THE recital which follows is the integral reproduction of what came out of the mouth of Théophraste while plunged in hypnotic sleep, from the moment that he submitted to the torture until he died. This part is of the highest importance, not only for the experimental spirit of science, but for history, for it destroys the legend of the wheel and shows to us, in an indisputable fashion, the real death of Cartouche. I have not found this part stored in the oaken chest, but in the papers and statements which have been read in the Spiritual Congress of 1889. It is all from M. Eliphaste’s hand.
Théophraste, or, rather, Cartouche in the power of M. Eliphaste, said, “I do not know exactly what has happened to me. I have died, I have hidden the document, and I have not met a single person. When I re-opened my eyes (I had them closed then, and I was without doubt falling from a feebleness that seemed like death) I did not recognize at first a single one of the objects which surrounded me, and I did not know the place into which they had carried me. Certainly I am no longer in the torture room, nor in my dungeon in the tower of Montgomery. Am I only in the Conciergerie again? I do not know. Where have they imprisoned me after the torture, whilst waiting for my death? Into what new prison have they thrown me? The first thing that I distinguish is a bluish light which flitters across some heavy bars which are covered with a grating. The moon visits me. It descends two or three steps. I try to make a movement, but I cannot. I am an inert thing. My will does not control my legs any longer, nor a single one of my muscles. It is as if they had severed all relations between my will and my flesh. My brain is no longer the master of seeing and comprehending. It is no longer master of my actions. My poor legs! I feel them scattered around me. I ought to have attained a degree of suffering-I kneel on one, as I have explained, so that I shall not suffer more. But where am I?... The moon descended two more steps, and then two more.... Oh! Oh! What is this that the moon lights? It is an eye! A large eye! But the eye is empty; that large eye is empty, and the other eye at its side-which is also lighted now-is covered again with its green eyelid. I see the whole head! It had no skin on the cheeks, but it had a beard on the chin. The moon advances continuously. It halts gently in the holes of the nose. It has two holes in the nose, two on a head.... They threw me, then, into a common ditch! The moon shone on me.... I have two legs of a corpse across my stomach. I recognize those steps now, and this ditch, and this moon.... I am in the charnel house of Montfançon!... I am afraid!... When I went up to the Cleopimetes by the Bue des Morts on junketing days I used to look at that charnel house through the grating. I looked at it with curiosity because I already saw my carrion there, but the idea never occurred to me that when a carrion was there it could look from the other side of the grating. And now my carrion sees! They threw me there because they thought me dead, and I am buried alive, with the corpses of the persons hanged. My fate is entirely miserable and surpasses all that the imagination of men could invent! The saddest reflections assail me, and if I ask myself first of all, by what artifice of fate I am reduced to such an extremity, I am obliged to confess that fate had nothing to do with this affair, but my pride only. I should have continued quietly to be the ‘chief of all the robbers’ if I had remained alive. But La Belle Laittiere was right when she said in the tavern of the Reine Margot that I was no longer fit to live. I was pleased to play the potentate, and I ended by having a mania for cutting up in pieces all those whom I suspected. My lieutenants ran more danger in serving me than in deserting me. They betrayed me, and that was logical. The beginning of my bad luck was the affair of the Luxembourg. It should have opened my eyes, but my pride hindered me from seeing clearly. This is a good time for these reflections, now that I am in the charnel house.
“I am living in the charnel house with the dead, and for the first time in my life I am afraid. But I am not afraid of the dead; I am afraid of the living, for there is one near me alive!I know that he moves. It is strange that at this moment, when I am upon the limit of life and death, my senses perceive things that they ignored in good health, and while my ears do not hear any more, on account of the boiling water with which they were filled, I know there is some one alive near me. Shall I be then not the only one to live in this domain of putrefaction? I recall that the Vache-a-Paniers told me that the Count de Charalais had caused some women who had resisted him to be buried alive in the little ditches near the earthen mound of Montfançon, but I, Cartouche, have no desire to think of such a crime. I know very well that he bathes himself in the blood of young virgins whom he had killed, to cure himself of a terrible disease which ate into his flesh, but to bury women alive in ditches, that I do not believe. And yet there is on my left side a woman who moves in one of the ditches. I do not hear her, I feel her. The moon had lengthened its ray of light as far as myself. Its ray is divided into three by the bars of the grating. This makes three blue bands, by which I see, first of all, the hole of the eye, and the three holes of the nose, and then a wonderful mouth, which sticks its tongue out at me. Then there are three bodies without heads. In the left side of the third body I distinguish very plainly the putrefied wound in which was buried one of the rings from which the headless one was hanged. He could not be hanged by the neck, as he had no head. As I do not feel the woman at my side in the ditch move any more, I collect my wits a little and I employ myself in remembering the bodies which fill the charnel house. I begin to see those which are entirely in the shadows. There are some! There are some more sounds. They bring all the executed criminals here from the city. There are some fresh ones, there are some decayed ones, there are some well preserved ones, and all dry; but the others are not presentable-they are falling into ruin. I will soon be a ruin like them. However, all is not said, all is not finished, since I exist. Hope is not dead. One finds hope even in the depths of a charnel house. Oh, if I could move! The dead men are moving! I will end by moving also. I have turned my eyes as far as it is possible in the right corner of the orbit. I have seen that the corpse which is on my stomach does not move its head. It slides on my stomach. I begin to be afraid again, not because the dead one moved-for the charnel house belongs to the dead, who do there what they wish, but because they pull the dead man by the legs. I turn my eyes in the other corner. In the left corner I saw a dead man’s leg in the air. This leg ought to be held by something, pulled by something. The moon rises the length of the wall, with the leg as far as one of the holes. And my eyes look so much to the left that they see a living hand. The living hand which came out of the hole holds the dead foot.I feel, I know that there is a woman eatingin the ditch at the side. And now I cannot take my eyes from the hole for fear of seeing the live hand come back and seeing it reach out. But I hope on my salvation. I hope that the hand will not be long enough. Suddenly the moon ceases to light up the hole, and I turn my eyes toward the grating where the moonlight enters. Then I see between the moon and me a man on the steps of the charnel house. A living man. I am saved perhaps. I wished to cry out with joy, and I should have, perhaps, if the horror of that which I feel and know all at once had not suddenly closed my throat.I feel, I know, that that man has come to rob me of my bones!... On account of the Courtesan Emilie!... The Regent is remembered with the Duke of Orleans and Jean sans Peur.
“The Courtesan Emilie would not see him again. The devil meddled with the affair, and carried a bone of Cartouche, who was beloved by Emilie, to place in her bed between her chemise and her skin. I know this, my eye has read this in the heart of the man who descends the steps of the charnel house. He comes there to take my bones from me.... He lights a lantern. He goes straight to my corpse. He does not see, then, that the eyes of my corpse are moving!... He draws out from under his cloak-a steel blade sharp and red in the rays from the lantern. He puts the lantern down, he catches me by the shoulders and leaves me half sitting against the wall, under the hole. He took my left hand with his left hand, and with his right hand he buried the steel blade in my wrist. I do not feel the blade in my wrist, but I see it. It turns around my wrist. It is going to cut it, already it has detached it. Now I commence to feel the blade! Life has come back into my wrist! Oh, yes, my wrist!... Oh, yes, my wrist!... One last blow with the blade and my left hand remains in his left hand. Oh, my poor wrist!... Yes! Yes! Yes! The life! The life! The life of a nerve! I tell you that it sufficed for the life of a nerve! Oh! Oh! Oh! The man howls and breaks his lantern with a kick. My hand is partly in the man’s hand, but by a great miracle of the ebbing life in my wrist, my hand, at the moment it leaves my arm, has seized the hand of the man! And the man cannot rid himself of my hand, which is stiffening in death, and which holds him! Ah! he moves about, he shakes, he howls, he shakes my hand, which holds him-which holds him. He pulls my hand with his right hand, but he cannot free himself thus of the wrist of a dead man’s hand! I see him as he flees from the charnel house, howling, bounding over the steps in the moonlight like a fool, like a madman, gesticulating with my wrist.
“At this moment, above my head, a hand that I do not see, but which I feel, comes out of the wall and takes me by the hair! It pulls me, pulls me by the head. Oh, to cry out! To cry out! To cry out! But how can I cry out with those living teeth staving me in the neck and throat?”
“And now, Cartouche, where art thou?”
“I go into the darkness radiant in death.”
As soon as Théophraste had pronounced these words, M. Eliphaste made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. He leaned over the prostrate form, and blew impatiently on his eye.
He said to him: “Awake thou, Théophraste Longuet!”
This was repeated three times, each time with greater earnestness. However, Théophraste never moved. His immobility was deathlike, and his toothless mouth and bloodless lips made the silent onlookers believe that he had followed Cartouche in the shadow of death. His corpselike pallor seemed to them to be already turning green, and his hair, having become suddenly white, gave him the appearance of a very old man. Was he already dead? Was he decomposing already?
M. Eliphaste repeated the gestures, and in his lids, intense earnestness appeared like a madman. He blew again on the eyes, and parted the eyelashes, again crying out: “Théophraste Longuet, awake thou! Awake thou, Théophraste Longuet!”
Just at the moment when they believed that Théophraste Longuet would never return to life again, a slight tremble shook his frame, and drawing a deep breath, he turned his face toward them. At first he breathed with difficulty, but quickly recovering, he opened his eyes and said: “Cartouche is dead!”
M. Eliphaste’s face lit up with emotion. “Let us thank God,” he said, “that the operation has been successful,” and he began his prayer again: “In the beginning thou wast silent! Eon! Source of all ages!...”
Mme. Longuet and M. Adolphe threw themselves on Théophraste, while thanking God from the bottom of their hearts. They felt that the death of Cartouche had not been too dearly bought. The operation had certainly been a rough one, but he had only lost his teeth, and his hair had turned white. Mme. Longuet put her arms around her husband, and helped him rise from the couch. “Let us go. We have stopped here too long already,” she said.
“Speak louder,” said Théophraste, with strange enunciation. “I have something in my ears. I cannot move, either.”
“It is natural that you should be a little benumbed, my dear,” said Mme. Longuet. “You have been stretched on that bed for a long time. But make an effort.”
“Speak louder, I tell you. I can move my arms now, but I cannot stir my legs. They won’t move, and my feet pain me very much.”
He then put his hand to his mouth and said: “Why, what have you done with my teeth? You put me to sleep to fix my teeth, and you have taken them from me.”
It was curious that while he was asleep, even after he had lost his teeth, he spoke distinctly. It was evident that he could not move, and Mme. Longuet removed the clothing to rub his stiff limbs. To her sorrow she found his clothes all torn, and on looking closer saw all the flesh on his limbs lacerated. His legs and feet were boiled. The flesh was torn away in some places, and burned horribly in others. M. Eliphaste, with trembling hands, removed the clothing from his chest, and there they saw, over the heart, two spots of black blood. His biceps bore fresh marks of frightful torture.
Mme. Longuet sobbed loudly, and sat with lowered head, looking at the horrible sight. Adolphe ran to get a carriage. It was evident that Théophraste could not walk or move. On his return, Théophraste was still complaining of the pain. Adolphe, with the assistance of the carriage driver, carried him out into the street. They lifted him carefully on the mattress, and walked slowly out, followed by the weeping Marceline.
M. Eliphaste prostrated himself on the ground, and with his hands clasped and elbows on the floor, cried out with a voice full of sorrow: “My beloved! My well beloved! I believed that I was Your son. Oh, my well beloved! I have taken Thy shadow for Thy light. Thou hast crushed my pride. I am in the dark, at the bottom of an abyss-I, the man of light-and I have hated it. I am only the son of silence. Eon! Source of Eon! Oh, life! To know life! To possess life!”
And thus, as they went out into the pure air, they left him praying.
THEOPHRASTE’S bones were not broken, and it only took six weeks to heal, although he was obliged to keep to his bed for two months, when he regained the use of his legs. During all this time he did not make a single allusion to the past. Cartouche was dead-quite dead. The operation had been successful, although very painful. So much so, that every one dreaded that he would remain a cripple to the end of his life; but he had recovered marvelously. He had obtained a new set of teeth, and was able to speak quite plainly, but it was a more difficult thing to rid himself of the effects of the boiling water in his ears, and at times he was perfectly deaf.
After a while Théophraste thought of occupying his mind by going back into business. He had retired when young, being able to live on the income derived from several inventions which he had made for the use of rubber stamps.
However, they were all very thankful for the result, and this slight inconvenience did not worry them.
It was his habit to rise early, and after breakfast he would go out for a little walk to strengthen his legs. He soon found their old elasticity, and regained their full use. On these occasions Adolphe used to follow a short distance behind in order to watch his movements and report to M. Eliphaste.
At first he noticed nothing abnormal in his behavior, and in his report contented himself with stating this unimportant fact, that he stopped quite a while before a butcher’s stall. If this had occurred only once, it would have passed the watchful Adolphe unnoticed. However, it became a regular thing for Théophraste to stand looking at the bloody meat, and spend some time talking to the butcher, a square-shouldered, florid fellow, always ready with a jest.
One day, when M. Lecamus had decided that Théophraste had spent too much time at the butcher’s shop, he came up to him, as if by chance, and found him, with the butcher, decorating all the fresh meat with curl papers. This was innocent enough. Thus judged M. Eliphaste, although he wrote in the margin of the report:
“He may look at the meat in the butcher’s shop. It is good to let him see blood sometimes. It is the end of the crisis, and can do no harm.”
This butchery was a small one, and had its specialty. M. Houdry sold among other ordinary meats a special quality of veal. The secret of this quality lay in the way it was killed. The majority of Paris butchers obtain their meat from the abattoirs, but M. Houdry always bought his alive, and killed it himself, in his own way. He was not satisfied to knock the calf in the head, as they did at the abattoirs. He bled it after the Jewish manner, with a large knife which he called the bleeder, and so dexterous had he become in this art that he never had to cut the same wound twice. He had gained some reputation as a good butcher.
M. Houdry had explained the case about his veal to M. Longuet, with the greatest mystery, and he had evidently taken great pleasure in it- so much so that Théophraste, after having listened to the theory, had shown the desire to assist at a practical lesson. In a small court adjacent to the store, M. Houdry had a secret abattoir. On a certain morning, Théophraste, who happened there at a much earlier hour than was his custom, found his man at the abattoir with a calf. The butcher begged him to come in, and to close the doors behind him. “I shut myself up every day thus with a live calf,” said M. Houdry, “and when the doors of the abattoir are opened again, the calf is dead. I lose no time; I have operated in twenty-five minutes.”
Théophraste congratulated him. He asked him many questions, interesting himself in all the objects which struck his attention. The bellows with its large arms drew his attention. He also saw a windlass. He learned that that strong oak cross-bar, with pegs in it, supported the windlass and the bucket. He admired the solid oak hand-barrow also. A chopper which was drawn up was called a “leaf.” But that which interested him more was a set of tools hung on the walls in the shop. In this “shop,” which was sort of saddle-bags for cutlass, he saw first of all the bleeder, and was pleased to pass his finger over the long, strong and sharpened edge. Then there was a much smaller knife, called the “Moutoniner,” used ordinarily to cut up mutton, as the name indicates, but which was used there to cut certain parts of veal. Then some other small knives, among which was the canut, used in “flowering” the veal. “Flowering” the veal consists in making light, artistic designs on the shin of the veal, as soon as it is bleached.
The first day M. Longuet received instructions about the tools. But in the following days he learned the art of the whole operation, and entered into each detail with little repugnance. He used to say, some days, in going away, jestingly: “You kill a calf every day; you must be careful, my dear M. Houdry, you see it will end by its becoming known to the other calves.”
Théophraste was not idle, either. Whenever he had an opportunity he would help M. Houdry in these killings. One day the assistant did not come, and Théophraste helped rope up the calf for killing. As he was doing this, M. Houdry remarked on the evil of killing the calf by striking him on the head, as they did at the abattoir.
Théophraste declared it was a crime, and most inhuman. “It is much finer to do it with the bleeder. One blow is sufficient, and the head is off. What a fine death. How the blood flows, and with what dispatch does he die.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, who had killed the calf, “see the calf’s eyes, as the blood flows. How they stare at you. They are dead, but they look at you!”
“What is the matter with the calf’s eyes?” demanded M. Houdry. “They are like the rest. Ah, you think it is a joke? Well, well, you are not so used to it as I.”
M. Houdry then prepared the meat for selling, and while he was doing so Théophraste took the head, cleaned it and cut out the eyes. The sight of the blood had excited him beyond control, and M. Houdry was amused when he desired to take the head and feet home with him.
In parting he said: “Au revoir, M. Houdry, au revoir. I will take the head away with me, but I leave you the eyes. I do not like eyes to stare at me. You must not laugh at me, though. You do not understand me. However, it is my affair, and you must be glad that you are not afraid of dead eyes staring at you.”
And so he returned home, and when he appeared at the door of his house with the calf’s head under his arm, Adolphe and Marceline smiled, saying: “He is amusing himself with some innocent prank.”
IT had become their habit in the Longuet flat to play dominoes in the evening. M. Adolphe was a good player, and always he used the Norman provincial names. When he played the double six, he would call the “double negro”; the five was “the dog that bites,” and so on. Marceline was always amused by these terms, and was always ready to play.
It happened on this particular evening that Théophraste lost his game, and after a short argument he began to sulk, and refused to play more. Seating himself in a chair near the window, he began reading the paper. He had strong political opinions.
Suddenly he was attracted by a strange headline. He read it and re-read it, and could not resist an exclamation. “Strange! Is not Cartouche dead, then?”
He could not help smiling. This hypothesis was so absurd. Then he ran over the first lines of the article and said: “My dear Adolphe, have you read this article? ‘Is not Cartouche dead, then?’ It is a strange, a surprising article.”
Adolphe and Marceline could hardly prevent a start, and looked at him with uneasiness.
Théophraste began to read the article aloud, as follows:
“‘For some days the police have been occupying themselves with one of the greatest of mysteries that have occurred in Paris, and with a series of odd crimes. They are endeavoring to hide from the public the most curious sides. Those crimes and the manner in which their perpetrator escapes from the police at the moment they think they have him, recall, point by point, the manner in which the celebrated Cartouche committed his crimes. If he was not enacting a thing so reprehensible, one could admire the perfect art with which the model is imitated. It is Cartouche to a finish! The police themselves have never dealt with a more mysterious bandit. Nevertheless, the administration, very mysteriously, but, we admit, very intelligently, has sent by some of them an abstract of Cartouche’s history, compiled from the manuscripts of the National Libraries. They thought, subtly, that the history of Cartouche would be useful to them, not only in the present task, which is to prevent the criminal outrages of the new Cartouche, and to arrest him, but also that Cartouche’s history ought to form a part of the general instruction to all the agents of police.
“‘Finally the news was brought to us that M. Lepine, Prefect of Police, has ordered them to devote several evenings in the Prefecture to listen to lectures on the authentic history of the illustrious bandit.’
“What do you say to that?” demanded Théophraste with merriment. “It is a merry farce, and the journalists are great fellows to issue such fibs.”
Neither Adolphe nor Marceline smiled. Marceline’s voice trembled slightly when she begged Théophraste to continue. He began to read again quietly:
“‘The first crime of the new Cartouche did not at all present the horror that we shall find in some of the others. It was a polite crime. Let us say at once that all the crimes of which we have any knowledge, and which they attribute to the new Cartouche, have been accomplished in the last fifteen days, at the North, and always from eleven o’clock in the evening to four o’clock in the morning.’”
Mme. Longuet rose, very pale. M. Lecamus made her sit down again, by a knowing shake of the head, and commanded her to be silent.
Théophraste said: “What is this that they want to tell with their new Cartouche? As for me, I only know the old one. After all, let’s see the gallant polite crime,” and he read it over more and more calmly:
“‘A pretty woman, well known in Paris, where her literary salon is frequented by all those who interest themselves with debates and with matters spiritualistic, was proceeding, toward morning, with her toilette for bed, and preparing to take a well-earned rest, following the fatigue which had wearied her that evening there with the disorder of a conference at home of the most illustrious of our pneumatics, when suddenly the casement of her balcony was opened quickly by a man with a figure a little over the medium, still young and vigorous (this last is in the report of the police), but with perfectly white hair. He had in his hand a brilliant nickel revolver.
“‘"Madame,” said he to the terrified woman, “compose yourself. I do not wish to do you any evil. Consider me the most humble of your servants. My name is Louis Dominique Cartouche, and I have no other ambition than to sup at your side. By the tripes of Mme. de Phalaris, I have the hunger of all the devils!” and he began to laugh.
“‘Mme. de B.-let us call her Mme. de B.- believed that she was dealing with a crazy man, but he declared he was only determined to take supper with her, which peculiar favor he had long desired. That man was much more dangerous than a crazy man, for it might be necessary to kill him on account of the brilliantly nickeled revolver.
“‘"Go,” said the man, “and call your people, and tell them to bring here to you a good supper. Do not give them a single explanation which would be likely to cause me any embarrassment or trouble, for if you do you will be a dead woman.”
“‘Mme. de B. then took her departure, for she was brave, with a mind sufficiently elevated to enable her to face the most unexpected adventures. She rang for the chambermaid, and a quarter of an hour later the man with the white hair and Mme. de B. were seated opposite each other in proper style, and apparently the best of friends. The supper was prolonged through the night (we do not wish to affirm anything as to this point, which is so interesting-but are a little skeptical as to the veracity of this story), so that the man did not descend by the sheet from the balcony until about sunrise. The beautiful Mme. de B. had not had supper, and so she did not complain about that forced supper, which she ended by partaking of in very good grace, nor had she seen the necessity of reporting her adventure to the Police Commissioner. And we see what the circumstances were. Some days later the Commissioner was announced at Mme. de B.’s. He told her that the ring that she wore on her finger, in which a magnificent diamond glittered, was the property of Mlle. Emily de Bescancon. Mme. de B. was of course ignorant of its value-or where it came from. It had been presented to her. But Mlle. Emily de Besancon, who had seen it on the finger of Mme. de B. the day before at a charity sale, claimed it formally as hers. She had furnished all sorts of proofs of it, and the diamond was set in such a unique way that there could be no doubt of it. Mme. de B. was infinitely troubled, and was obliged to relate the adventure which had befallen her. She spoke of the unknown, of the balcony, of the supper, of the gratitude he had shown her for his supper, and his placing the magnificent diamond on her finger, which he had obtained, he said, from a woman he had loved very much, a Mme. de Phalaris, who had been dead for some time. Mme. de B. could not be suspected. She furnished a proof-the nickel-plated revolver that the unknown had left on the table that night. Finally she begged the Commissioner of Police to take away from her house the hundred bottles of champagne of every choice brand that the unknown had sent to her the day after the eventful night, under the pretext that the supper had been exquisite, and that the only thing that could have been desired was champagne. She feared that the champagne, as well as the ring, had been stolen. The Commissioner acquitted the beautiful Mme. de B. He could do nothing at the time, the news being in everybody’s mouth, as the world at large would henceforth interest itself in the new Cartouche.
“‘This little adventure, which is the least important of those we have to relate, is the reproduction of what happened on the night of the 13th of July, 1721, at the house of Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers. She also was occupied in making her toilette. The young man, who came unexpectedly by way of the balcony, had no revolver in his hand, but he carried six English pistols. He demanded supper after presenting himself as Louis Dominique Cartouche, and the widow of Louis François, Duke of Boufflers, peer and Marshal of France, one of the heirs of Lille and of Malplaquet, supped with Cartouche, and late at night.
“‘Cartouche only complained of the champagne, and Mme. de Boufflers received a hundred bottles of it the next day. She had them taken, by her butler Patapon, into the cellars of a great financier.
“‘Some time after that one of Cartouche’s bands stopped an equipage in the streets of Paris. Cartouche leaned into the carriage to recognize the faces. It was Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers. He turned toward his people. “Give them liberty to pass on, now and always, Mme. de la Maréchale de Boufflers!” ordered he in a ringing voice, and he bowed very low to the Maréchale, after he had slipped on her finger a magnificent diamond that he had probably stolen from Mme. de Phalaris.Mme. de Phalaris never saw it again.
“‘Now let us pass on to the crime in the Rue du Bac.’”
MARCELINE got up as much to hide her feelings as to find out if the nickel-plated revolver was in its usual place in the drawer. Upon her return she was greatly agitated, and told them that the revolver had been removed.
Théophraste advised her to calm herself, saying there was nothing of importance in that; and he proceeded to read about the crime in the Rue du Bac, saying that the journalist who wrote the narrative was more intelligent, and had made his report more interesting than the first one.
“However,” said he, “there are a few inaccuracies and omissions in his narrative. According to him one is led to think that Cartouche indulged in amorous proceedings with Mme. de Bithigne after supper. However, such a thing should not be allowed to get abroad, as no such thing happened. He had no other intention than to take supper with the lady.
“Why, my dear Marceline, if I had intended otherwise, my reputation would have suffered, and Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers would have scorned me when I met her on July 13th, 1721.
“These gentlemen also relate that I outraged Mme. la Maréchale de Boufflers. This is all wrong. I am very fond of her on account of her intellect, and our intercourse was most polite, as well as virtuous. If they had only studied more, these journalists would have known that Madame in 1721 was over sixty years old, and I dare say Cartouche knew many younger women to play such tricks on.”
Théophraste then took up the paper:
“‘The history of the Rue du Bac is much more simple. The Prefect of Police had received a note which ran: “If you dare, come and find me; I am always at the inn in the Rue du Bac, with Bernard.” It was signed “Cartouche.” The thing had occurred after Mme. de Bithigne had told her story. The Prefect thought over his case and laid his plans.
“‘That same evening, a quarter of an hour after midnight, half a dozen policemen raided the tavern in the Rue du Bac. They were met on the stairs by a man, who, although still young, had perfectly white hair. He was endowed with almost superhuman strength, and, on seeing the police, he picked up a chair near by and started striking them. Three of them were stunned, and the others only just had time to drag the prostrated bodies of their companions into the street to prevent them from being burned by a fire started on the first landing by this man with white hair. The man saved himself by jumping from roof to roof over spaces more than thirty feet high.
“‘The new Cartouche,’ continued Théophraste, amid the scared silence of Marceline and M. Le-camus, ‘the new Cartouche has taken possession of the Rue Guenegaud. Several days ago they found in a vault-like passage there under the floor the body of a young doctor, who had been active at the death of Mme. de Bardinoldi, the mystery of which had baffled the police and press. The police had not confided to any one the fact that pinned to the young doctor’s tunic was a card on which some one had written in pencil: “We will meet each other in the other world, M. de Traneuse.” This was without doubt a crime of the new Cartouche, for the old one did in fact assassinate at this place an engineer named Traneuse. Cartouche had knocked him on the head with a stick, and the young doctor had had his skull fractured with a blunt instrument.’”
Théophraste laid down the paper, and, looking at Adolphe and Marceline, remarked that they both looked as if they were expecting a like catastrophe.
“Why, my dear Adolphe,” said he, “it is ridiculous for you to be angry at such pleasantries. I take the opportunity of telling you that I often frequent the Rue Guenegaud. That history of M. de Traneuse was to me the beginning of one of the prettiest farces that ever I played with M. d’Argenson’s spies. Following the death of M. de Traneuse (who had allowed some very improper talk about me), I was followed by two patrols of the guard, who covered me and rendered all resistance impossible. But they were ignorant that I was Cartouche, and satisfied themselves by conducting me to the Ford l’Avegne, which was the easiest prison in Paris. In this prison they put debtors, drunks, and disorderly people, and the people who have not paid their fines. They were sure that they had taken Cartouche on the 10th of January, but on the evening of the 9th Cartouche had made his escape, and took the direction of his police. It was time, for everybody was now searching the streets of Paris.
“My dear Marceline, and my dear Adolphe, you look as if you were at a funeral. That article does not lose its quota of a certain amount of wit. At first I thought it only the jest of a cheap journalist, but I see now that it is very serious, believe me. Wait for the history of the calf! Ah! We have not done yet with the affair of the Petits Augustines! Listen!”
Théophraste picked up his paper, adjusted his gold spectacles, and began again:
“‘That which was the most extraordinary in this adventure was that several times during light days they have been on the point of capturing this modern Cartouche, and that he always escaped just as the other did, by way of the chimneys. History teaches us that the true Cartouche designed on the 11th of June, 1721, to sack the Hotel Desmarets, Rue des Petits Augustines. It was one of his men, Le Ratichon, who had given him the idea. But Cartouche and Le Ratichon had been imprisoned by the police. As soon as Cartouche was in the house, the bailiffs hastened there and the place was invaded. He tranquilly closed the doors of the salons and extinguished the lights, undressed himself, climbed into the chimney, descended by another way into the kitchen, where he found a scullion, killed the scullion, disguised himself with the dead man’s clothes, and went out in fine form from the hotel, killing two bailiffs with two pistol shots because they asked him news of Cartouche. Well, what will you say when you know that our Cartouche was surrounded the day before yesterday in a confectioner’s shop in a quarter of the Augustines, escaped by the chimney, after having put on over all his effects, to prevent soiling them, the pastry cook’s blouse, which had been found on the roofs, also his pantaloons. As to the pastry cook, they found him half buried in his bake oven. But, before putting him there, as a humane precaution, the murderer, Cartouche, had assassinated him.’ ”
Here Théophraste, interrupting himself again, cried:
“Previously, previously. I had previously assassinated him.... But why do you fly into the corners? Are you afraid? Let us see, my dear Adolphe, my dear Marceline, a little coolness- you will need it for the history of the calf.”
NEVER had Mme. Longuet or M. Lecamus been so upset before at the reading of a newspaper. The account of the atrocious murder did not seem to disturb Théophraste a bit. When he came to the part where Cartouche had placed the baker in the bake oven, Mme. Longuet groaned and could not sit still. M. Lecamus was no less disturbed, and they both rose and looked to Théophraste in amazement.
He then began to read the account of M. Houdry’s calf:
“‘M. Houdry was a head butcher on one of the small streets. Everybody came to him to buy veal, which was his specialty. This report explained itself by a fact so unusual that we can believe it only on the affirmation of M. le Commissioner of Police Mifroid, who conducted the first inquest. We know that all the butchers of Paris get their meat from the abattoirs. It was against the law for them to kill anything at home.’
“That is accurate,” said Théophraste, “that is exactly right; M. Houdry explained that to me several times, and the confidence that he placed in me by telling me the mystery of his abattoir astonished me not a little. Why should he confide to me a fact which was not known to his wife, his private clerk, a foundling whom he considered as one of the family, and his brother-in-law, who brought the calf to him each night? Why? Ah! No one knows. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t help it. You know very well that no one can escape his fate. As for me, I said to him: ‘Take care, you might end by being one of the calves!’ I resume my reading: ‘That calf was brought to him secretly each night by his brother-in-law, and as his abattoir was on a little court, behind which was the open country, no one ever saw a live calf at M. Houdry’s.
“‘The inquest will tell us from whence the calf came. M. Mifroid, the Commissioner of Police, has decided to sift the matter to the bottom, and penetrate the whole mystery.
“‘It appears that M. Houdry had his special way of killing his calf, a way that gave quality to the veal. He used to cut the calf’s throat with a bleeder.’
“Is it necessary for me,” said Théophraste, “to show you what a bleeder is?”
Going to the drawer of the sideboard, he took out the carving knife, and while explaining that a bleeder was twice as large as that, he passed it up and down M. Lecamus’ face to make him understand the method of killing the calf. He tried to get M. Lecamus to hold the knife, but by this time he was too frightened, and had retreated into a corner of the room, fearing that Théophraste would do something violent. However, he laughed at their temerity and sat down to read the further account.
“‘Yesterday, leaving early, monsieur shut himself in his abattoir as usual with his calf. He was aided by his clerk in tying the calf to the hanger. The calf being tied, the clerk busied himself in rinsing the casks before the abattoir, which the butcher always kept shut when killing.
“‘Ordinarily, M. Houdry took from twenty to thirty minutes to kill his calf, gut it and bleach it. Thirty-five minutes passed, and the double doors of the abattoir were not opened. The clerk, who had finished rinsing, noticed it with the greatest astonishment. Often M. Houdry had called him to scald the head, scrape the hairs off, and clean the ears. That particular day his master did not call him. Meanwhile, Mme. Houdry, the butcher’s wife, appeared at the door of the court.
“‘"What isthe matter there?” she asked. “Is he not finished yet?”
“‘"It is true, madame, he is a very long time.”
“‘Then she called, “Houdry! Houdry!” No response. She crossed the court and opened the abattoir door. The calf immediately escaped, and began gracefully jumping around her. She looked at the calf at once with emotion, for at that time the calf should have been dead. Then she struck a single blow on the double door, and called again to her husband, who did not answer her. She turned toward the clerk. “M. Houdry is not there,” she said. “Are you sure he has not gone out?”
“‘"Oh, madame, I am perfectly sure of it. He has not come out and no one has gone in. I have not left the court,” replied the clerk, springing at the calf’s head as it continued running around. “I am sure he is there. He is just hiding to frighten you.”
“‘"It will be better to hide the calf. Houdry! Houdry!”
“‘The clerk, with a turn of the halter, had tied the calf. Entering with Mme. Houdry he uttered a cry of surprise and said: “Oh, that is queer! When we came in there was only one calf, a single calf, madame, a calf which was tied to the hanger, and which gambols in the court now, and here is another calf on the crossbeam.” Yes, indeed, there was another calf on the tinel.
“‘"I see it now,” said Mme. Houdry. “What a small calf! But you are foolish; there should be two calves.”
“‘"Never, madame, never.”
“‘"Well, you see perfectly the calf on the beam?”
“‘The little clerk and Mme. Houdry drew near to the beam, which was in the shadow, and how astonished they were to see the kind of white meat which was hanging from the beam. They had never seen such white meat, and this meat was arranged exactly like the calf’s. They accounted for this finally by deciding that it was not veal meat.
“‘"What a curious calf,” the clerk continued to repeat.
“‘"It is not a small calf,” said Mme. Houdry. “No! no!”
“‘"All the same, madame, they have decorated the skin on the stomach with the lancet. See!
What pretty patterns! There are two hearts, some arrows, some flowers ...Ah! those beautiful flowers.” The clerk raised up the lungs from which hung the heart.
“‘"It is a beautiful pluck,” said he, “and has not been trufled. The heart is good.”
“‘"Yes, he had a good heart!” groaned Mme. Houdry, who was all at once terrified at what she had said.
“‘Thereupon the clerk began to weep, and without knowing why, dipped his hands in a pail of cold water which was placed beside the boiler, looking for the head of the animal, and he drew out a head. But when she saw the head, Mme. Houdry fainted, for she had recognized the head of her husband.
“‘Mme. Houdry had immediately recognized her husband’s head, and the clerk himself examined it more closely, to be sure that it was the head of his master. It was a well-cut head-well refined, well scalded, well scraped. The moustache and hair had been shaved, as they should be, and but for something unforeseen, if need be, the head of the butcher would have passed for the head of a calf.
“‘The clerk in his turn fainted, and let the head of M. Houdry roll away.
“‘Some minutes later the tragedy was discovered, judging from the disturbance in the quarter.’
“The journalist,” said Théophraste, “was not of the opinion that the calf had decapitated the butcher, and that also was put before Cartouche’s name-that poor Cartouche.” He shrugged his shoulders once more, and then, having raised his eyes above the paper, he sought in the two corners of the dining-room, where M. Lecamus and his wife had taken refuge. They had disappeared. He called them and they did not answer. He tried to open the door of the landing, and it would not open. He then rushed to the chimney, which was large enough for him to get up, and scaled it with the same facility as he had descended the chimney when the boiler was beginning to boil at M. Houdry’s, the same morning that he had decapitated that unfortunate man.