Several months had elapsed, when chance so willed it that Mademoiselle de Scudéri was crossing the Pont Neuf in the glass coach of the Duchesse de Montpensier. The invention of those delightful glass coaches was then so recent that the people came together in crowds whenever one of them made its appearance in the streets. Consequently a gaping crowd gathered about the Duchesse’s carriage on the Pont Neuf, so that the horses could hardly make their way along. Suddenly Mademoiselle de Scudéri heard a sound of quarrelling and curses, and saw a man making a way for himself through the crowd, by means of fisticuffs and blows in the ribs; and as he came near they were struck by the piercing eyes of a young face, deadly pale, and drawn by sorrow. This young man, gazing fixedly upon them, vigorously fought his way to them by help of fists and elbows, till he reached the carriage door, threw it open with much violence, and flung a note into Mademoiselle de Scudéri’s lap; after which, he disappeared as he had come, distributing and receiving blows and fisticuffs.
La Martinière, who was with her mistress, fell back fainting in the carriage with a shriek of terror, as soon as she saw the young man. In vain Mademoiselle de Scudéri pulled the string, and called out to the driver. As if urged by the foul fiend, he kept lashing his horses till, scattering the foam from their nostrils, they kicked, plunged and reared, finally thundering over the bridge at a rapid trot. Mademoiselle de Scudéri emptied the contents of her smelling-bottle over the fainting La Martinière, who at last opened her eyes and, shuddering and quaking, clinging convulsively to her mistress, with fear and horror in her pale face, groaned out with difficulty, “For the love of the Virgin, what did that terrible man want? It was he who brought you the jewels on that awful night.” Mademoiselle de Scudéri calmed her, pointing out that nothing very dreadful had happened after all, and that the immediate business in hand was to ascertain the contents of the letter. She opened it, and read as follows:
“A dark and cruel fatality, which you could dispel, is driving me into an abyss. I conjure you—as a son would a mother, in the glow of filial affection—to send the necklace and bracelets to Master René Cardillac, on some pretence or other—say, to have something altered or improved. Your welfare, your very life—depend on your doing this. If you do not comply before the day after tomorrow, I will force my way into your house, and kill myself before your eyes.”
“Thus much is certain, at all events,” said Mademoiselle de Scudéri, when she had read this letter, “whether this mysterious man belongs to be band of robbers and murderers or not, he has no very evil designs against me. If he had been able to see me and speak to me on that night, who knows what strange events, what dark concatenation of circumstances, would have been made known to me, of which, at present, I seek, in my soul, the very faintest inkling in vain. But, be the matter as it may, that which I am enjoined in this letter to do, I certainly shall do, were it only to be rid of those fatal jewels, which seem to me as if they must be some diabolical talisman of the Prince of Darkness’s very own. Cardillac is not very likely to let them out of his hands again, if once he gets hold of them.”
She intended to take them to him next day; but it seemed as if all the beaux esprits of Paris had entered into a league to assail and besiege her with verses, dramas and anecdotes. Scarce had La Chapelle finished reading the scenes of a tragedy, and declared that he considered he had now vanquished Racine, when the latter himself came in, and discomfited him with the pathetic speech of one of his kings, until Boileau sent some of his fireballs soaring up into the dark sky of the tragedies, by way of changing the subject from that eternal one of the colonnade of the Louvre, to which the architectural Dr. Perrault was shackling him.
When high noon arrived, Mademoiselle de Scudéri had to go to Madame de Montansier; so the visit to René Cardillac had to be put off till the following day.
But the young man was always present to her mind, and a species of dim remembrance seemed to be trying to arise in the depths of her being that she had, somehow and at some time, seen that face and those features before. Troubled dreams disturbed her broken slumbers. It seemed to her that she had acted thoughtlessly, and was to blame for her delay in grasping the hands which the unfortunate man was holding out to her for help. She felt, in fact, as if it had depended on her to prevent some atrocious crime. As soon as it was fairly light, she had herself dressed and set off to the goldsmith’s with the jewels in her hand.
A crowd was streaming towards the Rue Niçaise (where Cardillac lived), trooping together at the door, shouting, raging, surging, striving to storm into the house, kept back with difficulty by the Marechaussée, who were guarding the place. Amid the wild distracted uproar, voices were heard crying, “Tear him in pieces! Drag him limb from limb, the accursed murderer!” At length Desgrais came up, with a number of his men, and formed a lane through the thickest of the crowd. The door flew open, and a man loaded with irons was brought out, and marched off amid the most frightful imprecations of the raging populace. At the moment when Mademoiselle de Scudéri, half dead with terror and gloomy foreboding, caught sight of him, a piercing shriek of lamentation struck upon her ears.
“Go forward!” she cried to the coachman and, with a clever, rapid turn of his horses, he scattered the thick masses of the crowd aside, and pulled up close to René Cardillac’s door. Desgrais was there, and at his feet a young girl, beautiful as the day, half-dressed, with her hair dishevelled and wild inconsolable despair in her face, clinging to his knees, and crying in tones of the bitterest and profoundest anguish, “He is innocent! He is innocent!”
Desgrais and his men tried in vain to shake her off and raise her from the ground, till at length a rough, powerful fellow, gripping her arms with his strong hands, dragged her away from Desgrais by sheer force. Stumbling awkwardly, he let the girl go, and she went rolling down the stone steps, and lay like one dead on the pavement.
Mademoiselle de Scudéri could contain herself no longer. “In Christ’s name!” she cried, “what has happened? What is going forward here?” She hastily opened the carriage-door and stepped out. The crowd made way for her deferentially; and when she saw that one or two compassionate women had lifted the girl up, laid her on the steps, and were rubbing her brow with strong waters, she went up to Desgrais, and angrily repeated her question.
“A terrible thing has happened,” said Desgrais. “René Cardillac was found this morning, killed by a dagger-thrust. His journeyman, Olivier, is the murderer, and has just been taken to prison.”
“And the girl—”
“Is Madelon,” interrupted Desgrais, “Cardillac’s daughter. The wretched culprit was her sweetheart, and now she is crying and howling, and screaming over and over again that Olivier is innocent—quite innocent; but she knows all about this crime, and I must have her taken to prison too.”
As he spoke he cast one of his baleful, malignant looks at the girl, which made Mademoiselle de Scudéri shudder. The girl was now beginning to revive, and breathe again faintly, though still incapable of speech or motion. There she lay with closed eyes, and people did not know what to do, whether to take her indoors, or leave her where she was a little longer till she recovered. Deeply moved, Mademoiselle de Scudéri looked upon this innocent creature, with tears in her eyes. She felt a horror of Desgrais and his men. Presently heavy footsteps came downstairs, those of the men bearing Cardillac’s body.
Coming to a rapid decision, Mademoiselle de Scudéri cried out, “I shall take this girl home with me. What you do next is up to you, Desgrais.”
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The women raised the girl; everyone crowded up; a hundred hands were proffered to help, and she was borne lightly to the carriage, whilst from every lip broke blessings on the kind lady who had saved her from arrest and criminal trial.
Madelon lay for many hours in a deep swoon, but at length the efforts of Seron—then the most celebrated physician in Paris—were successful
in restoring her. Mademoiselle de Scudéri completed what Seron had begun, by letting the gentle rays of hope stream into the girl’s heart; till at length a violent flood of tears, which started to her eyes, brought her relief, and she was able to tell her story, with only occasional interruptions when the overmastering might of her sorrow turned her words into sobbing.
She had been awakened at midnight by a soft knocking at her door, and had recognised the voice of Olivier, imploring her to get up at once, as her father lay dying. She sprang up, terrified, and opened the door. Olivier, pale, strained and bathed in perspiration, led the way, with tottering steps, to the workshop; she followed. There was her father lying with his eyes glazed, and the death-rattle in his throat. She threw herself upon him, weeping wildly, and then observed that his shirt was covered with blood. Olivier gently lifted her away, and busied himself in bathing a wound on her father’s left breast with balsam, and bandaging it. As he was doing so, her father’s consciousness came back; the rattle in his throat ceased and, looking first on her and then on Olivier with most expressive glances, he took her hand and placed it in Olivier’s, pressing them both together. The pair of them were kneeling beside her father’s bed when he raised himself with a piercing cry, but immediately fell back again, and with a deep sigh departed this life. On this they both wept and lamented.
Olivier told her how her father had been murdered in his presence during an expedition on which he had accompanied him that night by his order, and how he had with the utmost difficulty carried him home, not supposing him to be mortally wounded. As soon as it was day, the people of the house—who had heard the sounds of their footsteps and of the weeping and lamenting during the night—came up, and found them still kneeling, inconsolable by the goldsmith’s body. Then an uproar began, the Marechaussée broke in, and Olivier was taken to prison as her father’s murderer. Madelon added the most touching account of Olivier’s virtues, goodness, piety and sincerity, telling how he had honoured his master as if he had been his own father, and how the latter returned his affection in the fullest measure, choosing him for his son-in-law in spite of his poverty, because his skill and fidelity were equal to the nobility of his heart. All this Madelon saw out of the fulness of her love, and added that if Olivier had thrust a dagger into her father’s heart before her very eyes, she would rather have thought it a delusion of Satan’s than have believed Olivier capable of such a terrible crime.
Most deeply touched by Madelon’s unspeakable sufferings, and quite disposed to believe in poor Olivier’s innocence, Mademoiselle de Scudéri made inquiries, and found everything confirmed which Madelon had said as to the domestic relations between the master and his workman. The people of the house and the neighbours all spoke of Olivier as the very model of good, steady, exemplary behaviour. No one knew anything whatever against him, and yet, when the crime was alluded to, every one shrugged his shoulders, and thought there was something incomprehensible about it.
Olivier, brought before the Chambre Ardente, most steadfastly denied—as Mademoiselle de Scudéri learned—the crime of which he was accused, and maintained that his master had been attacked in the street in his presence, and borne down, and that he had carried him home still alive, although he did not long survive. This agreed with Madelon’s statement.
Over and over again Mademoiselle de Scudéri had the very minutest circumstances of the awful event related to her. She specially inquired if there had ever been any quarrel between Olivier and the father, whether Olivier was altogether exempt from that propensity to hastiness which often attacks the best tempered people like a blind madness, and leads them to commit deeds which seem to exclude all freewill; but the more enthusiastically Madelon spoke of the peaceful home-life which the three had led together, united in the most sincere affection, the more did every vestige of suspicion against Olivier disappear from her mind. Closely examining and considering everything, starting from the assumption that, notwithstanding all that spoke so loudly for his innocence, Olivier yet had been Cardillac’s murderer, Mademoiselle de Scudéri could find, in all the realm of possibility, no motive for the terrible deed, which, in any case, was bound to destroy his happiness. Poor though skilful, he succeeds in gaining the good will of the most renowned of masters; he loves the daughter—his master favours his love. Happiness, good fortune for the rest of his life are laid open before him. Supposing, then, that—God knows on what impulse—in an outburst of anger, he should have made this murderous attack on his master, what diabolical hypocrisy it required to behave as he had done after the deed! With the firmest conviction of his innocence, Mademoiselle de Scudéri resolved to save Olivier at whatever cost.
It seemed to her most advisable, before perhaps appealing to the King in person, to go to the President La Regnie, point out for his consideration all the circumstances which made for Olivier’s innocence, and so, perhaps, kindle in his mind a conviction favourable to the accused, which might communicate itself beneficially to the judges.
La Regnie received her with all the consideration which was the due of a lady of her worth, held in high esteem by His Majesty himself. He listened in silence to all she had to say concerning Olivier’s circumstances, relationships and character; and also concerning the crime itself. A delicate, almost malignant, smile, however, was all the token he gave that her adjurations, her reminders (accompanied by plentiful tears) that a judge ought to be, not the enemy of the accused, but ready to listen, also, to whatever spoke in his favour, were not falling upon deaf ears. When at length Mademoiselle de Scudéri concluded, quite exhausted and wiping the tears from her cheeks, La Regnie began:
“It is quite characteristic of your excellent heart, Mademoiselle,” he said, that, moved by the tears of a young girl in love, you should credit all she says; nay, be incapable of grasping the idea of a fearful crime such as this. But it is otherwise with the Judge, who is accustomed to tear off the mask from vile and unblushing hypocrisy and deception. It is, of course, not incumbent on me to disclose the course of a criminal trial to everyone who chooses to inquire. I do my duty, Mademoiselle! The world’s opinion troubles me not at all. Evildoers should tremble before the Chambre Ardente, which knows no punishments save blood and fire. But by you, Mademoiselle, I would not be looked upon as a monster of severity and barbarism; therefore, permit me briefly to present to you the evidence of this young criminal’s guilt. Heaven be thanked that vengeance has fallen upon him. With your acute intelligence, you will then disown your kindly and generous feelings, which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place.
“Eh bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger thrust, no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson, and the daughter. In Olivier’s room there is found, amongst other things, a dagger covered with fresh blood which exactly fits into the wound. Olivier says, ‘Cardillac was attacked in the street before my eyes’ ‘Was the intention to rob him?’ ‘I do not know.’ ‘You were walking with him and you could not drive off the murderer or detain him?’ ‘My master was walking fifteen or perhaps sixteen paces in front of me; I was following him.’ ‘Why, in all the world, so far behind?’ ‘My master wished it so.’ ‘And what had Master Cardillac to do in the streets so late?’ ‘That I cannot say.’ ‘But he was never in the habit of being out after nine o’clock at other times, was he?’ At this Olivier hesitates, becomes confused, sighs, sheds tears, vows by all that is sacred that Cardillac did go out that night, and met with his death.
“Now observe, Mademoiselle, it is proved with the most absolute certainty that Cardillac did not leave the house that night; consequently Olivier’s assertion that he went with him is a barefaced falsehood. The street door of the house fastens with a heavy lock, which makes a piercing noise in opening and closing, also the door itself creaks and groans on its hinges, so that, as experiments have proved, the noise is heard quite distinctly in the upper stories of the house. Now, there lives in the lower story, that is t
o say, close to the street door, old Maître Claude Patru with his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of age, but still hale and active. Both of them heard Cardillac come downstairs at nine o”clock exactly, according to his usual custom, close and bolt the door with a great deal of noise, go upstairs again, read the evening prayer, and then (as was to be presumed by the shutting of the door) go into his bedroom.
“Maître Claude suffers from sleeplessness like many other old people; and on the night in question he could not close an eye. Therefore, about half-past nine the housekeeper struck a light in the kitchen, which she reached by crossing the passage, and sat down at the table beside her master with an old chronicle-book, from which she read aloud, whilst the old man, fixing his thoughts on the reading, sometimes sat in his arm-chair, sometimes walked slowly up and down the room to try and bring on sleepiness. All was silence in the house till nearly midnight; but then they heard overhead rapid footsteps, a heavy fall, as of something on to the floor, and immediately after that a hollow groaning. They were both struck by a peculiar alarm and anxiety, the horror of the terrible deed which had just been committed seemed to sweep over them. When day came what had been done in the darkness was brought clearly to light.”
“But, in the name of all the Saints,” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such length, can you think of any motive for this diabolical deed?”
“Hm!” answered La Regnie. “Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He had valuable jewels in his possession.”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 187
