Chapter VI (5)

Mademoiselle Scuderi could contain herself no longer. "In Christ's name!" she cried, "what has happened? What is going forward here?" She hastily opened the carriage-door and stepped out. The crowd made way for her deferentially; and when she saw that one or two compassionate women had lifted up the girl, laid her on the steps, and were rubbing her brow with strong waters, she went up to Desgrais, and with eagerness repeated her question.

"A terrible thing has happened," said Desgrais. "René Cardillac was found, this morning, killed by a dagger-thrust. His journeyman, Olivier, is the murderer, and has just been taken to prison."

"And the girl----" "Is Madelon," interrupted Desgrais, "Cardillac's daughter. The wretched culprit was her sweetheart, and now she is crying and howling, and screaming over and over again that Olivier is innocent--quite innocent; but she knows all about this crime, and I must have her taken to prison too." As he spoke he cast one of his baleful, malignant looks at the girl, which made Mademoiselle Scuderi shudder. The girl was now beginning to revive, and breathe again faintly, though still incapable of speech or motion. There she lay with closed eyes, and people did not know what to do, whether to take her indoors, or leave her where she was a little longer till she recovered. Mademoiselle Scuderi looked upon this innocent creature deeply moved, with tears in her eyes. She felt a horror of Desgrais and his men. Presently heavy footsteps came downstairs, those of the men bearing Cardillac's body. Coming to a rapid decision, Mademoiselle Scuderi cried out, "I shall take this girl home with me; the rest of the affair concerns you, Desgrais." A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The women raised the girl; every one crowded up; a hundred hands were proffered to help, and she was borne to the carriage like one hovering in air, whilst from every lip broke blessings on the kind lady who had saved her from arrest and criminal trial.

Madelon lay for many hours in deep unconsciousness, but at length the efforts of Seron---then the most celebrated physician in Paris--were successful in restoring her. Mademoiselle Scuderi completed what Seron had commenced, by letting many a gentle ray of hope stream into the girl's heart, till at length a violent flood of tears, which started to her eyes, brought her relief, and she was able to tell what had befallen, with only occasional interruptions, when the overmastering might of her sorrow turned her words into sobbing.

She had been awakened at midnight by a soft knocking at her door, and had recognised the voice of Olivier, imploring her to get up at once, as her father lay dying. She sprung up, terrified, and opened the door. Olivier, pale and distorted, bathed in perspiration, led the way, with tottering steps, to the workshop; she followed. There her father was lying with his eyes set, and the deathrattle in his throat. She threw herself upon him, weeping wildly, and then observed that his shirt was covered with blood. Olivier gently lifted her away, and then busied himself in bathing a wound (which was on her father's left breast) with wound-balsam, and in washing it. As he was so doing her father's consciousness came back; the rattle in his throat ceased, and, looking first on her, and then on Olivier with most expressive glances, he took her hand and placed it in Olivier's, pressing them both together. She and Olivier then knelt down beside her father's bed; he raised himself with a piercing cry, immediately fell back again, and with a deep inspiration, departed this life. On this they both wept and lamented. Olivier told her how her father had been murdered in his presence during an expedition on which he had accompanied him that night by his order, and how he had with the utmost difficulty carried him home, not supposing him to be mortally wounded. As soon as it was day, the people of the house--who had heard the sounds of the footsteps, and of the weeping and lamenting during the night--came up, and found them still kneeling, inconsolable by the father's body. Then an uproar commenced, the Marechaussée broke in and Olivier was taken to prison as her father's murderer. Madelon added the most touching account of Olivier's virtues, goodness, piety, and sincerity, telling how he had honoured his master as if he had been his own father, and how the latter returned his affection in the fullest measure, choosing him for his son-in-law in spite of his poverty, because his skill and fidelity were equal to the nobleness of his heart. All this Madelon spoke right out of the fullness of her heart, and added that if Olivier had thrust a dagger into her father's heart before her very eyes, she would rather have thought it a delusion of Satan's than have believed that Olivier was capable of such a terrible and awful crime.

Mademoiselle Scuderi, most deeply touched by Madelon's nameless sufferings, and quite disposed to believe in poor Olivier's innocence, made inquiries, and found everything confirmed which Madelon had said as to the domestic relations between the master and his workman. The people of the house and the neighbours all gave Olivier the character of being the very model of good, steady, exemplary behaviour. No one knew anything whatever against him, and yet, when the crime was alluded to, every one shrugged his shoulders, and thought there was something incomprehensible about that.

Olivier, brought before the Chambre Ardente, denied--as Mademoiselle Scuderi learned--with the utmost steadfastness the crime of which he was accused, and maintained that his master had been attacked in the street in his presence, and borne down, and that he had carried him home still alive, although he did not long survive. This agreed with Madelon's statement.

Over and over again Mademoiselle Scuderi had the very minutest circumstances of the awful event related to her. She specially inquired if there had ever been any quarrel between Olivier and the father, whether Olivier was altogether exempt from that propensity to hastiness which often attacks the best tempered people like a blind madness, and leads them to commit deeds which seem to exclude all voluntariness of action; but the more enthusiastically Madelon spoke of the peaceful home-life which the three had led together, united in the most sincere affection, the more did every vestige of suspicion against Olivier disappear from her mind. Closely examining and considering everything, starting from the assumption that, notwithstanding all that spoke so loudly for his innocence, Olivier yet _had_ been Cardillac's murderer, Mademoiselle Scuderi could find, in all the realm of possibility, no motive for the terrible deed, which, in any case, was bound to destroy his happiness. Poor, though skilful, he succeeds in gaining the good will of the most renowned of masters; he loves the daughter--his master favours his love. Happiness, good fortune for the rest of his life are laid open before him. Supposing, then, that--God knows on what impulse--overpowered by anger, he should have made this murderous attack on his master, what diabolical hyprocrisy it required to conduct himself after the deed as he had done. With the firmest conviction of his innocence, Mademoiselle Scuderi came to the resolution to save Olivier at whatever cost.

It seemed to her most advisable, before perhaps appealing to the King in person, to go to the President, La Regnie, point out for his consideration all the circumstances which made for Olivier's innocence, and so, perhaps, kindle in his mind a conviction favourable to the accused which might communicate itself beneficially to the judges.

La Regnie received her with all the consideration which was the due of a lady of her worth, held in high esteem by His Majesty himself. He listened in silence to all she had to say concerning Olivier's circumstances, relationships, and character; and also concerning the crime itself. A delicate, almost malignant, smile, however, was all the token which he gave that the adjurations, the reminders (accompanied by plentiful tears) that every judge ought to be, not the enemy of the accused, but ready to attend, too, to whatever spoke in his favour were not gliding by ears which were perfectly deaf. When at length Mademoiselle Scuderi, quite exhausted and wiping the tears from her cheeks, was silent, La Regnie began, saying:--

"It is quite characteristic of your excellent heart, Mademoiselle, that, moved by the tears of a young girl who is in love, you should credit all she says; nay, be incapable of grasping the idea of a fearful crime such as this. But it is otherwise with the Judge, who is accustomed to tear off the mask from vile and unblushing hyprocrisy and deception. It is, of course, not incumbent on me to disclose the course of a criminal process to every one who chooses to inquire. I do my duty, Mademoiselle! The world's opinion troubles me not at all. Evil-doers should tremble before the Chambre Ardente, which knows no punishments save blood and fire. But by you, Mademoiselle, I would not be looked upon as a monster of severity and barbarity; therefore, permit me to place before your eyes in few words the bloodguilt of this young criminal, upon whom, Heaven be thanked, vengeance has fallen. Your acute intelligence will then despise the generous feeling and kindliness which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place. Eh bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger-thrust, no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson and the daughter. In Olivier's room there is found, amongst other things, a dagger covered with fresh blood which exactly fits into the wound. Olivier says, 'Cardillac was attacked in the street before my eyes.' 'Was the intention to rob him?' 'I do not know.' 'You were walking with him and you could not drive off the murderer or detain him?' 'My master was walking fifteen or perhaps sixteen paces in front of me; I was following him.' 'Why, in all the world, so far behind?' 'My master wished it so.' 'And what had Master Cardillac to do in the streets so late?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But he was never in the habit of being out after nine o'clock at other times, was he?' At this Olivier hesitates, becomes confused, sighs, shed tears, vows by all that is sacred that Cardillac _did_ go out that night, and met with his death. Now observe, Mademoiselle, it is proved to the most absolute certainty that Cardillac did _not_ leave the house that night, consequently Olivier's assertion that he went with him is a barefaced falsehood. The street door of the house fastens with a heavy lock, which makes a penetrating noise in opening and closing, also the door itself creaks and groans on its hinges, so that, as experiments have proved, the noise is heard quite distinctly in the upper stories of the house. Now, there lives in the lower story, that is to say, close to the street door, old Maitre Claude Patru with his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of age, but still hale and active. Both of them heard Cardillac, according to his usual custom, come down stairs at nine o'clock exactly, close and bolt the door with a great deal of noise, go upstairs again, read evening prayer, and then (as was to be presumed by the shutting of the door) go into his bedroom. Maitre Claude suffers from sleeplessness like many other old people; and on the night in question he could not close an eye, therefore, about half past nine the housekeeper struck a light in the kitchen, which she reached by crossing the passage, and sat down at the table beside her master with an old chronicle-book, from which she read aloud, whilst the old man, fixing his thoughts on the reading, sometimes sat in his arm-chair, sometimes walked slowly up and down the room to try and bring on sleepiness. All was silence in the house till nearly midnight; but then they heard overhead rapid footsteps, a heavy fall, as of something on to the floor, and immediately after that a hollow groaning. They both were struck by a peculiar alarm and anxiety, the horror of the terrible deed which had just been committed seemed to sweep past them. When day came what had been done in the darkness was brought clearly to light."

"But, in the name of all the Saints," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such length, can you think of any _motive_ for this diabolical deed?"

"Hm!" answered La Regnie. "Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He had valuable jewels in his possession." "But all he had would go to the daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac's son-in-law." "Perhaps he was compelled to share with others," said La Regnie, "or to do the deed wholly for them!" "Share!--murder for others!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, in utter amaze.

"You must learn, Mademoiselle," continued La Regnie, "that Olivier's blood would have been flowing on the Place de Grève before this time, but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to that formidable band which, setting at defiance every attempt at observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be discovered. Cardillac's wound is precisely the same as all those of the persons who have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most conclusive of all, since Olivier's arrest, the robberies and murders have ceased; the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will not confess; but there are means of making him speak against his will."

"And Madelon!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "that truthful, innocent creature."

"Ah!" cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, "who answers to me that _she_ is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much about her father. Her tears are all for the murderer boy."

"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "not for her father?--that girl--impossible!" "Oh!" continued La Regnie, "remember the Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off your _protégée_, and put her in the Conciergerie."

Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered at this grizly notion. It seemed to her that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he spied out murder and bloodguilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts of people's hearts. She rose. "Be human!" was all that in her state of anxiety and oppression she was able, with difficulty, to say. As she was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her--she knew not how. "Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier Brusson?" she inquired, turning round sharply. He scrutinised her face with thoughtful looks, and then his face distorted itself into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him. "Doubtless, Mademoiselle," he said, "your idea is that, trusting your own feelings--the inward voice--more than that which happened before our eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier's guilt or innocence for yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime--if it is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their gradations--the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two hours time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought to you."

In truth, Mademoiselle Scuderi could not bring herself to believe in Olivier's guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had placed before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted against.

She thought she would hear Olivier's narrative of the events of that night of mystery, and in this manner, possibly, penetrate further into a secret which the judges, perhaps, did not see into, because they thought it unworthy of investigation.

Arrived at the Conciergerie, she was taken into a large, well-lighted room. Presently she heard the ring of fetters. Olivier Brusson was brought in; but as soon as she saw him she fell down fainting. When she recovered, he was gone. She demanded with impetuosity to be taken to her carriage; she would not remain another moment in that place of crime and wickedness. Alas! at the first glance she recognised in Olivier Brusson the young man who had thrown the letter into her carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought her the casket with the jewels. Now all doubt was gone, La Regnie's terrible suspicions completely justified. Olivier belonged to the atrocious band, and had, doubtless, murdered his master! And Madelon! Never before so bitterly deceived by her kind feelings, Mademoiselle Scuderi, under this deadly attack upon her by the power of the evil one here below--in whose very existence she had not believed--doubted if there was such a thing as truth. She gave admittance to the fearful suspicion that Madelon, too, was forsworn, and might have a hand in the bloody deed. And as it is the nature of the human mind that, when an idea has dawned upon it, it eagerly seeks, and finds, colours in which to paint that idea more and more vividly, she, as she weighed and considered all the circumstances of the crime along with Madelon's behaviour, found a very great deal to nourish suspicion. Many things which had hitherto been considered proofs of innocence and purity, now became evidences of studied hypocrisy and deep, corrupt wickedness. Those heartrending cries of sorrow, and the bitter tears, might well have been pressed from her by the deadly dread of her lover's bleeding--nay, of her own falling into the executioner's hands. With a resolve at once to cast away the serpent she had been cherishing, Mademoiselle Scuderi alighted from her carriage. Madelon threw herself at her feet. Her heavenly eyes--(no Angel of God's has them more truthful)--raised to her, her hands pressed to her heaving breast, she wept, imploring help and consolation. Mademoiselle Scuderi, controlling herself with difficulty, giving to the tone of her voice as much calmness and gravity as she could, said, "Go! go!--be thankful that the murderer awaits the just punishment of his crime. May the Holy Virgin grant that blood-guiltiness does not weigh heavily on your own head also." With a bitter cry of "Alas! then all is over!" Madelon fell fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle Scuderi left her to the care of La Martinière, and went to another room.

Much distressed, and at variance with all earthly things, she longed to depart from a world filled with diabolical treachery and falsehood. She complained of the destiny which had granted her so many years in which to strengthen her belief in truth and virtue, only to shatter in her old days the beautiful fancies which had illumined her path.

She heard Madelon, as La Martinière was leading her away, murmur in broken accents, "_Her_, too, have the terrible men deceived. Ah! wretched me!--miserable Olivier!" The tones of the voice went to her heart, and again there dawned within her the belief in the existence of some mystery, in Olivier's innocence. Torn by the most contradictory feelings, she cried, "What spirit of the pit has mixed _me_ up in this terrible story, which will be my very death!"

At this moment Baptiste came in pale and terrified, to say that Desgrais was at the door. Since the dreadful La Voisin trial the appearance of Desgrais in a house was the sure precursor of some criminal accusation. Hence Baptiste's terror, as to which his mistress asked him with a gentle smile, "What is the matter, Baptiste? Has the name of Scuderi been found in La Voisin's lists?" "Ah! For Christ's sake," cried Baptiste, trembling in every limb, "how can you say such a thing; but Desgrais--the horrible Desgrais--is looking so mysterious, and presses in so--he seems hardly able to wait till he can see you." "Well, Baptiste," she said, "bring him in at once, this gentleman who is so frightful to you, and who to _me_, at all events, can cause no anxiety."

"President La Regnie sends me to you, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, when he entered, "with a request which he scarce would dare to make if he did not know your goodness and bravery, and if the last hope of bringing to light an atrocious deed of blood did not lie in your hands, had you not already taken such interest (as well as bearing a part), in this case, which is keeping the Chambre Ardente, and all of us, in a state of such breathless eagerness. Olivier Brusson, since he saw you, has been almost out of his mind. He still swears by all that is sacred, that he is completely innocent of René Cardillac's death, though he is ready to suffer the punishment he has deserved. Observe, Mademoiselle, that the latter admission clearly refers to other crimes of which he has been guilty. But all attempts to get him to utter anything further have been vain. He begs and implores to be allowed to have an interview with you. To you alone will he divulge everything. Vouchsafe then, Mademoiselle, to listen to Brusson's confession."

"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, in indignation, "_I_ become an organ of the criminal court, and abuse the confidence of this unfortunate fellow to bring him to the scaffold! No! Desgrais. Ruffian and murderer though he may be, I could never deceive and betray him thus villainously. I will have nothing to do with his avowal. If I did, it would be locked up in my heart, as if made to a priest under the seal of the confessional."

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, with a subtle smile, "you might alter your opinion after hearing Brusson. Did you not beg the President to be human? This he is, in yielding to Brusson's foolish desire, and thus trying one more expedient--the last--before resorting to the rack, for which Brusson is long since ripe."

Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered involuntarily.

"Understand, Mademoiselle," he continued, "you would by no means be expected to go again into those gloomy dungeons, which inspired you with such horror and loathing. Olivier would be brought to your own house, in the night, like a free man; what he should say would not be listened to, though, of course, there would be a proper guard with him. He could thus tell you freely and unconstrainedly all he had to say. As regards any risk which you might run in seeing the wretched being, my life shall answer for that. He speaks of you with the deepest veneration; he vows that it is the dark mystery which prevented his seeing you earlier which has brought him to destruction. Moreover, it would rest with you entirely to repeat as much or as little as you pleased of what Brusson confessed to you. How could you be constrained to more?"

Mademoiselle Scuderi sat with eyes fixed on the ground, in deep reflection. It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery--as if there were no escape for her from the wondrous meshes in which she had become inwound without her will. Coming to a rapid decision, she said with solemnity, "God will give me self-command and firm resolution. Bring Brusson here; I will see him."

As on the night when the jewel-casket had been brought, so now, at midnight, there came a knocking at the door. Baptiste, properly instructed, opened. Mademoiselle Scuderi's blood ran cold when she heard the heavy tread of the guard party which had brought Brusson stationing themselves about the passages.

At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him, Olivier Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed.

"Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he then departed at once.

Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle Scuderi. The pure, clear expression of a most truthful soul beamed from his face, though it was drawn and distorted by terror and bitter pain. The longer she looked at him, the more vivid became a remembrance of some well-loved person--she could not say whom. When the first feeling of shuddering left her, she forgot that Cardillac's murderer was kneeling before her, and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural to her, said--

"Now, Brusson, what have you to say to me?"

He--still on his knees--sighed deeply, from profound sorrow, and then said--

"Oh, Mademoiselle, you whom I so honour and worship, is there no trace of recollection of me left in your mind?"

She, still looking at him attentively, answered that she had certainly traced in his face a likeness to some one whom she had held in affection, and it was to this that he owed it that she had overcome her profound horror of a murderer so far as to be able to listen to him quietly. Brusson, much pained by her words, rose quickly, and stepped backwards a pace, with his gloomy glance fixed on the ground. Then, in a hollow voice, he said--

"Have you quite forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son, Olivier, the boy whom you used to dandle on your knee, is he who is now before you."

"Oh! For the love of all the Saints!" she cried, as, covering her face with both hands, she sank back in her chair. She had reason for being thus horrified. Anne Guiot, the daughter of a citizen who had fallen into poverty, had lived with Mademoiselle Scuderi from her childhood; she had brought her up like a daughter, with all affection and care. When she grew up, a handsome, well-conducted young man, named Claude Brusson, fell in love with her. Being a first-rate workman at his trade of a watchmaker, sure to make a capital living in Paris, and Anne being very fond of him, Mademoiselle Scuderi saw no reason to object to their marrying. They set up house accordingly, lived a most quiet and happy domestic life, and the bond between them was knitted more closely still by the birth of a most beautiful boy, the image of his pretty mother.

Mademoiselle Scuderi made an idol of little Olivier, whom she would take away from his mother for hours and days, to pet him and kiss him. Hence he attached himself to her, and was as pleased to be with her as with his mother. When three years passed, the depressed state of Brusson's trade brought it about that job-work was scarcer every day, so that at last it was all he could do to get bread to eat. In addition to this came home-sickness for his beautiful native Geneva; so the little household went there, spite of Mademoiselle Scuderi's dissuasions and promises of all needful assistance. Anne wrote once or twice to her foster-mother, and then ceased; so that Mademoiselle Scuderi thought she was forgotten in the happiness of the Brusson's life.

It was now just three and twenty years since the Brusson's had left Paris for Geneva.

"Horrible!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had to some extent recovered herself. "You, Olivier! the son of my Anne! And now!----"

"Mademoiselle!" said Olivier, quietly and composedly, "doubtless you never thought that the boy whom you cherished like the tenderest of mothers, whom you dandled on your knee, and to whom you gave sweetmeats, would, when grown to manhood, stand before you accused of a terrible murder. I am completely innocent! The Chambre Ardente charges me with a crime; but, as I hope to die a Christian's death, though it may be by the executioner's hand--I am free from all blood-guiltiness. Not by my hand--not by any crime of my committing, was it that the unfortunate Cardillac came to his end."

As he said this, Olivier began to tremble and shake so, that Mademoiselle Scuderi motioned him to a little seat which was near him.

"I have had sufficient time," he went on, "to prepare myself for this interview with you--which I look upon as the last favour of a reconciled Heaven--and to acquire as much calmness and self-control as are necessary to tell you the story of my terrible, unheard-of misfortunes. Be so compassionate as to listen to me calmly, whatever may be your horror at the disclosure of a mystery of which you certainly have not the smallest inkling. Ah! would to Heaven my poor father had never left Paris! As far as my recollections of Geneva carry me, I remember myself as being always bedewed with tears by my inconsolable parents, and weeping, myself, at their lamentations, which I did not understand. Later, there came to me a clear sense--a full comprehension--of the bitterest and most grinding poverty, want, and privation in which they were living. My father was deceived in all his expectations; bowed down and broken with sorrow, he died, just when he had managed to place me as apprentice with a goldsmith. My mother spoke much of you; she longed to tell you all her misfortunes, but the despondency which springs from poverty prevented her. That, and also, no doubt, false modesty, which often gnaws at a mortally wounded heart, kept her from carrying out her idea. She followed my father to the grave a few months after his death."

"Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, overwhelmed by sorrow.

"I thank and praise the eternal power that she has gone where she cannot see her beloved son fall, branded with disgrace, by the hand of the executioner," cried Olivier, loudly, raising a wild and terrible glance to the skies. Outside, things became unrestful; a sound of people moving about made itself heard. "Ho, ho!" said he, with a bitter laugh, "Desgrais is waking up his people, as if I could possibly escape. But, let me go on. I was harshly treated by my master, though I was very soon one of the best of workmen, and, indeed, much better than himself. Once a stranger came to our workshop to buy some of our work. When he saw a necklace of my making, he patted my shoulder in a kind way, and said, looking with admiration at the necklace, 'Ah, ha! my young friend, this is really first-class work, I don't know anybody who could beat it but René Cardillac, who, of course, is the greatest of all goldsmiths. You ought to go to him; he would be delighted to get hold of you, for there's nobody but yourself who would be of such use to him; and again, there's nobody but he who can teach you anything.' The words of this stranger sunk deep into my heart. There was no more peace for me in Geneva. I was powerfully impelled to leave it, and at length I succeeded in getting free from my master. I came to Paris, where René Cardillac received me coldly and harshly. But I stuck to my point. He was obliged to give me something to try my hand at, however trifling. So I got a ring to finish. When I took it back to him, finished, he gazed at me with those sparkling eyes of his, as if he would look me through and through. Then he said: 'You are a first-rate man--a splendid fellow; you may come and work with me. I'll pay you well; you'll be satisfied with me.' And he kept his word. I had been several weeks with him before I saw Madelon, who, I think, had been visiting an aunt of his in the country. At last she came home. O eternal power of Heaven, how was it with me when I saw that angelic creature! Has ever a man so loved as I! And now! Oh! Madelon!"

Olivier could speak no more for sorrow. He held both hands over his face, and sobbed violently. At last he conquered the wild pain with a mighty effort, and went on--

"Madelon looked on me with favour, and came oftener and oftener into the workshop. Her father watched closely, but many a stolen hand-clasp marked our covenant. Cardillac did not seem to notice. My idea was, that if I could gain his good-will, and attain Master's rank, I should ask his consent to our marriage. One morning, when I was going in to begin work, he came to me with anger and contempt in his face. 'I don't want any more of your work,' he said. 'Get out of this house, and don't let my eyes ever rest on you again. I have no need to tell you the reason. The dainty fruit you are trying to gather is beyond the reach of a beggar like you!' I tried to speak, but he seized me and pitched me out of the door with such violence that I fell, and hurt my head and my arm. Furious, and smarting with the pain, I went off, and at last found a kind-hearted acquaintance in the Faubourg St. Germain, who gave me quarters in his garret. I had no peace nor rest. At night I wandered round Cardillac's house, hoping that Madelon would hear my sighs and lamentings, and perhaps manage to speak to me at the window undiscovered. All sorts of desperate plans, to which I thought I might persuade her, jostled each other in my brain. Cardillac's house in the Rue Nicaise abuts on to a high wall with niches, containing old, partly-broken statues. One night I was standing close to one of those figures, looking up at the windows of the house which open on the courtyard which the wall encloses. Suddenly I saw light in Cardillac's workshop. It was midnight, and he never was awake at that time, as he always went to bed exactly at nine. My heart beat anxiously: I thought something might be going on which would let me get into the Louse. But the light disappeared again immediately. I pressed myself closely into the niche, and against the statue; but I started back in alarm, feeling a return of my pressure, as if the statue had come to life. In the faint moonlight I saw that the stone was slowly turning, and behind it appeared a dark form, which crept softly out, and went down the street with stealthy tread. I sprang to the statue: it was standing close to the wall again, as before. Involuntarily, as if impelled by some power within me, I followed the receding dark figure. In passing an image of the Virgin, this figure looked round, the light of the lamp before the image falling upon his face. It was Cardillac! an indescribable alarm fell upon me; an eery shudder came over me. As if driven by some spell, I felt I must follow this spectre-like sleep-walker--for that was what I thought my master was, though it was not full-moon, the time when that kind of impulse falls upon sleepers. At length Cardillac disappeared in a deep shadow; but, by a certain easily distinguishable sound, I knew that he had gone into the entry of a house. What was the meaning of this? I asked myself in amazement; what was he going to be about? I pressed myself close to the wall. Presently there came up a gentleman, trilling and singing, with a white plume distinct in the darkness, and clanking spurs. Cardillac darted out upon him from the darkness, like a tiger on his prey; he fell to the ground gasping. I rushed up with a cry of terror. Cardillac was leaning over him as he lay on the ground. 'Master Cardillac, what are you about?' I cried aloud. 'Curses upon you!' he cried, and, running by me with lightning speed, disappeared. Quite beyond myself--scarcely able to walk a step--I went up to the gentleman on the ground, and knelt down beside him, thinking it might still be possible to save him. But there was no trace of life left in him. In my alarm I scarcely noticed that the Marechaussée had come up and surrounded me. 'Another one laid low by the demons!' they cried, all speaking at once. 'Ah, ha! youngster! what are you doing here?--are _you_ one of the band?' and they seized me. I stammered out in the best way I could that I was incapable of such a terrible deed, and that they must let me go. Then one of them held a lantern to my face, and said, with a laugh: 'This is Olivier Brusson; the goldsmith who works with our worthy Master René Cardillac. _He_ murder folks in the street!--very likely story! Who ever heard of a murderer lamenting over the body, and letting himself be nabbed? Tell us all about it, my lad; out with it straight.' 'Right before my eyes,' I said, 'a man sprang out upon this one; stabbed him, and ran off like lightning. I cried as loud as I could. I wanted to see if he could be saved.' 'No, my son,' cried one of those who had lifted up the body, 'he's done for!--the dagger-stab right through his heart, as usual.' 'The deuce!' said another; 'just too late again, as we were the day before yesterday.' And they went away with the body.

"What _I_ thought of all this I really cannot tell you. I pinched myself, to see if I were not in some horrible dream. I felt as if I must wake up directly, and marvel at the absurdity of what I had been dreaming. Cardillac--my Madelon's father--an atrocious murderer! I had sunk down powerless on the stone steps of a house; the daylight was growing brighter and brighter. An officer's hat with a fine plume was lying before me on the pavement. Cardillac's deed of blood, committed on the spot, came clearly back to my mental vision. I ran away in horror.

"With my mind in a whirl, almost unconscious, I was sitting in my garret, when the door opened, and René Cardillac came in. 'For Christ's sake! what do you want?' I cried. He, paying no heed to this, came up to me, smiling at me with a calmness and urbanity which increased my inward horror. He drew forward an old rickety stool, and sat down beside me; for I was unable to rise from my straw bed, where I had thrown myself. 'Well, Olivier,' he began, 'how is it with you, my poor boy? I really was too hasty in turning you out of doors. I miss you at every turn. Just now I have a job in hand which I shall never be able to finish without you; won't you come back and work with me? You don't answer. Yes, I know very well I insulted you. I don't hide from you that I was angry about your little bit of love-business with my Madelon; but I have been thinking matters well over, and I see that I couldn't have a better son-in-law than you, with your abilities, your skilfulness, diligence, trustworthiness. Come back with me, and see how soon you and Madelon can make a match of it.'

"His words pierced my heart; I shuddered at his wickedness; I could not utter a syllable. 'You hesitate,' he said, in an acrid tone, while his sparkling eyes transfixed me. 'Perhaps you can't come to-day. You have other things to do. Perhaps you want to go and see Desgrais, or have an interview with D'Argenson or La Regnie. Take care, my boy, that the talons which you are thinking of drawing out to clutch others, don't mangle yourself.' At this my deeply-tried spirit found vent. 'Those,' I said, 'who are conscious of horrible crimes may dread those names which you have mentioned, but I do not. I have nothing to do with them.' 'Remember, Olivier,' he resumed, 'that it is an honour to you to work with me--the most renowned Master of his time, everywhere highly esteemed for his truth and goodness; any foul calumny would fall back on the head of its originator. As to Madelon, I must tell you that it is her alone whom you have to thank for my yielding. She loves you with a devotion that I should never have given her credit for being capable of. As soon as you were gone, she fell at my feet, clasped my knees, and vowed, with a thousand tears, that she could never live without you. I thought this was mere imagination, for those young things always think they're going to die of love whenever a young wheyface looks at them a little kindly. But my Madelon really did fall quite sick and ill; and when I tried to talk her out of the silly nonsense, she called out your name a thousand times. Last evening I told her I gave in and agreed to everything, and would go to-day to fetch you; so this morning she is blooming again like any rose, and waiting for you, quite beyond herself with love-longing.' May the eternal power of Heaven forgive me, but--I don't know how it came about--I suddenly found myself in Cardillac's house, where Madelon, with loud cries of 'Olivier!--my Olivier!--my beloved! my husband!' clasped both her arms about me, and pressed me to her heart; whilst I, in the plenitude of the supremest bliss, swore by the Virgin and all the Saints never, never to leave her."

Overcome by the remembrance of this decisive moment, Olivier was obliged to pause. Mademoiselle Scuderi, horrified at the crime of a man whom she had looked on as the incarnation of probity and goodness, cried--

"Dreadful!--René Cardillac a member of that band of murderers who have so long made Paris into a robber's den!" "A member of the band, do you say, Mademoiselle?" said Olivier. "There never was any band; it was René Cardillac alone, who sought and found his victims with such an amount of diabolical ingenuity and activity. It was in the fact of his being alone that his impunity lay--the practical impossibility of coming upon the murderer's track. But let me go on. What is coming will clear up the mystery, and reveal the secrets of the most wicked, and at the same time most wretched of all mankind. You at once see the position in which I now stood towards my master. The step was taken, and I could not go back. At times it seemed to me that I had rendered myself Cardillac's accomplice in murder, and it was only in Madelon's love that I forgot for a time the inward pain which tortured me; only in her society could I drive away all outward traces of the nameless horror. When I was at work with the old man in the workshop, I could not look him in the face--could scarcely speak a word--for the horror which pervaded me in the presence of this terrible being, who fulfilled all the duties of the tender father and the good citizen, while the night shrouded his atrocities. Madelon, pure and pious as an angel, hung upon him with the most idolatrous affection. It pierced my heart when I thought that, if ever vengeance should overtake this masked criminal, she would be the victim of the most terrible despair. That, of itself, closed my lips, though the consequence of my silence should be a criminal's death for myself. Although much was to be gathered from what the Marechaussée had said, still Cardillac's crimes, their motive, and the manner in which he carried them out, were a riddle to me. The solution of it soon came. One day Cardillac--who usually excited my horror by laughing and jesting during our work, in the highest of spirits--was very grave and thoughtful. Suddenly he threw the piece of work he was engaged on aside, so that the pearls and other stones rolled about the floor, started to his feet, and said: 'Olivier! things cannot go on between us like this; the situation is unendurable. What the ablest and most ingenious efforts of Desgrais and his myrmidons failed to find out, chance has played into your hands. You saw me at my nocturnal work, to which my Evil Star compels me, so that no resistance is possible for me; and it was your own Evil Star, moreover, which led you to follow me; wrapped and hid you in an impenetrable mantle; gave that lightness to your foot-fall which enabled you to move along with the noiselessness of the smaller animals, so that I--who see clear by night, as doth the tiger, and hear the smallest sound, the humming of the gnat, streets away--did not observe you. Your Evil Star brought you to me, my comrade--my accomplice! You see, now, that you can't betray me; therefore you shall know all.'

"I would have cried out, 'Never, never shall I be your comrade, your accomplice, you atrocious miscreant.' But the inward horror which I felt at his words paralysed my tongue. Instead of words I could only utter an unintelligible noise. Cardillac sat down in his working chair again, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and seemed to find it difficult to pull himself together, hard beset by the recollection of the past. At length he began: 'Wise men have much to say of the strange impulses which come to women when they are _enceinte_, and the strange influence which those vivid, involuntary impulses exercise upon the child. A wonderful tale is told of _my_ mother. When she was a month gone with me she was looking on, with other women, at a court pageant at the Trianon, and saw a certain cavalier in Spanish dress, with a glittering chain of jewels about his neck, from which she could not remove her eyes. Her whole being was longing for those sparkling stones, which seemed to her more than earthly. This same cavalier had at a previous time, before my mother was married, had designs on her virtue, which she rejected with indignation. She recognized him, but now, irradiated by the light of the gems, he seemed to her a creature of a higher sphere, the very incarnation of beauty. The cavalier noticed the longing, fiery looks which she was bending on him, and thought he was in better luck now than of old. He managed to get near her, and to separate her from her companions, and entice her to a lonely place. There he clasped her eagerly in his arms. My mother grasped at the beautiful chain; but at that moment he fell down, dragging her with him. Whether it was apoplexy, or what, I do not know; but he was dead. My mother struggled in vain to free herself from the clasp of the arms, stiffened as they were in death. With the hollow eyes, whence vision had departed, fixed on her, the corpse rolled with her to the ground. Her shrieks at length reached people who were passing at some distance; they hastened to her, and rescued her from the embrace of this gruesome lover. Her fright laid her on a bed of dangerous sickness. Her life was despaired of as well as mine; but she recovered, and her confinement was more prosperous than had been thought possible. But the terrors of that awful moment had set their mark on _me_. My Evil Star had risen, and darted into me those rays which kindled in me one of the strangest and most fatal of passions. Even in my earliest childhood I thought there was nothing to compare with glittering diamonds with gold settings. This was looked upon as a childish fancy; but it was otherwise, for as a boy I stole gold and jewels wherever I could lay hands on them, and I knew the difference between good ones and bad, instinctively, like the most accomplished connoisseur. Only the pure and valuable attracted me; I would not touch alloyed or coined gold. Those inborn cravings were kept in check by my father's severe chastisements; but, so that I might always have to do with gold and precious stones, I took up the goldsmith's calling. I worked at it with passion, and soon became the first living master of that art. Then began a period when the natural bent within me, so long restrained, shot forth in power, and waxed with might, bearing everything away before it. As soon as I finished a piece of work and delivered it, I fell into a state of restlessness and disconsolateness which prevented my sleeping, ruined my health, and left me no enjoyment in my life. The person for whom I made the work haunted me day and night like a spectre--I saw that person continually before my mental vision, with my beautiful jewels on, and a voice kept whispering to me: 'They belong to you! take them; what's the use of diamonds to the dead?' At last I betook myself to thieving. I had access to the houses of the great; I took advantage quickly of every opportunity. No locks withstood my skill, and I soon had my work back in my hands again. But this was not enough to calm my unrest. That mysterious voice made itself heard again, jeering at me, and saying, 'Ho, ho! one of the dead is wearing your jewels.' I did not know whence it came, but I had an indescribable hatred for all those for whom I made jewelry. More than that, in the depths of my heart I began to long to kill them; this frightened me. Just then I bought this house. I had concluded the bargain with the owner: here in this very room we were sitting, drinking a bottle of wine in honour of the transaction. Night had come on, he was going to leave when he said to me: 'Look here, Maitre René, before I go I must let you into a secret about this house.' He opened that cupboard, which is let into the wall there, and pushed the back of it in; this let him into a little closet, where he bowed down and raised a trap-door. This showed us a steep, narrow stair, which we went down, and at the bottom of it was a little narrow door, which let us out into the open courtyard. There he went up to the wall, pushed a piece of iron which projected a very little, and immediately a piece of the wall turned round, so that a person could get out through the opening into the street. You must see this contrivance sometime, Olivier; the sly old monks of the convent, which this house once was, must have had it made so as to be able to slip out and in secretly. It is wood but covered with lime and mortar on the outside, and to the outer side of it is fitted a statue, also of wood, though _looking_ exactly like stone, which turns on wooden hinges. When I saw this arrangement, dark ideas surged up in my mind; it seemed to me that deeds, as yet mysterious to myself, were here pre-arranged for. I had just finished a splendid set of ornaments for a gentleman of the court who, I knew, was going to give them to an opera dancer. My death-torture soon was on me; the spectre dogged my steps, the whispering devil was at my ear. I went back into the house, bathed in a sweat of agony; I rolled about on my bed, sleepless. In my mind's eye I saw the man gliding to his dancer with _my_ beautiful jewels. Full of fury I sprang up, threw my cloak round me, went down the secret stair, out through the wall into the Rue Nicaise. He came, I fell upon him, he cried out; but, seizing him from behind, I plunged my dagger into his heart. The jewels were mine. When this was done, I felt a peace, a contentment within me which I had never known before. The spectre had vanished--the voice of the demon was still. _Now_ I knew what was the behest of my Evil Star, which I had to obey, or perish. You know all now, Olivier. Don't think that, because I must do that which I cannot avoid, I have clean renounced all sense of that mercy or kindly feeling which are the portion of all humanity, and inherent in man's nature. You know how hard I find it to let any of my work go out of my hands, that there are many whom I would not have to die for whom nothing will induce me to work; indeed, that in cases when I feel that, next day, my spectre will have to be exorcised with blood, that day I settle the business by a swashing blow, which lays the holder of my jewels on the ground, so that I get them back into my own hands.' Having said all this, Cardillac took me into his secret strong-room and showed me his collection of jewels; the King does not possess such an one. To each ornament was fastened a small label stating for whom it had been made, and when taken back--by theft, robbery, or murder.