“But all he had would go to the daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac’s son-in-law.”
“Perhaps he was compelled to share with others,” said La Regnie, “or to do the deed wholly for them!”
“Share!—murder for others,” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, in utter amazement.
“You must learn, Mademoiselle,” continued La Regnie, “that Olivier’s blood would have been flowing on the Place de la Grève before this time, but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to that infamous band which, baffling all our attempts at observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be, discovered. Cardillac’s wound is precisely the same as those of all the persons who have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most conclusive of all since Olivier’s arrest, the robberies and murders have ceased, the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will not confess, but there are means of making him speak against his will.”
“And Madelon!” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “that truthful innocent creature.”
“Ah!” cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, “who will answer to me that she is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much about her father. Her tears are all for the young murderer—”
“What?” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “not for her father?—that girl—impossible!”
“Oh!” continued La Regnie, “remember la Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off your protégée, and put her in the Conciergerie.”
Mademoiselle de Scudéri shuddered at this grisly notion. It seemed to her that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he spied out murder and dark-guilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts of people’s hearts. She rose. “Be human!” was all that she was able, with difficulty, to say in her state of anxiety and oppression. As she was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her—she knew not how.
“Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier Brusson?” she inquired, turning round sharply.
He scrutinised her face thoughtfully, and then distorted his features into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him.
“Doubtless, Mademoiselle,” he said, your idea is that, trusting your own feelings—the inward voice more than what happened before our eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier’s guilt or innocence for yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime if it is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their gradations—the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two hours” time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought to you.”
In truth, Mademoiselle de Scudéri could not bring herself to believe in Olivier’s guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had called before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted against.
She thought she would hear Olivier’s narrative of the events of that night of mystery, and in this manner, possibly, penetrate farther into a secret which the judges, perhaps, did not see into, because they thought it unworthy of investigation.
Arrived at the Conciergerie, she was taken into a large, well-lighted room. Presently she heard the ring of fetters. Olivier Brusson was brought in; but as soon as she saw him she fell down fainting. When she recovered, he was gone. She demanded impetuously to be taken to her carriage; she would not remain another moment in that place of crime and wickedness. Alas! at the first glance she had recognised in Olivier Brusson the young man who had thrown the letter into her carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought her the casket with the jewels. Now all doubt was gone, La Regnie’s terrible suspicions completely justified. Olivier belonged to the atrocious band, and had, doubtless, murdered his master!
And Madelon! Never before so bitterly deceived by her kind feelings, Mademoiselle de Scudéri, under this deadly attack upon her by the power of the evil one here below—in whose very existence she had not believed—doubted if there was such a thing as truth. She gave admittance to the fearful suspicion that Madelon, too, was forsworn, and might have had a hand in the bloody deed. And as it is the nature of the human mind that, when an idea has dawned upon it, it eagerly seeks, and finds, colours in which to paint that idea more and more vividly; as she weighed and considered all the circumstances of the crime along with Madelon’s behaviour, she found a very great deal to nourish suspicion. Many things which had hitherto been considered proofs of innocence and purity now became evidences of studied hypocrisy and deep, corrupt wickedness. Those heartrending cries of sorrow and bitter tears might well have been caused by the deathly dread of her lover’s bleeding—nay, of her own falling into the executioner’s hands.
With a resolve at once to cast away the serpent she had been cherishing, Mademoiselle de Scudéri alighted from her carriage. Madelon threw herself at her feet Her heavenly eyes—as candid as an angel’s—raised to her, her hands pressed to her heaving breast, she wept, imploring help and consolation. Controlling herself with difficulty and speaking with as much calmness and gravity as she could, Mademoiselle de Scudéri said, “Go! go!—be thankful that the murderer awaits the just punishment of his crime. May the Holy Virgin grant that guilt does not weigh heavily on your own head also.” With a bitter cry of “Alas! then all is over!” Madelon fell fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de Scudéri left her to the care of La Martinière and went to another room.
Much distressed and estranged from all earthly things, she longed to depart from a world filled with diabolical treachery and falsehood. She complained of the destiny which had granted her so many years in which to strengthen her belief in truth and virtue, only to shatter in her old age the beautiful fancies which had illumined her path.
She heard Madelon, as La Martinière was leading her away, murmur in broken accents, “Her, too, have the terrible men deceived. Ah! wretched me!—miserable Olivier!” The tones of her voice went to her heart, and again there dawned within her a belief in the existence of some mystery, in Olivier’s innocence. Torn by the most contradictory feelings, she cried, “What spirit of the pit has mixed me up in this terrible story, which will be my very death!”
At this moment Baptiste came in, pale and terrified, to say that Desgrais was at the door. Since the dreadful La Voisin trial the appearance of Desgrais in a house was the sure precursor of some criminal accusation. Hence Baptiste’s terror, as to which his mistress asked him with a gentle smile, “What is the matter, Baptiste? Has the name of Scudéri been found in La Voisin’s lists?”
“Ah! For Christ’s sake,” cried Baptiste, trembling in every limb, “how can you say such a thing? But Desgrais—the horrible Desgrais—is looking so mysterious, and is so insistent—he seems hardly able to wait till he can see you.”
“Well. Baptiste,” she said, “bring him in at once, this gentleman who so frightens you. To me, at all events, he can cause no anxiety.”
“President La Regnie sends me to you, Mademoiselle,” said Desgrais, when he entered, “with a request which he scarce would dare to make if he did not know your goodness and bravery, and if the last hope of bringing to light an atrocious deed of blood did not lie in your hands; had you not already taken such interest (as well as bearing a part) in this case, which is keeping the Chambre Ardente, and all of us, in a state of such breathless suspense. Since he saw you, Olivier Brusson has been almost out of his mind. He still swears by all that i
s sacred, that he is completely innocent of René Cardillac’s death, though he is ready to suffer the punishment he has deserved. Observe, Mademoiselle, that the latter admission clearly refers to other crimes of which he has been guilty. But all attempts to get him to utter anything further have been vain. He begs and implores to be allowed to have an interview with you. To you alone will he divulge everything. Vouchsafe then, Mademoiselle, to listen to Brusson’s confession.”
“What?” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, in indignation, “I become an organ of the criminal court, and abuse the confidence of this unfortunate fellow to bring him to the scaffold! No, Desgrais! Ruffian and murderer though he may be, I could never deceive and betray him thus villainously. I will have nothing to do with his avowal. If I did, it would be locked up in my heart, as if made to a priest under the seal of the confessional.”
“Perhaps, Mademoiselle,” said Desgrais, with a subtle smile, “you might alter your opinion after hearing Brusson. Did you not beg the President to be human? This he is, in yielding to Brusson’s foolish desire, and thus trying one more expedient—the last—before resorting to the rack, for which Brusson is long since ripe.”
Mademoiselle de Scudéri shuddered involuntarily.
“Understand, Mademoiselle,” he continued, “you would by no means be expected to revisit those gloomy dungeons, which lately inspired you with such horror and loathing. Olivier would be brought to your own house, in the night, like a free man; what he should say would not be listened to; though, of course, there would be a proper guard with him. He could thus tell you freely and unconstrainedly all he had to say. As regards any risk which you might run in seeing the wretched being, my life shall answer for that. He speaks of you with the deepest veneration; he vows that it is the dark mystery that prevented him seeing you earlier which has brought him to destruction. Moreover, it would rest with you entirely to repeat as much or as little as you pleased of what Brusson confessed to you. How could you be constrained to more?”
Mademoiselle de Scudéri sat with eyes fixed on the ground, in deep reflection. It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery—as if there were no escape for her from the wondrous toils in which she had become enmeshed against her will.
Coming to a rapid decision, she solemnly replied, “God will give me self-command and firm resolution. Bring Brusson here; I will see him.”
As on the night when the jewel-casket had been brought, so now at midnight there came a knocking at the door. Baptiste, duly instructed, opened. Mademoiselle de Scudéri’s blood ran cold when she heard the heavy tread of the guards who had brought Brusson stationing themselves about the passages.
At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him Olivier Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed.
“Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle,” said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he then departed at once.
Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle de Scudéri. The pure, clear expression of a most truthful soul beamed from his face, though it was drawn and distorted by terror and bitter pain. The longer she looked at him, the more vivid became a remembrance of some well-loved person—she could not say whom. When the first feeling of shuddering left her, she forgot that Cardillac’s murderer was kneeling before her and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural to her, said: “Now, Brusson, what have you to say to me?”
He—still on his knees—sighed deeply, from profound sorrow, and then said: “Oh, Mademoiselle, you whom I so honour and worship, is there no trace of recollection of me left in your mind?”
Still looking at him attentively, she answered that she had certainly detected in his face a likeness to someone whom she had held in affection, and it was to this that he owed it that she had overcome her profound horror of a murderer so far as to be able to listen to him quietly. Much pained by her words, Brusson rose quickly, and stepped backwards a pace, with his gloomy glance fixed on the ground.
Then, in a hollow voice, he said: “Have you quite forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son, Olivier, the boy whom you used to dandle on your knee, is he who is now before you.”
“Oh! For the love of all the Saints!” she cried, covering her face with both hands and sinking back in her chair. She had reason for being thus horrified. Anne Guiot, the daughter of a citizen who had fallen into poverty, had lived with Mademoiselle de Scudéri from her childhood; she had brought her up like a daughter, with all affection and care. When she grew up, a handsome, well-conducted young man named Claude Bresson fell in love with her. Being a first-rate workman at his trade of a watchmaker, sure to make a capital living in Paris and Anne being very fond of him, Mademoiselle de Scudéri saw no reason to object to their marrying. They set up house accordingly, lived a most quiet and happy domestic life, and the bond between them was knitted more closely still by the birth of a most beautiful boy, the image of his pretty mother.
Mademoiselle de Scudéri made an idol of little Olivier, whom she would take away from his mother for hours and days, to pet him and kiss him. Hence he attached himself to her, and was as pleased to be with her as with his mother. When three years had passed, the depressed state of Brusson’s trade brought it about that job-work was scarcer every day, so that at last it was all he could do to get bread to eat. In addition to this came home-sickness for his beautiful native Geneva so the little household went there, in spite of Mademoiselle de Scudéri’s dissuasions and promises of all needful assistance. Anne wrote once or twice to her foster-mother, and then ceased; so that Mademoiselle de Scudéri thought she was forgotten in the happiness of the Brussons’ life.
It was now just three and twenty years since the Brussons had left Paris for Geneva.
“Horrible!” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, when she had to some extent recovered herself, “You, Olivier! the son of my Anne! And now!”
“Mademoiselle!” said Olivier, quietly and composedly, “doubtless you never thought that the boy whom you cherished like the tenderest of mothers, whom you dandled on your knee, and to whom you gave sweetmeats, would when grown to manhood stand before you accused of a terrible murder. I am completely innocent! The Chambre Ardente charges me with a crime; but, as I hope to die a Christian’s death, though it may be by the executioner’s hand—I am free from all guilt. Not by my hand—not by any crime of my committing, was it that the unfortunate Cardillac came to his end.”
As he said this, Olivier began to tremble and shake so, that Mademoiselle de Scudéri motioned him to a little seat which was near him.
“I have had sufficient time,” he went on, “to prepare myself for this interview with you—which I look upon as the last favour of a merciful Heaven—and to acquire as much calmness and self-control as are necessary to tell you the story of my terrible, unheard-of misfortunes. Be so compassionate as to listen to me calmly, whatever may be your horror at the disclosure of a mystery of which you certainly have not the smallest inkling. Ah! would to Heaven my poor father had never left Paris! As far as my recollections of Geneva carry me, I remember only the tears of my inconsolable parents and my own tears at the sight of their lamentations, which I was unable to understand. Later, there came to me a clear sense a full comprehension—of the bitterest and most grinding poverty, want and privation in which they were living. My father was deceived in all his expectations; bowed down and broken with sorrow, he died, just when he had managed to place me as apprentice with a goldsmith. My mother spoke much of you; she longed to tell you all her misfortunes, but the despondency which springs from poverty prevented her. That, and also, no doubt, false modesty, which often gnaws at a mortally wounded heart, kept her from carrying out her idea. She followed my father to the grave a few months after his death.”
“Poor Anne! Poor Anne!” said Mademoiselle de Scudéri, overwhelmed by sorrow.
“I thank and pra
ise the Eternal Power that she has gone where she cannot see her beloved son fall, branded with disgrace, by the hand of the executioner,” cried Olivier loudly, raising a wild and terrible glance to the skies. Outside there was a sudden agitation; a sound of people moving about made itself heard. “Ho, ho!” said he, with a bitter laugh, “Desgrais is waking up his people, as if I could possibly escape. But, let me go on. My master treated me harshly, though I was very soon one of the best of workmen and, indeed, much better than himself. Once a stranger came to our workshop to buy some of our work.
“When he saw a necklace of my making, he patted my shoulder in a kind way, and said, looking at the necklace with admiration, ‘Ah, ha! my young friend, this is really first-class work. I don’t know anybody who could beat it but René Cardillac, who is the greatest of all goldsmiths, of course. You ought to go to him; he would be delighted to get hold of you, for there’s nobody but yourself who would be of such use to him; and again, there’s nobody but he who can teach you anything.’
“The words of this stranger sunk deep into my heart. There was no more peace for me Geneva. I was powerfully impelled to leave it, and at length I succeeded in getting free from my master. I came to Paris, where René Cardillac received me coldly and harshly. But I stuck to my point. He was obliged to give me something to try my hand at, however trifling. So I got a ring to finish. When I took it back to him finished, he gazed at me with those sparkling eyes of his, as if he would look me through and through. Then he said, ‘You are a first-rate man—a splendid fellow; you may come and work with me. I’ll pay you well; you’ll be satisfied with me.’ And he kept his word. I had been several weeks with him before I saw Madelon who, I think, had been visiting an aunt of his in the country. At last she came home. O eternal power of Heaven, how was it with me when I saw that angelic creature! Has ever a man so loved as I! And now! Oh Madelon!”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 188
