THE following day Théophraste and Marceline returned to the quiet life of the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Théophraste had not mentioned a word of the discovery, and his wife refrained from questioning him. Marceline knew nothing yet of the terrible discovery. Théophraste’s face was full of consternation, and it was evident to Marceline that he had terrible things on his mind.
Adolphe was to join them in a few days; two days passed very quietly in the villa. Marceline attended to her household duties, and Théophraste silently prepared his fishing tackle, as he had promised Adolphe a few days’ fishing in the Marne. On the third day, Théophraste, who had passed a good night, showed a less agitated countenance, and began to smile and was cheered at the prospect of Adolphe’s coming. M. Lecamus arrived before noon, and they both received him with delight.
Taking their places at lunch their conversation turned on angling, but nothing was said of the mysterious proceedings of the week before. After lunch they prepared for their fishing expedition; Théophraste took care of the lines, the rods and the bait, and Adolphe took the nets.
Going down to the water’s edge, Théophraste turned to Adolphe and said, “Tell me, have you any news? While we are fishing I will listen to you. I have prepared a lot of sport, but I don’t think we will do very much to-day, if you have important news for me.”
Adolphe replied, “There is some good, and some bad news. But I must tell you that there is more bad than good. No doubt many stories have been invented about you, but the real truth is not entirely pleasant.”
“Are you well informed, and is your information authentic?”
“I have been to the very fountain-head, I have seen the authentic documents. I am going to tell you what I know. If I am mistaken, correct me.”
Théophraste threw his half-prepared bait into the water, and said, “Go on. I must have a full explanation.”
“First,” said Adolphe, “you were born in the month of October, 1693. You were called Louis Dominique Cartouche.”
“But it is needless to call me Cartouche, no one need know that. Call me L’Enfant. I like it much better and no one will understand.”
“Yes,” insisted Adolphe, “but you know that your name is Cartouche. It is not an assumed name. It is said that you studied hard in Clermont College. That you were the schoolfellow of Voltaire, and there is a legend that while you learned to read, in the course of time, thanks to the gypsies who taught you reading, you were never able to write.”
“Well, that’s funny,” cried Théophraste, “for if I never learned to write, how could I have drawn up the document in the dungeon of the Conciergerie?”
“At the time of your trial, you declared that you did not know how to write. You signed your depositions with a cross and you have never written a line to show who it was.”
“But,” Théophraste said, “it was never necessary to write. In my position I should have dreaded to compromise myself. But the document is there.”
“Evidently. Let us return to your eleventh year. One day you were in the Saint Laurent Faire, with some comrades, when you fell in with a band of gypsies. The gypsies carried you away. They stole you. They taught you the play of the cudgel, the sword, to shoot a pistol, to jump, and to rob the pockets of the bourgeoisie without being discovered. At your twelfth year you were an adept at this, and without an equal for bringing back handkerchiefs, snuff boxes, and watches. The band of gypsies found themselves at Rouen, when little Louis Dominique fell ill. He was taken to a hospital in Rouen, and it was there that an uncle discovered him. He recognized him, and swore to restore him to his parents.”
Here Théophraste interrupted with a word as to his uncle, and Lecamus becoming impatient, begged him to cease his continual interruptions, declaring it would take some time to tell the story of Cartouche if he would not listen to it silently.
“I would like to see you in my place,” said Théophraste.
Adolphe continued: “In a while Cartouche became the chief of a band of brigands. He commanded about three thousand men, had more than fifty lieutenants; it was their habit to dress exactly alike, in cinnamon-colored coats, and doublets of silk and amaranthine, showing a piece of black taffeta underneath the left eye. They brought against him more than one hundred and fifty personal assassinations, and put a price upon his head. He was tried and broken on the wheel.” “Upon hearing this Théophraste showed evident signs of alarm. He dropped his fishing tackle, losing it in the swift current of the river. He could not give his mind to fishing any more that day, and so they resolved to give up the attempt. They did not wait for sundown, to return to the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Swinging their meagre spoils lightly in their nets they sadly retraced their steps. Cartouche filled their minds, and their return journey was occupied in thoughts of this dual personality.
WHILE waiting for the stage from Crecy to stop for them, they called at the wayside inn, and had some refreshment, while Adolphe took up the story of L’Enfant at the point where he had left off.
“That good uncle,” said he, “had fellow-feeling for one of his family, and he rescued young Cartouche from his miserable lot and made him return to his parents. His father was a cooper by trade, and young Louis, having profited by his youthful misfortunes, swore that henceforth he would be a good son and a diligent apprentice. He helped his father to make casks, working from daybreak to sunset.
“He was frequently seen, during lunch hour, amusing his companions with pretty tricks of sleight-of-hand which he had learned during the few months he had been with the gypsies. He had become so adept at this science that on special occasions little Louis and his family were invited to dinners and suppers before friends, for they looked forward to the enjoyment of these tricks of Louis’, and he became a great success in the quarter, and he, on his part, was proud of his growing renown.
“In the meantime he had attained that happy period where the least sensitive of human beings feel the beating of their hearts awaken to the most tender sentiments. Louis Dominique was in love. The object of his affections was a charming needlewoman of the Rue Porte Foin, coquettish, with blue eyes, golden hair, and a fine figure. I have said that this needlewoman was a coquette. She loved dress, jewels and laces, and it was her desire always to be better clothed than her companions. The modest income of Louis Dominique did not permit of his paying for the extravagant fancies of his poor seamstress, and so Cartouche stole from his father. The latter soon found out and took steps by which he could have his boy placed in the Convent of the Lazaretto, in the Faubourg St. Denis.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “instead of combating with kindness the wickedness of this child, they drive him to despair by incarcerating him where he only meets with bad examples, and where the feeling of revolt increases, and boils over, stifling all other feelings in his inexperienced mind. I wager that if they had not put Louis in the House of Correction, that all the trouble would never have happened.”
“Reassure yourself,” said Adolphe. “Cartouche was never shut up in the Convent of the Lazaretto, for while his father had discovered this crime of Louis’, he did not tell him of it; but one Sunday morning, he asked his son to take a walk with him. Dominique readily acquiesced, and they were soon seen walking down the street together.
“‘Where are we going, father?’ asked Louis. ‘No matter where. By way of the Faubourg St. Denis.’ Louis pricked up his ears. He knew that at the end of the Faubourg St. Denis was the Lazaretto, and he also knew that sometimes fathers escorted their boys to the Lazaretto.
“He at once felt suspicious, for his conscience was not altogether tranquil, and when they arrived at the corner of the Faubourg St. Denis, and the battlement of the St. Lazaretto rose before them, it seemed to him that his father looked unnatural, and he felt uncomfortable at once. He told his father to continue his walk, slowly, without hurrying, as he wished to stop at the corner.
When his father returned, the son had disappeared, and he never saw him again.”
About this time the coach had arrived, and Adolphe discontinued his tale while they mounted to the top. Théophraste recognized M. Bache, and Mme. Froude, and he at once bowed to them, but they did not respond. He called them by name, but they remained mute. Théophraste could not understand this, and turned to ask Adolphe what he thought of it, and why they did not recognize him.
“That does not astonish me at all,” said Adolphe. “It is no wonder to me, since the dinner the other day, that nobody bows to you. Your extraordinary behavior was enough to upset them all. Do you not remember how you were mounted on the table and sang that vulgar song? There were some young ladies present, Miles. Froude and Tabouret.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “that accounts for Mme. Bache’s pretending not to see me the other day in Paris, when she called at the Pharmacy Crecy and I happened to meet her there. Never mind, Adolphe, continue where you left off about my father. What happened to him?”
“Well, you forgot about your seamstress at the Rue Point Foin, and you thought of her no more.
She worried over your disappearance about a fortnight, and then got somebody else, as is done under similar circumstances to-day. The necessity to make your way in the world recalled your old talents, and soon you were robbing passers-by of the things in their pockets. You operated so adroitly, that you incurred the admiration of a great sharper, who having seen you work, stopped you at the corner of the Rue Gallaud, and demanded of you your money or your life. ‘You shall have my purse only when you have my life,’ said you to him, and you drew your sword, a small sword that you had taken the day before from a French Guardsman. The great sharper flattered you upon your courage, and then upon your dexterity, and he begged you to accompany him home to the Rue Bout du Monde. He told you on the way that he sought an associate, and you could do the business. He also told you that he had a wife, and the wife had a very pretty sister. After a while you married this sister, though neither notary nor priest was sent for. The attachment did not last over six months, because the sharper, his wife, and his sister-in-law were sent to the gallows. You had already left them by this time, and had joined the army. You were caught one day, drunk, by a recruiting officer, and he took you to the barracks, and made you sign on.”
By this time it was seven o’clock, and Adolphe interrupted the course of his recital at that point, as they had to alight from the coach.
“Tell me,” said Théophraste, “I am curious to know how I was built. Was I a handsome man, a tall man?”
“They represent you thus at the theater, in M. d’Ennury’s play, but on the contrary, according to the poet Granvel, you were a conceited man, and always fond of singing your own praises. You were dark, lean, small, but of great courage. You were enterprising and bold, and very alert.”
“You have not told me,” said Théophraste, “how you got that picture in the house on the Rue Guinegaud.”
“It is a copy of a photograph by Nedar. He photographed a wax mask, which ought to resemble you, as that mask was made from your face by the order of the Regent. Nedar photographed that mask in 1859. The mask was found in the Chateau de St. Germain.”
“Oh! I want to see it,” cried Théophraste-“to touch it. We must go to St. Germain to-morrow.”
By this time they had reached the house, and Marceline, in neat dishabille, smilingly opened the door and greeted them.
Théophraste had a great desire to see and touch that waxen mask that had been made from his face, and the desire was still greater when Adolphe entered into the details of it. He told him that it had been in the Chateau de St. Germain en Laye, since the 24th of April, 1849.
“It appears that the portrait was given by an abbot, one Viallier, to be inherited by one Richot, an old officer of the Hussars of King Louis XVI. M. Richot died at St. Germain. He owned the portrait for many years, one most precious, especially as it had belonged to the royal family. The wax mask was moulded by a Florentine artist some days before Cartouche’s punishment. The head-dress was a woolen or coarse felt cap, his clothing was a shirt of very coarse linen, a waistcoat, and another vest, and a doublet of black camelot. But the most remarkable thing of all was that Cartouche’s hair was cut off of his corpse and pasted on the waxen mask. The whole was shut up in a gilded wooden chest, large and deep, of beautiful workmanship. A Venetian glass protected the portrait, and one could still see the escutcheon of the arms of France on the chest.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe where he had found such precise details, and was told that they were the result of two days’ searching in the forgotten archives of the most noted libraries and museums of Paris. There he found his hair, his moustache, and his clothes, two hundred years old.
In spite of the horror which these relics of a man so monstrous ought to have inspired in him, Théophraste could not control his impatience to see them, to touch them. Here was Théophraste Longuet, whose name was synonymous with honor, who had always feared the shedding of blood, cherishing in his heart the coarse remains of the greatest brigand on earth. When he had again command of his senses, he did not find in the bottom of his soul a feeling of absolute despair, but of great pity, a pity so keenly felt that he did not weep only for himself, Théophraste, but also moved him to pity Cartouche. He asked himself which was the more dominant, honest Théophraste, carrying with him the brigand Cartouche, or the brigand Cartouche, shut up within honest Théophraste. “It is necessary that we should understand each other,” he said aloud. He felt that he should not have uttered that sentence which must have seemed odd, but which expressed so well the double and yet unique preoccupation of his soul that he could not restrain himself. A great light dawned upon him at the same time, that recalled the theory of reincarnation that had been explained to him by M. Lecamus. He connected reincarnation with the natural evolution of things, and of individuals, that which was no other than transformation. “Does it not point to the fact that souls reincarnate themselves in order to pass according to natural law to advancement to a better state? It is the progressive step of being. Well, the natural law which certain persons call God, did not find anything better on the earth than the body of Théophraste Longuet through which to make the criminal soul of Cartouche evolve to a better state.”
When that idea got a firm hold on him, in place of the deepest despair, which had led him to faint, he found himself prompted by a sentiment almost akin to pride. He was entrusted with the destiny of the world. He, the humble but honest Théophraste, entrusted with the regeneration in ideal splendor, of the soul of shadows and of the bloody Louis Dominique Cartouche, called L’Enfant. He accepted this unexpected task willingly, since he could not do otherwise, and he put himself at once on his guard. Instead of saying, “It is necessary for us to understand each other,” he immediately ordered Cartouche to obey Théophraste, and he promised himself to lead him a life so hard that he could not say without smiling, “Poor Cartouche.” He had charged M. Lecamus to write everything possible about Louis Dominique Cartouche in such a way that he could not be ignorant of anything that could be known of his life. With that and with what his black feather and his memory had taught him, he justly thought he could resist in spirit the Other One, which would allow him to act accordingly. He partly confided his reflections to Adolphe, who approved of them, but warned him against a tendency he had to separate Théophraste from Cartouche.
“You must not forget,” said he, “that they are one. You have the instincts of the gardeners of the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. Those instincts are good, but you have the soul of Cartouche, which is detestable. Take care. You are his declared enemy, the question is raised as to who will vanquish- the soul of former years, or the instincts of today.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe if the soul of Cartouche was really altogether detestable, and was happy to learn that it had some good points. Adolphe said that Cartouche had expressly forbidden to kill or even wound passers-by without cause. When he operated in Paris with some of his bands, and they brought victims to him, he spoke to them with so much politeness and kindness, that they always returned a part of the booty to him. Sometimes they would limit matters to a simple exchange of clothes. When he found letters or pictures in the pockets of the coats thus exchanged, he ran after the ex-proprietors to return them. It was a maxim of that extraordinary individual, that a man ought not to be robbed twice in the same night, nor were they to be too severely treated, so as not to prevent the Parisians from going out in the evening. Therefore he ordered his men to take the utmost care not to kill any one without good reason. At this time the man was not yet thoroughly wicked. Up to then he had always had a reason for every act. It is to be regretted, however, that he had had one hundred and fifty reasons to assassinate.
Let us return to the wax mask.
Théophraste and Adolphe were going down the stairs in the station of St. Germain-en-Laye, when suddenly Théophraste thought he saw a familiar figure ahead of him, among a group of travelers. Moved by a feeling over which he had no control, he ran rapidly towards the group, but the figure had disappeared. Where had he seen that figure before? It was so repulsive to him. Adolphe asked him the cause of his agitation, and he recovered himself at once.
“I would swear,” said Théophraste, “that it was Signor Petito, the Italian professor of the floor below. What did Signor Petito come to St. Germain for? I do not want to run foul of him.”
“Well, what has he done, then?” asked Adolphe.
“Oh, nothing. Only if he runs across my way, I swear I will cut off his ears, and you know I will do it if I say so.”
They then went, without any more thought of Signor Petito, to the castle. They entered the Museum, and asked to see the wax mask of Cartouche. Théophraste became enraged when he learned that it was not to be found there, and in his excitement he poked the handle of his green umbrella into the eye of a plaster cast of a member of the Legion of Honor. An old guard came up and told him that he knew well there had been a wax mask of Cartouche in St. Germain, and that it could be found, he thought, in the library. But the latter had been closed up for eight days for repairs. Théophraste gave that man a franc, and they turned their steps toward the terrace, promising themselves to come again at a later time, for the farther the wax mask seemed away, the more Théophraste burned to touch it.
It was a beautiful day, and they walked together in the forest, in the magnificent walk which led to the battlements of the Loge, which were constructed in front of the Castle Germain, by Queen Anne of Austria.
As they reached the south angle of the ramparts, it seemed that Théophraste recognized again, gliding in a thicket, the repulsive form of Signor Petito.
Adolphe insisted that he was mistaken.
THEY wandered down to the lawns at the foot of the ramparts, and walking across the green grass, they stopped at the foot of a forked tree. They were seated chatting for some time, when suddenly Théophraste’s face seemed to light up as if he recalled something. It seemed as if his memory had suddenly become awakened to events of years ago. His whole soul was filled with sweet memories, like the tenderest recollections of youthful days returning, after having been forgotten for a long time. In his mind he saw perfectly the spirit of Cartouche, as if he had never been separated from him by two hundred years. It seemed to come suddenly to him, and as the events came back to him, he related them to Adolphe, in the following words:
“Adolphe, my friend, I must tell you that at that time my fortune was complete. I was dreaded and yet liked by all. I was even liked by my victims. I despoiled them so gallantly that they went their way along through the city singing my praises. I had not yet been attacked by that wonderful sanguinary instinct which some months later made me commit the most atrocious crimes. Everything prospered with me; everybody feared me and loved me. I was happy, merry, of a magnificent audacity, gallant in love, and the ruler of Paris. They said that I was the greatest of all robbers; that was only half true, because it was imperative that I should partake of the sovereignty with M. Law, the Controller-General of Finance. My glory was at its zenith; for often he and his people paid me tribute. But he imagined he might excite the Regent against me. One evening when I had stolen into his room in his hotel, disguised as a lackey to Lord Dermott, the Regent sent for Monsieur d’Argenson, keeper of the seals, and told him that he had eight hours in which to arrest me. M. d’Argenson promised everything he wanted, provided they let him go by the way of the Convent of the Madeline du Frainel, where his mistress, Mlle. Husson, had taken refuge. Eight hours later, M. d’Argenson was still at the Convent with Mlle. Husson. As for me, my dear Adolphe, during that time, I attended to my small affairs, and I commanded without any trouble three thousand men. It was the month of September, the nights were beautiful and clear, and we profited by this to get into the house of the Spanish Ambassador, who lived in the old hotel of the Marshal d’Aucre, in the Rue de Fournon, the same house even which has since been occupied by the Guard de Paris. We entered his wife’s bedroom and took possession of all her dresses, of a buckle ornament with twenty-seven large diamonds, a necklace of very fine pearls, six plates, six table sets, six knives and ten coral goblets. We rolled it all up in a table cloth, and went to supper at the house of the Belle Helene, who kept what you called the Inn of the Harp in the Rue de la Harp.
“Oh, Adolphe, what a wonderful thing memory is! Truly I do not know why I said thatyoucalled it the Inn of the Harp, unless in my mind you are representing a friend whom I had, who was as good as you, and whom I loved as well as you, whose name was Va-de-Bon Cour. By the Thunder of the Breast, but he was a handsome young fellow! He was a sergeant of the French Guards, and he was my lieutenant. I must tell you, my dear Adolphe, that I commanded a considerable number of French Guardsmen. At the time of my arrest, one hundred and fifty non-commissioned officers, soldiers of the French Guard, hid themselves, and disappeared over to the colonies. They dreaded lest I should compromise them. They were wrong, however, for torture could not make me speak. However, let me leave those melancholy moments, and come back to the beautiful September nights. We will proceed to the time when it was customary for the Parisians to take up their new abodes. The Regent showed still more anger against me and M. d’Argenson, when he learned about the escapade against the Spanish Ambassador. Imagine his fury as I turned my attentions to him. Va-de-Bon Cour, being on guard at the Palais Royal, carried off two vermilion flambeaux, which the Duke of Orleans prized very highly. The Regent was so afraid of being robbed that instead of wearing silver-faced buckles and sword handles, he resolved to substitute carved steel. On the first day that he carried one of that kind, I, Cartouche, stole it from him as he was leaving the opera house. The next day I sent it back to him in pieces, and I taunted him about his apparent avarice, and upbraided him, that he, the greatest man in France, should wish to deprive his unfortunate confrères, the silversmiths, of a livelihood.
“He answered me publicly by proclaiming that he was very anxious to know me, and that he would give from his own pocket 20,000 pounds to whoever would bring Cartouche to him. The next day, as he walked to Saint Germain and was breakfasting in the castle, he found under his napkin a message of which you will readily see the sense: ‘My lord, you can see me for nothing. It may be to-night, at midnight, behind the Anne of Austria Wall in the forest, where Cartouche will expect you. You are brave. Come alone. If you come accompanied, you run the danger of death.’
“At midnight, I awaited the Regent; twelve o’clock was still sounding in the Loges, when the Regent appeared. The moonlight made the forest seem like fairyland-enchanted, such as one sees at the theater. The forest, a marvelous, transparent blue, seemed bereft of all its branches, of all its foliage, of all its thickets.
“‘Behold me, Cartouche,’ said the prince; ‘I come to you armed with my sword alone, as you have wished. I run perhaps the greatest danger,’ he said in a clear, derisive voice, ‘but who would not risk everything to see at close range at midnight, in the heart of the forest, the form of Cartouche, when it costs nothing?’ Oh, Adolphe, my friend, that thou couldst have been there to hear me respond to the Regent of France! To be sure, I am only the son of a poor cooper of the Rue du Pontaux-Choux, but what Condé, what Montmorency could have bowed with more grace, sweeping the wet grass with the plume of his hat? The Duke de Richelieu himself could not kneel more elegantly than I did, nor present in a more gracious manner to my lord the purse that I had taken from his pocket. ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the most humble servant of my lord, and I beg him to take back from Cartouche this purse that I had the audacity to steal with so much coolness, only to prove to my lord that his highness finds himself face to face with Cartouche.’ The Regent begged me to preserve that purse for a remembrance of him. He was wrong to relate, in the course of time, this anecdote; for the report was spread that he was one of my band. I believe that he had started to go away, when he put his arm in mine and dragged me as far to the right as we are sitting to-day.
“Then the regent did me the honor to put his arm in mine, and I saw that he had something of a secret nature to confide to me. He did not wait to acknowledge that he counted upon my ingenuity to avenge him for an offense that Monsieur the Controller-General had committed against him. He told me that he was quite in love with the courtesan, Emily; that she was his mistress, and had been for fifteen days, and that he had learned from La Fillon that M. Law had the promise of her favors the next night against the present that he would make her of a ten-thousand-louis necklace. He was sure of it, for La Fillon was never mistaken. Was it not from her that he had had a hint of the Cellamore conspiracy? All the rogues of Paris knew La Fillon.
“La Fillon is a woman of five feet ten inches, who was admirably formed, a ravishingly beautiful face. From the age of fifteen years, that model beauty thought that Nature had not provided such rare treasures to be hidden, so she lavished them. The Duke d’Orleans, a long time before the regency, loved her. He remained smitten with her for more than a year. It was for her that he had constructed, in a retired part of the gardens of Saint Germain, a sort of grotto, lighted mysteriously by several rays directed upon a bed of mats, upon which his mistress stretched herself, clothed in her blonde hair only. He showed them to all who passed that way, and in that way he made numerous friends. But the fifteen years of La Fillon flew away in happy days. Now she had no longer the enjoyment of intrigue, of which she has made two parts-gallantry and observation. So she furnished some important information to the police and to M. d’Argenson, guard of the seals, and some remarkable subjects for the amours of the Regent. It was she who procured Emily for him, who is by far the prettiest girl in Paris. Everybody wanted to steal her from him. Law, who was the richest, swore to succeed there. The bargain was concluded for the next night.
“‘Cartouche,’ the Regent said to me, after having explained his small affairs to me, ‘thou art a brave man. I give thee the necklace.’
“And he went away in the moonlight, giving me a slight wave of the hand. This kind of mission that I received-to thwart the loves of the Superintendent, and avenge those of the Duke of Orleans, filled me with pride.
“Being back in Paris, I learned near the morning, through my police (which was the best information of the epoch), that the courtesan Emily lived at a small hotel in the Mardis, at the corner of the Rue Barbette and of the Trois-Pavillons, and that the Regent showed more attachment for her than he had ever for the Duchess of Berry, with whom he was disgusted long since for La Baratere, who shut herself up in the Convent of Chelles, less on account of her love for God than for her liking for the beautiful nuns (what morals, my dear Adolphe, what morals!), and it consoled her that she had recently been mistaken for Mlle, de Valois, uniquely occupied with the Duke de Richelieu. This courtesan, Emily, was no more than an opera girl, but her beauty, as I have told you, surpassed all that one can imagine-I was not long in judging for myself.
“Twenty-four hours after the interview of Saint Germain, that is to say the midnight following, I went out with a placard describing exactly the angle of the Rue des Trois-Pavillons and the Rue Barbette. I had, as if by chance, a pistol in each hand, which made it impossible for me to decently bow to Mlle. Emily, who appeared, considering the hour, in the most polite dishabille, with the Superintendent, who presented a casket to her in which there shone the gems of a necklace, which was valued at the least at ten thousand louis. I excused myself for the necessity of keeping my hat on my head, and begged Monsieur, the Superintendent, seeing the encumbrance of my hands, to close the casket on the necklace, and to put the whole thing in the pocket of my cinnamon coat, promising my gratitude or recognition for this slight service.
“As he hesitated, I proceeded with my presentation, and when he knew that my name was Cartouche, he obeyed with alacrity.
“I begged Mlle. Emily to reassure herself, declaring that she was in no danger, of which she was convinced, for she began to laugh heartily at the discomfiture of M. Law. I laughed also. I said to M. Law that his necklace was worth 10,000 louis, but if he wished to send the next day, towards five o’clock in the afternoon, a confidence man to the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and of the Rue des Fosses-Monsieur le Prince, with five thousand louis, they would return the collar, on the word of honor of Cartouche. He replied to me that the bargain was concluded and we took leave of each other.
“Two days later some one related the adventure to the Regent, who was at first overjoyed, but whose face changed when he learned the culmination of the event. The man, Law, had given the five thousand louis as was arranged, to the man, Cartouche, and he expected the jewel box, when the other told him that Cartouche had already gone to carry it himself to Mlle. Emily. Law ran to the house of the courtesan, saw the necklace and demanded the price.
“‘It is already received,’ replied Emily, turning her back on him.
“‘And by whom?’ exclaimed M” le Superintendent.
“‘Evidently by the one who brought me the necklace-by Cartouche, who has just left here. Should I not pay upon receipt of the necklace? And immediately? I have no credit, myself,’ added she, shouting over the discomfited face of the man of the Rue Quincamprix.
“At the Palais Royal, my dear Adolphe, the jest had the success that you can imagine. It did not matter, the Regent had found out that I had surpassed his instructions, and in his anger he again sent M. d’Argenson to hunt for me. He, however, was again diverted by the attractions of Mlle. Husson. It was a fact, my dear Adolphe, that women were a source of great help to me, and I leaned towards them considerably. But they contributed much to my ruin, also. Knowing of the propriety of my manners, and of my exclusive love for Marceline, you must think how two hundred years changes a man.”
Elated at his narrative, Adolphe laughed at the pleasantry which terminated it. “How two hundred years changes a man!” M. Longuet laughed at it. The supernatural and terrifying antithesis between Cartouche and Longuet, which had plunged him at first into the most melancholy fright, now incited him to make jests. His excuse was that he did not see anything to fear. He only found his case a little odd. He joked about it with Adolphe, and even resolved to no longer keep his true personality from Marceline. She was intelligent and would understand. He imagined that this personality would present dangers to himself and to society, but, behold! it existed no longer in the real condition, but only in his memory, as a vivid picture. He would not have to control Cartouche as he had dreaded; he would only have to ask him from time to time, some anecdote, which would help M. Longuet in conversation. The history of the Regent, M. Law, and of the courtesan, were sure proofs of that condition of the soul. How it had glided from his memory without effort! What evil, then, was there in that? After all, if he had been Cartouche, it was not his fault, and it would be very foolish in him to be angry about it. He even joked about the fortune.
At midnight they made their way back to Paris. As they arrived at the station St. Lazare, M. Lecamus asked him the following question:
“My friend, when you are Cartouche, and you take your walks in Paris, and you see the life of Paris, what astonishes you most? Is it the telephone, or the railway, or the Metro, or the Eiffel Tower?”
Théophraste replied, “No, no. That which astonishes me most when I am Cartouche is the police force.”
IT seems that the destiny which controls the lives of men, takes a diabolical pleasure in preceding the worst catastrophe by the serenest of joys. Thus is it often that we are warned of the tempest by the calm.
Thus in the beginning of the misfortunes of Théophraste, Marceline and Adolphe, there was something which was not of very great importance in itself-the strange behavior of a small black cat.
I have not yet described in detail the apartment occupied by the household of Longuet in the Rue Geronde. It is now necessary to do so. It was a small apartment, rented for twelve hundred francs a year, on passing through the folding-doors of which one entered a vestibule of restricted dimensions, all the furniture of which consisted of a polished oak trunk, which seemed to fill the whole vestibule. Besides the front door, four doors opened into the vestibule: the kitchen door, the dining-room door, to the left; the parlor door, and that of the bedroom, on the right. The parlor and bedroom windows looked out into the street, and those of the kitchen and dining-room looked out into the court. The window of the little room in which M. Longuet had made his office, opened on the street also. This room was between the bedroom and the dining-room, and could be entered by doors from either of these. As to the furniture in this apartment, that in the office is all that need be described. There was a small desk against the wall.
These great misfortunes of Théophraste, Marceline and Adolphe centered around something which was not of great importance in itself: it was only an ornament in the form of a small black cat, which was placed over the patent lock with which the small desk was fastened, thus hiding it.
This little black cat was nothing more than an ingenious silken cushion, which served the double purpose of pin-cushion and pen-wiper. There was also a tea-table in this room.
Upon returning from their trip, Adolphe accompanied Théophraste up the stairway, and as it was late he announced his intention of leaving at once. He ordered his friend to go to bed so that he might get up early the next day to make further researches. He shook his hand with a show of sincerity, and as he went downstairs, looked up to Théophraste, who was holding the lamp for him, and murmured, “Good-bye, till to-morrow.”
Théophraste closed the door of the apartment with the greatest care, and as he made the second turn to the latch, he said to Marceline, “Now that we are very often in the country, we ought to have extra bolts for safety.”
Théophraste and Marceline searched the apartment before going to bed. They went into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into the parlor, and into the office. Nothing unusual had happened during their absence. Everything was in its usual place.
Having gone to bed, Théophraste lay awake for some time. He amused himself by thinking of Cartouche and all the wonderful things he had done. While he tried to fall asleep, his mind kept continually going back to the same theme. Suddenly he opened his frightened eyes in the darkness, and laid his hand on his wife’s arm, waking her. Then, in a voice so low that he alone knew he had spoken, he said, “Do you hear anything?” Marceline woke with a start, and they both strained their ears. They heard something in the apartment. It was a peculiar sound like the purring of a cat. It seemed as if it came from the office, and they listened intently for some minutes, too frightened to move.
Théophraste, as we have said before, was not a brave man, and he would have given a hundred thousand francs for it to have been daylight. Marceline whispered in his ear, “Go and see what is the matter. You must, Théophraste. Take the revolver from the table drawer.” Théophraste just had the strength to answer, “You know very well it is not loaded.”
They listened again, but the noise had stopped. Marceline hoped that they had been mistaken. Théophraste, quaking with fear, then got out of the bed, and taking the revolver, softly opened the door which led into the office.
The night was clear, and the moon shone across the large blue table-cloth which was spread on the table. Théophraste recoiled. He pushed the door to by pressing his back against it, as if he would hinder whatever he had seen from entering the room. “What is it?” demanded Marceline, raising herself from the pillows. Théophraste, with chattering teeth, answered, “It does not purr any more, but it has moved. It is on the tea-table.”
“What is on the tea-table?”
“The cat!”
“Are you sure it was in its right place last night?” asked Marceline.
“Perfectly sure. I put my scarf-pin on it when I was going to bed.”
“Oh, you only think that you did it,” said Marceline. “Shall I light the lamp?”
“No, no. We can escape in the darkness. If I open the door on the landing we can call the conciergerie.”
“You are not afraid, then?” asked Marceline, who, now that she heard it was the cat, was recovering her senses. “It was an illusion that we had. You must have changed his place last night.”
“After all it is very possible,” said Théophraste. He only wanted to get back to bed.
“Put it in its place,” insisted Marceline. Théophraste decided to do so. He went into the office, and with a hasty, trembling hand took the cat from the tea-table and put it on the desk, and soon found himself back in bed. By this time they had recovered their composure.
They even smiled in the darkness to think that they had been afraid. However, a quarter of an hour elapsed, and they were frightened to hear again the rattle of the ornament. “Oh, it is not possible,” cried Marceline; “we are the victims of hallucination. There is nothing to astonish us after what has happened at the Conciergerie.”
It was Marceline who got up this time. She pulled open the door of the office, and came back at once towards Théophraste, and said with a voice so weak that it seemed far away, “You did not, then, put the cat back on the desk?”
“But I did,” growled Théophraste.
“Well, but it is back on the tea-table.”
“My God!” said the man hiding his head under the coverings.
Marceline was convinced that, in the disordered condition of his mind, he had left the cat on the tea-table. She took it, holding her breath, and put it on the table. The cat rattled audibly again as she did it, but neither Marceline nor Théophraste saw anything in this. Marceline went back to bed again.
Another quarter of an hour passed, at the end of which they again heard the same noise. Then an incredible thing happened. Théophraste turned like a tiger and cried out, “What is it? It is only too true, something unusual is happening.”
WE will now go downstairs to the flat below, into the apartment occupied by Signor and Signora Petito. Signora Petito is saying, “I do not understand M. Longuet’s conduct at the dinner at all. He spoke such vague, peculiar words.”
“Well,” answers Signor Petito, “he has this treasure which may be found in the environs of Paris, and he is thinking of it. It is certainly very interesting, and I would like to find it myself. According to the document, my opinion is that one ought to look either at the side of Montrouge, or at the side of Montmartre. I am inclined to think that it is Montmartre, on acount of the ‘Coq.’ There was a castle ‘Coq de Percherons’ there. You will find it if you look at this plan of old Paris.”
They looked at the plan, and after a short silence Signor Petito added, “It is still very vague. For myself, I think that one ought to attach importance to the words ‘Le Four.’”
“My dear, then it is more and more vague,” said his wife, “for there are many furnaces around Paris. There were plaster furnaces, and quicklime furnaces, and many others.”
“My idea,” said Signor Petito, “is that Le Four does not mean ‘the furnaces.’ I remember that there was a space after the word ‘Four,’ on the paper. Pass my dictionary.” Signora Petito, noiselessly, and with great care, brought him the lexicon. They looked over all the words beginning with the syllable ‘Four.’ On account of the article, le, they decided not to pay any attention to feminine words.
Just then the clock on the mantel-shelf struck midnight. Signora Petito got up, and said to the Signor, “Now is the time. We will find some useful information on the floor above. They cannot hear you in your stockinged feet. I will watch behind their door at the head of their stairway. You know there is no danger, they are still in the country.”
Two minutes later a form glided over the landing at M. Longuet’s door, put a key into the lock stealthily, and went into the vestibule. M. Longuet’s apartment was arranged exactly like Signor Petito’s, and so the latter easily found his way into the dining-room. He acted with perfect composure, believing the apartment to be uninhabited. He pushed the office door open. As it was evidently the lock of the desk that he wished to reach. Signor Petito took the ornament which inconvenienced him and placed it on the tea-table. Then he quitted the room noiselessly, and entered the dining-room, from there into the vestibule, for he seemed to hear a voice on the stairway. He was without doubt mistaken, for he listened intently for some time without hearing a sound. When he came back into the office, he found the cat again on the desk, and purring. His hair seemed to stand on end, for the horror which had seized upon him was not to be compared to the horror which had seized upon those in the next room.
Signor Petito remained immovable in the bluish moonlight. With a timid hand he seized the little black cat. The movement caused by this made the cat purr again. Now he understood that in the cat’s pasteboard body there was a little ball, balanced in such a manner that it ingeniously simulated the purring of a cat when it was moved.
How frightened he had been! He felt a fool. All was explained. Did he not remove the cat before returning to the vestibule? Instead of having placed the cat on the table, as he thought, he must have replaced it on the desk. That was a simple explanation, and he paid the strictest attention this time when he placed it on the table.
While he was doing this there was a fresh noise on the stairway. It was only Signora Petito, who had very incautiously sneezed.
Signor Petito went hurriedly and silently back into the vestibule, and when he was reassured, went back into the office again.
The black cat had been returned to the desk again!
He thought that he would die of fright. A miraculous intervention had arrested him on the verge of a great crime, and he uttered a hurried prayer in which he promised heaven never to do it again. However, another quarter of an hour passed, and he attributed these surprising events to his conscience, and returning, placed the cat back again on the table.
Just then the door of the room was violently opened, and Signor Petito fell into the arms of M. Longuet, who did not express the least astonishment.
M. Longuet threw Signor Petito on the floor in disgust, and picking up the ornament, opened the window, and threw it out into the street. During this time, Signor Petito, who had gotten up, could hardly compose his features, for Mme. Longuet, in her chemise, was threatening him with a revolver. He could only stammer, “I beg your pardon, I really thought that you were in the country.”
M. Longuet went up to him, and taking him by one of his ears, said, “Now, my dear Signor Petito, we must talk.”
Marceline lowered the barrel of her revolver, and felt pleased at seeing her husband show such courage.
“You see, my dear Signor Petito,” continued Théophraste, “that I am calm. A little while ago I was getting angry, but it was only at that little cat which was keeping me from going to sleep, and which I have thrown out of the window. Rut be assured, my dear Signor, I shall not throw you out of the window. You have not kept me from sleeping, you have even taken the precaution to put on slippers. Many thanks. But why, my dear Signor, do you make that ridiculous grimace? It is without doubt on account of your ear. I have some good news to tell you which will perhaps put you at ease about your ears. Your ears will make you suffer no more.”
Having finished his sarcastic talk, Théophraste begged his wife to pass him a cloth, and ordered Signor Petito to go into the kitchen. “Do not be surprised that I receive you in the kitchen. I prize my carpets very much, and you will probably bleed like a pig.”
M. Longuet drew towards him a white wooden table, which he placed in the middle of the kitchen. He asked Marceline to place an oil-cloth over the table, and get him a large bowl. He then asked for a carving set, which he said she would find in the dresser drawer, which stood in the dining-room. Marceline tried to ask for an explanation, but her husband looked at her so coldly and so strangely, that, shuddering, she could only obey. Signor Petito, in a cold perspiration, tried to reach the door of the kitchen, but M. Longuet stood between him and the means of exit, and commanded him to be seated.
“Signor Petito,” said he, in a tone of the most sarcastic politeness, “you have a face which displeases me. It is not your fault; but then it is not mine, either. Certainly you are by far the most cowardly and the most despicable of thieves. But what does that matter? But do not smile, Signor Petito.” It is certain that Signor Petito had no intention of smiling.
“You have ridiculously large ears, and surely with such ears, you dare not pass by the corner of the Guiliere.”
Signor Petito clasped his hands and stammered, “But my wife awaits me.”
“What are you doing, Marceline?” Théophraste cried impatiently. “Do not you see that Signor Petito is in a hurry? His wife is waiting for him. Have you the carving set?”
“I could not find the fork,” answered Marceline in a trembling voice. (The truth was, Marceline did not know what to say, for she believed that her husband had become completely insane, and between Signor Petito the house-breaker, and Théophraste mad, she was in anything but an enviable position.) She had hidden herself behind a cupboard door, and her distress was so extreme, that in turning suddenly, when Théophraste hurled a volley of insults at her, she upset her favorite vase, which made a loud noise, thus adding to the confusion.
Théophraste resorted once more to oaths and insults, and called Marceline in such a tone that she ran to him in spite of herself. The spectacle which awaited her in the kitchen was atrocious. Signor Petito was lying on the wooden table, his eyes bursting from their orbits, a handkerchief in his mouth, which nearly suffocated him. Théophraste had had the time, and was possessed with the extraordinary strength to tie his hands and ankles with cords. Signor Petito’s head hung a little beyond the edge of the table, and under it there was a bowl which M. Longuet had placed there to prevent soiling anything. The latter with palpitating nostrils had caught Signor Petito by the hair with his left hand. In his right he clasped the handle of a notched kitchen knife.
Gnashing his teeth, he cried out, “Strike the flags.”
As he said this he made the first cut at the right ear. The cartilage resisted. Signor Petito’s muffled groans could just be heard. M. Longuet, who was still in his night-shirt, worked like a surgeon bent upon a difficult operation. Marceline’s strength failed her, and she fell upon her knees. Signor Petito, in attempting to struggle, threw the blood from his ears across the kitchen, and Théophraste, letting go his hair, struck him a blow across the head. “Be a little careful,” said he, “you are splashing the blood all over everything.”
The cartilage still resisted, so taking the right ear in his left hand, with a strong blow with the notched knife he tore it away. He placed the ear in a saucer which he had previously placed on the sink, and allowed the water to flow over it. Then he came back to the second ear. Marceline groaned very loudly, but he silenced her with a glance. The second ear was cut off much more easily, and with more dispatch.
By this time Signor Petito had swallowed half of the handkerchief, and was suffocating. Théophraste took the handkerchief out of his mouth and threw it out into the clothes-basket near by. He then untied his ankles and wrists, and signed to him to leave the apartment as soon as possible. He had the forethought to wrap his head in a dish-cloth, so that the blood would not stain the stairway or the janitor’s family. As Signor Petito passed by, in agony, Théophraste put the washed ears into his vest pocket.
“You forgot something,” he said. “What would Signora Petito say if you went back without your ears?” He closed the door. Looking at Marceline, who was on her knees, paralysed with horror, he wiped the bloody knife on his sleeve.