“If I am examined first, we are saved; if it is the boy, all is lost,” said he to himself while he waited.
His plight was so sore that the strong man’s face was wet with white sweat. Indeed, this wonderful man saw as clearly in his sphere of crime as Moliere did in his sphere of dramatic poetry, or Cuvier in that of extinct organisms. Genius of whatever kind is intuition. Below this highest manifestation other remarkable achievements may be due to talent. This is what divides men of the first rank from those of the second.
Crime has its men of genius. Jacques Collin, driven to bay, had hit on the same notion as Madame Camusot’s ambition and Madame de Serizy’s passion, suddenly revived by the shock of the dreadful disaster which was overwhelming Lucien. This was the supreme effort of human intellect directed against the steel armor of Justice.
On hearing the rasping of the heavy locks and bolts of his door, Jacques Collin resumed his mask of a dying man; he was helped in this by the intoxicating joy that he felt at the sound of the warder’s shoes in the passage. He had no idea how Asie would get near him; but he relied on meeting her on the way, especially after her promise given in the Saint-Jean gateway.
After that fortunate achievement she had gone on to the Place de Greve.
Till 1830 the name of La Greve (the Strand) had a meaning that is now lost. Every part of the river-shore from the Pont d’Arcole to the Pont Louis-Philippe was then as nature had made it, excepting the paved way which was at the top of the bank. When the river was in flood a boat could pass close under the houses and at the end of the streets running down to the river. On the quay the footpath was for the most part raised with a few steps; and when the river was up to the houses, vehicles had to pass along the horrible Rue de la Mortellerie, which has now been completely removed to make room for enlarging the Hotel de Ville.
So the sham costermonger could easily and quickly run her truck down to the bottom of the quay, and hide it there till the real owner — who was, in fact, drinking the price of her wares, sold bodily to Asie, in one of the abominable taverns in the Rue de la Mortellerie — should return to claim it. At that time the Quai Pelletier was being extended, the entrance to the works was guarded by a crippled soldier, and the barrow would be quite safe in his keeping.
Asie then jumped into a hackney cab on the Place de l’Hotel de Ville, and said to the driver, “To the Temple, and look sharp, I’ll tip you well.”
A woman dressed like Asie could disappear, without any questions being asked, in the huge market-place, where all the rags in Paris are gathered together, where a thousand costermongers wander round, and two hundred old-clothes sellers are chaffering.
The two prisoners had hardly been locked up when she was dressing herself in a low, damp entresol over one of those foul shops where remnants are sold, pieces stolen by tailors and dressmakers — an establishment kept by an old maid known as La Romette, from her Christian name Jeromette. La Romette was to the “purchasers of wardrobes” what these women are to the better class of so-called ladies in difficulties — Madame la Ressource, that is to say, money-lenders at a hundred per cent.
“Now, child,” said Asie, “I have got to be figged out. I must be a Baroness of the Faubourg Saint-Germain at the very least. And sharp’s the word, for my feet are in hot oil. You know what gowns suit me. Hand up the rouge-pot, find me some first-class bits of lace, and the swaggerest jewelry you can pick out. — Send the girl to call a coach, and have it brought to the back door.”
“Yes, madame,” the woman replied very humbly, and with the eagerness of a maid waiting on her mistress.
If there had been any one to witness the scene, he would have understood that the woman known as Asie was at home here.
“I have had some diamonds offered me,” said la Romette as she dressed Asie’s head.
“Stolen?”
“I should think so.”
“Well, then, however cheap they may be, we must do without ‘em. We must fight shy of the beak for a long time to come.”
It will now be understood how Asie contrived to be in the Salle des Pas-Perdus of the Palais de Justice with a summons in her hand, asking her way along the passages and stairs leading to the examining judge’s chambers, and inquiring for Monsieur Camusot, about a quarter of an hour before that gentleman’s arrival.
Asie was not recognizable. After washing off her “make-up” as an old woman, like an actress, she applied rouge and pearl powder, and covered her head with a well-made fair wig. Dressed exactly as a lady of the Faubourg Saint-Germain might be if in search of a dog she had lost, she looked about forty, for she shrouded her features under a splendid black lace veil. A pair of stays, severely laced, disguised her cook’s figure. With very good gloves and a rather large bustle, she exhaled the perfume of powder a la Marechale. Playing with a bag mounted in gold, she divided her attention between the walls of the building, where she found herself evidently for the first time, and the string by which she led a dainty little spaniel. Such a dowager could not fail to attract the notice of the black-robed natives of the Salle des Pas-Perdus.
Besides the briefless lawyers who sweep this hall with their gowns, and speak of the leading advocates by their Christian names, as fine gentlemen address each other, to produce the impression that they are of the aristocracy of the law, patient youths are often to be seen, hangers-on of the attorneys, waiting, waiting, in hope of a case put down for the end of the day, which they may be so lucky as to be called to plead if the advocates retained for the earlier cases should not come out in time.
A very curious study would be that of the differences between these various black gowns, pacing the immense hall in threes, or sometimes in fours, their persistent talk filling the place with a loud, echoing hum — a hall well named indeed, for this slow walk exhausts the lawyers as much as the waste of words. But such a study has its place in the volumes destined to reveal the life of Paris pleaders.
Asie had counted on the presence of these youths; she laughed in her sleeve at some of the pleasantries she overheard, and finally succeeded in attracting the attention of Massol, a young lawyer whose time was more taken up by the Police Gazette than by clients, and who came up with a laugh to place himself at the service of a woman so elegantly scented and so handsomely dressed.
Asie put on a little, thin voice to explain to this obliging gentleman that she appeared in answer to a summons from a judge named Camusot.
“Oh! in the Rubempre case?”
So the affair had its name already.
“Oh, it is not my affair. It is my maid’s, a girl named Europe, who was with me twenty-four hours, and who fled when she saw my servant bring in a piece of stamped paper.”
Then, like any old woman who spends her life gossiping in the chimney-corner, prompted by Massol, she poured out the story of her woes with her first husband, one of the three Directors of the land revenue. She consulted the young lawyer as to whether she would do well to enter on a lawsuit with her son-in-law, the Comte de Gross-Narp, who made her daughter very miserable, and whether the law allowed her to dispose of her fortune.
In spite of all his efforts, Massol could not be sure whether the summons were addressed to the mistress or the maid. At the first moment he had only glanced at this legal document of the most familiar aspect; for, to save time, it is printed, and the magistrates’ clerks have only to fill in the blanks left for the names and addresses of the witnesses, the hour for which they are called, and so forth.
Asie made him tell her all about the Palais, which she knew more intimately than the lawyer did. Finally, she inquired at what hour Monsieur Camusot would arrive.
“Well, the examining judges generally are here by about ten o’clock.”
“It is now a quarter to ten,” said she, looking at a pretty little watch, a perfect gem of goldsmith’s work, which made Massol say to himself:
“Where the devil will Fortune make herself at home next!”
At this moment Asie had come to the dark ha
ll looking out on the yard of the Conciergerie, where the ushers wait. On seeing the gate through the window, she exclaimed:
“What are those high walls?”
“That is the Conciergerie.”
“Oh! so that is the Conciergerie where our poor queen — — Oh! I should so like to see her cell!”
“Impossible, Madame la Baronne,” replied the young lawyer, on whose arm the dowager was now leaning. “A permit is indispensable, and very difficult to procure.”
“I have been told,” she went on, “that Louis XVIII. himself composed the inscription that is to be seen in Marie-Antoinette’s cell.”
“Yes, Madame la Baronne.”
“How much I should like to know Latin that I might study the words of that inscription!” said she. “Do you think that Monsieur Camusot could give me a permit?”
“That is not in his power; but he could take you there.”
“But his business — — ” objected she.
“Oh!” said Massol, “prisoners under suspicion can wait.”
“To be sure,” said she artlessly, “they are under suspicion. — But I know Monsieur de Granville, your public prosecutor — — ”
This hint had a magical effect on the ushers and the young lawyer.
“Ah, you know Monsieur de Granville?” said Massol, who was inclined to ask the client thus sent to him by chance her name and address.
“I often see him at my friend Monsieur de Serizy’s house. Madame de Serizy is a connection of mine through the Ronquerolles.”
“Well, if Madame wishes to go down to the Conciergerie,” said an usher, “she — — ”
“Yes,” said Massol.
So the Baroness and the lawyer were allowed to pass, and they presently found themselves in the little guard-room at the top of the stairs leading to the “mousetrap,” a spot well known to Asie, forming, as has been said, a post of observation between those cells and the Court of the Sixth Chamber, through which everybody is obliged to pass.
“Will you ask if Monsieur Camusot is come yet?” said she, seeing some gendarmes playing cards.
“Yes, madame, he has just come up from the ‘mousetrap.’”
“The mousetrap!” said she. “What is that? — Oh! how stupid of me not to have gone straight to the Comte de Granville. — But I have not time now. Pray take me to speak to Monsieur Camusot before he is otherwise engaged.”
“Oh, you have plenty of time for seeing Monsieur Camusot,” said Massol. “If you send him in your card, he will spare you the discomfort of waiting in the ante-room with the witnesses. — We can be civil here to ladies like you. — You have a card about you?”
At this instant Asie and her lawyer were exactly in front of the window of the guardroom whence the gendarmes could observe the gate of the Conciergerie. The gendarmes, brought up to respect the defenders of the widow and the orphan, were aware too of the prerogative of the gown, and for a few minutes allowed the Baroness to remain there escorted by a pleader. Asie listened to the terrible tales which a young lawyer is ready to tell about that prison-gate. She would not believe that those who were condemned to death were prepared for the scaffold behind those bars; but the sergeant-at-arms assured her it was so.
“How much I should like to see it done!” cried she.
And there she remained, prattling to the lawyer and the sergeant, till she saw Jacques Collin come out supported by two gendarmes, and preceded by Monsieur Camusot’s clerk.
“Ah, there is a chaplain no doubt going to prepare a poor wretch — — ”
“Not at all, Madame la Baronne,” said the gendarme. “He is a prisoner coming to be examined.”
“What is he accused of?”
“He is concerned in this poisoning case.”
“Oh! I should like to see him.”
“You cannot stay here,” said the sergeant, “for he is under close arrest, and he must pass through here. You see, madame, that door leads to the stairs — — ”
“Oh! thank you!” cried the Baroness, making for the door, to rush down the stairs, where she at once shrieked out, “Oh! where am I?”
This cry reached the ear of Jacques Collin, who was thus prepared to see her. The sergeant flew after Madame la Baronne, seized her by the middle, and lifted her back like a feather into the midst of a group of five gendarmes, who started up as one man; for in that guardroom everything is regarded as suspicious. The proceeding was arbitrary, but the arbitrariness was necessary. The young lawyer himself had cried out twice, “Madame! madame!” in his horror, so much did he fear finding himself in the wrong.
The Abbe Carlos Herrera, half fainting, sank on a chair in the guardroom.
“Poor man!” said the Baroness. “Can he be a criminal?”
The words, though spoken low to the young advocate, could be heard by all, for the silence of death reigned in that terrible guardroom. Certain privileged persons are sometimes allowed to see famous criminals on their way through this room or through the passages, so that the clerk and the gendarmes who had charge of the Abbe Carlos made no remark. Also, in consequence of the devoted zeal of the sergeant who had snatched up the Baroness to hinder any communication between the prisoner and the visitors, there was a considerable space between them.
“Let us go on,” said Jacques Collin, making an effort to rise.
At the same moment the little ball rolled out of his sleeve, and the spot where it fell was noted by the Baroness, who could look about her freely from under her veil. The little pellet, being damp and sticky, did not roll; for such trivial details, apparently unimportant, had all been duly considered by Jacques Collin to insure success.
When the prisoner had been led up the higher part of the steps, Asie very unaffectedly dropped her bag and picked it up again; but in stooping she seized the pellet which had escaped notice, its color being exactly like that of the dust and mud on the floor.
“Oh dear!” cried she, “it goes to my heart. — He is dying — — ”
“Or seems to be,” replied the sergeant.
“Monsieur,” said Asie to the lawyer, “take me at once to Monsieur Camusot; I have come about this case; and he might be very glad to see me before examining that poor priest.”
The lawyer and the Baroness left the guardroom, with its greasy, fuliginous walls; but as soon as they reached the top of the stairs, Asie exclaimed:
“Oh, and my dog! My poor little dog!” and she rushed off like a mad creature down the Salle des Pas-Perdus, asking every one where her dog was. She got to the corridor beyond (la Galerie Marchande, or Merchant’s Hall, as it is called), and flew to the staircase, saying, “There he is!”
These stairs lead to the Cour de Harlay, through which Asie, having played out the farce, passed out and took a hackney cab on the Quai des Orfevres, where there is a stand; thus she vanished with the summons requiring “Europe” to appear, her real name being unknown to the police and the lawyers.
“Rue Neuve-Saint-Marc,” cried she to the driver.
Asie could depend on the absolute secrecy of an old-clothes purchaser, known as Madame Nourrisson, who also called herself Madame de Saint-Esteve; and who would lend Asie not merely her personality, but her shop at need, for it was there that Nucingen had bargained for the surrender of Esther. Asie was quite at home there, for she had a bedroom in Madame Nourrisson’s establishment.
She paid the driver, and went up to her room, nodding to Madame Nourrisson in a way to make her understand that she had not time to say two words to her.
As soon as she was safe from observation, Asie unwrapped the papers with the care of a savant unrolling a palimpsest. After reading the instructions, she thought it wise to copy the lines intended for Lucien on a sheet of letter-paper; then she went down to Madame Nourrisson, to whom she talked while a little shop-girl went to fetch a cab from the Boulevard des Italiens. She thus extracted the addresses of the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and of Madame de Serizy, which were known to Madame Nourrisson by her dealings with their m
aids.
All this running about and elaborate business took up more than two hours. Madame la Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, who lived at the top of the Faubourg Saint-Honore, kept Madame de Saint-Esteve waiting an hour, although the lady’s-maid, after knocking at the boudoir door, had handed in to her mistress a card with Madame de Saint-Esteve’s name, on which Asie had written, “Called about pressing business concerning Lucien.”
Her first glance at the Duchess’ face showed her how till-timed her visit must be; she apologized for disturbing Madame la Duchesse when she was resting, on the plea of the danger in which Lucien stood.
“Who are you?” asked the Duchess, without any pretence at politeness, as she looked at Asie from head to foot; for Asie, though she might be taken for a Baroness by Maitre Massol in the Salle des Pas-Perdus, when she stood on the carpet in the boudoir of the Hotel de Cadignan, looked like a splash of mud on a white satin gown.
“I am a dealer in cast-off clothes, Madame la Duchesse; for in such matters every lady applies to women whose business rests on a basis of perfect secrecy. I have never betrayed anybody, though God knows how many great ladies have intrusted their diamonds to me by the month while wearing false jewels made to imitate them exactly.”
“You have some other name?” said the Duchess, smiling at a reminiscence recalled to her by this reply.
“Yes, Madame la Duchesse, I am Madame de Saint-Esteve on great occasions, but in the trade I am Madame Nourrisson.”
“Well, well,” said the Duchess in an altered tone.
“I am able to be of great service,” Asie went on, “for we hear the husbands’ secrets as well as the wives’. I have done many little jobs for Monsieur de Marsay, whom Madame la Duchesse — — ”
“That will do, that will do!” cried the Duchess. “What about Lucien?”
“If you wish to save him, madame, you must have courage enough to lose no time in dressing. But, indeed, Madame la Duchesse, you could not look more charming than you do at this moment. You are sweet enough to charm anybody, take an old woman’s word for it! In short, madame, do not wait for your carriage, but get into my hackney coach. Come to Madame de Serizy’s if you hope to avert worse misfortunes than the death of that cherub — — ”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 641
