with a dagger. The only persons with him are his journeyman Olivier
Brusson and his own daughter. In Olivier's room, amongst other things,
is found a dagger covered with blood, still fresh, which dagger fits
exactly into the wound. Olivier says, 'Cardillac was cut down at night
before my eyes.' 'Somebody attempted to rob him?' 'I don't know.' 'You
say you went with him, how then were you not able to keep off the
murderer, or hold him fast, or cry out for help?' 'My master walked
fifteen, nay, fully twenty paces in front of me, and I followed him.'
'But why, in the name of wonder, at such a distance?' 'My master would
have it so.' 'But tell us then what Master Cardillac was doing out in
the streets at so late an hour?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But you have
never before known him to leave the house after nine o'clock in the
evening, have you?' Here Olivier falters; he is confused; he sighs; he
bursts into tears; he protests by all that is holy that Cardillac
really went out on the night in question, and then met with his death.
But now your particular attention, please, Mademoiselle. It has been
proved to absolute certainty that Cardillac never left the house that
night, and so, of course, Olivier's assertion that he went out with him
is an impudent lie. The house door is provided with a ponderous lock,
which on locking and unlocking makes a loud grating echoing noise;
moreover, the wings of the door squeak and creak horribly on their
hinges, so that, as we have proved by repeated experiments, the noise
is heard all the way up to the garrets. Now in the bottom story, and so
of course close to the street door, lives old Master Claude Patru and
his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of age, but still
lively and nimble. Now these two people heard Cardillac come downstairs
punctually at nine o'clock that evening, according to his usual
practice, and lock and bolt the door with considerable noise, and then
go up again, where they further heard him read the evening prayers
aloud, and then, to judge by the banging of doors, go to his own
sleeping-chamber. Master Claude, like many old people, suffers from
sleeplessness; and that night too he could not close an eye. And so,
somewhere about half-past nine it seems, his old housekeeper went into
the kitchen (to get into which she had to cross the passage) for a
light, and then came and sat down at the table beside Master Claude
with an old Chronicle, out of which she read; whilst the old man,
following the train of his thoughts, first sat down in his easy-chair,
and then stood up again, and paced softly and slowly up and down the
room in order to bring on weariness and sleepiness. All remained quiet
and still until after midnight. Then they heard quick steps above them
and a heavy fall like some big weight being thrown on the floor, and
then soon after a muffled groaning. A peculiar feeling of uneasiness
and dreadful suspense took possession of them both. It was horror at
the bloody deed which had just been committed, which passed out beside
them. The bright morning came and revealed to the light what had been
begun in the hours of darkness."
"But," interrupted De Scudéri, "but by all the saints, tell me what
motive for this diabolical deed you can find in any of the
circumstances which I just now repeated to you at such length?" "Hm!"
rejoined La Regnie, "Cardillac was not poor--he had some valuable
stones in his possession." "But would not his daughter inherit
everything?" continued De Scudéri. "You are forgetting that Olivier was
to be Cardillac's son-in-law." "But perhaps he had to share or only do
the murderous deed for others," said La Regnie. "Share? do a murderous
deed for others?" asked De Scudéri, utterly astounded. "I must tell
you, Mademoiselle," continued the President, "that Olivier's blood
would long ago have been shed in the Place Grève, had not his crime
been bound up with that deeply enshrouded mystery which has hitherto
exercised such a threatening sway over all Paris. It is evident that
Olivier belongs to that accursed band of miscreants who, laughing to
scorn all the watchfulness, and efforts, and strict investigations of
the courts, have been able to carry out their plans so safely and
unpunished. Through him all shall--all must be cleared up. Cardillac's
wound is precisely similar to those borne by all the persons who have
been found murdered and robbed in the streets and houses. But the most
decisive fact is that since the time Olivier Brusson has been under
arrest all these murders and robberies have ceased The streets are now
as safe by night as they are by day. These things are proof enough that
Olivier probably was at the head of this band of assassins. As yet he
will not confess it; but there are means of making him speak against
his will." "And Madelon," exclaimed De Scudéri, "and Madelon, the
faithful, innocent dove!" "Oh!" said La Regnie, with a venomous smile,
"Oh! but who will answer to me for it that she also is not an
accomplice in the plot? What does she care about her father's death?
Her tears are only shed for this murderous rascal." "What do you say?"
screamed De Scudéri; "it cannot possibly be. Her father--this girl!"
"Oh!" went on La Regnie, "Oh, but pray recollect De Brinvillier. You
will be so good as to pardon me if I perhaps soon find myself compelled
to take your favourite from your protection, and have her cast into the
Conciergerie."
This terrible suspicion made Mademoiselle shudder. It seemed to her as
if no faithfulness, no virtue, could stand fast before this fearful
man; he seemed to espy murder and blood-guiltiness in the deepest and
most secret thoughts. She rose to go. "Be human!" was all that she
could stammer out in her distress, and she had difficulty in breathing.
Just on the point of going down the stairs, to the top of which the
President had accompanied her with ceremonious courtesy, she was
suddenly struck by a strange thought, at which she herself was
surprised. "And could I be allowed to see this unhappy Olivier
Brusson?" she asked, turning round quickly to the President. He,
however, looked at her somewhat suspiciously, but his face was soon
contracted into the forbidding smile so characteristic of him. "Of
course, honoured lady," said he, "relying upon your feelings and the
little voice within you more than upon what has taken place before our
very eyes, you will yourself prove Olivier's guilt or innocence, I
perceive. If you are not afraid to see the dark abodes of crime, and if
you think there will be nothing too revolting in looking upon pictures
of depravity in all its stages, then the doors of the Conciergerie
shall be opened to you in two hours from now. You shall have this
Olivier, whose fate excites your interest so much, presented to you."
To tell the truth, De Scudéri could by no means convince herself of the
young man's guilt. Although everything spoke against him, and no judge
in the world could have acted differently from what La Regnie did in
face of such conclusive circumstantial evidence, yet all these base
suspicions were completely outweighed by the picture of domestic
happiness which Madelon had painted for her in such warm lifelike
colours; and hence she would rather adopt the idea of some
unaccountable mystery than believe in the truth of that at which her
inmost heart revolted.
She was thinking that she would get Olivier to repeat once more all the
events of that ill-omened night and worm her way as much as possible
into any secret there might be which remained sealed to the judges,
since for their purposes it did not seem worth while to give themselves
any further trouble about the matter.
On arriving at the Conciergerie, De Scudéri was led into a large light
apartment. She had not long to wait before she heard the rattle of
chains. Olivier Brusson was brought in. But the moment he appeared in
the doorway De Scudéri sank on the floor fainting. When she recovered,
Olivier had disappeared. She demanded impetuously that she should be
taken to her carriage; she would go--go at once, that very moment, from
the apartments of wickedness and infamy. For oh! at the very first
glance she had recognised in Olivier Brusson the young man who had
thrown the note into the carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought
her the casket and the jewels. Now all doubts were at an end; La
Regnie's horrible suspicion was fully confirmed. Olivier Brusson
belonged to the atrocious band of assassins; undoubtedly he murdered
his master. And Madelon? Never before had Mademoiselle been so bitterly
deceived by the deepest promptings of her heart; and now, shaken to the
very depths of her soul by the discovery of a power of evil on earth in
the existence of which she had not hitherto believed, she began to
despair of all truth. She allowed the hideous suspicion to enter her
mind that Madelon was involved in the complot, and might have had a
hand in the infamous deed of blood. As is frequently the case with the
human mind, that, once it has laid hold upon an idea, it diligently
seeks for colours, until it finds them, with which to deck out the
picture in tints ever more vivid and ever more glaring; so also De
Scudéri, on reflecting again upon all the circumstances of the deed, as
well as upon the minutest features in Madelon's behaviour, found many
things to strengthen her suspicion. And many points which hitherto she
had regarded as a proof of innocence and purity now presented
themselves as undeniable tokens of abominable wickedness and studied
hypocrisy. Madelon's heartrending expressions of trouble, and her
floods of piteous tears, might very well have been forced from her, not
so much from fear of seeing her lover perish on the scaffold, as of
falling herself by the hand of the executioner. To get rid at once of
the serpent she was nourishing in her bosom, this was the determination
with which Mademoiselle got out of her carriage.
When she entered her room, Madelon threw herself at her feet. With her
lovely eyes--none of God's angels had truer--directed heavenwards, and
with her hands folded upon her heaving bosom, she wept and wailed,
craving help and consolation. Controlling herself by a painful effort,
De Scudéri, whilst endeavouring to impart as much earnestness and
calmness as she possibly could to the tone in which she spoke, said,
"Go--go--comfort yourself with the thought that righteous punishment
will overtake yon murderer for his villainous deeds. May the Holy
Virgin forbid that you yourself come to labour under the heavy burden
of blood-guiltiness." "Oh! all hope is now lost!" cried Madelon, with a
piercing shriek, as she reeled to the floor senseless. Leaving La
Martinière to attend to the girl, Mademoiselle withdrew into another
room.
De Scudéri's heart was torn and bleeding; she felt herself at variance
with all mankind, and no longer wished to live in a world so full of
diabolical deceit! She reproached Destiny which in bitter mockery had
so many years suffered her to go on strengthening her belief in virtue,
and truth, only to destroy now in her old age the beautiful images
which had been her guiding-stars through life.
She heard Martinière lead away Madelon, who was sighing softly and
lamenting. "Alas! and she--she too--these cruel men have infatuated
her. Poor, miserable me! Poor, unhappy Olivier!" The tones of her voice
cut De Scudéri to the heart; again there stirred in the depths of her
soul a dim presentiment that there was some mystery connected with the
case, and also the belief in Olivier's innocence returned. Her mind
distracted by the most contradictory feelings, she cried, "What spirit
of darkness is it which has entangled me in this terrible affair? I am
certain it will be the death of me." At this juncture Baptiste came in,
pale and terrified, with the announcement that Desgrais was at the
door. Ever since the trial of the infamous La Voisin the appearance of
Desgrais in any house was the sure precursor of some criminal charge;
hence came Baptiste's terror, and therefore it was that Mademoiselle
asked him with a gracious smile, "What's the matter with you, Baptiste?
The name Scudéri has been found on La Voisin's list, has it not, eh?"
"For God's sake," replied Baptiste, trembling in every limb, "how can
you speak of such a thing? But Desgrais, that terrible man Desgrais,
behaves so mysteriously, and is so urgent; he seems as if he couldn't
wait a moment before seeing you." "Well, then, Baptiste," said De
Scudéri, "then bring him up at once--the man who is so terrible to you;
in me, at least, he will excite no anxiety."
"The President La Regnie has sent me to you, Mademoiselle," said
Desgrais on stepping into the room, "with a request which he would
hardly dare hope you could grant, did he not know your virtue and your
courage. But the last means of bringing to light a vile deed of blood
lie in your hands; and you have already of your own accord taken an
active part in the notorious trial which the _Chambre Ardente_, and in
fact all of us, are watching with breathless interest. Olivier Brusson
has been half a madman since he saw you. He was beginning to show signs
of compliance and a readiness to make a confession, but he now swears
again, by all the powers of Heaven, that he is perfectly innocent of
the murder of Cardillac; and yet he says he is ready to die the death
which he has deserved. You will please observe, Mademoiselle, that the
last clause evidently has reference to other crimes which weigh upon
his conscience. But vain are all our efforts to get him to utter a
single word more; even the threat of torture has been of no avail. He
begs and prays, and beseeches us to procure him an interview with you;
for to _you_, to _you_ only, will he confess all. Pray deign,
Mademoiselle, to hear Brusson's confession." "What!" exclaimed De
Scudéri indignantly, "am I to be made an instrument of by a criminal
court, am I to abuse this unhappy man's confidence to bring him to the
scaffold? No, Desgrais. However vile a murderer Brusson may be, I would
never, never deceive him in that villainous way. I don't want to know
anything about his secrets; in any case they would be locked up within
my own bosom as if they were a holy confession made to a priest"
"Perhaps," rejoined Desgrais with a subtle smile, "perhaps,
Mademoiselle, you would alter your mind after you had heard Brusson.
Did you not yourself exhort the President to be human? And he is being
so, in that he gives way to Brusson's foolish request, and thus resorts
to the last means before putting him to the rack, for which he was well
ripe some time ago." De Scudéri shuddered involuntarily. "And then,
honoured lady," continued Desgrais, "it will not be demanded of you
that you again enter those dark gloomy rooms which filled you with such
horror and aversion. Olivier shall be brought to you here in your own
house as a free man, but at night, when all excitement can be avoided.
Then, without being even listened to, though of course he would be
watched, he may without constraint make a clean confession to you. That
you personally will have nothing to fear from the wretch--for that I
will answer to you with my life. He mentions your name with the
intensest veneration. He reiterates again and again that it is nothing
but his dark destiny, which prevented him seeing you before, that has
brought his life into jeopardy in this way. Moreover, you will be at
liberty to divulge what you think well of the things which Brusson
confesses to you. And what more could we indeed compel you to do?"
De Scudéri bent her eyes upon the floor in reflection. She felt she
must obey the Higher Power which was thus demanding of her that she
should effect the disclosure of some terrible secret, and she felt,
too, as though she could not draw back out of the tangled skein into
which she had run without any conscious effort of will. Suddenly making
up her mind, she replied with dignity, "God will give me firmness and
self-command, Bring Brusson here; I will speak with him."
Just as on the previous occasion when Brusson brought the casket, there
came a knock at De Scudéri's house door at midnight. Baptiste,
forewarned of this nocturnal visit, at once opened the door. De Scudéri
felt an icy shiver run through her as she gathered from the light
footsteps and hollow murmuring voices that the guards who had brought
Brusson were taking up their stations about the passages of the house.
At length the room door was softly opened. Desgrais came in, followed
by Olivier Brusson, freed from his fetters, and dressed in his own neat
clothing. The officer bowed respectfully and said, "Here is Brusson,
honoured lady," and then left the room. Brusson fell upon his knees
before Mademoiselle, and raised his folded hands in entreaty, whilst
copious tears ran down his cheeks.
De Scudéri turned pale and looked down upon him without being able to
utter a word. Though his features were now gaunt and hollow from
trouble and anguish and pain, yet an expression of the truest
staunchest honesty shone upon his countenance. The longer Mademoiselle
allowed her eyes to rest upon his face, the more forcibly was she
reminded of some loved person, whom she could not in any way clearly
call to mind. All her feelings of shivery uncomfortableness left her;
she forgot that it was Cardillac's murderer who was kneeling before
her; she spoke in the calm pleasing tone of goodwill that was
characteristic of her, "Well, Brusson, what have you to tell me?" He,
still kneeling, heaved a sigh of unspeakable sadness, that came from
the bottom of his heart, "Oh! honoured, highly esteemed lady, can you
have lost all traces of recollection of me?" Mademoiselle scanned his
features more narrowly, and replied that she had certainly discovered
in his face a resemblance to some one she had once loved, and that it
was entirely owing to this resemblance that she had overcome her
detestation of the murderer, and was listening to him calmly.
Brusson was deeply hurt at these words; he rose hastily to his feet and
took a step, backwards, fixing his eyes gloomily on the floor. "Then
you have completely forgotten Anne Guiot?" he said moodily; "it is her
son Olivier,--the boy whom you often tossed on your lap--who now stands
before you." "Oh help me, good Heaven!" exclaimed Mademoiselle,
covering her face with both hands and sinking back upon the cushions.
And reason enough she had to be thus terribly affected. Anne Guiot, the
daughter of an impoverished burgher, had lived in De Scudéri's house
from a little girl, and had been brought up by Mademoiselle with all
the care and faithfulness which a mother expends upon her own child.
Now when she was grown up there came a modest good-looking young man,
Claude Brusson by name, and he wooed the girl. And since he was a
thoroughly clever watchmaker, who would be sure to find a very good
living in Paris, and since Anne had also grown to be truly fond of him,
De Scudéri had no scruples about giving her consent to her adopted
daughter's marriage. The young people, having set up housekeeping, led
a quiet life of domestic happiness; and the ties of affection were knit
still closer by the birth of a marvellously pretty boy, the perfect
image of his lovely mother.
De Scudéri made a complete idol of little Olivier, carrying him off
from his mother for hours and days together to caress him and to fondle
him. Hence the boy grew quite accustomed to her, and would just as
willingly be with her as with his mother. Three years passed away, when
the trade-envy of Brusson's fellow-artificers made them concert
together against him, so that his business decreased day by day, until
at last he could hardly earn enough for a bare subsistence. Along with
this he felt an ardent longing to see once more his beautiful native
city of Geneva; accordingly the small family moved thither, in spite of
De Scudéri's opposition and her promises of every possible means of
support Anne wrote two or three times to her foster-mother, and then
nothing more was heard from her; so that Mademoiselle had to take
refuge in the conclusion that the happy life they were leading in
Brusson's native town prevented their memories dwelling upon the days
that were past and gone. It was now just twenty-three years since
Brusson had left Paris along with his wife and child and had gone to
Geneva.
"Oh! horrible!" exclaimed De Scudéri when she had again recovered
herself to some extent. "Oh! horrible! are you Olivier? my Anne's son?
And now----" "Indeed, honoured lady," replied Olivier calmly and
composedly, "indeed you never could, I suppose, have any the least idea
that the boy whom you fondled with all a mother's tenderness, into
whose mouth you never tired of putting sweets and candies as you tossed
him on your lap, whom you called by the most caressing names, would,
when grown up to be a young man, one day stand before you accused of an
atrocious crime. I am not free from reproach; the _Chambre Ardente_ may
justly bring a charge against me; but by my hopes of happiness after
death, even though it be by the executioner's hand, I am innocent of
this bloody deed; the unhappy Cardillac did not perish through me, nor
through any guilty connivance on my part." So saying, Olivier began to
shake and tremble. Mademoiselle silently pointed to a low chair which
stood beside him, and he slowly sank down upon it.
"I have had plenty of time to prepare myself for my interview with
you," he began, "which I regard as the last favour to be granted me by
Heaven in token of my reconciliation with it, and I have also had time
enough to gain what calmness and composure are needful in order to
relate to you the history of my fearful and unparalleled misfortunes. I
entreat your pity, that you will listen calmly to me, however much you
may be surprised--nay, even struck with horror, by the disclosure of a
secret which I am sure you have never for a moment suspected. Oh! that
my poor father had never left Paris! As far back as my recollections of
Geneva go I remember how I felt the tears of my unhappy parents falling
upon my cheeks; and how their complaints of misery, which I did not
understand, provoked me also to tears. Later I experienced to the full
and with keen consciousness in what a state of crushing want and of
deep distress my parents lived. My father found all his hopes deceived.
He died bowed to the earth with pain, and broken with trouble,
immediately after he had succeeded in placing me as apprentice to a
goldsmith. My mother talked much about you; she said she would pour out
all her troubles to you; but then she fell a victim to that despondency
which is born of misery. That, and also a feeling of false shame, which
often preys upon a deeply wounded spirit, prevented her from taking any
decisive step. Within a few months after my father's death my mother
followed him to the grave." "Poor Anne! poor Anne!" exclaimed
Mademoiselle, quite overcome by sorrow. "All praise and thanks to the
Eternal Power of Heaven that she is gone to the better land; she will
not see her darling son, branded with shame, fall by the hand of the
executioner," cried Olivier aloud, casting his eyes upwards with a wild
unnatural look of anguish.