The Double Life

If he had learned, by some supernatural warning, that Théophraste would some day learn his real position in the household, he would only have respected Marceline. “But,” he thought to himself, “Théophraste will never know anything about it, and as unknown evils do not exist, I will be the lover of the wife of my best friend.”

These lines are necessary, that the reader may understand properly the knavish tricks of the lover. But we must understand distinctly Adolphe’s devotion to Théophraste.

After the departure of the Commissioner, they all set themselves to consider what was to be done with the articles which Théophraste had brought home with him. At first they all sat silently looking at the objects, no one wishing to break the silence, until Théophraste said, “I have nothing more in my pockets. I really believe I have got my black plume.”

Marceline and Adolphe were startled by this, but still did not say anything, and waited for Théophraste to give some explanation. Then he declared it was in the crowd at the Place de la Concorde. He went in and out among the crowd, and it was a very simple matter for him.

“What must we do?” asked Adolphe in a grave voice?”

“What do you wish me to do?” replied Théophraste, who by this time had begun to confess. “You do not think that I am going to keep them! It is not my habit to keep things that do not belong to me. I am an honest man and have never wronged anybody. You must take them all to M. Milfroid, your friend, the Commissioner of Police. He can easily restore them to the owners.”

“What can I say to him?”

“Whatever you wish,” burst out Théophraste, who was becoming impatient. “Did the honest coachman who found a purse and fifty thousand francs in his carriage think about what he should say when he took them to the commissariat? He simply said, ‘I have found them in the carriage.’ That was sufficient. They even rewarded him for it. You must say, ‘My friend Longuet charged me to bring this to you. He found them in his pockets, and he does not wish a reward.’”

Marceline touched Adolphe with her foot under the table. This was her customary way of secretly drawing Adolphe’s attention. She wanted to signify to him that she thought Théophraste was demented, and her look quite showed it. Adolphe understood. He knitted his brows and scratched the tip of his nose. He felt that now was the time to act. He looked from Théophraste to the pocket-books, and coughing, said, “Théophraste, this is not natural. We have to explain ourselves. We must understand. You must not close your eyes to this misfortune. You must open them wide, and bring your will to fight it.”

“Of what misfortune are you speaking?” asked Théophraste, becoming frightened.

“Well, is it not a misfortune to have things in your pocket that do not belong to you?”

“I do not understand. You seem to be accusing me of being dishonest. I am an honest man, and whatever I have done dishonestly, I have done against my will.”

Having said these words, he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and a deep silence fell over them all.

When Théophraste came out of his stupor, his eyes were full of tears. He motioned to his wife and his friend to come nearer to him. When they were beside him, he said, showing pitiable emotion, “I feel that Adolphe is right. A great misfortune menaces me, I know not what! I know not what! My God! I know not what! I know not what!”

Adolphe and Marceline attempted to console him, but he wept more. Then Marceline began to weep.

In his emotion, Théophraste grasped them both by the hand, and cried, “Swear never to abandon me, no matter what happens, for, oh! some day I shall need your help.” They swore to him in good faith.

Adolphe then asked to see the document. As he spread the document before him, he said, “Théophraste, tell me, do you ever have dreams?”

“It is very probable, but I only dream a very little.”

“Never?” insisted Adolphe.

“Scarcely ever. However, I remember to have dreamed four or five times in my life, perhaps because I woke each time in the middle of my dream, and it was always the same dream. But what possible interest can there be in this, to the subject which is occupying us now, Adolphe?”

Adolphe continued: “Dreams have never been explained by science. Science attributes them all to the effects of the imagination, but it does not give us the reason for these clear, distinct visions which appear to us sometimes. Thus it explains a thing which is not known by another which is no better understood. It says that dreams are the recollection of things which took place in a former life. But even admitting this solution-which is a doubtful one-we still have to find out what is the magic mirror that serves so well to keep the imprint of things. Moreover, how can one explain visions of real things, events that one has never seen in a former state, and of which one has never even thought? Who can affirm that these are not visions of retrospective past events in a former life?”

“That is right, my dear Adolphe,” said Théophraste, “and I ought to confess the things that I have dreamed. I have dreamed them three times as I said before, things that were perhaps true in the past, or will be in the future. I have never seen them in a waking state in my present life.”

“You understand me,” said Adolphe. “Relate to me the things that you have dreamed of and have never seen.”

“Oh, that will not take long. But so much the better, for it is not very cheerful: I dreamed that I was married to a woman named Marie Antoinette, and then–”

“And then?” interrupted Adolphe, who had never taken his eyes off the document.

“And then I cut her up in pieces.”

“Oh, horrors!” cried Marceline.

“It is horrible,” continued Théophraste, shaking his head. “Then I put the pieces in a basket and threw them into the Seine by the little bridge of the Hotel Dieu. I awoke then, and you may be sure I was not sorry.”

Adolphe struck the table a hard blow with his fist. “It is frightful,” he cried in a harsh voice, looking at Théophraste.

“Is it not?” said Marceline, shuddering.

Adolphe read the first lines of the document.

“Oh, how dreadful it is!” he continued, groaning. “Alas, alas! I understand all, now.”

“What do you understand?” asked Théophraste in a frightened voice, following Adolphe’s finger as he traced the first two lines of the document.

“This,” said Adolphe. “‘Moi et! I buried my, treasures.’ And you do not know what that ‘et’ means? Well, I won’t tell you until I am quite sure. I will know to-morrow. Théophraste, tomorrow at two o’clock be at the Rue Guinegaud and the Rue Mazarin. I am going to take these articles to M. Milfroid’s house. He will restore them to their owners, and we will prove to him that there are pickpockets even when the Commissioner is present. Adieu, my friend, adieu. Above all take courage. Take courage.” Adolphe shook Théophraste’s hand with the warmth of a comrade, and departed.

Théophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon him.

CHAPTER IX

The Portrait

DAY broke over the city. A cloudy day, with a mist that enveloped everything in a sinister manner. The sun tried in vain to penetrate that sombre atmosphere.

Mid-day showed a dark red ball, rolling ingloriously in a sulphurous light. Such was the picture of the heavens that day.

Théophraste sprang out of bed early, and awoke Marceline suddenly by an excess of foolish hilarity. Marceline inquired the reason for such strange joyfulness. He said that he could not help laughing at the idea of M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, receiving back the stolen goods which had been pickpocketed right before his very eyes. “My dear Marceline,” he said, “it is foolish, the way people carry the money in their pockets. If you cannot put your hand in, slip a straw, filled with glue, in. It is an excellent scheme for extricating money from people’s pockets.”

Marceline sat up and gazed at him. She could not understand, as he never looked more natural in his life, and yet he was saying peculiar things, and his words were most unnatural.

“Théophraste, you frighten me,” she cried, and in her fear, groaned, “My poor child.”

Théophraste grew terribly angry. He threw himself at his wife, and threatened to strike her. “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to be called a child since the death of Jeanneton-Venes. I am no child.”

Marceline swore that she would never do it again, and in the depths of her soul regretted the unlucky moment which had given her husband proprietorship of a document which had brought into the household such fears and such follies. She knew neither Marie Antoinette, nor Jeanneton-Venes, although he continually referred to them. He had a familiar way of expressing himself about these women which made her uneasy, and finally the unexpected sentences, spoken by Théophraste, and his actions, made her dread the incomprehensible Théophraste of two hundred years ago. It made her long for the former Théophraste, so kind, so easy to understand. Then she gave herself up to bitter reflections upon the theory of reincarnation.

Théophraste finished dressing, and then announcing that he would not breakfast at home, said that he had a rendezvous with his friend Va-de-Bon Cour, at the corner of the Rue Mazarin and Rue Guinegaud, to do a good turn for M. de Francouse, but as that rendezvous was after breakfast, he intended enjoying the air in the Moulin de Chopinette.

“You will leave my green umbrella here,” he said, “and I will take my black feather.” Then, putting the final touches to his cravat, he went out. On the landing he met Signor Petito, the Italian professor, who was also going downstairs. Signor Petito bowed very low, complained of the state of the weather, and complimented Théophraste on his appearance.

Théophraste answered in a less amiable tone, as he was not desiring the Signor’s company, and he demanded of him if Madame Petito could not be induced to learn another air on the piano than “Carnival de Venice.” But Signor Petito replied, smiling, that she was already studying “Love’s Destiny,” but in future she would study only the pieces which would please M. Longuet. He then asked, “Which way are you going?”

“For a turn in the Moulin de Chopinette; but the weather is too bad, so I will have to go down to the Porcherons.”

“To the Porcherons?” Signor Petito was going to ask, but he changed his mind. “Where is the Porcherons?” he asked. “I will go, too.”

“Aha, indeed!” said M. Longuet, glancing curiously at Signor Petito. “You too will go to the Porcherons?”

“Go there or somewhere else,” said Signor Petito, pleasantly, and he followed Théophraste.

At the end of a short silence Signor Petito ventured to ask, “Where are your treasures, M. Longuet?”

Théophraste faced about suddenly. “What has put such an idea into your head?” he exclaimed.

“Do you not remember the day that you brought the specimen of your handwriting and asked for my opinion?”

“I remember, and you were wrong,” said Théophraste drily, as he opened his umbrella.

Signor Petito, in nowise discouraged, placed himself under the shelter of Théophraste’s umbrella. “Oh! M. Longuet, I did not say that to annoy you.”

They arrived at the corner of the Avenue Tre-daine. Théophraste was in very bad humor.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I have an appointment at the tavern of the Veau-qui-telle, by the side of the Chapel Porcherons, here, you see.”

“But we are at the Chapel Notre Dame de Lor-rete, and not the Porcherons, at all.”

Théophraste disregarded Petito’s remark, and suddenly said to him, “Do you know that there is a price on my head?”

Signor Petito seemed taken aback by this sudden change of tone.

“It will cost them dear, though, to get my head,” said Théophraste. “Do you know how much it will cost, Signor, the head of L’Enfant? No? Very well. I am going to tell you, since the occasion has presented itself, and I am going to tell you the whole story, which may be profitable to you.”

Then, without any preparation, he related in the most natural way possible, his existence previous to his present one.

“My head is worth 20,000 pounds,” said he, “and you know it very well.” And as he pronounced these words he struck the table such a blow that Signor Petito recoiled instinctively.

“Here is the history of it all. I was walking, two hundred years ago, in the Rue de Vauregard, with my hands in my pocket, without arms, without even a sword, with the most honest intentions in the world, when a man met me. He bowed almost to the ground, and told me that my face reminded him so much of some one he knew. He was called ‘Old Man Bidel,’ or ‘Bidel the Good-natured,’ and he said that he had a secret to confide to me.

I encouraged him by a friendly tap on the shoulder, and he confided his secret to me. He whispered in my ear that the Regent had promised twenty thousand pounds to whoever would arrest the Enfant, and he knew where the Enfant was hiding. That I looked to him like a man of courage, and that he, with my aid, would do anything to get the 20,000 pounds. He said that he would divide the reward.

“The old man Bidel was on the wrong track, Signor Petito, for I also knew where to find L’Enfant, seeing that I was that person.”

Signor Petito did not wish to believe any of this, as he could see for himself that M. Longuet had been out of infancy a good many years. However, he dared not say anything. Théophraste continued, “I replied to the old man Bidel, that it was a happy chance and that I thanked Heaven for putting him in my path, and I made him conduct me to the place where he could find the Enfaut. He said to me, ‘To-night, the Enfant sleeps at the Capucine, in the Tavern Suite, which bears as a sign the Cross of the St. Hester.’

“It was true, Signor Petito, the old man Bidel was very well informed. I congratulated him, and we passed just then a cutlery shop, and I bought a small knife, much to the astonishment of Bidel, who asked me what I planned to do with such a weapon. I replied to him that with a small knife like this one could kill a fly, and I plunged it into his heart. He sank down, raised his arms wildly for a few moments, and died.”

Signor Petito, who at first had moved away from Théophraste, now rose and ran to the door, and was glad to get out of sight.

M. Longuet drank his wine, got up and went to the Bousset Brewery, where Mme. Barth was standing, making up her books. He said to her, “Mme. Taconet–”

Mme. Barth demanded why he called her Mine. Taconet, but he disregarded her question, and continued, “If Signor Petito comes here again, you will tell him for me that the first time I find him in my way, I will cut his ears off.” Saying this, Théophraste fondled the handle of his umbrella as one grasps the handle of a dagger.

There was no doubt about it, he had his black plume. He had become the Other entirely.

The fog was still thick and he did not think of breakfasting yet. He walked into the sulphurous mist like one in a dream. He crossed the whole of the Quarter of An tin, and that which was formerly the Avenue L’Enrique, until he came under the shadows of the towers of Trinity, which he called the Chateau du Coq. On his arrival at the St. Lazare, he believed that he was at the Petite Pologue.

But little by little the fog cleared away, and his dream disappeared with it. He had the most exact idea of things when he crossed the Point Royale, and by the time he had set foot on the left bank, he was again the honest Théophraste, and had only the vaguest idea of that which had happened on the right bank. But he could remember this, and when he questioned himself thoroughly, he began to experience the different conditions or states of the soul. He discovered in himself three distinct states. First, that which resulted from his life as an actuality, the honest merchant; second, that which resulted from the sudden and momentary resurrection of the Other; and third, that which resulted from memory. The recollection was to him like a third Théophraste, who related to the first what he had known of the second. This resurrection of Théophraste’s was a terrible thing.

On crossing the Bridge he hurried beyond the Rue Guinegaud. He did not care to pass by the corner of the Rue Mazarin, he knew not why. He turned the corner by the Hotel Monniare, and almost ran into Adolphe, who was waiting for him there.

“Have you ever heard of a person called L’Enfant, my dear Adolphe?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Aldolphe, “I have heard of him. I even know his real name, his family name.”

“Ah, what is it?” anxiously inquired Théophraste.

Adolphe for reply pushed Théophraste into the hallway of an old house, in the Rue Guinegard, a few steps from the Hotel de la Monniare. They climbed a tottering staircase, and entered a room in which the curtains were drawn. Somebody had spent the night in the room.

On a little table in the corner, the trembling flame of a wax candle lit up a portrait. It was the picture of a man about thirty years of age. He had a robust figure, high forehead, strong nose, a smooth chin, and large mouth and moustache. His thick hair was covered by a coarse woolen cap, and he wore a coat over a coarse linen shirt, which appeared to be a prison garb.

“Wait,” said Théophraste, without raising his tone, “how is it that my portrait is in this house?”

“Your picture?” asked Adolphe. “Are you sure?”

“Who could be more sure of it than I?” said Théophraste again, without being excited.

“Very well,” said M. Lecamus, with emotions that it would be hard to describe. “That portrait, which is your portrait, is the portrait of Cartouche.” When M. Lecamus turned to see the effect his words would produce on his friend, he saw Théophraste stretched on the floor in a dead swoon.

For a long time he worked to bring him to. He blew out the candle and opened the windows, allowing the good air to come in. Théophraste came to himself, and his first words were, “Adolphe, above all things do not speak of this to my wife.”

CHAPTER X

Cartouche’s Past

THE following day Théophraste and Marceline returned to the quiet life of the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Théophraste had not mentioned a word of the discovery, and his wife refrained from questioning him. Marceline knew nothing yet of the terrible discovery. Théophraste’s face was full of consternation, and it was evident to Marceline that he had terrible things on his mind.

Adolphe was to join them in a few days; two days passed very quietly in the villa. Marceline attended to her household duties, and Théophraste silently prepared his fishing tackle, as he had promised Adolphe a few days’ fishing in the Marne. On the third day, Théophraste, who had passed a good night, showed a less agitated countenance, and began to smile and was cheered at the prospect of Adolphe’s coming. M. Lecamus arrived before noon, and they both received him with delight.

Taking their places at lunch their conversation turned on angling, but nothing was said of the mysterious proceedings of the week before. After lunch they prepared for their fishing expedition; Théophraste took care of the lines, the rods and the bait, and Adolphe took the nets.

Going down to the water’s edge, Théophraste turned to Adolphe and said, “Tell me, have you any news? While we are fishing I will listen to you. I have prepared a lot of sport, but I don’t think we will do very much to-day, if you have important news for me.”

Adolphe replied, “There is some good, and some bad news. But I must tell you that there is more bad than good. No doubt many stories have been invented about you, but the real truth is not entirely pleasant.”

“Are you well informed, and is your information authentic?”

“I have been to the very fountain-head, I have seen the authentic documents. I am going to tell you what I know. If I am mistaken, correct me.”

Théophraste threw his half-prepared bait into the water, and said, “Go on. I must have a full explanation.”

“First,” said Adolphe, “you were born in the month of October, 1693. You were called Louis Dominique Cartouche.”

“But it is needless to call me Cartouche, no one need know that. Call me L’Enfant. I like it much better and no one will understand.”

“Yes,” insisted Adolphe, “but you know that your name is Cartouche. It is not an assumed name. It is said that you studied hard in Clermont College. That you were the schoolfellow of Voltaire, and there is a legend that while you learned to read, in the course of time, thanks to the gypsies who taught you reading, you were never able to write.”

“Well, that’s funny,” cried Théophraste, “for if I never learned to write, how could I have drawn up the document in the dungeon of the Conciergerie?”

“At the time of your trial, you declared that you did not know how to write. You signed your depositions with a cross and you have never written a line to show who it was.”

“But,” Théophraste said, “it was never necessary to write. In my position I should have dreaded to compromise myself. But the document is there.”

“Evidently. Let us return to your eleventh year. One day you were in the Saint Laurent Faire, with some comrades, when you fell in with a band of gypsies. The gypsies carried you away. They stole you. They taught you the play of the cudgel, the sword, to shoot a pistol, to jump, and to rob the pockets of the bourgeoisie without being discovered. At your twelfth year you were an adept at this, and without an equal for bringing back handkerchiefs, snuff boxes, and watches. The band of gypsies found themselves at Rouen, when little Louis Dominique fell ill. He was taken to a hospital in Rouen, and it was there that an uncle discovered him. He recognized him, and swore to restore him to his parents.”

Here Théophraste interrupted with a word as to his uncle, and Lecamus becoming impatient, begged him to cease his continual interruptions, declaring it would take some time to tell the story of Cartouche if he would not listen to it silently.

“I would like to see you in my place,” said Théophraste.

Adolphe continued: “In a while Cartouche became the chief of a band of brigands. He commanded about three thousand men, had more than fifty lieutenants; it was their habit to dress exactly alike, in cinnamon-colored coats, and doublets of silk and amaranthine, showing a piece of black taffeta underneath the left eye. They brought against him more than one hundred and fifty personal assassinations, and put a price upon his head. He was tried and broken on the wheel.” “Upon hearing this Théophraste showed evident signs of alarm. He dropped his fishing tackle, losing it in the swift current of the river. He could not give his mind to fishing any more that day, and so they resolved to give up the attempt. They did not wait for sundown, to return to the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Swinging their meagre spoils lightly in their nets they sadly retraced their steps. Cartouche filled their minds, and their return journey was occupied in thoughts of this dual personality.

CHAPTER XI

Signor Petito Appears

WHILE waiting for the stage from Crecy to stop for them, they called at the wayside inn, and had some refreshment, while Adolphe took up the story of L’Enfant at the point where he had left off.

“That good uncle,” said he, “had fellow-feeling for one of his family, and he rescued young Cartouche from his miserable lot and made him return to his parents. His father was a cooper by trade, and young Louis, having profited by his youthful misfortunes, swore that henceforth he would be a good son and a diligent apprentice. He helped his father to make casks, working from daybreak to sunset.

“He was frequently seen, during lunch hour, amusing his companions with pretty tricks of sleight-of-hand which he had learned during the few months he had been with the gypsies. He had become so adept at this science that on special occasions little Louis and his family were invited to dinners and suppers before friends, for they looked forward to the enjoyment of these tricks of Louis’, and he became a great success in the quarter, and he, on his part, was proud of his growing renown.

“In the meantime he had attained that happy period where the least sensitive of human beings feel the beating of their hearts awaken to the most tender sentiments. Louis Dominique was in love. The object of his affections was a charming needlewoman of the Rue Porte Foin, coquettish, with blue eyes, golden hair, and a fine figure. I have said that this needlewoman was a coquette. She loved dress, jewels and laces, and it was her desire always to be better clothed than her companions. The modest income of Louis Dominique did not permit of his paying for the extravagant fancies of his poor seamstress, and so Cartouche stole from his father. The latter soon found out and took steps by which he could have his boy placed in the Convent of the Lazaretto, in the Faubourg St. Denis.”