The Double Life

“Ah,” said Théophraste, “instead of combating with kindness the wickedness of this child, they drive him to despair by incarcerating him where he only meets with bad examples, and where the feeling of revolt increases, and boils over, stifling all other feelings in his inexperienced mind. I wager that if they had not put Louis in the House of Correction, that all the trouble would never have happened.”

“Reassure yourself,” said Adolphe. “Cartouche was never shut up in the Convent of the Lazaretto, for while his father had discovered this crime of Louis’, he did not tell him of it; but one Sunday morning, he asked his son to take a walk with him. Dominique readily acquiesced, and they were soon seen walking down the street together.

“‘Where are we going, father?’ asked Louis. ‘No matter where. By way of the Faubourg St. Denis.’ Louis pricked up his ears. He knew that at the end of the Faubourg St. Denis was the Lazaretto, and he also knew that sometimes fathers escorted their boys to the Lazaretto.

“He at once felt suspicious, for his conscience was not altogether tranquil, and when they arrived at the corner of the Faubourg St. Denis, and the battlement of the St. Lazaretto rose before them, it seemed to him that his father looked unnatural, and he felt uncomfortable at once. He told his father to continue his walk, slowly, without hurrying, as he wished to stop at the corner.

When his father returned, the son had disappeared, and he never saw him again.”

About this time the coach had arrived, and Adolphe discontinued his tale while they mounted to the top. Théophraste recognized M. Bache, and Mme. Froude, and he at once bowed to them, but they did not respond. He called them by name, but they remained mute. Théophraste could not understand this, and turned to ask Adolphe what he thought of it, and why they did not recognize him.

“That does not astonish me at all,” said Adolphe. “It is no wonder to me, since the dinner the other day, that nobody bows to you. Your extraordinary behavior was enough to upset them all. Do you not remember how you were mounted on the table and sang that vulgar song? There were some young ladies present, Miles. Froude and Tabouret.”

“Ah,” said Théophraste, “that accounts for Mme. Bache’s pretending not to see me the other day in Paris, when she called at the Pharmacy Crecy and I happened to meet her there. Never mind, Adolphe, continue where you left off about my father. What happened to him?”

“Well, you forgot about your seamstress at the Rue Point Foin, and you thought of her no more.

She worried over your disappearance about a fortnight, and then got somebody else, as is done under similar circumstances to-day. The necessity to make your way in the world recalled your old talents, and soon you were robbing passers-by of the things in their pockets. You operated so adroitly, that you incurred the admiration of a great sharper, who having seen you work, stopped you at the corner of the Rue Gallaud, and demanded of you your money or your life. ‘You shall have my purse only when you have my life,’ said you to him, and you drew your sword, a small sword that you had taken the day before from a French Guardsman. The great sharper flattered you upon your courage, and then upon your dexterity, and he begged you to accompany him home to the Rue Bout du Monde. He told you on the way that he sought an associate, and you could do the business. He also told you that he had a wife, and the wife had a very pretty sister. After a while you married this sister, though neither notary nor priest was sent for. The attachment did not last over six months, because the sharper, his wife, and his sister-in-law were sent to the gallows. You had already left them by this time, and had joined the army. You were caught one day, drunk, by a recruiting officer, and he took you to the barracks, and made you sign on.”

By this time it was seven o’clock, and Adolphe interrupted the course of his recital at that point, as they had to alight from the coach.

“Tell me,” said Théophraste, “I am curious to know how I was built. Was I a handsome man, a tall man?”

“They represent you thus at the theater, in M. d’Ennury’s play, but on the contrary, according to the poet Granvel, you were a conceited man, and always fond of singing your own praises. You were dark, lean, small, but of great courage. You were enterprising and bold, and very alert.”

“You have not told me,” said Théophraste, “how you got that picture in the house on the Rue Guinegaud.”

“It is a copy of a photograph by Nedar. He photographed a wax mask, which ought to resemble you, as that mask was made from your face by the order of the Regent. Nedar photographed that mask in 1859. The mask was found in the Chateau de St. Germain.”

“Oh! I want to see it,” cried Théophraste-“to touch it. We must go to St. Germain to-morrow.”

By this time they had reached the house, and Marceline, in neat dishabille, smilingly opened the door and greeted them.

Théophraste had a great desire to see and touch that waxen mask that had been made from his face, and the desire was still greater when Adolphe entered into the details of it. He told him that it had been in the Chateau de St. Germain en Laye, since the 24th of April, 1849.

“It appears that the portrait was given by an abbot, one Viallier, to be inherited by one Richot, an old officer of the Hussars of King Louis XVI. M. Richot died at St. Germain. He owned the portrait for many years, one most precious, especially as it had belonged to the royal family. The wax mask was moulded by a Florentine artist some days before Cartouche’s punishment. The head-dress was a woolen or coarse felt cap, his clothing was a shirt of very coarse linen, a waistcoat, and another vest, and a doublet of black camelot. But the most remarkable thing of all was that Cartouche’s hair was cut off of his corpse and pasted on the waxen mask. The whole was shut up in a gilded wooden chest, large and deep, of beautiful workmanship. A Venetian glass protected the portrait, and one could still see the escutcheon of the arms of France on the chest.”

Théophraste asked Adolphe where he had found such precise details, and was told that they were the result of two days’ searching in the forgotten archives of the most noted libraries and museums of Paris. There he found his hair, his moustache, and his clothes, two hundred years old.

In spite of the horror which these relics of a man so monstrous ought to have inspired in him, Théophraste could not control his impatience to see them, to touch them. Here was Théophraste Longuet, whose name was synonymous with honor, who had always feared the shedding of blood, cherishing in his heart the coarse remains of the greatest brigand on earth. When he had again command of his senses, he did not find in the bottom of his soul a feeling of absolute despair, but of great pity, a pity so keenly felt that he did not weep only for himself, Théophraste, but also moved him to pity Cartouche. He asked himself which was the more dominant, honest Théophraste, carrying with him the brigand Cartouche, or the brigand Cartouche, shut up within honest Théophraste. “It is necessary that we should understand each other,” he said aloud. He felt that he should not have uttered that sentence which must have seemed odd, but which expressed so well the double and yet unique preoccupation of his soul that he could not restrain himself. A great light dawned upon him at the same time, that recalled the theory of reincarnation that had been explained to him by M. Lecamus. He connected reincarnation with the natural evolution of things, and of individuals, that which was no other than transformation. “Does it not point to the fact that souls reincarnate themselves in order to pass according to natural law to advancement to a better state? It is the progressive step of being. Well, the natural law which certain persons call God, did not find anything better on the earth than the body of Théophraste Longuet through which to make the criminal soul of Cartouche evolve to a better state.”

When that idea got a firm hold on him, in place of the deepest despair, which had led him to faint, he found himself prompted by a sentiment almost akin to pride. He was entrusted with the destiny of the world. He, the humble but honest Théophraste, entrusted with the regeneration in ideal splendor, of the soul of shadows and of the bloody Louis Dominique Cartouche, called L’Enfant. He accepted this unexpected task willingly, since he could not do otherwise, and he put himself at once on his guard. Instead of saying, “It is necessary for us to understand each other,” he immediately ordered Cartouche to obey Théophraste, and he promised himself to lead him a life so hard that he could not say without smiling, “Poor Cartouche.” He had charged M. Lecamus to write everything possible about Louis Dominique Cartouche in such a way that he could not be ignorant of anything that could be known of his life. With that and with what his black feather and his memory had taught him, he justly thought he could resist in spirit the Other One, which would allow him to act accordingly. He partly confided his reflections to Adolphe, who approved of them, but warned him against a tendency he had to separate Théophraste from Cartouche.

“You must not forget,” said he, “that they are one. You have the instincts of the gardeners of the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. Those instincts are good, but you have the soul of Cartouche, which is detestable. Take care. You are his declared enemy, the question is raised as to who will vanquish- the soul of former years, or the instincts of today.”

Théophraste asked Adolphe if the soul of Cartouche was really altogether detestable, and was happy to learn that it had some good points. Adolphe said that Cartouche had expressly forbidden to kill or even wound passers-by without cause. When he operated in Paris with some of his bands, and they brought victims to him, he spoke to them with so much politeness and kindness, that they always returned a part of the booty to him. Sometimes they would limit matters to a simple exchange of clothes. When he found letters or pictures in the pockets of the coats thus exchanged, he ran after the ex-proprietors to return them. It was a maxim of that extraordinary individual, that a man ought not to be robbed twice in the same night, nor were they to be too severely treated, so as not to prevent the Parisians from going out in the evening. Therefore he ordered his men to take the utmost care not to kill any one without good reason. At this time the man was not yet thoroughly wicked. Up to then he had always had a reason for every act. It is to be regretted, however, that he had had one hundred and fifty reasons to assassinate.

Let us return to the wax mask.

Théophraste and Adolphe were going down the stairs in the station of St. Germain-en-Laye, when suddenly Théophraste thought he saw a familiar figure ahead of him, among a group of travelers. Moved by a feeling over which he had no control, he ran rapidly towards the group, but the figure had disappeared. Where had he seen that figure before? It was so repulsive to him. Adolphe asked him the cause of his agitation, and he recovered himself at once.

“I would swear,” said Théophraste, “that it was Signor Petito, the Italian professor of the floor below. What did Signor Petito come to St. Germain for? I do not want to run foul of him.”

“Well, what has he done, then?” asked Adolphe.

“Oh, nothing. Only if he runs across my way, I swear I will cut off his ears, and you know I will do it if I say so.”

They then went, without any more thought of Signor Petito, to the castle. They entered the Museum, and asked to see the wax mask of Cartouche. Théophraste became enraged when he learned that it was not to be found there, and in his excitement he poked the handle of his green umbrella into the eye of a plaster cast of a member of the Legion of Honor. An old guard came up and told him that he knew well there had been a wax mask of Cartouche in St. Germain, and that it could be found, he thought, in the library. But the latter had been closed up for eight days for repairs. Théophraste gave that man a franc, and they turned their steps toward the terrace, promising themselves to come again at a later time, for the farther the wax mask seemed away, the more Théophraste burned to touch it.

It was a beautiful day, and they walked together in the forest, in the magnificent walk which led to the battlements of the Loge, which were constructed in front of the Castle Germain, by Queen Anne of Austria.

As they reached the south angle of the ramparts, it seemed that Théophraste recognized again, gliding in a thicket, the repulsive form of Signor Petito.

Adolphe insisted that he was mistaken.

CHAPTER XII

Théophraste’s Memory Is Refreshed

THEY wandered down to the lawns at the foot of the ramparts, and walking across the green grass, they stopped at the foot of a forked tree. They were seated chatting for some time, when suddenly Théophraste’s face seemed to light up as if he recalled something. It seemed as if his memory had suddenly become awakened to events of years ago. His whole soul was filled with sweet memories, like the tenderest recollections of youthful days returning, after having been forgotten for a long time. In his mind he saw perfectly the spirit of Cartouche, as if he had never been separated from him by two hundred years. It seemed to come suddenly to him, and as the events came back to him, he related them to Adolphe, in the following words:

“Adolphe, my friend, I must tell you that at that time my fortune was complete. I was dreaded and yet liked by all. I was even liked by my victims. I despoiled them so gallantly that they went their way along through the city singing my praises. I had not yet been attacked by that wonderful sanguinary instinct which some months later made me commit the most atrocious crimes. Everything prospered with me; everybody feared me and loved me. I was happy, merry, of a magnificent audacity, gallant in love, and the ruler of Paris. They said that I was the greatest of all robbers; that was only half true, because it was imperative that I should partake of the sovereignty with M. Law, the Controller-General of Finance. My glory was at its zenith; for often he and his people paid me tribute. But he imagined he might excite the Regent against me. One evening when I had stolen into his room in his hotel, disguised as a lackey to Lord Dermott, the Regent sent for Monsieur d’Argenson, keeper of the seals, and told him that he had eight hours in which to arrest me. M. d’Argenson promised everything he wanted, provided they let him go by the way of the Convent of the Madeline du Frainel, where his mistress, Mlle. Husson, had taken refuge. Eight hours later, M. d’Argenson was still at the Convent with Mlle. Husson. As for me, my dear Adolphe, during that time, I attended to my small affairs, and I commanded without any trouble three thousand men. It was the month of September, the nights were beautiful and clear, and we profited by this to get into the house of the Spanish Ambassador, who lived in the old hotel of the Marshal d’Aucre, in the Rue de Fournon, the same house even which has since been occupied by the Guard de Paris. We entered his wife’s bedroom and took possession of all her dresses, of a buckle ornament with twenty-seven large diamonds, a necklace of very fine pearls, six plates, six table sets, six knives and ten coral goblets. We rolled it all up in a table cloth, and went to supper at the house of the Belle Helene, who kept what you called the Inn of the Harp in the Rue de la Harp.

“Oh, Adolphe, what a wonderful thing memory is! Truly I do not know why I said that you called it the Inn of the Harp, unless in my mind you are representing a friend whom I had, who was as good as you, and whom I loved as well as you, whose name was Va-de-Bon Cour. By the Thunder of the Breast, but he was a handsome young fellow! He was a sergeant of the French Guards, and he was my lieutenant. I must tell you, my dear Adolphe, that I commanded a considerable number of French Guardsmen. At the time of my arrest, one hundred and fifty non-commissioned officers, soldiers of the French Guard, hid themselves, and disappeared over to the colonies. They dreaded lest I should compromise them. They were wrong, however, for torture could not make me speak. However, let me leave those melancholy moments, and come back to the beautiful September nights. We will proceed to the time when it was customary for the Parisians to take up their new abodes. The Regent showed still more anger against me and M. d’Argenson, when he learned about the escapade against the Spanish Ambassador. Imagine his fury as I turned my attentions to him. Va-de-Bon Cour, being on guard at the Palais Royal, carried off two vermilion flambeaux, which the Duke of Orleans prized very highly. The Regent was so afraid of being robbed that instead of wearing silver-faced buckles and sword handles, he resolved to substitute carved steel. On the first day that he carried one of that kind, I, Cartouche, stole it from him as he was leaving the opera house. The next day I sent it back to him in pieces, and I taunted him about his apparent avarice, and upbraided him, that he, the greatest man in France, should wish to deprive his unfortunate confrères, the silversmiths, of a livelihood.

“He answered me publicly by proclaiming that he was very anxious to know me, and that he would give from his own pocket 20,000 pounds to whoever would bring Cartouche to him. The next day, as he walked to Saint Germain and was breakfasting in the castle, he found under his napkin a message of which you will readily see the sense: ‘My lord, you can see me for nothing. It may be to-night, at midnight, behind the Anne of Austria Wall in the forest, where Cartouche will expect you. You are brave. Come alone. If you come accompanied, you run the danger of death.’

“At midnight, I awaited the Regent; twelve o’clock was still sounding in the Loges, when the Regent appeared. The moonlight made the forest seem like fairyland-enchanted, such as one sees at the theater. The forest, a marvelous, transparent blue, seemed bereft of all its branches, of all its foliage, of all its thickets.

“‘Behold me, Cartouche,’ said the prince; ‘I come to you armed with my sword alone, as you have wished. I run perhaps the greatest danger,’ he said in a clear, derisive voice, ‘but who would not risk everything to see at close range at midnight, in the heart of the forest, the form of Cartouche, when it costs nothing?’ Oh, Adolphe, my friend, that thou couldst have been there to hear me respond to the Regent of France! To be sure, I am only the son of a poor cooper of the Rue du Pontaux-Choux, but what Condé, what Montmorency could have bowed with more grace, sweeping the wet grass with the plume of his hat? The Duke de Richelieu himself could not kneel more elegantly than I did, nor present in a more gracious manner to my lord the purse that I had taken from his pocket. ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the most humble servant of my lord, and I beg him to take back from Cartouche this purse that I had the audacity to steal with so much coolness, only to prove to my lord that his highness finds himself face to face with Cartouche.’ The Regent begged me to preserve that purse for a remembrance of him. He was wrong to relate, in the course of time, this anecdote; for the report was spread that he was one of my band. I believe that he had started to go away, when he put his arm in mine and dragged me as far to the right as we are sitting to-day.

“Then the regent did me the honor to put his arm in mine, and I saw that he had something of a secret nature to confide to me. He did not wait to acknowledge that he counted upon my ingenuity to avenge him for an offense that Monsieur the Controller-General had committed against him. He told me that he was quite in love with the courtesan, Emily; that she was his mistress, and had been for fifteen days, and that he had learned from La Fillon that M. Law had the promise of her favors the next night against the present that he would make her of a ten-thousand-louis necklace. He was sure of it, for La Fillon was never mistaken. Was it not from her that he had had a hint of the Cellamore conspiracy? All the rogues of Paris knew La Fillon.

“La Fillon is a woman of five feet ten inches, who was admirably formed, a ravishingly beautiful face. From the age of fifteen years, that model beauty thought that Nature had not provided such rare treasures to be hidden, so she lavished them. The Duke d’Orleans, a long time before the regency, loved her. He remained smitten with her for more than a year. It was for her that he had constructed, in a retired part of the gardens of Saint Germain, a sort of grotto, lighted mysteriously by several rays directed upon a bed of mats, upon which his mistress stretched herself, clothed in her blonde hair only. He showed them to all who passed that way, and in that way he made numerous friends. But the fifteen years of La Fillon flew away in happy days. Now she had no longer the enjoyment of intrigue, of which she has made two parts-gallantry and observation. So she furnished some important information to the police and to M. d’Argenson, guard of the seals, and some remarkable subjects for the amours of the Regent. It was she who procured Emily for him, who is by far the prettiest girl in Paris. Everybody wanted to steal her from him. Law, who was the richest, swore to succeed there. The bargain was concluded for the next night.

“‘Cartouche,’ the Regent said to me, after having explained his small affairs to me, ‘thou art a brave man. I give thee the necklace.’

“And he went away in the moonlight, giving me a slight wave of the hand. This kind of mission that I received-to thwart the loves of the Superintendent, and avenge those of the Duke of Orleans, filled me with pride.

“Being back in Paris, I learned near the morning, through my police (which was the best information of the epoch), that the courtesan Emily lived at a small hotel in the Mardis, at the corner of the Rue Barbette and of the Trois-Pavillons, and that the Regent showed more attachment for her than he had ever for the Duchess of Berry, with whom he was disgusted long since for La Baratere, who shut herself up in the Convent of Chelles, less on account of her love for God than for her liking for the beautiful nuns (what morals, my dear Adolphe, what morals!), and it consoled her that she had recently been mistaken for Mlle, de Valois, uniquely occupied with the Duke de Richelieu. This courtesan, Emily, was no more than an opera girl, but her beauty, as I have told you, surpassed all that one can imagine-I was not long in judging for myself.

“Twenty-four hours after the interview of Saint Germain, that is to say the midnight following, I went out with a placard describing exactly the angle of the Rue des Trois-Pavillons and the Rue Barbette. I had, as if by chance, a pistol in each hand, which made it impossible for me to decently bow to Mlle. Emily, who appeared, considering the hour, in the most polite dishabille, with the Superintendent, who presented a casket to her in which there shone the gems of a necklace, which was valued at the least at ten thousand louis. I excused myself for the necessity of keeping my hat on my head, and begged Monsieur, the Superintendent, seeing the encumbrance of my hands, to close the casket on the necklace, and to put the whole thing in the pocket of my cinnamon coat, promising my gratitude or recognition for this slight service.

“As he hesitated, I proceeded with my presentation, and when he knew that my name was Cartouche, he obeyed with alacrity.

“I begged Mlle. Emily to reassure herself, declaring that she was in no danger, of which she was convinced, for she began to laugh heartily at the discomfiture of M. Law. I laughed also. I said to M. Law that his necklace was worth 10,000 louis, but if he wished to send the next day, towards five o’clock in the afternoon, a confidence man to the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and of the Rue des Fosses-Monsieur le Prince, with five thousand louis, they would return the collar, on the word of honor of Cartouche. He replied to me that the bargain was concluded and we took leave of each other.

“Two days later some one related the adventure to the Regent, who was at first overjoyed, but whose face changed when he learned the culmination of the event. The man, Law, had given the five thousand louis as was arranged, to the man, Cartouche, and he expected the jewel box, when the other told him that Cartouche had already gone to carry it himself to Mlle. Emily. Law ran to the house of the courtesan, saw the necklace and demanded the price.