THEOPHRASTE, the next day, seemed to have forgotten all the incidents of the night before, or at least to attach very little importance to them.
As to Marceline, she was far too agitated to make any direct mention of it. However, she knew Adolphe would be calling at noon and she was resolved to find out the cause of Théophraste’s actions before he came so that she could tell Adolphe the best to act. The thing that struck her most was Théophraste’s sudden show of courage and strength. Before he had shown excessive lack of courage, and he was naturally physically weak. Suddenly, to be seized with all the nerve necessary to meet a burglar and then to have the strength to gag and bind him and cut off his ears, was unnatural. He had always recoiled from the sight of blood, and here he was fairly reveling in it. What could all this mean? He had suddenly turned from a quiet, inoffensive citizen to a ghoul.
It was with these thoughts that she approached Théophraste and demanded an explanation. He at first was loath to tell her, but her entreaties prevailed, and he eventually told her that it was the spirit of Cartouche that had seized him and forced him to do these horrible actions. He told her with a sort of bravado that there had been more than one hundred and fifty assassinations laid to his account.
Marceline was in a terrible state of mind and shrank from him. She declared that nothing in the world would make her live with him. She would apply for a divorce. She thought she had married an honest man, and now she had discovered him to be a thief and murderer. Here were enough grounds for a separation, and she declared her intention of securing it.
At this Théophraste became very melancholy, and entreated her to think of his side of the calamity. He told her how necessary her help was to him, and with Adolphe’s and her assistance he thought he could throw off this evil influence. By this time he had become quite rational, and they decided to consult Adolphe, and if necessary, have him live with them.
Marceline readily acquiesced in this suggestion. Adolphe arrived about 1 o’clock, and she took him into the sitting-room and was soon in earnest and animated council with him. Théophraste went into his office and waited anxiously for them to join him. After some time they returned, and Marceline insisted that Théophraste should do all that Adolphe should ask of him, which he readily consented to do, having confidence in his friend.
Later on in the afternoon Théophraste and Adolphe went for a walk into the city. Théophraste immediately began asking questions as to Adolphe’s progress in the search for the treasures. He, however, was in no mood to tell much. Marceline’s story of the night before had driven all thoughts of the treasure out of his head, and he answered somewhat abruptly that nothing of importance had been found, and that he must think of Théophraste’s health first, before taking any further steps.
It was obvious to Théophraste that Adolphe was evading the subject, and he was determined to find out more of the matter.
He felt that Adolphe had more information, and so pressed him to speak. Adolphe then told how he had discovered that after the war most of the soldiers who had been serving with Cartouche had been discharged, and were left with no means of livelihood, and so, recognizing him as having the talent of a leader, they formed themselves into a party of bandits, and placed him at their head. At this time the police force of Paris was quite inadequate to cope with the many crimes; therefore Cartouche and his comrades resolved to turn their attention to this. He divided his men into troops, and gave them each a quarter, to guard over which he placed an intelligent lieutenant. When anybody was found out after curfew he was politely accosted and requested to turn over a sum of money, or if he had no money on him, to part with his coat. In exchange for this he was given a pass which entitled him to walk through Paris in perfect security at any time he pleased. He would have nothing to fear from Cartouche’s men. If he showed any resistance he was immediately killed. Cartouche had the clergy on his side, and was often able to make good use of them. One priest named Le Ratichon, was even hanged for him.
On reaching the Hotel de Ville, Adolphe stopped and asked Théophraste if he cared to cross the Place de l’Hotel de Ville.
He answered, “If you wish, certainly we will.”
“Have you often crossed the place?” said Adolphe.
“Yes, very often,” replied Théophraste.
“And nothing unusual has happened? Is there any place in Paris which you have some difficulty in passing?”
“Why, no, of course not. What is there to hinder me from going anywhere?”
However, Adolphe’s look made him reflect, and then he recalled having several times walked up the Place de l’Ordson, and when in front of the Institute he changed his mind and retraced his steps. He accounted for this rather by his absent-mindedness than by anything unusual. He recalled that he had never passed through the Rue Mazarine or crossed the Pont-Neuf. Neither had he crossed the Petit Pont. He had always turned at the corner of the Rue Ville du Temple, near the house with the grated windows.
“Why,” Adolphe asked, “can’t you pass these places?”
“I think it is because the paving stones are red; and I dislike that color.”
“You remember the Place de Grere?”
“Why, yes. It was there that the pillory and scaffold were erected. The wheel was placed there on execution days in front of the Rue Vanniere. There was the old coal harbor. I never passed that place without counselling my comrades to avoid the wheel. However, I will wager not one profited by it.”
“Nor you either,” said Adolphe. “It was there that you suffered the final torment. It was there that you were racked and expired by the tortures of the wheel.”
AMONG all the paper that I found in the oaken chest, those which related to the death of Cartouche were by far the most curious, and presented the highest interest, in that they partly contradicted history. They denied with such persuasive strength, and such undeniable logic, that it is difficult to see how the great historians could have overlooked the real details, and the generations which have succeeded since the year 1721, should not have suspected the truth. History teaches us that Cartouche, after having suffered the rack in its most cruel form, during which he confessed nothing, not even a name or a fact, this Cartouche, who had only to die, and nothing to gain from his confession, nothing to soften his last moments, was brought to torment in the Place de la Grere, and it was there that he decided to speak. That they took him back to the Hotel de Ville, and that it was there that he betrayed his principal accomplices, after which he was racked and fastened to the cross, where he expired.
Immediately after this 360 persons were arrested, with the result that they were tried, and judicially massacred, the last one of them being executed two years after Cartouche.
Now in following the papers of Théophraste, we are not doing full justice to Cartouche. While Cartouche was an object of terror, he was at the same time an object of admiration. His courage knew no bounds, and he proved it at the time of his torture. At the moments when his sufferings were greatest, he did not speak. It was said that he only wished to die bravely. The great ladies of the court and of the city had hired windows and points of vantage from which to witness his death, and he did not wish to show them on the scaffold, a cowardly dastard, but the most daring and bravest of bandits. It is an historical fact that of the 360 persons who were arrested after his death, it was found that Cartouche was loved by all. The official report showed women throwing themselves in the arms of L’Enfant at the Hotel de Ville, even after the denunciation.
It is not necessary to mention all the protests that M. Longuet made against the dishonorable death attributed to Cartouche, but some of the preceding lines seem to show that he was right.
It was while conversing on this question that Théophraste and his friend arrived at the Rue de le Petit Pont, without passing over the bridge.
“My dear friend,” said Théophraste, “look at that house at the side of the hotel, which has the sign, ‘To the rendezvous of the Maraiches,’ and tell me if you find anything remarkable about it.” They were then in front of a low, narrow and dirty old house, a hotel. The door on the ground floor disclosed a counter for the sale of drinks. Above the door was a notice, “To the rendezvous of the kitchen-gardeners.” The hotel was leaning against a vast building of the eighteenth century, which Théophraste pointed out with his green umbrella. This building had a balcony of iron, wrought in a delicate design of the period.
“I observe a beautiful balcony, of which the feature in the design seems to be the quiver of the god of love.”
“Anything more?” asked Théophraste.
“I do not notice anything further,” said Adolphe.
“Do you notice the large gratings on the windows? There was a time, my dear Adolphe, when windows that had gratings on were very much in vogue. There were never so many grilled windows in Paris as in the year 1720, and I would swear that these were placed there the day after the affair of the Chateaux Augustins. The Parisians always protected their ground floor, but this did not trouble us very much, for we had Simon L’Auvergnat.”
Adolphe took the opportunity of asking Théophraste exactly who this Simon L’Auvergnat was. He was always referring to him, and without any obvious reasons.
“He was a very useful person,” said Théophraste, “he was the base of my column.”
“What do you mean by the ‘base of your column’?”
“You do not understand. Wait, and you soon will. Imagine yourself to be Simon L’Auvergnat. Stand like this,” and he indicated the position, against the wall of the house, that Adolphe was to take. He spread his legs and lowered his head, and raising his arms, leaned against the wall. “I will place you here,” said he, “on account of the cornice which is to the left. I remember that it was very convenient. Now, since you are the base of my column, I lean on that base and then—————-”
Before M. Lecamus had had time to see what was going to happen, Théophraste gripped his shoulders, leaped on the cornice of the hotel, from there to the balcony of the hotel at the side, and entered a room of which the window had been opened.
M. Lecamus, stupefied, looked up into the air, and was wondering to himself how on earth his friend could have disappeared in such a way, when suddenly piercing cries came from the room, and a voice yelled out, “Help! Robbers! Murder! Help!” Fearing some dreadful act, Adolphe rushed into the hotel. The passers-by were stopping in the street, and before long a crowd had collected. He leapt over the vast stairway with the agility of a young man, and arrived on the first landing at the moment the door opened, and Théophraste appeared, hat in hand. He was bowing to an old lady, whose teeth were chattering from fright, and whose hair was all done up in curl papers. “Dear madame,” he was saying, “if I had believed for one instant that I would have caused you such surprise, I would have remained downstairs. I am neither a robber, nor an assassin, my dear madam. All this is the fault of my friend Adolphe, who wanted me to show him how Simon L’Auvergnat could serve me as the base of a column.”
Adolphe had already seized his arm, and was drawing him toward the stairway. He made signs to the lady from behind Théophraste trying to make her understand that his friend was off his head. Thereupon, she fell unconscious into the hands of a chambermaid, and the stairway was soon filled with a crowd.
Adolphe profited by this to take Théophraste away. They passed through without hindrance, and were soon in the street again. Adolphe seemed not to hear Théophraste’s protests. With one hand he dragged him towards the Rue Huchette, and with the other dried the sweat which was running down his forehead.
“Where are you taking me to?” asked Théophraste.
“To the house of one of my friends in the Rue Huchette.”
When they reached the house in the Rue Huchette, they passed under a red porch, and into a very old house. Adolphe seemed to know the people, for he did not wait to be ushered in. He made Théophraste climb half a dozen stone steps which were extremely worn, and pushed open a thick door which was at the end of the court.
They were now in a sort of vestibule, lighted by a large lamp in the shape of a huge ball, suspended by iron chains from the stone ceiling.
“Wait for me here,” said Adolphe, after having closed the door by which they had entered. He promised not to be long and disappeared.
Théophraste seated himself in a large armchair, and looked around him. What he saw on the wall amused him. There was an incredible quantity of words painted in black letters. They seemed to cover the whole surface of the wall, in no sort of order at all. He spelt some of them. There was Iris, Thabet, Rush, Jakin, Bokez, Thebe, Paracaler, and the word “Iboah,” which appeared in many places. Turning toward the other wall, against which he had been leaning, he saw a Sphinx and the Pyramids.
An immense arch arose, and in the center of this was Christ, His arms extended out into a circle of flowers. On the arch were the words, “Amphitheater of the wise eternal son of Truth.” It was the arch of the “Rose Cross.” Below was this inscription, “There are none so blind as those who will not see.” Looking around he came across another inscription, in letters of gold: “As soon as you have won a fact, apply yourself to it with your whole mind. Look for the salient points in it. Behold the knowledge which is in it. Give way to the hypothesis. Hunt for the fault in it.” (Instructions to the clinic of the Hotel Dieu, Prof. Trousseau.) Besides this he saw figures of forles and vultures and jackals, men with birds’ heads, beetles, and the emblem of Osiris-an ass, and an eye. Finally he read these words in blue letters: “The more the soul is rooted in her instincts, the more will she be forgotten in the flesh, the less consciousness she will have of her immortality, and the more she will remain a prisoner in living corpses.”
Impatient at the absence of his friend, and becoming a little frightened, he attempted to raise the drapery behind which Adolphe had disappeared. But as he ascended the step his head struck an object which was suspended in the air, and looking up he found it was a skeleton.
We have said that M. Lecamus had applied himself to the occult sciences, and practiced spiritualism, but from what we know of M. Lecamus’ character, we feel that he was only an amateur in these things. He only practiced spiritualism for show, for snobbery, and to make an impression at the parties which he used to frequent. He believed no more in spiritualism than he believed in love. The day came, however, when his heart gave way, and when his spirit humiliated itself. It was the day that he met Marceline and M. Eliphaste de St. Elm. He met Marceline at a seance, where they had made him the father spirit. At this séance M. Eliphaste was recognized as the chief. However, this gentleman was rarely seen. He led a most retired and mysterious life at the foot of the Rue Huchette.
Marceline had attended this seance by the will of M. Longuet, who, having been to the Salon Pneumatics, insisted that Marceline should be presented there. He thought that it was a kind of worldly society, where such subjects as pneuma-tology were discussed.
The day that Marceline made her entrance to the Salon M. Eliphaste de St. Elm was to read a paper on the Gourse. Mme. Longuet found herself by chance next to M. Lecamus, and after discussing a good many points in the lecture, they found that they had a great many things in common, and by a curious chance M. Lecamus discovered that he was an old college chum of M. Longuet’s. It was thus that he became welcomed into the family circle of M. Longuet.
This preamble is necessary for us to understand the presence of M. Lecamus and Marceline together in the house of M. Eliphaste de St. Elm, at the foot of the Rue de Huchette, while Théophraste was waiting for him wearily in the vestibule. The visit was the result of a conversation between M. Lecamus and Mme. Longuet, early that morning. She had hidden nothing from him regarding the events of the nights before, and the history of Signor Petito’s ears showed to M. Lecamus the necessity of taking precautions against the spirit of Cartouche. At the bottom of his heart M. Lecamus felt to a certain extent guilty for the follies of Théophraste, and he had been asking himself, lately, just how far he could let this reincarnated soul go, for M. Lecamus was a novice at spiritualism, and it was his intention to experiment with Théophraste and Cartouche.
He was no sooner assured of having in his hands a reincarnated soul, than his curiosity aroused in him a desire to make use of it. This was exactly what he had done in putting the reincarnated soul of Cartouche before his portrait, without taking any precautions, and now he did not know how he could stop that which he had unconsciously set in motion. He knew how to arouse such a spirit, but he did not know how to stop it.
It was for this reason that he and Mme. Longuet had come this morning to beg M. St. Elm to exercise his influence, for there was not a cleverer guide for reincarnated souls in Paris.
In the meantime, Théophraste had been locked up in the vestibule, and when he struck his head against the skeleton, he began to think that it would be more tranquil in a mound at St. Chaumont. The corridor in which he found himself did not have a single window. A red gloom lighted it from one end to the other. It came from the cellar, and penetrated the thick pavement glass. The corridor had crevices and angles. He came to a corner and stopped abruptly. He was impatient to go ahead, and went into one of the two branching passageways which ran from the corridor. Five minutes later he found himself at the same cross passage. Then he went up the first corridor again, taking the direction that he had followed in coming out to the vestibule, but to his great surprise he could not find the vestibule. He wandered about for what seemed to him several hours, and he was just giving up hope of ever getting out of this labyrinth, when he saw Adolphe in the distance. He ran up to him and was on the point of reproving him for having kept him waiting so long, when Adolphe said to him sadly: “Come, Marceline is in there; we are going to present you to a good friend.”
Théophraste found himself in a large, dark room, where his attention was attracted by a great light which fell on the figure of a man. But strange to say, the light did not seem to fall on the man, but rather to radiate from him. In fact, when the figure moved it seemed to carry the light with it. Before the flambeau a woman was standing in a humble attitude, with clasped hands and bowed head.
Then Théophraste heard a voice, a friendly voice, a manly voice, a voice sweeter than the sweetest voice of woman, which said to him: “Come to me without fear.”
That which astonished M. Longuet above all else was the astral light which showed up the noble features of M. Eliphaste de St. Elm. He was a person of divine elegance, as elegant as a Christ on the Tripoli.
“I do not know where I am,” said Théophraste, “but it gives me confidence to see my friend Adolphe, and my wife, Marceline, at your side. However, I should like to know your name.”
“My dear sir,” said the harmonious voice, “I am called M. Eliphaste de St. Elm.”
“Well,” said Théophraste, “my name is Cartouche. But it has been believed for a long, long time that this name was given to me as a nickname.”
“You are not Cartouche,” said Eliphaste.
“Your name is Théophraste Longuet. You will pardon me, but there is no longer any need for confusion; you were formerly called Cartouche, but now you are called Théophraste Longuet.”
M. Théophraste then recalled a number of personages with whom he had, in the spirit of Cartouche, been speaking. They were all of the eighteenth century-Gatelard, Marie Antoinette Neron, and others, and it was evident that his mind was dwelling on that period, and he was living in the present a life of the past.
Théophraste was still talking of these times, when the half shadows which seemed to envelop him were suddenly dissipated, and the room appeared in the splendid brightness of day. He looked around with evident satisfaction, first at his wife, and then at Adolphe, and finally at M. Eliphaste. Eliphaste had entirely lost his supernatural aspect, his astral mantle had disappeared, and if his features had still their sublime and unusual pallor, he seemed, nevertheless, a man like other men.
“Ah, this is better,” said Théophraste, sighing.
“It is not necessary for you to think any more of old Paris,” said M. Eliphaste. “You have nothing more to do with it. You are Théophraste, and it is the year of grace, 1899.”
“Possibly,” replied Théophraste, who was obstinate; “but the question is, what about my treasure? I have a perfect right to look at a plan of old Paris, for I can follow the place where I buried it formerly, and find the place where I must look.”
Eliphaste, speaking to Lecamus, said, “I have often witnessed the crises of Karma, but never has it been given to me to study one of such strength.”
Eliphaste reflected, and then leading Théophraste to the right, he brought him before a map of real Paris. “Behold,” said he, “the exact point where Le Fouches de Mount Fançons were. As to the mouth of the Choppinettes, and of the Coq, they were at those two points of the Monte St. Chaumont. The forks were found on a small eminence on the side of the principal mound, but far to the right of where the Protestant of the Rue de Crimee stands to-day. To find your treasure again, my friend, it will be necessary to search in that triangle. The mounds, as you say, have been the remains of a filled-in ditch, and I doubt very much if your treasure could still be found there. I specified for you the old space on a modern plan to disillusion you. You must clear your mind. Think no more on your treasures. Do not live in the past. You must live in the present, and for the future. You must drive away Cartouche, because Cartouche is no more. It is Théophraste Longuet who is.”
M. Eliphaste pronounced these words with great force.
MELIPHASTE had been reasoning with Théophraste, and using all the arguments of spiritualists to persuade him to make an effort to rid himself of the spirit of Cartouche.
“However,” said Théophraste, “I thank you for the interest you have taken in me, and for your sympathy; but I tell you, you can do nothing for me. You say I am sick, but I am not. If I were you could cure me. You also say that I am to drive away this Cartouche; but, though that is easily said, I can assure you that it is not so easily done. It is impossible, my dear M. Eli-phaste.”
“And yet,” said M. Eliphaste, “it is necessary. For if we do not succeed in driving him out, we must kill him. That is an operation the result of which I cannot vouch. It is a delicate operation, and full of dangers.”
M. Eliphaste had hoped that this obsession of Cartouche was only imaginary, and so by reasoning he could drive it away. But, alas, the reality of it was only too true, and Théophraste, while willing to help him, could not get himself to believe M. Eliphaste’s arguments.
“You understand,” said M. Eliphaste, “your case is most extraordinary. Everybody in the world has lived before, and will live again. This is the Law of Karma. It may be possible to find some one who was a friend of Cartouche’s. The true object of that wonderful evolution of souls through the bodies, is to develop and qualify them to enjoy the perfect happiness which will finally be the inheritance of the fortunate ones who will enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. It is thought that at each birth, the personality differs from the preceding one, but it is only the veritable, divine and spiritual I. These divers personalities are in some measures only the links of the infinite chain of life, which constitutes, throughout the ages, our immortal individuality.”
The admirable wisdom of the teaching appealed to Théophraste immensely. Eliphaste had shown himself so much the master of his thoughts, that he could not understand why he had remained ignorant so long, without even having suspected these wonderful truths. He saw the great difference between Eliphaste and Adolphe, the difference, as he said, “between the Man of Reason and the Learned Ape.”
Eliphaste continued: “When one is persuaded of this great truth, one need not be astonished at the wonderful things that happen in the present-if they recall events of former times. But to live according to the Law of Wisdom, one must live in the present, and not look behind.”
Théophraste had too often looked behind. His mind had occupied itself with thoughts of the past. If this had continued, in a very short time Théophraste would have gone quite mad.
And so Théophraste thought: “I must either forget Cartouche, throw him off completely, or develop all his characteristics.”
M. Eliphaste told them that what men call vocations to-day were only a latent revelation of the past, and they could only be explained that way. He told them that what was called facility among men to-day was nothing else but retrospective sympathy for some objects that they knew better than others, having studied them better before the real and actual life. He said that we even assume the gesture of the past without knowing it. He himself had seen, on the eve of the Battle of the Bourget, two young men fall near him, handsome as demigods, brave as Castor and Pollux, and who succumbed with grace that the heroes showed in dying at Salamis, Marathon, or at Platies. M. Eliphaste then pressed Théophraste to his heart, breathed on his forehead and his eyes, and then asked him if he was quite persuaded of the truth. He said that to be happy we must seek to give an account of ourselves, as to the perpetual changes of our condition, and that by this we learned to live in the present, and to comprehend that the future belonged to us entirely. Are we not the children of the Eternal, in whose eyes a thousand years are as a day, and a day as a thousand years?
Théophraste said to him that he was not at all astonished at having been Cartouche-it seemed so natural to his mind-that he would never more dwell on it, and he declared that at present Cartouche was driven away.
Thereupon Marceline asked what time it was, and Adolphe told her it was eleven o’clock, and so they rose to take their leave. However, just before leaving, an incident occurred which went to prove too clearly that the spirit of Cartouche had not left Théophraste.
Upon Adolphe’s declaring that it was eleven o’clock, Théophraste took out his watch and contended that it was half after eleven, and after a few words, he said, “You can cut off my right hand if I am wrong.”
Turning to M. Eliphaste, that gentleman confirmed M. Lecamus’ statement, whereupon Théophraste picked up a small knife which was lying near, and would have severed his right hand but for M. Eliphaste, who, grasping the situation, seized Théophraste’s uplifted hand with dexterity and incredible strength. He ordered him to drop the knife, and told him that he was not keeping to the compact. M. Eliphaste felt that it was no good arguing with him on the matter of the spirit of Cartouche, and despaired of ever ridding him of the spirit by reasoning. He turned to Adolphe and said, “Let us go. It is too late. There is nothing to do but to kill him.”
THIS savage onslaught, which but for the presence of mind of M. Eliphaste would have terminated in the amputation of M. Longuet’s hand, proved to them that the sanguine imagination of Cartouche had so completely invaded the brain of M. Longuet that it seemed to them the only remedy for such a misfortune was the death of Cartouche.
M. Eliphaste did not hesitate. He had reasoned with him in vain, and had even hoped at one time that he had been victorious, but this incident undoubtedly proved otherwise. He rose and looked at Théophraste, giving him a long, steady glance, which seemed to pierce the uttermost depths of his soul. Théophraste sighed several times and began to tremble violently, when M. Eliphaste cried, “Cartouche, I order you to sleep.” Théophraste fell as if stricken on the armchair which stood behind him, and did not make another move. His respiration was so silent that they doubted if he still lived. Marceline ran to him alarmed, but M. Eliphaste restrained her, saying, “All is well. The operation of the death of Cartouche has begun.”
Adolphe knew, from several examples, that there is always a great risk when one wishes to kill a reincarnated soul-that is to say, to throw it back toward the past. There is a risk of killing the body in which it is reincarnated. And so he knew that trying to kill the soul of Cartouche without killing Théophraste was a great undertaking.
It needed all the authority, and all the science of M. Eliphaste, to calm them in the extremity in which they found themselves. He was the most intellectual and scientific spiritualist of the day. He had the most absolute and domineering will that the world had seen since Jacques Molay, to whom he had succeeded, by the supreme direction of the secret order of Temphis. He had made an allegorical demonstration of his last treatise on “Psychic Surgery,” and had analyzed the subject in his pamphlet on “Astral Scalpel.”
It is necessary to enumerate all the accomplishments of M. Eliphaste, for it gives Adolphe a chance of refuting in advance the reproach put upon him for letting him treat his best friend with the utmost severity. The criminal eccentricities of M. Longuet, of which Signor Petito was the first victim, made him dread the most irremediable catastrophes, and it was for this reason that he was led to consider the operation of Cartouche as a benefit, not only possible, but probable, without too great a risk to Théophraste. As to Mme. Longuet, her faith in M. Eliphaste was so great that at first she only made a few remarks, so as to relieve her of any responsibility, and then the terror that she had of sleeping with Cartouche made her, over and above everything, desire his death.
M. Eliphaste told Adolphe to take Théophraste’s heels, and he took and held him under the armpits, and they carried him into the sub-cellar, where a laboratory had been fitted up, which was lighted in the day by gas, with large, red, hissing flames.
Mme. Longuet followed. They placed Théophraste on a bed, and bound him down with straps. He was still under the mesmeric influence. M. Eliphaste stood over him, watching him closely, for a quarter of an hour, during which time there was a deep silence in the room. At length a voice was heard. It was M. Eliphaste praying. The prayer began in this way:
“In the beginning there was silence. Oh, age Eternal, source of all ages———”
When the prayer was ended, M. Eliphaste took Théophraste by the hand and seemed to command him without speaking. He questioned Théophraste by the strength of his domineering spirit -only by the answers Théophraste made could they understand what he had been commanded to tell. Théophraste said, without effort, “Yes, I see. Yes, I am. I am M. Théophraste Longuet; in an apartment of the Rue Gerondeau.” M. Eliphaste turned toward Adolphe and Marceline. “The operation is a bad one,” he said in a deep voice. “I have put Cartouche to sleep, and Théophraste answers me. He is sleeping in the present. We must not precipitate matters. It will be dangerous.”
“I am in the Rue Gerondeau-in the apartment under mine-and I see stretched on the bed a man without ears. In front of him a woman; a dark woman-she is pretty-she is young-her name is Regina-the woman is saying to the man, ‘Signor Petito, as true as I am called Regina, and that you have lost your ears, you will cease to see me in forty-eight hours if you have not found the means to give me a little comfort, to which I have a right. When I married you, you basely deceived me, both as to your fortune and as to your intelligence. Your fortune rested only in hopes which have not been realized. What are you going to do?’
“Signor Petito replies, ‘My dear Regina, you puzzle me. Leave me in peace to find a trace of the treasures that the imbecile above is incapable of snatching from the profound depths of the earth.’”
Théophraste made them understand, in his sleep, that the imbecile referred to was Cartouche. M. Eliphaste turned toward them, saying, “I expect that word to make him quit the present. Now, madam, the time has come. I am going to tempt God.” And then he spoke in a commanding voice, in a voice that it seemed impossible not to obey. “Cartouche,” said he, extending his hand above the strapped bed with a commanding majesty, “Cartouche, where wast thou on the night of the first of April, 1721, at ten o’clock?”
“On the night of April first, 1721, at ten o’clock, I struck two light blows on the door, with the intention of making them open the door of the Tavern Reine Margot. I never should have believed that I could have reached the ironmonger’s shop so easily. But I had killed the horse of the French guardsman, and I had thrown those who had followed him into the Seine. At the Reine Margot I found Paleton, Gatelard, and Guenal Noire. La Belle Laittiere was with them. I related the story to them while emptying a bottle of wine. I had confidence in them, and I told them that I suspected Va de Bon Cour-and perhaps Marie Antoinette-of having whispered something to the spies. They cried out, but I cried out louder than they. I announced to them that I had decided to deal summarily with all who gave me cause to suspect them. I became very angry, and La Belle Laittiere told me that I was no longer bearable. Was it my fault? Every one had betrayed me. I could not sleep two nights consecutively in one place. Where, then, were the days when all Paris was with me? Where, then, was the day of my wedding to Marie Antoinette, when we sang the air of ‘Tout joli belle menniere, Tout joli moulin’? Where was now my uncle Taton? Shut up in a castle. And his son? Killed by me because he was going to denounce me. I had done it quickly. A pistol shot, and his corpse was under a pile of rubbish. Then I was sure of his silence. I killed the robber Pepin, and the police officer Huron. I did not ask anything, only that they leave me alone to police Paris for the security of everybody. My great council,” this he murmured to himself, “did not pardon me for having Jacques le Febrere executed. I am no longer bearable, and that is because I wish to live. After that which had come to pass,” continued Théophraste in his hypnotic sleep, “and the miraculous way in which I escaped in spite of treachery and the precautions taken by the spies, I did not conceal from Gate-lard or from Guenal Noire that I had decided to leave them.
“I soon left them and opened the door of the Reine Margot. Not a soul in the ironmonger’s shop. I was saved. I did not even stop Magdelen, whom I passed while walking along the walls of the cemetery, where I was going to sleep that night. Truth was, I was going to pass the night like a robber in my hole in the Rue Amelot. It was pouring with rain.”
It would be difficult to describe the strange tone in which this narrative was related. The undulation of the phrases, their stops and their stations, then the peculiar monotone in which the words fell from Théophraste’s lips while he was in the hypnotic sleep. His face sometimes expressed anger, sometimes contempt, and sometimes terror.
M. Lecamus, who had seen Cartouche’s portrait, recalled that at certain times there was a striking resemblance to that of Théophraste. Just as he was relating the incident of passing Magdelen, and the downpour of rain, Théophraste’s face showed a most peculiar expression, changing from joy to most overwhelming despair.
M. Eliphaste, leaning over the bed, asked him: “What then, Cartouche?”
Théophraste replied in a rattling voice: “I killed a passerby.”
The operation continued, but it was only by degrees that M. Eliphaste wished to bring Cartouche to the hour of his death. Before making him live his death, it was necessary to make him live a little of his life. That was the reason that M. Eliphaste had thrown the spirit of Cartouche back to the month of April, 1721.
Though the minutes following were terrible for the onlookers, they were worse for Cartouche, who was passing through the end of his career the second time.
It was not until October 11, 1721, that the treason bore fruit.
Coustard, sergeant in the company of Cha-bannes, took forty men and four sergeants with him, all of whom were designated by Duchatelle, Cartouche’s lieutenant, who had betrayed him. This little army, in citizen clothes, concealing its arms very mysteriously, surrounded the house pointed out by Duchatelle.
It could not have been more than nine o’clock in the evening when they arrived in sight of the tavern, Au Pictolet, kept by Germain Tassard and his wife, near the Rue des Trois Bornes. Tassard was smoking his pipe on the doorstep, when Duchatelle came up and demanded, “Is there nobody upstairs? No? Where are the four ladies?”
Tassard, who expected this question, said, “Go up.”
The little troop rushed in, and when they came to the room above, they found Boloquy and Cartouche drinking wine before the fireplace. Gaillard was in bed, and Cartouche was seated on the bed, mending his breeches.
They rushed upon him. The attack was so sudden that he had no time to make any resistance. They tied him with strong ropes, and, placing him in the coach, took him prisoner to Monsieur the Secretary of State. Then he was taken to the Grande Châtelet.
He was in his shirt, having had no time to put on his breeches. He kept cool, congratulating the lieutenant who had betrayed him on the fine livery he wore.
As the coach passed down the road, it nearly crushed some poor wretch who was in the way, and Cartouche, seeing his plight, shouted to him that phrase which he seemed to have affected, “It is necessary to look out for the wheel.”
All the people ran out to see him on his way to the house of M. the Secretary of State. They cried out, “It is Cartouche! It is Cartouche!” only half believing it, as they had so often been deceived.
While in the prison awaiting trial, Cartouche received many illustrious visitors. The Regent came; the courtesan Emilie and the Mme. le Maréchale de Boufflers followed one after the other to pay the prisoner small attentions. Some one had composed a play, and Quinnato, the famous actor of the time, who filled the principal rôle in it, came to ask him for suggestions about the chief scene.
When Cartouche had been sufficiently amused, he began to think of making his escape. He intended doing this in spite of the very close watch that was being kept over him.
After getting out of his dungeon, and just as he was pushing the last bar which separated him from the street and liberty, he was discovered and caught.
Thinking that the Grande Châtelet was not strong enough for so ingenious a man, he was bound securely in chains and taken to the Conciergerie, in the most formidable corner of the tower of Montgomery.
IT is only the basest of literature that describes without adequate reason the weird, the horrible. However, many authors find it necessary to dilate upon the most satanic personalities of men, and the worst cruelties imaginable.
Therefore, it is only with the knowledge that the recital of the misfortunes of Théophraste is destined to throw a light on the most obscure problems of psychic surgery that the author of these lines proceeds with this description of the most frightful tortures, moral and physical, that have ever been endured by man.
The operation to be performed was a singular one, and full of the gravest of dangers. However, M. Eliphaste was in the habit of performing the most complicated of psychic operations, and the delicacy of his astral scalpel was universally acknowledged. But the difficulty was the delay.
Had M. Lecamus brought Théophraste earlier, the danger would have been less, but now M. Eliphaste recognized the gravity of the case, and he said that to kill Cartouche without killing Longuet was to tempt God. It was the gravest responsibility.
However, he knew how to lead M. Longuet’s mind quietly and without haste to the subject of his death, and thus he prepared him for death.
He made him live his death the moment that he made him die his death. Then, at the psychological moment, he made a certain gesture, the double sign which precipitated in death the spirit of the dead, and brought back to life the living mind.
These were the details of the operation to be performed, and the preliminaries, which consisted in making Théophraste live through the last months of Cartouche’s life, having been started, M. Eliphaste began asking Théophraste a series of questions. The latter was lying, groaning, on the bed in the laboratory, which was lighted by the hissing scarlet flames.
M. Lecamus and Mme. Longuet sat on a low bench at one side of the room. M. Eliphaste stood beside the bed.
“Where did they take you, Cartouche?”
“In the torture room. My trial is ended. I am condemned to die on the wheel. Before the torture they wish me to confess the names of my accomplices, my friends, my mistresses. I should rather die on the wheel twice! They shall know nothing!”
“And now, where are you, Cartouche?”
“I am going down a small stairway, at the end of the ‘Walk of the Pillory.’ I open a grating. I am in the dark cellars. These dungeons do not frighten me. I know them well! Ah! Ah! I was shut up in that dungeon under Phillippe le Bel!”
Then with a terrible power M. Eliphaste cried out, “Cartouche! Thou art Cartouche! Thou art in the dungeons by order of the Regent.” Then he repeated to himself, “Phillippe le Bel?” and then to Théophraste again, “Where are we going? Where are we? My God! We must not lose our way! And now where are you, Cartouche?”
“I advance in the darkness of the cellars. There are about me, walking in the dark, so many guardsmen that I cannot tell the number. I see below, far, far below, a ray of light that I know well. It is a square ray of light that the sun has forgotten since the beginning of the history of France. My guards are not French guardsmen. They mistrust all French guardsmen. My guards are commanded by the Lieutenant of the Short Robe of the Châtelet.”
“Where art thou now, Cartouche?”
“I am in the torture chamber. There are before me men clothed in long robes, but I cannot distinguish their faces. They are my commissioners, who have been entrusted with the verifications, as appeared to be the custom. But why do they call it verifications? The thought makes me smile.” (Théophraste really smiled as he said this.) “Where are you now, Cartouche?”
“They put me on the criminal stool. They have put my legs in backings. With incredibly strong cords, they have bound small planks about my legs. I believe truly that the rascals wish to make me suffer to the limit, and the whole day’s work will be rough. But I have a heart hardened by courage. They shall not break it!” At this point M. Longuet, on his strapped bed, uttered a fearful cry. His mouth was wide open, and he groaned incessantly. Adolphe and Marceline leaned over him and asked with horror when that howling would cease, and when that mouth would close. But M. Eliphaste only said, “The torture has begun. But if he howls like that at the first blow of the mallet, there is going to be trouble.” M. Eliphaste was not expecting those groans. He paid no attention to the howling. He calmed M. Lecamus and Mme. Longuet with a supreme gesture. He spoke to Théophraste, something they never knew, for the howling prevented them from hearing anything.
At last the howling became groaning, and eventually the groaning itself stopped. Théophraste’s face had become comparatively placid.
“Why do you cry out in that way, Cartouche?” “I scream because it is a punishment that I cannot denounce my accomplices. I have their names on the end of my tongue! They do not see that if I do not denounce them it is because I cannot move the end of my tongue! I cannot! I cannot! I cannot! And they struck with their mallet again! And they sunk the pieces of wood into my legs again! It is unjust! I cannot move the end of my tongue!”
“What are they doing to you now, Cartouche?” “The doctor and the surgeon are leaning over me and feeling my pulse. They are congratulating themselves on having chosen that kind of torture, which is, they are saying to the commissioners, the least dangerous to life and the least susceptible to accidents.”
“And now, Cartouche, what are they doing to you?”
“They are doing nothing to me, and I regret it, for they have decided to bury the second wedge in me only a half hour after the first, and let the pain which it produced pass away, and the sensibility be entirely restored. I am looking at my judges. They have black mouths. I like the face of the executioner better. He is no more amused than I. He wants to be somewhere else. But there he comes with the second judge. They are all around me. They are over me! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!...”
Never had Théophraste looked so terrible. His mouth was wide open, and his tongue seemed paralyzed. Foam was around his lips, and his eyes seemed to start out of his head.
M. Lecamus looked across to M. Eliphaste, who said, when the second howl had died away, “Why do you scream, Cartouche?”
“Because these torturers will not listen to the names that are on the end of my tongue.”
“But you have not told us any names. You have only screamed.”
“It is Cartouche they are torturing and Longuet who screams,” answered Théophraste.
M. Eliphaste was taken aback by this last response. He turned toward the two silent onlookers and said in a low, trembling voice, “Then it is he who is suffering.”
There was no room for doubting this truth. The fearful expressions on Théophraste’s face as he imagined the executioner forcing the wedge in, showed too plainly that though it was Cartouche whom they tortured, it was Théophraste who really suffered.
M. Eliphaste seemed very concerned. Never before had such a case come before his astral scalpel. The identity of the soul had been proven, and suffering Cartouche had cried out in distress after two centuries. This cry had waited to come from the lips of Théophraste.
M. Eliphaste leaned his head on his hands and prayed. After a short silence he turned to M. Lecamus and said, “We are only at the second wedge, and there are seven of them.”
“Do you think my husband will have the strength to bear them?” asked Marceline.
M. Eliphaste leaned over the prostrate form of Théophraste and examined his head, just as the doctor had done to Cartouche in the torture chamber.
“The man is all right,” said he. “I don’t believe there is anything to fear now. We must kill Cartouche.”
“I think so, too,” said Lecamus. “It is necessary for the future security and definite happiness of M. Longuet.”
M. Eliphaste then continued his interrogations:
“And now what are they doing to you, Cartouche?”
“They are questioning me. I cannot reply. Why doesn’t that man in the corner of the dungeon do his duty? I have not yet seen his face. He turned his back to me and made a noise with old irons. The executioner is very quiet. He is leaning against the wall, yawning. There is a lamp on the table which gives light to two men, who write incessantly. Behind the man who is making the noise I see a little red light. The executioner’s assistant has loosened the knots in the cords a little, which gives me a relief for which I am grateful... But... but... but the assistant on the other side pulls and pulls. If he continues to pull the cords so he will cut my legs off. They bring a crucifix for me to kiss. Behind the man who turned his back on me I hear something like crackling embers, and there are small red flames which lick the stone walls. Between the two men who are writing there is a man who makes a sign. The executioner has a kind face. I sign to him for some water. I could bear the pain better if I had not such a thirst. The executioner raises his mallet! I swear I cannot say the names which are at the end of my tongue. They will not leave me. I cannot speak! Oh! why cannot you hear them? Take them from me!”
By this time his mouth had become closed, but the lips were opened in such a way as to make it appear that he had no lips. The teeth were locked and welded together tightly. A muffled cry of suffering came from the throat, but could not escape through the closed teeth. Suddenly there was a sharp grinding, and his teeth began to break under the great pressure of that closed jaw. Pieces of teeth were scattered over the bed, and blood issued from his mouth. His horrible groaning continued, and Théophraste showed signs of weakening under the great strain.
At this horrible spectacle M. Eliphaste declared wearily that he had never assisted or suspected that he could assist at such suffering. He confessed that until to-day he had never operated on a reincarnated soul of less than five hundred years. It was obvious that in spite of all his science and all his experience the illustrious medium was nonplussed.
M. Eliphaste did not try any longer to dissimulate his anxiety. He could have stopped the operation there if he had had time. But they buried the wedges in so rapidly that it did not even permit him to question M. Longuet.
During this last performance M. Longuet’s toothless mouth opened again. Other cries issued from it which were not like human cries at all. They were so curious and so weird that all three onlookers leaned over him, trembling with terror to see how such a cry could be made by a human mouth.
Mme. Longuet wanted to run away, but in her fright she fell. When she arose the cries had ceased. M. Eliphaste commanded her to be quiet, recalling to her with a severe look her responsibility in the operation.
M. Théophraste now reposed peacefully on his strap-mattress. That peacefulness, following immediately the horrors of such suffering, was extraordinary. He was not in pain. He remembered none of it. After the torturing was over he ceased to think of it, and consequently this was how he could reply to M. Eliphaste in the intervals of torture, in the most natural way, without physical emotion.
M. Eliphaste again began to interrogate him:
“And now where are you, Cartouche?”
“I am still in the torture chamber. Ah! they hold me! They hold me tightly! They hold my arms! What are they going to do? The man in the center says, ‘By order of the Regent we must have the names. So much the worse if he dies for it! Are the tongs ready? Begin with the breasts!.. Oh! Oh! The man kneeling before the burning coals gets up, making a noise with the irons. He hands the red tongs to the executioner. They uncover my right breast! Oh! Oh! It is dreadful! I cannot live through it!”