laugh, and said, "Now, I've got it, Mademoiselle.
Master René has fallen desperately in love with you, and according to
the established form and settled usage of all true gallantry, he is
beginning to storm your heart with rich presents." She even pushed her
raillery further, admonishing De Scudéri not to be too cruel towards
her despairing lover, until Mademoiselle, letting her natural-born
humour have play, was carried away by the bubbling stream of merry
conceits and fancies. She thought that if that was really the state of
the case, she should be at last conquered and would not be able to help
affording to the world the unprecedented example of a goldsmith's
bride, of untarnished nobility, of the age of three and seventy. De
Maintenon offered her services to weave the wedding-wreath, and to
instruct her in the duties of a good house-wife, since such a snippety
bit of a girl could not of course know much about such things.
But when at length De Scudéri rose to say adieu to the Marchioness, she
again, notwithstanding all their laughing jests, grew very grave as she
took the jewel-case in her hand, and said, "And yet, Marchioness, do
you know, I can never wear these ornaments. Whatever be their history,
they have at some time or other been in the hands of those diabolical
wretches who commit robbery and murder with all the effrontery of Satan
himself; nay, I believe they must be in an unholy league with him. I
shudder with awe at the sight of the blood which appears to adhere to
the glittering stones. And then, I must confess, I cannot help feeling
that there is something strangely uneasy and awe-inspiring about
Cardillac's behaviour. I cannot get rid of the dark presentiment that
behind all this there is lurking some fearful and terrible secret; but
when, on the other hand, I pass the whole matter with all its
circumstantial adjuncts in clear review before my mind, I cannot even
guess what the mystery consists in, nor yet how our brave honest Master
René, the pattern of a good industrious citizen, can have anything to
do with what is bad or deserving of condemnation; but of this I am
quite sure, that I shall never dare to put the ornaments on."
The Marchioness thought that this was carrying scruples too far. But
when De Scudéri asked her on her conscience what she should really do
in her (Scudéri's) place, De Maintenon replied earnestly and
decisively, "Far sooner throw the ornaments into the Seine than ever
wear them."
The scene with Master René was described by De Scudéri in charming
verses, which she read to the king on the following evening in De
Maintenon's salon. And of course it may readily be conceived that,
conquering her uncomfortable feelings and forebodings of evil, she drew
at Master René's expense a diverting picture, in bright vivacious
colours, of the goldsmith's bride of three and seventy who was of such
ancient nobility. At any rate the king laughed heartily, and swore that
Boileau Despreux had found his master; hence De Scudéri's poem was
popularly adjudged to be the wittiest that ever was written.
Several months had passed, when, as chance would have it, De Scudéri
was driving over the Pont Neuf in the Duchess de Montansier's glass
coach. The invention of this elegant class of vehicles was still so
recent that a throng of the curious always gathered round it when one
appeared in the streets. And so there was on the present occasion a
gaping crowd round De Montansier's coach on the Pont Neuf, so great as
almost to hinder the horses from getting on. All at once De Scudéri
heard a continuous fire of abuse and cursing, and perceived a man
making his way through the thick of the crowd by the help of his fists
and by punching people in the ribs. And when he came nearer she saw
that his piercing eyes were riveted upon her. His face was pale as
death and distorted by pain; and he kept his eyes riveted upon her all
the time he was energetically working his way onwards with his fists
and elbows, until he reached the door. Pulling it open with impetuous
violence, he threw a strip of paper into De Scudéri's lap, and again
dealing out and receiving blows and punches, disappeared as he had
come. Martinière, who was accompanying her mistress, uttered a scream
of terror when she saw the man appear at the coach door, and fell back
upon the cushions in a swoon. De Scudéri vainly pulled the cord and
called out to the driver; he, as if impelled by the foul Fiend, whipped
up his horses, so that they foamed at the mouth and tossed their heads,
and kicked and plunged, and finally thundered over the bridge at a
sharp trot. De Scudéri emptied her smelling-bottle over the insensible
woman, who at length opened her eyes. Trembling and shaking, she clung
convulsively to her mistress, her face pale with anxiety and terror as
she gasped out, "For the love of the Virgin, what did that terrible man
want? Oh! yes, it was he! it was he!--the very same who brought you the
casket that awful night." Mademoiselle pacified the poor woman,
assuring her that not the least mischief had been done, and that the
main thing to do just then was to see what the strip of paper
contained. She unfolded it and found these words--
"I am being plunged into the pit of destruction by an evil destiny
which you may avert. I implore you, as the son does the mother whom he
cannot leave, and with the warmest affection of a loving child, send
the necklace and bracelets which you received from me to Master René
Cardillac; any pretext will do, to get some improvement made--or to get
something altered. Your welfare, your life, depend upon it. If you have
not done so by the day after to-morrow I will force my way into your
dwelling and kill myself before your eyes."
"Well now, it is at any rate certain," said De Scudéri when she had
read it, "that this mysterious man, even if he does really belong to
the notorious band of thieves and robbers, yet has no evil designs
against me. If he had succeeded in speaking to me that night, who knows
whether I should not have learnt of some singular event or some
mysterious complication of things, respecting which I now try in vain
to form even the remotest guess. But let the matter now take what shape
it may, I shall certainly do what this note urgently requests me to do,
if for no other reason than to get rid of those ill-starred jewels,
which I always fancy are a talisman of the foul Fiend himself. And I
warrant Cardillac, true to his rooted habit, won't let it pass out of
his hands again so easily."
The very next day De Scudéri intended to go and take the jewellery to
the goldsmith's. But somehow it seemed as if all the wits and
intellects of entire Paris had conspired together to overwhelm
Mademoiselle just on this particular morning with their verses and
plays and anecdotes. No sooner had La Chapelle17 finished reading a
tragedy, and had slyly remarked with some degree of confident assurance
that he should now certainly beat Racine, than the latter poet himself
came in, and routed him with a pathetic speech of a certain king, until
Boileau appeared to let off the rockets of his wit into this black sky
of Tragedy--in order that he might not be talked to death on the
subject of the colonnade18 of the Louvre, for he had been penned up in
it by Dr. Perrault, the architect.
It was high noon; De Scudéri had to go to the Duchess de Montansier's;
and so the visit to Master René Cardillac's was put off until the next
day. Mademoiselle, however, was tormented by a most extraordinary
feeling of uneasiness. The young man's figure was constantly before her
eyes; and deep down in her memory there was stirring a dim recollection
that she had seen his face and features somewhere before. Her sleep,
which was of the lightest, was disturbed by troublesome dreams. She
fancied she had acted frivolously and even criminally in having delayed
to grasp the hand which the unhappy wretch, who was sinking into the
abyss of ruin, was stretching up towards her; nay, she was even haunted
by the thought that she had had it in her power to prevent a fatal
event from taking place or an enormous crime from being committed. So,
as soon as the morning was fully come, she had Martinière finish her
toilet, and drove to the goldsmith, taking the jewel-casket with her.
The people were pouring into the Rue Nicaise, to the house where
Cardillac lived, and were gathering about his door, shouting,
screaming, and creating a wild tumult of noise; and they were with
difficulty prevented by the _Maréchaussée_, who had drawn a cordon
round the house, from forcing their way in. Angry voices were crying in
a wild confused hubbub, "Tear him to pieces! pound him to dust! the
accursed murderer!" At length Desgrais appeared on the scene with a
strong body of police, who formed a passage through the heart of the
crowd. The house door flew open and a man stepped out loaded with
chains; and he was dragged away amidst the most horrible imprecations
of the furious mob.
At the moment that De Scudéri, who was half swooning from fright and
her apprehensions that something terrible had happened, was witness of
this scene, a shrill piercing scream of distress rang upon her ears.
"Go on, go on, right forward," she cried to her coachman, almost
distracted. Scattering the dense mass of people by a quick clever turn
of his horses, he pulled up immediately in front of Cardillac's door.
There De Scudéri observed Desgrais, and at his feet a young girl, as
beautiful as the day, with dishevelled hair, only half dressed, and her
countenance stamped with desperate anxiety and wild with despair. She
was clasping his knees and crying in a tone of the most terrible, the
most heart-rending anguish, "Oh! he is innocent! he is innocent." In
vain were Desgrais' efforts, as well as those of his men, to make her
leave hold and to raise her up from the floor. At last a strong brutal
fellow laid his coarse rough hands upon the poor girl and dragged her
away from Desgrais by main force, but awkwardly stumbling let her drop,
so that she rolled down the stone steps and lay in the street, without
uttering a single sound more; she appeared to be dead.
Mademoiselle could no longer contain herself. "For God's sake, what has
happened? What's all this about?" she cried as she quickly opened the
door of her coach and stepped out. The crowd respectfully made way for
the estimable lady. She, on perceiving that two or three compassionate
women had raised up the girl and set her on the steps, where they were
rubbing her forehead with aromatic waters, approached Desgrais and
repeated her question with vehemence. "A horrible thing has happened,"
said Desgrais. "René Cardillac was found this morning murdered, stabbed
to the heart with a dagger. His journeyman Olivier Brusson is the
murderer. That was he who was just led away to prison." "And the girl?"
exclaimed Mademoiselle---- "Is Madelon, Cardillac's daughter," broke in
Desgrais. "Yon abandoned wretch is her lover. And she's screaming and
crying, and protesting that Olivier is innocent, quite innocent. But
the real truth is she is cognisant of the deed, and I must have her
also taken to the _conciergerie_ (prison)."
Saying which, Desgrais cast a glance of such spiteful malicious triumph
upon the girl that De Scudéri trembled. Madelon was just beginning to
breathe again, but she still lay with her eyes closed incapable of
either sound or motion; and they did not know what to do, whether to
take her into the house or to stay with her longer until she came round
again. Mademoiselle's eyes filled with tears, and she was greatly
agitated, as she looked upon the innocent angel; Desgrais and his
myrmidons made her shudder. Downstairs came a heavy rumbling noise;
they were bringing down Cardillac's corpse. Quickly making up her mind.
De Scudéri said loudly, "I will take the girl with me; you may attend
to everything else, Desgrais." A muttered wave of applause swept
through the crowd. They lifted up the girl, whilst everybody crowded
round and hundreds of arms were proffered to assist them; like one
floating in the air the young girl was carried to the coach and placed
within it,--blessings being showered from the lips of all upon the
noble lady who had come to snatch innocence from the scaffold.
The efforts of Seron, the most celebrated physician in Paris, to bring
Madelon back to herself were at length crowned with success, for she
had lain for hours in a dead swoon, utterly unconscious. What the
physician began was completed by De Scudéri, who strove to excite the
mild rays of hope in the girl's soul, till at length relief came to her
in the form of a violent fit of tears and sobbing. She managed to
relate all that had happened, although from time to time her heart-
rending grief got the upper hand, and her voice was choked with
convulsive sobs.
About midnight she had been awakened by a light tap at her chamber
door, and heard Olivier's voice imploring her to get up at once, as her
father was dying. Though almost stunned with dismay, she started up and
opened the door, and saw Olivier with a light in his hand, pale and
dreadfully agitated, and dripping with perspiration. He led the way
into her father's workshop, with an unsteady gait, and she followed
him. There lay her father with fixed staring eyes, his throat rattling
in the agonies of death. With a loud wail she threw herself upon him,
and then first noticed his bloody shirt. Olivier softly drew her away
and set to work to wash a wound in her father's left breast with a
traumatic balsam, and to bind it up. During this operation her father's
senses came back to him; his throat ceased to rattle; and he bent,
first upon her and then upon Olivier, a glance full of feeling, took
her hand, and placed it in Olivier's, fervently pressing them together.
She and Olivier both fell upon their knees beside her father's bed; he
raised himself up with a cry of agony, but at once sank back again, and
in a deep sigh breathed his last. Then they both gave way to their
grief and sorrow, and wept aloud.
Olivier related how during a walk, on which he had been commanded by
his master to attend him, the latter had been murdered in his presence,
and how through the greatest exertions he had carried the heavy man
home, whom he did not believe to have been fatally wounded.
When morning dawned the people of the house, who had heard the
lumbering noises, and the loud weeping and lamenting during the night,
came up and found them still kneeling in helpless trouble by her
father's corpse. An alarm was raised; the _Maréchaussée_ made their way
into the house, and dragged off Olivier to prison as the murderer of
his master. Madelon added the most touching description of her beloved
Olivier's goodness, and steady industry, and faithfulness. He had
honoured his master highly, as though he had been his own father; and
the latter had fully reciprocated this affection, and had chosen
Brusson, in spite of his poverty, to be his son-in-law, since his skill
was equal to his faithfulness and the nobleness of his character. All
this the girl related with deep, true, heart-felt emotion; and she
concluded by saying that if Olivier had thrust his dagger into her
father's breast in her own presence she should take it for some
illusion caused by Satan, rather than believe that Olivier could be
capable of such a horrible wicked crime.
De Scudéri, most deeply moved by Madelon's unutterable sufferings, and
quite ready to regard poor Olivier as innocent, instituted inquiries,
and she found that all Madelon had said about the intimate terms on
which master and journeyman had lived was fully confirmed. The people
in the same house, as well as the neighbours, unanimously agreed in
commending Olivier as a pattern of goodness, morality, faithfulness,
and industry; nobody knew anything evil about him, and yet when mention
was made of his heinous deed, they all shrugged their shoulders and
thought there was something passing comprehension in it.
Olivier, on being arraigned before the _Chambre Ardente_ denied the
deed imputed to him, as Mademoiselle learned, with the most steadfast
firmness and with honest sincerity, maintaining that his master had
been attacked in the street in his presence and stabbed, that then, as
there were still signs of life in him, he had himself carried him home,
where Cardillac had soon afterwards expired. And all this too
harmonised with Madelon's account.
Again and again and again De Scudéri had the minutest details of the
terrible event repeated to her. She inquired minutely whether there had
ever been a quarrel between master and journeyman, whether Olivier was
perhaps not subject occasionally to those hasty fits of passion which
often attack even the most good-natured of men like a blind madness,
impelling the commission of deeds which appear to be done quite
independent of voluntary action. But in proportion as Madelon spoke
with increasing heartfelt warmth of the quiet domestic happiness in
which the three had lived, united by the closest ties of affection,
every shadow of suspicion against poor Olivier, now being tried for his
life, vanished away. Scrupulously weighing every point and starting
with the assumption that Olivier, in spite of all the things which
spoke so loudly for his innocence, was nevertheless Cardillac's
murderer, De Scudéri did not find any motive within the bounds of
possibility for the hideous deed; for from every point of view it would
necessarily destroy his happiness. He is poor but clever. He has
succeeded in gaining the good-will of the most renowned master of his
trade; he loves his master's daughter; his master looks upon his love
with a favourable eye; happiness and prosperity seem likely to be his
lot through life. But now suppose that, provoked in some way that God
alone may know, Olivier had been so overmastered by anger as to make a
murderous attempt upon his benefactor, his father, what diabolical
hypocrisy he must have practised to have behaved after the deed in the
way in which he really did behave. Firmly convinced of Olivier's
innocence, Mademoiselle made up her mind to save the unhappy young man
at no matter what cost.
Before appealing, however, to the king's mercy, it seemed to her that
the most advisable step to take would be to call upon La Regnie, and
direct his attention to all the circumstances that could not fail to
speak for Olivier's innocence, and so perhaps awaken in the President's
mind a feeling of interest favourable to the accused, which might then
communicate itself to the judges with beneficial results.
La Regnie received De Scudéri with all the great respect to which the
venerable lady, highly honoured as she was by the king himself, might
justly lay claim. He listened quietly to all that she had to adduce
with respect to the terrible crime, and Olivier's relations to the
victim and his daughter, and his character. Nevertheless the only proof
he gave that her words were not falling upon totally deaf ears was a
slight and well-nigh mocking smile; and in the same way he heard her
protestations and admonitions, which were frequently interrupted by
tears, that the judge was not the enemy of the accused, but must also
duly give heed to anything that spoke in his favour. When at length
Mademoiselle paused, quite exhausted, and dried the tears from her
eyes. La Regnie began, "It does honour to the excellence of your heart.
Mademoiselle, that, being moved by the tears of a young lovesick girl,
you believe everything she tells you, and none the less so that you are
incapable of conceiving the thought of such an atrocious deed; but not
so is it with the judge, who is wont to rend asunder the mask of brazen
hypocrisy. Of course I need not tell you that it is not part of my
office to unfold to every one who asks me the various stages of a
criminal trial. Mademoiselle, I do my duty and trouble myself little
about the judgment of the world. All miscreants shall tremble before
the _Chambre Ardente_, which knows no other punishment except the
scaffold and the stake. But since I do not wish you, respected lady, to
conceive of me as a monster of hard-heartedness and cruelty, suffer me
in a few words to put clearly before you the guilt of this young
reprobate, who, thank Heaven, has been overtaken by the avenging arm of
justice. Your sagacious mind will then bid you look with scorn upon
your own good kindness, which does you so much honour, but which would
never under any circumstances be fitting in me.