now anxious to perpetrate another on her own account. She wished to
marry Sainte Croix; but, though separated from her husband, she was not
divorced. She thought it would be easier to poison him than to apply to
the tribunals for a divorce, which might, perhaps, be refused. But
Salute Croix had no longer any love for his guilty instrument. Bad men
do not admire others who are as bad as themselves. Though a villain
himself, he had no desire to marry one, and was not at all anxious for
the death of the Marquis. He seemed, however, to enter into the plot,
and supplied her with poison for her husband: but he took care to
provide a remedy. La Brinvilliers poisoned him one day, and Sainte
Croix gave him an antidote the next. In this manner he was buffetted
about between them for some time, and finally escaped with a ruined
constitution and a broken heart.
But the day of retribution was at hand, and a terrible mischance
brought the murders to light. The nature of the poisons compounded by
Salute Croix was so deadly, that, when working in his laboratory, he
was obliged to wear a mask, to preserve himself from suffocation. One
day, the mask slipped off, and the miserable wretch perished in his
crimes. His corpse was found, on the following morning, in the obscure
lodging where he had fitted up his laboratory. As he appeared to be
without friends or relatives, the police took possession of his
effects. Among other things was found a small box, to which was affixed
the following singular document:--
"I humbly beg, that those into whose hands this box may fall, will do
me the favour to deliver it into the hands only of the Marchioness de
Brinvilliers, who resides in the Rue Neuve St. Paul, as everything it
contains concerns her, and belongs to her alone; and as, besides, there
is nothing in it that can be of use to any person but her. In case she
shall be dead before me, it is my wish that it be burned, with
everything it contains, without opening or altering anything. In order
that no one may plead ignorance, I swear by the God that I adore, and
by all that is held most sacred, that I assert nothing but the truth:
and if my intentions, just and reasonable as they are, be thwarted in
this point by any persons, I charge their consciences with it, both in
this world and that which is to come, in order that I may unload mine.
I protest that this is my last will. Done at Paris, the 25th of May,
1672.
"(Signed) Sainte Croix."
This earnest solicitation, instead of insuring respect as was intended,
excited curiosity. The box was opened, and found to contain some
papers, and several vials and powders. The latter were handed to a
chemist for analysis, and the documents were retained by the police,
and opened. Among them was found a promissory note of the Marchioness
de Brinvilliers, for thirty thousand francs, to the order of Sainte
Croix. The other papers were of greater importance, as they implicated
both her and her servant, La Chaussee, in the recent murders. As soon
as she was informed of the death of Sainte Croix, she made an attempt
to gain possession of his papers and the box; but, being refused, she
saw that there was no time to be lost, and immediately quitted. Next
morning the police were on her trail; but she succeeded in escaping to
England. La Chaussee was not so fortunate. Altogether ignorant of the
fatal mischance which had brought his villanies to light, he did not
dream of danger. He was arrested and brought to trial: being put to the
torture, he confessed that he had administered poison to the Messieurs
d'Aubray, and that he had received a hundred pistoles, and the promise
of an annuity for life, from Sainte Croix and Madame de Brinvilliers,
for the job. He was condemned to be broken alive on the wheel, and the
Marchioness was, by default, sentenced to be beheaded. He was executed
accordingly, in March 1673, on the Place de Greve, in Paris.
La Brinvilliers appears to have resided for nearly three years in
England. Early in 1676, thinking that the rigour of pursuit was over,
and that she might venture to return to the Continent, she proceeded
secretly to Liege. Notwithstanding her care, the French authorities
were soon apprised of her return; and arrangements were promptly made
with the municipality of that city, to permit the agents of the French
police to arrest her within the limits of their jurisdiction.
Desgrais, an officer of the marechaussee, accordingly left Paris for
that purpose. On his arrival in Liege, he found that she had sought
shelter within the walls of a convent. Here the arm of the law, long as
it is said to be, could not reach her: but Desgrais was not a man to be
baffled, and he resorted to stratagem to accomplish what force could
not. Having disguised himself as a priest, he sought admission to the
convent, and obtained an interview with La Brinvilliers. He said, that
being a Frenchman, and passing through Liege, he could not leave that
city without paying a visit to a lady whose beauty and misfortunes were
so celebrated. Her vanity was flattered by the compliment. Desgrais
saw, to use a vulgar but forcible expression, "that he had got on the
blind side of her;" and he adroitly continued to pour out the language
of love and admiration, till the deluded Marchioness was thrown
completely off her guard. She agreed, without much solicitation, to
meet him outside the walls of the convent, where their amorous intrigue
might be carried on more conveniently than within. Faithful to her
appointment with her supposed new lover, she came, and found herself,
not in the embrace of a gallant, but in the custody of a policeman.
Her trial was not long delayed. The proofs against her were abundant.
The dying declaration of La Chaussee would have been alone enough to
convict her; but besides that, there were the mysterious document
attached to the box of St. Croix; her flight from France; and, stronger
and more damning proof than all, a paper, in her own handwriting, found
among the effects of St. Croix, in which she detailed to him the
misdeeds of her life, and spoke of the murder of her father and
brothers, in terms that left no doubt of her guilt. During the trial,
all Paris was in commotion. La Brinvilliers was the only subject of
conversation. All the details of her crimes were published, and
greedily devoured; and the idea of secret poisoning was first put into
the heads of hundreds, who afterwards became guilty of it.
On the 16th of July 1676, the Superior Criminal Court of Paris
pronounced a verdict of guilty against her, for the murder of her
father and brothers, and the attempt upon the life of her sister. She
was condemned to be drawn on a hurdle, with her feet bare, a rope about
her neck, and a burning torch in her hand, to the great entrance of the
cathedral of Notre Dame; where she was to make the amende honorable, in
sight of all the people; to be taken from thence to the Place de Greve,
and there to be beheaded. Her body was afterwards to be burned, and her
ashes scattered to the winds.
After her sentence, she made a full confession of her guilt. She seems
to have looked upon death without fear; but it was recklessness, not
courage, that supported her. Madame de Sevigne says, that when on the
hurdle, on her way to the scaffold, she entreated her confessor to
exert his influence with the executioner to place himself next to her,
that his body might hide from her view "that scoundrel, Desgrais, who
had entrapped her." She also asked the ladies, who had been drawn to
their windows to witness the procession, what they were looking at?
adding, "a pretty sight you have come to see, truly!" She laughed when
on the scaffold, dying as she had lived, impenitent and heartless. On
the morrow, the populace came in crowds to collect her ashes, to
preserve them as relics. She was regarded as a martyred saint, and her
ashes were supposed to be endowed, by Divine grace, with the power of
curing all diseases. Popular folly has often canonised persons whose
pretensions to sanctity were extremely equivocal; but the disgusting
folly of the multitude, in this instance, has never been surpassed.
Before her death, proceedings were instituted against M. de Penautier,
treasurer of the province of Languedoc, and Receiver-general for the
clergy, who was accused by a lady, named St. Laurent, of having
poisoned her husband, the late Receiver-general, in order to obtain his
appointment. The circumstances of this case were never divulged, and
the greatest influence was exerted to prevent it from going to trial.
He was known to have been intimate with Sainte Croix and Madame de
Brinvilliers, and was thought to have procured his poisons from them.
The latter, however, refused to say anything which might implicate him.
The inquiry was eventually stifled, after Penautier had been several
months in the Bastille.
The Cardinal de Bonzy was accused by the gossips of the day of being an
accomplice of Penautier. The Cardinal's estates were burthened with the
payment of several heavy annuities; but, about the time that poisoning
became so fashionable, all the annuitants died off, one after the
other. The Cardinal, in talking of these annuitants, afterwards used to
say, "Thanks to my star, I have outlived them all!" A wit, seeing him
and Penautier riding in the same carriage, cried out, in allusion to
this expression, "There go the Cardinal de Bonzy and his star!"
It was now that the mania for poisoning began to take hold of the
popular mind. From this time until the year 1682, the prisons of France
teemed with persons accused of this crime; and it is very singular,
that other offences decreased in a similar proportion. We have already
seen the extent to which it was carried in Italy. It was, if possible,
surpassed in France. The diabolical ease with which these murders could
be effected, by means of these scentless and tasteless poisons, enticed
the evil-minded. Jealousy, revenge, avarice, even petty spite, alike
resorted to them. Those who would have been deterred, by fear of
detection, from using the pistol or the dagger, or even strong doses of
poison, which kill at once, employed slow poisons without dread. The
corrupt Government of the day, although it could wink at the atrocities
of a wealthy and influential courtier, like Penautier, was scandalised
to see the crime spreading among the people. Disgrace was, in fact,
entailed, in the eyes of Europe, upon the name of Frenchman. Louis XIV,
to put a stop to the evil, instituted what was called the Chambre
Ardente, or Burning Chamber, with extensive powers, for the trial and
punishment of the prisoners.
Two women, especially, made themselves notorious at this time, and were
instrumental to the deaths of hundreds of individuals. They both
resided in Paris, and were named Lavoisin and Lavigoreux. Like Spars
and Tophania, of whom they were imitators, they chiefly sold their
poisons to women who wanted to get rid of their husbands; and, in some
few instances, to husbands who wanted to get rid of their wives. Their
ostensible occupation was that of midwives. They also pretended to be
fortune-tellers, and were visited by persons of every class of society.
The rich and poor thronged alike to their mansardes, to learn the
secrets of the future. Their prophecies were principally of death.
They foretold to women the approaching dissolution of husbands, and to
needy heirs, the end of rich relatives, who had made them, as Byron
expresses it, "wait too, too long already." They generally took care to
be instrumental in fulfilling their own predictions. They used to tell
their wretched employers, that some sign of the approaching death would
take place in the house, such as the breaking of glass or china; and
they paid servants considerable fees to cause a breakage, as if by
accident, exactly at the appointed time. Their occupation as midwives
made them acquainted with the secrets of many families, which they
afterwards turned to dreadful account.
It is not known how long they had carried on this awful trade before
they were discovered. Detection finally overtook them at the close of
the year 1679. They were both tried, found guilty, and burned alive on
the Place de Greve, on the 22nd of February, 1680, after their hands
had been bored through with a red-hot iron, and then cut off. Their
numerous accomplices in Paris and in the provinces were also discovered
and brought to trial. According to some authors, thirty, and to others,
fifty of them, chiefly women, were hanged in the principal cities.
Lavoisin kept a list of the visiters who came to her house to purchase
poisons. This paper was seized by the police on her arrest, and
examined by the tribunals. Among the names were found those of the
Marshal de Luxembourg, the Countess de Soissons, and the Duchess de
Bouillon. The Marshal seems only to have been guilty of a piece of
discreditable folly in visiting a woman of this description, but the
popular voice at the time imputed to him something more than folly.
The author of the "Memoirs of the Affairs of Europe since the Peace of
Utrecht," says, "The miserable gang who dealt in poison and prophecy
alleged that he had sold himself to the devil, and that a young girl of
the name of Dupin had been poisoned by his means. Among other stories,
they said he had made a contract with the devil, in order to marry his
son to the daughter of the Marquis of Louvois. To this atrocious and
absurd accusation the Marshal, who had surrendered himself at the
Bastille on the first accusation against him, replied with the mingled
sentiment of pride and innocence, 'When Mathieu de Montmorenci, my
ancestor, married the widow of Louis le Gros, he did not have recourse
to the devil, but to the States-General, in order to obtain for the
minor king the support of the house of Montmorenci.' This brave man was
imprisoned in a cell six feet and a half long, and his trial, which was
interrupted for several weeks, lasted altogether fourteen months. No
judgment was pronounced upon him."
The Countess of Soissons fled to Brussels, rather than undergo the risk
of a trial; and was never able to clear herself from the stigma that
attached to her, of having made an attempt to poison the Queen of Spain
by doses of succession powder. The Duchess of Bouillon was arrested,
and tried by the Chambre Ardente. It would appear, however, that she
had nothing to do with the slow poisons, but had merely endeavoured to
pry into the secrets of futurity, and gratify her curiosity with a
sight of the devil. One of the presidents of the Chambre, La Reynie, an
ugly little old man, very seriously asked her whether she had really
seen the devil; to which the lady replied, looking him full in the
face, "Oh yes! I see him now. He is in the form of a little ugly old
man, exceedingly illnatured, and is dressed in the robes of a
counsellor of State." M. la Reynie prudently refrained from asking any
more questions of a lady with so sharp and ready a tongue. The Duchess
was imprisoned for several months in the Bastile; and nothing being
proved against her, she was released at the intercession of her
powerful friends. The severe punishment of criminals of this note might
have helped to abate the fever of imitation among the vulgar;--their
comparative impunity had a contrary tendency. The escape of Penautier,
and the wealthy Cardinal de Bonzy his employer, had the most pernicious
effect. For two years longer the crime continued to rage, and was not
finally suppressed till the stake had blazed, or the noose dangled, for
upwards of a hundred individuals.
HAUNTED HOUSES.
Here's a knocking indeed! * * * * knock! knock! knock
* * * * * * Who's there, i' the name o' Beelzebub?
* * * Who's there, i' the devil's name? Knock! knock!
knock!--Never at quiet?
Macbeth.
Who has not either seen or heard of some house, shut up and
uninhabitable, fallen into decay, and looking dusty and dreary, from
which, at midnight, strange sounds have been heard to issue--aerial
knockings--the rattling of chains, and the groaning of perturbed
spirits?--a house that people have thought it unsafe to pass after
dark, and which has remained for years without a tenant, and which no
tenant would occupy, even were he paid to do so? There are hundreds of
such houses in England at the present day; hundreds in France, Germany,
and almost every country of Europe, which are marked with the mark of
fear--places for the timid to avoid, and the pious to bless themselves
at, and ask protection from, as they pass--the abodes of ghosts and
evil spirits. There are many such houses in London; and if any vain
boaster of the march of intellect would but take the trouble to find
them out and count them, he would be convinced that intellect must yet
make some enormous strides before such old superstitions can be
eradicated.
The idea that such houses exist is a remnant of the witch creed, which
merits separate notice from its comparative harmlessness, and from its
being not so much a madness as a folly of the people. Unlike other
notions that sprang from the belief in witchcraft, and which we have
already dwelt upon at sufficient length, it has sent no wretches to the
stake or the gibbet, and but a few to the pillory only.
Many houses have been condemned as haunted, and avoided by the weak and
credulous, from circumstances the most trifling in themselves, and
which only wanted a vigorous mind to clear up, at once, and dissipate
all alarm. A house in Aix-la-Chapelle, a large desolate-looking
building, remained uninhabited for five years, on account of the
mysterious knockings that there were heard within it at all hours of
the day and night. Nobody could account for the noises; and the fear
became at last so excessive, that the persons who inhabited the houses
on either side relinquished their tenancy, and went to reside in other
quarters of the town, where there was less chance of interruption from
evil spirits. From being so long without an inhabitant the house at
last grew so ruinous, so dingy, and so miserable in its outward
appearance, and so like the place that ghosts might be supposed to
haunt, that few persons cared to go past it after sunset. The knocking
that was heard in one of the upper rooms was not very loud, but it was
very regular. The gossips of the neighbourhood asserted that they often
heard groans from the cellars, and saw lights moved about from one
window to another immediately after the midnight bell had tolled.
Spectres in white habiliments were reported to have gibed and chattered
from the windows; but all these stories could bear no investigation.
The knocking, however, was a fact which no one could dispute, and
several ineffectual attempts were made by the proprietor to discover
the cause. The rooms were sprinkled with holy water--the evil spirits
were commanded in due form, by a priest, to depart thence to the Red
Sea; but the knockings still continued, in spite of all that could be
done in that way. Accident at last discovered the cause, and restored
tranquillity to the neighbourhood. The proprietor, who suffered not
only in his mind but in his pocket, had sold the building at a
ruinously small price, to get rid of all future annoyance. The new
proprietor was standing in a room on the first floor when he heard the
door driven to at the bottom with a considerable noise, and then fly
open immediately, about two inches and no more. He stood still a minute
and watched, and the same thing occurred a second and a third time. He
examined the door attentively, and all the mystery was unravelled. The
latch of the door was broken so that it could not be fastened, and it
swung chiefly upon the bottom hinge. Immediately opposite was a window,
in which one pane of glass was broken; and when the wind was in a
certain quarter, the draught of air was so strong that it blew the door
to with some violence. There being no latch, it swung open again; and
when there was a fresh gust, was again blown to. The new proprietor
lost no time in sending for a glazier, and the mysterious noises ceased
for ever. The house was replastered and repainted, and once more
regained its lost good name. It was not before two or three years,
however, that it was thoroughly established in popular favour; and many
persons, even then, would always avoid passing it, if they could reach
their destination by any other street.
A similar story is narrated by Sir Walter Scott, in his Letters on
Demonology and Witchcraft, the hero of which was a gentleman of birth
and distinction, well known in the political world. Shortly after he
succeeded to his title and estates, there was a rumour among the
servants concerning a strange noise that used to be heard at night in
the family mansion, and the cause of which no one could ascertain. The
gentleman resolved to discover it himself, and to watch for that
purpose with a domestic who had grown old in the family, and who, like
the rest, had whispered strange things about the knocking having begun
immediately upon the death of his old master. These two watched until
the noise was heard, and at last traced it to a small store-room, used
as a place for keeping provisions of various kinds for the family, and
of which the old butler had the key. They entered this place, and
remained for some time, without hearing the noises which they had
traced thither. At length the sound was heard, but much lower than it
seemed to be while they were further off, and their imaginations were
more excited. They then discovered the cause without difficulty. A rat,
caught in an old-fashioned trap, had occasioned the noise by its
efforts to escape, in which it was able to raise the trap-door of its
prison to a certain height, but was then obliged to drop it. The noise
of the fall resounding through the house had occasioned the mysterious
rumours, which, but for the investigation of the proprietor, would, in
all probability, have acquired so bad a name for the dwelling that no
servants would have inhabited it. The circumstance was told to Sir
Walter Scott by the gentleman to whom it happened.