“Dear Buttel,” he said, “you are mistaken; I have always been taught to
forgive injuries.”
“Listen, listen! he might be saying his prayers!” cried the other boys;
and a volley of offensive epithets, enforced by cuffs, was hurled at the
culprit.
Pierre Buttel, whose influence was great, put a stop to this onslaught.
“Look here, Antoine, you are a bad lot, that we all know; you are a
sneak and a hypocrite. It’s time we put a stop to it. Take off your coat
and fight it out. If you like, we will fight every morning and evening
till the end of the month.”
The proposition was loudly applauded, and Pierre, turning up his sleeves
as far as his elbows, prepared to suit actions to words.
The challenger assuredly did not realise the full meaning, of his words;
had he done so, this chivalrous defiance would simply have been an act
of cowardice on his part, for there could be no doubt as to the victor
in such a conflict. The one was a boy of alert and gallant bearing,
strong upon his legs, supple and muscular, a vigorous man in embryo;
while the other, not quite so old, small, thin, of a sickly leaden
complexion, seemed as if he might be blown away by a strong puff of
wind. His skinny arms and legs hung on to his body like the claws of a
spider, his fair hair inclined to red, his white skin appeared nearly
bloodless, and the consciousness of weakness made him timid, and gave a
shifty, uneasy look to his eyes. His whole expression was uncertain, and
looking only at his face it was difficult at first sight to decide to
which sex he belonged. This confusion of two natures, this indefinable
mixture of feminine weakness without grace, and of abortive boyhood,
seemed to stamp him as something exceptional, unclassable, and once
observed, it was difficult to take one’s eyes from him. Had he been
endowed with physical strength he would have been a terror to his
comrades, exercising by fear the ascendancy which Pierre owed to his
joyous temper and unwearied gaiety, for this mean exterior concealed
extraordinary powers of will and dissimulation. Guided by instinct, the
other children hung about Pierre and willingly accepted his leadership;
by instinct also they avoided Antoine, repelled by a feeling of chill,
as if from the neighbourhood of a reptile, and shunning him unless to
profit in some way by their superior strength. Never would he join their
games without compulsion; his thin, colourless lips seldom parted for a
laugh, and even at that tender age his smile had an unpleasantly
sinister expression.
“Will you fight?” again demanded Pierre.
Antoine glanced hastily round; there was no chance of escape, a double
ring enclosed him. To accept or refuse seemed about equally risky; he
ran a good chance of a thrashing whichever way he decided. Although his
heart beat loudly, no trace of emotion appeared on his pallid cheek; an
unforeseen danger would have made him shriek, but he had had time to
collect himself, time to shelter behind hypocrisy. As soon as he could
lie and cheat he recovered courage, and the instinct of cunning, once
roused, prevailed over everything else. Instead of answering this second
challenge, he knelt down and said to Pierre—
“You are much stronger than I am.”
This submission disarmed his antagonist. “Get up,” he replied; “I won’t
touch you, if you can’t defend yourself.
“Pierre,” continued Antoine, still on his knees, “I assure you, by God
and the Holy Virgin, I was not going to tell. I was going home to my
cousins to learn my lessons for to-morrow; you know how slow I am. If
you think I have done you any harm, I ask your forgiveness.”
Pierre held out his hand and made him get up.
“Will you be a good fellow, Antoine, and play with us?”
“Yes, I will.”
“All right, then; let us forget all about it.”
“What are we to play at?” asked Antoine, taking off his coat.
“Thieves and archers,” cried one of the boys....
“Splendid!” said Pierre; and using his acknowledged authority, he
divided them into two sides—ten highwaymen, whom he was to command, and
ten archers of the guard, who were to pursue them; Antoine was among the
latter.
The highwaymen, armed with swords and guns obtained from the willows
which grew along the brook, moved off first, and gained the valleys
between the little hills beyond the wood. The fight was to be serious,
and any prisoner on either side was to be tried immediately. The robbers
divided into twos and threes, and hid themselves in the ravines.
A few minutes later the archers started in pursuit. There were
encounters, surprises, skirmishes; but whenever it came to close
quarters, Pierre’s men, skilfully distributed, united on hearing his
whistle, and the Army of justice had to retreat. But there came a time
when this magic signal was no longer heard, and the robbers became
uneasy, and remained crouching in their hiding-places. Pierre,
over-daring, had undertaken to defend alone the entrance of a dangerous
passage and to stop the whole hostile troop there. Whilst he kept them
engaged, half of his men, concealed on the left, were to come round the
foot of the hill and make a rush on hearing his whistle; the other half,
also stationed at some, little distance, were to execute the same
manoeuvre from above. The archers would be caught in a trap, and
attacked both in front and rear, would be obliged to surrender at
discretion. Chance, which not unfrequently decides the fate of a battle,
defeated this excellent stratagem. Watching intently; Pierre failed to
perceive that while his whole attention was given to the ground in
front, the archers had taken an entirely different road from the one
they ought to have followed if his combination were to succeed. They
suddenly fell upon him from behind, and before he could blow his
whistle, they gagged him with a handkerchief and tied his hands. Six
remained to keep the field of battle and disperse the hostile band, now
deprived of its chief; the remaining four conveyed Pierre to the little
wood, while the robbers, hearing no signal, did not venture to stir.
According to agreement, Pierre Buttel was tried by the archers, who
promptly transformed themselves into a court of justice, and as he had
been taken red-handed, and did not condescend to defend himself, the
trial was not a long affair. He was unanimously sentenced to be hung,
and the execution was then and there carried out, at the request of the
criminal himself, who wanted the game to be properly played to the end,
and who actually selected a suitable tree for his own execution.
“But, Pierre,” said one of the judges, “how can you be held up there?”
“How stupid you are!” returned the captive. “I shall only pretend to be
hung, of course. See here!” and he fastened together several pieces
strong string which had tied some of the other boys’ books, piled the
latter together, and standing on tiptoe on this very insecure basis,
fastened one end of the cord to a horizontal bough, and put his neck
into a running knot at the other end, endeavouring to imitate the
contortions of an actual sufferer. Shouts of laughter greeted him, and
the victim laughed loudest of all. Three archers went to call the rest
to behold this amusing spectacle; one, tired out, remained with the
prisoner.
“Ah, Hangman,” said Pierre, putting out his tongue at him, “are the
books firm? I thought I felt them give way.”
“No,” replied Antoine; it was he who remained. “Don’t be afraid,
Pierre.”
“It is a good thing; for if they fell I don’t think the cord is long
enough.”
“Don’t you really think so?”
A horrible thought showed itself like a flash on the child’s face. He
resembled a young hyena scenting blood for the first time. He glanced at
the pile of books Pierre was standing on, and compared it with the
length of the cord between the branch and his neck. It was already
nearly dark, the shadows were deepening in the wood, gleams of pale
light penetrated between the trees, the leaves had become black and
rustled in the wind. Antoine stood silent and motionless, listening if
any sound could be heard near them.
It would be a curious study for the moralist to observe how the first
thought of crime develops itself in the recesses of the human heart, and
how this poisoned germ grows and stifles all other sentiments; an
impressive lesson might be gathered from this struggle of two opposing
principles, however weak it may be, in perverted natures. In cases where
judgment can discern, where there is power to choose between good and
evil, the guilty person has only himself to blame, and the most heinous
crime is only the action of its perpetrator. It is a human action, the
result of passions which might have been controlled, and one’s mind is
not uncertain, nor one’s conscience doubtful, as to the guilt. But how
can one conceive this taste for murder in a young child, how imagine it,
without being tempted to exchange the idea of eternal sovereign justice
for that of blind-fatality? How can one judge without hesitation between
the moral sense which has given way and the instinct which displays
itself? how not exclaim that the designs of a Creator who retains the
one and impels the other are sometimes mysterious and inexplicable, and
that one must submit without understanding?
“Do you hear them coming?” asked Pierre.
“I hear nothing,” replied Antoine, and a nervous shiver ran through all
his members.
“So much the worse. I am tired of being dead; I shall come to life and
run after them. Hold the books, and I will undo the noose.”
“If you move, the books will separate; wait, I will hold them.”
And he knelt down, and collecting all his strength, gave the pile a
violent push.
Pierre endeavoured to raise his hands to his throat. “What are you
doing?” he cried in a suffocating voice.
“I am paying you out;” replied Antoine, folding his arms.
Pierre’s feet were only a few inches from the ground, and the weight of
his body at first bent the bough for a moment; but it rose again, and
the unfortunate boy exhausted himself in useless efforts. At every
movement the knot grew tighter, his legs struggled, his arms sought
vainly something to lay hold of; then his movements slackened, his limbs
stiffened, and his hands sank down. Of so much life and vigour nothing
remained but the movement of an inert mass turning round and round upon
itself.
Not till then did Antoine cry for help, and when the other boys hastened
up they found him crying and tearing his hair. So violent indeed were
his sobs and his despair that he could hardly be understood as he tried
to explain how the books had given way under Pierre, and how he had
vainly endeavoured to support him in his arms.
This boy, left an orphan at three years old, had been brought up at
first by a relation who turned him out for theft; afterwards by two
sisters, his cousins, who were already beginning to take alarm at his
abnormal perversity. This pale and fragile being, an incorrigible thief,
a consummate hypocrite, and a cold-blooded assassin, was predestined to
an immortality of crime, and was to find a place among the most
execrable monsters for whom humanity has ever had to blush; his name was
Antoine-Francois Derues.
Twenty years had gone by since this horrible and mysterious event, which
no one sought to unravel at the time it occurred. One June evening,
1771, four persons were sitting in one of the rooms of a modestly
furnished, dwelling on the third floor of a house in the rue
Saint-Victor. The party consisted of three women and an ecclesiastic,
who boarded, for meals only, with the woman who tenanted the dwelling;
the other two were near neighbours. They were all friends, and often met
thus in the evening to play cards. They were sitting round the
card-table, but although it was nearly ten o’clock the cards had not yet
been touched. They spoke in low tones, and a half-interrupted confidence
had, this evening, put a check on the usual gaiety.
Someone knocked gently at the door, although no sound of steps on the
creaking wooden staircase had been heard, and a wheedling voice asked
for admittance. The occupier of the room, Madame Legrand, rose, and
admitted a man of about six-and-twenty, at whose appearance the four
friends exchanged glances, at once observed by the new-comer, who
affected, however, not to see them. He bowed successively to the three
women, and several times with the utmost respect to the abbe, making
signs of apology for the interruption caused by his appearance; then,
coughing several times, he turned to Madame Legrand, and said in a
feeble voice, which seemed to betoken much suffering—
“My kind mistress, will you and these other ladies excuse my presenting
myself at such an hour and in such a costume? I am ill, and I was
obliged to get up.”
His costume was certainly singular enough: he was wrapped in a large
dressing-gown of flowered chintz; his head was adorned by a nightcap
drawn up at the top and surmounted by a muslin frill. His appearance did
not contradict his complaint of illness; he was barely four feet six in
height, his limbs were bony, his face sharp, thin, and pale. Thus
attired, coughing incessantly, dragging his feet as if he had no
strength to lift them, holding a lighted candle in one hand and an egg
in the other, he suggested a caricature-some imaginary invalid just
escaped from M. Purgon. Nevertheless, no one ventured to smile,
notwithstanding his valetudinarian appearance and his air of affected
humility. The perpetual blinking of the yellow eyelids which fell over
the round and hollow eyes, shining with a sombre fire which he could
never entirely suppress, reminded one of a bird of prey unable to face
the light, and the lines of his face, the hooked nose, and the thin,
constantly quivering, drawn-in lips suggested a mixture of boldness and
baseness, of cunning and sincerity. But there is no book which can
instruct one to read the human countenance correctly; and some special
circumstance must have roused the suspicions of these four persons so
much as to cause them to make these observations, and they were not as
usual deceived by the humbug of this skilled actor, a past master in the
art of deception.
He continued after a moment’s silence, as if he did not wish to
interrupt their mute observation—
“Will you oblige me by a neighbourly kindness?”
“What is it, Derues?” asked Madame Legrand. A violent cough, which
appeared to rend his chest, prevented him from answering immediately.
When it ceased, he looked at the abbe, and said, with a melancholy
smile—
“What I ought to ask in my present state of health is your blessing, my
father, and your intercession for the pardon of my sins. But everyone
clings to the life which God has given him. We do not easily abandon
hope; moreover, I have always considered it wrong to neglect such means
of preserving our lives as are in our power, since life is for us only a
time of trial, and the longer and harder the trial the greater our
recompense in a better world. Whatever befalls us, our answer should be
that of the Virgin Mary to the angel who announced the mystery of the
Incarnation: ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according
to Thy word.’”
“You are right,” said the abbe, with a severe and inquisitorial look,
under which Derues remained quite untroubled; “it is an attribute of God
to reward and to punish, and the Almighty is not deceived by him who
deceives men. The Psalmist has said, ‘Righteous art Thou, O Lord, and
upright are Thy judgments.’”
“He has said also, ‘The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous
altogether,’” Derues promptly replied. This exchange of quotations from
Scripture might have lasted for hours without his being at a loss, had
the abbe thought fit to continue in this strain; but such a style of
conversation, garnished with grave and solemn words, seemed almost
sacrilegious in the mouth of a man of such ridiculous appearance—a
profanation at once sad and grotesque. Derues seemed to comprehend the
impression it produced, and tuning again to Madame Legrand, he said—
“We have got a long way from what I came to ask you, my kind friend. I
was so ill that I went early to bed, but I cannot sleep, and I have no
fire. Would you have the kindness to have this egg mulled for me?”
“Cannot your servant do that for you?” asked Madame Legrand.
“I gave her leave to go out this evening, and though it is late she has
not yet returned. If I had a fire, I would not give you so much trouble,
but I do not care to light one at this hour. You know I am always afraid
of accidents, and they so easily happen!”
“Very well, then,” replied Madame Legrand; “go back to your room, and my
servant will bring it to you.”
“Thank you,” said Derues, bowing,—“many thanks.”
As he turned to depart, Madame Legrand spoke again.
“This day week, Derues, you have to pay me half the twelve hundred
livres due for the purchase of my business.”
“So soon as that?”
“Certainly, and I want the money. Have you forgotten the date, then?”
“Oh dear, I have never looked at the agreement since it was drawn up. I
did not think the time was so near, it is the fault of my bad memory;
but I will contrive to pay you, although trade is very bad, and in three
days I shall have to pay more than fifteen thousand livres to different
people.”
He bowed again and departed, apparently exhausted by the effort of
sustaining so long a conversation.