“The government secret service was helpless. No one save I knew that Hathaway was shielding his daughter, whose promise to her dead husband had led her to betray her country to the representative of a foreign power such as our own. Yet Hathaway, even in sacrificing his name and reputation, revolted at suffering life-long imprisonment, nor dared he stand trial through danger of being forced to confess the truth. So he remains in hiding and I have hopes that he will be able—through his many influential friends—to save himself from capture for many months to come.
“This is the truth of the matter, dear friend, and as this explanation must never get beyond your own knowledge I charge you to destroy this letter as soon as it is read. When you are abroad next year we will meet and consider this and other matters in which we are mutually interested. I would not have ventured to put this on paper were it not for my desire to leave someone in this country posted on the Hathaway case. You will understand from the foregoing that the situation has become too delicate for me to remain here. If you can, give aid to Hathaway, whom I greatly admire, for we are in a way responsible for his troubles. As for Mrs. Burrows, I consider her a woman of character and honor. That she might keep a pledge made to her dead husband she sinned against the law without realizing the enormity of her offense. If anyone is to blame it is poor John Burrows, who was not justified in demanding so dangerous a pledge from his wife; but he was dying at the time and his judgment was impaired. Let us be just to all and so remain just to ourselves.
“Write me at the old address and believe me to be yours most faithfully
E. de V.
The 16th of September, 1905.”
During Irene’s reading the others maintained an intense silence. Even when she had ended, the silence continued for a time, while all considered with various feelings the remarkable statement they had just heard.
It was O’Gorman who first spoke.
“If you will assert, Mr. Hathaway, that the ambassador’s statement is correct, to the best of your knowledge and belief, I have the authority of our department to promise that the charge against you will promptly be dropped and withdrawn and that you will be adjudged innocent of any offense against the law. It is true that you assisted a guilty person to escape punishment, and are therefore liable for what is called ‘misprision of treason,’ but we shall not press that, for, as I said before, we prefer, since no real harm has resulted, to allow the case to be filed without further publicity. Do you admit the truth of the statements contained in this letter?”
“I believe them to be true,” said Mr. Hathaway, in a low voice. Mary Louise was nestling close in his arms and now she raised her head tenderly to kiss his cheek. She was not sobbing; she did not even appear to be humbled or heart-broken. Perhaps she did not realize at the moment how gravely her father and mother had sinned against the laws of their country. That realization might come to her later, but just now she was happy in the vindication of Gran’pa Jim—a triumph that overshadowed all else.
“I’ll take this letter for our files,” said Officer O’Gorman, folding it carefully before placing it in his pocketbook. “And now, sir, I hope you will permit me to congratulate you and to wish you many years of happiness with your granddaughter, who first won my admiration by her steadfast faith in your innocence. She’s a good girl, is Mary Louise, and almost as clever as my Josie here. Come, Nan; come, Agatha; let’s go back to Bigbee’s. Our business here is finished.”
MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDÉRI, by E.T.A. Hoffmann
First published in 1819.
A Tale of the Times of Louis the Fourteenth
Magdaleine de Scudéri, so famous for her charming poetical and other writings, lived in a small mansion in the Rue St. Honoré, by favour of Louis the XIVth and Madame de Maintenon.
Late one night—about midnight—in the autumn of the year 1680, there came a knocking at the door of this house, so loud and violent that it shook the very ground. Baptiste, who filled the offices of cook, butler and doorkeeper in the lady’s modest establishment, had gone, by her leave, to the country to his sister’s wedding, so that La Martinière, the femme de chambre, was the only person still awake in the house. She heard this knocking, which went on without ceasing almost, and she remembered that, as Baptiste was away, she and her mistress were alone and unprotected. She thought of the housebreakings, robberies and murders which were so frequent in Paris at that time, and felt convinced that some of the numerous bands of malefactors, knowing the defenceless state of the house that night, were raising this alarm at the door, and would commit some outrage if it were opened; so she remained in her room, trembling and terrified, anathematising Baptiste, and his sister’s marriage into the bargain.
Meantime the thundering knocking went on at the door, and she thought she heard a voice calling in the intervals, “Open, for the love of Christ Open!—open!” At last, her alarm increasing, she took her candle and ran out on to the landing, where she distinctly heard the voice crying, “Open the door, for the love of Christ!”
“After all,” she said to herself, “one knows that a robber would not be crying out in that way. Perhaps it is somebody who is being pursued and is come to my lady for refuge. She is known to be always ready to do a kind action—but we must be very careful!”
She opened a window and called down into the street, asking who it was who was making such a tremendous thundering at the door at that time of the night, rousing everybody from their sleep. This she did in a voice which she tried to make as like a man’s as she could. By the glimmer of the moon, which was beginning to break through dark clouds, she could make out a tall figure in a long grey cloak, with a broad hat drawn down over his forehead.
Then she cried, in a loud voice, so that this person in the street should hear, “Baptiste! Claude! Pierre! Get up, and see who this rascal is who is trying to get in at this time of night.”
But a gentle, entreating voice spoke from beneath, saying, “Ah, La Martinière, I know it is you, you kind soul, though you are trying to alter your voice; and I know well enough that Baptiste is away in the country, and that there is nobody in the house but your mistress and yourself. Let me in. I must speak with your lady this instant.”
“Do you imagine,” asked La Martinière, “that my lady is going to speak to you in the middle of the night? Can’t you understand that she has been in bed ever so long, and that it is as much as my place is worth to awaken her out of her first sweet sleep, which is so precious to a person at her time of life?”
“I know,” answered the person beneath, “that she has just this moment put away the manuscript of the novel Clelia, at which she is working so hard, and is writing some verses which she means to read tomorrow at Madame de Maintenon’s. I implore you, Madame La Martinière, be so compassionate as to open the door. Upon your doing so depends the escape of an unfortunate creature from destruction. Nay, honour, freedom, a human life, depend on this moment in which I must speak with your lady. Remember, her anger will rest upon you for ever when she comes to know that it was you who cruelly drove away from her door the unfortunate wretch who came to beg for her help.”
“But why should you come for her help at such an extraordinary time of the night?” asked La Martinière. “Come back in the morning at a reasonable hour.” But the reply came up, “Does destiny, when it strikes like the destroying lightning, consider hours and times? When there is but one moment when rescue is possible, is help to be put off? Open the door to me. Have no fear of a wretched being who is without defence, hunted, hard pressed by a terrible fate, and flies to your lady for succour from the most imminent peril.”
La Martinière heard the stranger moaning and groaning as he uttered those words in the deepest sorrow. The tone of his voice was that of a youth, soft and gentle, and most touching to the heart; and so, deeply moved, she went without much more hesitation and fetched the key.
As s
oon as she opened the door, the form shrouded in the mantle burst violently in and, passing La Martinière, cried in a wild voice, “Take me to your lady!” La Martinière held up the light which she was carrying, and the glimmer fell on the face of a very young man, distorted and frightfully drawn, and as pale as death. She almost fell down on the landing for terror when he opened his cloak and showed the glittering hilt of a stiletto sticking out of his doublet. He flashed his gleaming eyes at her, and cried, more wildly than before, “Take me to your lady, I tell you.”
La Martinière saw that her mistress was in the utmost danger. All her affection for her, who was to her as the kindest of mothers, flamed up and created a courage which she herself would scarcely have thought herself capable of. She quickly closed the door of her room, moved rapidly in front of it, and said in a brave, firm voice, “Your furious behaviour, now that you have got into the house, is very different from what I should have expected from the way you spoke down in the street. I see now that I had pity on you a little too easily. You shall not see or speak with my lady at this hour. If you have no bad designs, and are not afraid to show yourself in daylight, come and tell her your business tomorrow; but take yourself off out of this house now.”
He heaved a hollow sigh, glared at La Martinière with a terrible expression, and grasped his dagger. She silently commended her soul to God, but stood firm and looked him straight in the face, pressing herself more firmly against the door through which he would have to pass in order to reach her mistress.
“Let me get to your lady, I tell you!” he cried once more.
“Do what you will,” said La Martinière, “I shall not move from this spot. Complete the crime which you have begun. A shameful death on the Place de la Grève will overtake you, as it has your accursed comrades in wickedness.”
“Ha! you are right, La Martinière,” he cried. “I am armed, and I look as if I were an accursed robber and murderer. But my comrades are not executed—are not executed,” and he drew his dagger, advancing with poisonous looks towards the terrified woman.
“Jesus!” she cried, expecting her death-wound; but at that moment there came up from the street below the clatter and the ring of arms, and the hoof-tread of horses.
“La Marechausée! La Marechausée! Help! help!” she cried.
“Wretched woman, you will be my destruction,” he cried. “All is over now—all over! Here, take it; take it. Give this to your lady now, or tomorrow if you like it better.” As he said this in a whisper, he took the candelabra from her, blew out the tapers, and placed a casket in her hands. “As you prize your eternal salvation,” he cried, “give this to your lady.” He dashed out of the door, and was gone.
La Martinière had sunk to the floor. She raised herself with difficulty, and groped her way back in the darkness to her room, where she fell into an arm-chair, wholly overcome and unable to utter a sound. Presently she heard the rattling of the bolts, which she had left unfastened when she closed the house door. The house was therefore now shut up, and soft unsteady steps were approaching her room. Like one under a spell, unable to move, she was preparing for the very worst, when to her inexpressible joy the door opened, and by the pale light of the night-lamp she saw it was Baptiste. He was deadly pale, and much upset.
“For the love of all the saints,” he exclaimed, “tell me what has happened! Oh, what a state I am in. Something—don’t know what it was—told me to come away from the wedding yesterday—forced me to come away. So when I got to this street, I thought, Madame Martinière isn’t a heavy sleeper; she’ll hear me if I knock quietly at the door, and let me in. Then up came a strong patrol, horsemen and foot, armed to the teeth. They stopped me, and wouldn’t let me go. Luckily Desgrais was there, the lieutenant of the Marechaussée. He knows me, and as they were holding their lanterns under my nose, he said, ‘Ho, Baptiste! How come you here in the streets at this time of the night? You ought to be at home, taking care of the house. This is not a very safe spot just at this moment. We’re expecting to make a fine haul, and important arrest, tonight.’ You can’t think, Madame La Martinière, how I felt when he said that. And when I got to the door, lo! and behold! a man in a cloak comes bursting out with a drawn dagger in his hand, dodges me, and makes off. The door was open, the keys in the lock. What, in the name of all that’s holy, is the meaning of it all?”
La Martinière, relieved from her alarm, told him all that had happened, and both she and he went back to the hall; and there they found the candelabra on the floor, where the stranger had thrown it on taking his flight. “There can’t be the slightest doubt that our mistress was within an ace of being robbed, and murdered too very likely,” Baptiste said. “According to what you say, the scoundrel knew well enough that there was nobody in the house but her and you, and even that she was still sitting up at her writing. Of course he was one of those infernal blackguards who pry into folks’ houses and spy out everything that can be of use to them in their devilish designs. And the little casket, Madame Martinière, that I think we’ll throw into the Seine where it’s deepest. Who shall be our warrant that some monster or other isn’t lying in wait for our mistress’s life? Very likely, if she opens the casket, she may tumble down dead, as the old Marquis de Tournay did when he opened a letter which came to him, he didn’t know where from.”
After a long consultation, they came to the conclusion that next morning they would tell their lady everything that had happened, and even hand her the mysterious casket, which might, perhaps, be opened if proper precautions were taken. On carefully weighing all the circumstances connected with the appearance of the stranger, they thought that there must be some special secret or mystery involved in the affair, which they were not in a position to unravel, but must leave to be elucidated by their superiors.
There were good grounds for Baptiste’s fears. Paris, at the time in question, was the scene of atrocious deeds of violence, and that just at a period when the most diabolical inventions of hell provided the most facile means for their execution.
Glaser, a German apothecary, the most learned chemist of his day, occupied himself—as people who cultivate his science often do—with alchemical researches and experiments. He had set himself the task of discovering the philosopher’s stone. An Italian of the name of Exili associated himself with him; but to him the art of goldmaking formed a mere pretext. What he aimed at mastering was the blending, preparation, and sublimation of the various poisonous substances which Glaser hoped would give him the results he was in search of; and at length Exili discovered how to prepare that delicate poison which has no odour nor taste, and which, killing either slowly or in a moment, leaves not the slightest trace in the human organism, and baffles the utmost skill of the physician who, not suspecting poison as the means of death, ascribes it to natural causes. But cautiously as Exili went about this, he fell under suspicion of dealing with poisons, and was thrown into the Bastille.
In the same cell with him there was presently quartered an officer of the name of Godin de Sainte-Croix, who had long lived in relations with the Marquise de Brinvilliers; which brought shame upon all her family, till at length, as her husband cared nothing about her conduct, her father (Dreux d’Aubray, Civil Lieutenant of Paris) had to part the guilty pair by means of a lettre de cachet against Sainte-Croix. The captain was a passionate man without character or religion, a hypocrite given to all manner of vice from his youth. What is more, he was addicted to the most furious jealousy and envy. So nothing could be more welcome to him than Exili’s devilish secret, which gave him the power of destroying all his enemies. He became Exili’s assiduous pupil, and soon equalled his instructor; so that when he was released from prison he was in a position to carry on operations by himself on his own account.
La Brinvilliers was a depraved woman, and Sainte-Croix made her a monster. She managed, by degrees, to poison first her own father (with whom she was living in the hypocritica
l presence of taking care of him in his declining years), next her two brothers, and then her sister; the father out of revenge, and the others for their fortunes. The histories of more than one poisoner bear terrible evidence that crimes of this description assume the form of an irresistible passion. Just as a chemist makes experiments for the pleasure and the interest of watching them, poisoners have often, without the smallest ulterior object, killed persons whose living or dying was to them a matter of complete indifference. The sudden deaths of a number of paupers, patients at the Hôtel Dieu, a little time after the events just alluded to, led to suspicion that the bread which La Brinvilliers was in the habit of giving them every week (so as to appear a model of piety and benevolence) was poisoned. And it is certain that she poisoned pigeon pasties which were served up to her own invited guests. The Chevalier du Guet, and many more, were the victims of those diabolical entertainments. Sainte-Croix, his accomplice La Chaussée, and La Brinvilliers, managed to hide their crimes for a long while under a veil of impenetrable secrecy. But, however the wicked may brazen matters out, there comes a time when the Eternal Power of Heaven punishes the criminal, even here on earth.
The poisons which Sainte-Croix prepared were so marvellously delicate that if the powder (which the Parisians appositely named “poudre de succession”) were uncovered while being made, a single inhalation of it was sufficient to cause immediate death. Therefore Sainte-Croix always wore a glass mask when at work. This mask fell off one day just as he was shaking a finished powder into a phial, and, having inhaled some of the powder, he fell dead in an instant. As he had no heirs, the law courts at once placed his property under seal, when the whole diabolical arsenal of murder which had been at the villain’s disposal was discovered, and also the letters of Madame de Brinvilliers, which left no doubt as to her crimes. She fled to a convent at Liège. Desgrais, an officer of the Marechaussée, was sent after her. Disguised as a priest, he got admitted into the convent, and succeeded in involving the terrible woman in a love-affair, and in getting her to grant him a clandestine meeting in a sequestered garden outside the town. When she arrived there she found herself surrounded by Desgrais’ myrmidons; and her ecclesiastical gallant speedily transformed himself into the officer of the Marechaussée. He compelled her to get into the carriage which was waiting outside the garden, and drove straight away to Paris, surrounded by an ample guard. La Chaussée had been beheaded previously to this, and La Brinvilliers suffered the same death. Her body was burnt, and its ashes scattered to the winds.
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 184
