John Leech, His Life and Work. Vol. 1 [of 2]

“‘I have it! It is here – the source, not of life, but of death!’

“Almost as he speaks, he is summoned by the femme de chambre of the Marchioness to an interview at her residence at her father’s house, the Hôtel d’Aubray. The Chevalier found the enchantress in studied disarray. She might have been made up after one of Guido’s Magdalens,” says the author, “so beautiful were her rounded shoulders, so dishevelled her light hair,” etc.

The lovers were speedily reconciled, but the lady had an important communication to make – no less than the discovery of their intimacy by her husband, whom she felt sure had revealed the fact to her father, M. d’Aubray. A long pause, broken by Sainte-Croix:

“‘Marie,’ he said, ‘they must die, or our happiness is impossible.’”

The Marchioness was not yet hardened enough to receive this announcement with equanimity; and the lovers were still discussing the pros and cons of it, when they were surprised by Monsieur d’Aubray, who, entering by a secret door, “stood looking on the scene before him.” Any doubts of guilty intimacy, if he had any, were dispelled; and, after ordering his daughter to her chamber, he turned to Sainte-Croix, and said:

“‘Monsieur de Sainte-Croix, I will provide you with a lodging where you will run no risk of compromising the honour of a noble family.’”

And so saying, he produced a lettre de cachet, armed with which the exempts, who were waiting for him, speedily deposited M. de Sainte-Croix at the Bastille. The Marchioness, separated from her children and her husband, was exiled to Offremont, a family place some distance from Paris. Here she lived with her father, who so entirely believed in her repentance and determination to lead a new life that he proposed a speedy return to Paris.

“‘I have no wish to go, mon père,’ replied the hypocrite; ‘I would sooner remain here with you – for ever!’”

After much talk and reiterated professions of sorrow for the past, the Marchioness says, in reply to her father’s order that “she shall never speak to Sainte-Croix – who had been released from the Bastille – or recognise him again:

“‘You shall be obeyed, monsieur – too willingly.’”

The words had not long left her lips when she placed a lamp in the window of the room, to guide her lover to a prearranged assignation.

The awful interview that followed is described in Mr. Smith’s book.

The greater villain ran the risk of interruption in his lengthened arguments in favour of parricide; but hearing approaching footsteps, Sainte-Croix hurried away.

M. d’Aubray had gone to bed. A servant suggested the night-drink.

“‘I will give it to him myself, Jervais,’ said the Marchioness.”

Taking a jug from the man, she poured the contents into an old cup of thin silver; then, “with a hurried glance round the room, she broke the seals of the packet Sainte-Croix had left in her hands, and shook a few grains of its contents into the beverage. No change was visible; a few bubbles rose and broke upon the surface, but this was all.”

Sleep had surprised M. d’Aubray. His daughter touched him lightly, and he “awoke with the exclamation of surprise attendant upon being suddenly disturbed from sleep.

“‘I have brought your wine, mon père,’ said the murderess.

“‘Thanks, thanks, my good girl,’ said the old man, as he raised himself up in bed, and took the cup from the Marchioness. He drank off the contents, and then, once more bestowing a benediction upon his daughter, turned again to his pillow.”

Let those who desire to see how beauty can be retained, though disfigured by devilish passion, study the face of the Marchioness in this drawing. For skilful arrangement of light and shade, and of the objects that go to make up the mise en scène, and for natural action in the figures; this drawing takes the lead of all the admirable illustrations in the “Marchioness of Brinvilliers.”

CHAPTER IX

“THE MARCHIONESS OF BRINVILLIERS” (continued)

A great reception was given at Versailles by the King. M. d’Aubray was “suffering from a sudden and fearful indisposition, but he insisted upon his daughter accepting an invitation, were it only to establish her entrée into society.”

There, amongst the trees in the gardens, the Marchioness encounters Sainte-Croix. “His face looked ghastly in the moonbeams, and his eyes gleamed with a light that conscience made demoniac in the eyes of the Marchioness.”

“‘You here!’ she exclaimed.

“‘Where should I be but in the place of rejoicing just now?’ replied Gaudin through his set teeth, and with a sardonic smile. ‘I am this moment from Paris. We are free!’

“‘My father?’ cried the Marchioness, as a terrible expression overspread her countenance.

“‘He is dead,’ returned Sainte-Croix, ‘and we are free!’”

There was a pause, and they looked at each other for nearly a minute.

“‘Come,’ at length said the Marchioness, ‘come to the ball.’”

A prominent and very interesting figure in Mr. Smith’s book is Louise Gauthier, a girl of comparatively humble birth, who had the misfortune to love Sainte-Croix with the intense self-sacrificing love that good women so often show for bad men, who return their affection with coldness and neglect. This girl, who had become the friend of Marotte Dupré, one of the actresses in the plays of Molière which were part of the attraction at the Versailles fête, accompanied the actress to Versailles, where she accidentally overheard a conversation between the Marchioness of Brinvilliers and M. de Sainte-Croix, which not only convinced her that the love for her that Sainte-Croix had once professed was given to another, but that some fearful tie existed between the two, caused by actions which had destroyed their happiness here and their hopes of it hereafter.

She came from her concealment, and was received with jealous fury by the Marchioness, who believed, or affected to believe, that the girl was at “the grotto” by appointment with Sainte-Croix. She bestowed what is commonly called “a piece of her mind” upon her lover, and concluded her rhapsody by informing him that from henceforth “we meet no more.” Louise, however, convinced the passionate Marchioness that she had made no appointment, but was at “the grotto” by, “perhaps, a dispensation of Providence,” in order that she might, having overheard their guilty conversation, so act upon their consciences as to “save them both.”

The first result of her good intentions is a declaration to the Marchioness by Sainte-Croix that, though there had been some love-passages between him and the girl, they were “madness, infatuation – call it what name you will; but you are the only one I ever loved.” Thus the ruffian speaks in the presence of the woman he had betrayed; but her love, though crushed, still urges her to become the man’s good angel, and, seizing his arm, she cries:

“‘Hear me, Gaudin. By the recollection of what we once were to each other – although you scorn me now, and the shadowy remembrance of old times – before these terrible circumstances, whatever they may be, had thus turned your heart from me and from your God, there is still time to make amends for all that has occurred. I do not speak for myself, for all those feelings have passed, but for you alone. Repent and be happy, for happy now you are not!’”

“Gaudin made no reply, but his bosom heaved rapidly, betraying his emotion.

“‘This is idle talk,’ said the Marchioness… ‘Will you not come with me, Gaudin?’

“‘Marie!’ cried Gaudin faintly, ‘take me where you list. In life or after it, on earth or in hell, I am yours – yours only!’

“A flush of triumph passed over her face as she led Sainte-Croix from the grotto,” etc.

By the death of her father the Marchioness hoped, not only to have freed herself and her lover from an ever-recurring obstacle to their intercourse, but also to have inherited a much-needed sum of money – no less than “one hundred and fifty thousand livres were to have been the legacy to his daughter, Madame de Brinvilliers – and, what was more, her absolute freedom to act as she pleased. The money had passed to her brothers, in trust for her, and she was left entirely under their surveillance.

“‘This must be altered,’ said the Chevalier Sainte-Croix in an interview with the alter ego of an Italian vendor of poisons named Exili.’”

This man undertakes the “alteration,” or, in other words, the murder, of the two brothers for a “consideration” in the form of “one-fifth of whatever may fall to the Marchioness thereupon.

“‘Of course, there is a barrier between the brothers of Madame de Brinvilliers and myself,’ said Sainte-Croix to his accomplice, ‘that must for ever prevent our meeting. I will provide the means, and you their application.’”

Sainte-Croix had the right to claim the merit of this scheme for enriching the Marchioness, and at the same time relieving her from a guardianship that was impenetrable by her lover. The murder of her brothers seemed a trifling affair after the poisoning of her father, and she readily consented to assist in procuring a situation for the poisoner’s assistant – a man named Lechaussée – in the household of her brothers, who happened, very fortunately, to be in want of a servant at the moment. How this wretch administered the poison to the two brothers, who died instantly from its effect, the curious reader may ascertain – together with the other dramatic particulars – by consulting Mr. Albert Smith’s book, in which the incidents are told with great force and skill.

By eavesdropping in somewhat improbable places – notably at a grand fête at the Hôtel de Cluny, given by the Marquis de Lauzan, the Italian poisoner Exili becomes master of the guilty pair’s secrets. The Marchioness’s jealousy had been aroused during the evening by Sainte-Croix’s attention to an actress; and she left the great salon, and retired with her friend to a cabinet, in which, after the usual denial and reconciliation, secure, as they thought, from interruption, they discussed their demoniacal schemes. As they were about to pass from the room, “a portion of a large bookcase, masking a door, was thrown open, and Exili stood before them.”

The somewhat theatrical character that Leech gives to the figure of Sainte-Croix is much less apparent in this powerful drawing; and in the figures of Exili and the Marchioness there is not a trace of it. Though the Brinvilliers is masked according to a habit of the time, we feel that the mask conceals a beautiful face, distorted by fear, no doubt, but still lovely. The Italian is altogether excellent.

Exili loses no time in turning his information to account, and in reply to Sainte-Croix, who asks him what he wants, he replies that his trade as a sorcerer is failing, and as a poisoner he is in “a yet worse position, thanks to the Lieutenant of Police, M. de la Regnie.

“‘I must have money,’ he adds, ‘to enable me to retire and die elsewhere than on the Grève.’”

He ends by extorting from Sainte-Croix an undertaking to share with him the wealth obtained through the murder of the brothers. But if Exili relied upon the bond as a security of value, he displayed a degree of ignorance of the human nature of such individuals as Sainte-Croix that was surprising in so astute a person.

“To elude the payment of Exili’s bond,” says the author, “he had determined upon destroying him, running the risk of whatever might happen subsequently through the physician’s knowledge of the murders.” And he had, therefore, ordered a body of the “Guard Royal to attend, when they would receive sufficient proof of the trade Exili was driving in his capacity of alchemist.”

Sainte-Croix visited the Italian with excuses for the non-payment of the money early in the evening of the day on which the arrest was planned to take place later. To those excuses the poisoner listened angrily; he discovered some valuable jewels which Sainte-Croix wore. He had purposely brushed his hand against Sainte-Croix’s cloak, and in the pocket of it he felt some weighty substance. The chink assured him it was gold.

“‘You cannot have that,’ said Gaudin confusedly; ‘it is going with me to the gaming-table to-night.’

“‘You have rich jewels, too, about you,’ continued Exili, peering at him with a fearful expression. ‘The carcanet becomes you well. That diamond clasp is a fortune in itself.’

“‘Not one of them is mine,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘They belong to the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.’”

The Italian affected to be satisfied with the assurance that the money should be paid next day, and Sainte-Croix’s doom was sealed. The alchemist “turned to the furnace to superintend the progress of some preparation that was evaporating over the fire.

“‘What have you there?’ asked Gaudin, who was anxious to prolong the interview till the guard could arrive.

“‘A venom more deadly than any we have yet known – that will kill like lightning, and leave no trace of its presence to the most subtle tests.’

“‘You will give me the secret?’ asked Gaudin.

“‘As soon as it is finished, and the time is coming on apace. You have arrived opportunely to assist me.’

“He took a mask with glass eyes, and tied it round his face.

“‘If you would see the preparation completed, you must wear one as well.’

“Exili took another visor, and, under pretence of rearranging the string, he broke it from the mask; and then, fixing it back with some resinous compound that would be melted by the heat of the furnace, he cautiously fixed it to Sainte-Croix’s face.

“‘I will mind the furnace whilst you go,’ said Gaudin, in reply to the alchemist, who said he must fetch some drugs required for further operations.

“At that moment Sainte-Croix heard an adjacent bell sound the hour at which he had appointed the guard to arrive.

“‘There is no danger in this mask, you say?’

“‘None,’ said Exili.

“Anxious to become acquainted with the new poison, and in the hope that as soon as he had acquired the secret of its manufacture the guard would arrive, Gaudin bent over the furnace. Exili had left the apartment, but as soon as his footfall was beyond Sainte-Croix’s hearing he returned, treading as stealthily as a tiger, and took up his place at the door to watch his prey. As Gaudin bent his head to watch the preparation more closely, the heat of the furnace melted the resin with which the string had been fastened. It gave way, and the mask fell on the floor, whilst the vapour of the poison rose full in his face almost before, in his eager attention, he was aware of the accident.

“One terrible scream – a cry which, once heard, could never be forgotten – not that of agony, or terror, or surprise, but a shrill and violent indrawing of the breath, resembling rather the screech of some huge, hoarse bird of prey irritated to madness, than the sound of a human voice – broke from Gaudin’s lips. Every muscle of his face was contorted into the most frightful form; he remained a second, and no more, wavering at the side of the furnace, and then fell heavily on the floor. He was dead.”

This terrible death-scene has found a perfect illustrator in John Leech. How admirable is the fiendish expression of the poisoner as he gloats over the body of his victim, which is drawn with a power and truthfulness altogether perfect! Every detail of the laboratory how skilfully introduced, how effectively rendered!

The alchemist behaved on the occasion as might be expected.

“He darted at the dead body like a beast of prey; and drew forth the bag of money, which he transferred to his own pouch. He next tore away every ornament of any value that adorned Gaudin’s costly dress…”

While at this congenial occupation, “the bristling halberts of the guard appeared.

“‘Back!’ screamed Exili. ‘Keep off, or I will slay you and myself, so that not one shall live to tell the tale! Your lives are in my hands,’ continued the physician, ‘and if you move one step forward they are forfeited.’

“He darted through a doorway at the end of the room as he spoke, and disappeared. The guard pressed forward; but, as Exili passed out at the arch, a mass of timber descended like a portcullis and opposed their further progress. A loud and fiendish laugh sounded in the souterrain, which grew fainter and fainter, till they heard it no more.”

The poisoner escaped – for a time. He was captured afterwards, tried, and, of course, condemned to death – a merciful death compared with that which befell him on his way to execution at the hands of the infuriated people, by whom his guards were overpowered, and after being almost torn to pieces, he was thrown into the Seine.

The toils were now closing round the miserable Marchioness de Brinvilliers. The wretched woman had reached the inconceivable condition of degradation said to be common to successful murderers when impunity has followed their first crimes – that of killing for killing’s sake. She put on the clothes of a religeuse, attended the hospitals, and poisoned the patients. Their dying cries were music to her, their agonies afforded her the keenest pleasure. To the student of French criminal history this is no news. I note it here so that the historian of the woman’s crimes should not be thought to have invented incidents that existed only in his imagination. Mr. Smith had the best authority for all the murders with which he charges Madame de Brinvilliers.

The death of Sainte-Croix was followed by the usual police regulation where foul play is suspected. Seals were affixed to his effects, amongst which poisons were discovered that were proved to be the property of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers. The murderess, terror-stricken, fled from Paris; and, though hotly pursued, she escaped into Belgium, and sought refuge in a religious house, where she took “sanctuary.” The pursuers were so near that, as she jumped from her carriage at the convent-door, she left her cloak in the hands of the exempt. She turned upon him, says the author, “with a smile of triumph that threw an expression of demoniac beauty over her features, and cried:

“‘You dare not touch me, or you are lost body and soul!’”

I must again refer my reader to Mr. Albert Smith’s book if he wishes to learn how the exempt, disguised as an abbé, beguiled the Marchioness from her sanctuary, and content myself with showing – or rather in letting Leech show – how she looked when the police-officer dropped his disguise and she found herself seized by his men.

The details given by Mr. Albert Smith of the last hours of Madame de Brinvilliers are, though painful reading, very remarkable. The Docteur Pirot, who passed nearly the whole of his time at the Conciergerie, has left records of which the author has availed himself, as well as from the letters of Madame de Sévigné. Those who wish to “sup full of horrors” can satisfy themselves by reading the account of the torture by water which was inflicted upon the miserable woman to induce her to betray her accomplices. But there were none to betray. Her only accomplice was dead. Her sufferings on the rack very nearly cheated the headsman, for, as they culminated “in a piercing cry of agony, after which all was still, the graffier, fearing that the punishment had been carried too far, gave orders that she should be unbound.” On her way to execution, she was attended by the constant Pirot. The tumbrel stopped before the door of Nôtre Dame, and a paper was put into her hands, from which she read, in a firm voice, a confession of her crimes. The tumbrel again advanced with difficulty through the dense crowds, portions of which, “slipping between the horses of the troops who surrounded it, launched some brutal remark at Marie with terrible distinctness and meaning; but she never gave the least sign of having heard them, only keeping her eyes intently fixed upon the crucifix which Pirot held up before her.”

In this drawing Leech’s power over individual character may be noted in the diversity of type amongst the hooting crowd round the tumbrel. The shrinking form of the prisoner is very beautiful.

When the Place de Grève was reached the execrations of the mob had ceased, and “a deep and awful silence” prevailed, “so perfect that the voices of the executioner and Pirot could be plainly heard,” says the chroniclers. I pass over harrowing details. The beautiful head of the poisoner was struck off by a single sword-stroke, and the executioner, turning to Pirot, said:

“‘It was well done, monsieur, and I hope madame has left me a trifle, for I deserve it.’”

He then “calmly took a bottle from his pocket and refreshed himself with its contents.”

If the short extracts from the history of this great criminal have enabled my readers more clearly to understand and enjoy Leech’s illustrations, my object in selecting them has been realized.

CHAPTER X

“A MAN MADE OF MONEY.” – DOUGLAS JERROLD

Knowing that this extraordinary book was illustrated by John Leech, and hearing that it contained some of his best work, it became my duty to make a sufficient acquaintance with the book to enable me to criticise and explain the drawings to my readers. I tried “skimming,” but the power of the book, and the brilliancy of the wit in it, so attracted me that I read the whole of it.

It is not my province, and it is certainly not in my power, to pose as a critic of literary work; and the hero – the man made of money, with a heart made of bank-notes instead of flesh and blood, containing within himself a bank that could be drawn upon to any amount – is so wonderful a being as to place him out of the category of human creatures, and altogether beyond criticism. This gentleman’s name was Jericho. He had waited till he was forty, and then he married a widow with three children; two of them were girls, the third a young gentleman of whom those who knew him best said, “He was born for billiards.” There was no love lost between Mr. Jericho and his step-children; in fact, they cordially hated him, and he returned the compliment. Their name was Pennibacker, inherited from their father, Captain Pennibacker, whose loving wife “was made a widow at two-and-twenty by an East Indian bullet.” Mr. Jericho was one of that large class which, though really needy, manœuvres successfully to be considered wealthy. His step-children considered him as “a rich plum-cake, to be sliced openly or by stealth among them.” The widow Pennibacker was first attracted to him by “a whispered announcement that he was a City gentleman. Hence Jericho appeared to the imagination of the widow with an indescribable glory of money about him.”

Mrs. Jericho desired to make a few purchases, and she approached her husband with a cry familiar to most of us:

“‘Mr. Jericho, when can you let me have some money?’”

The lady’s confidence in her husband’s wealth ought to have been shaken by what followed her application. Mr. Jericho turned a deaf ear to the appeal, which was repeated in every variety of tone and accent.

At length, “waving her right hand before her husband’s face with a significant and snaky motion,” she reiterated her demand with a terrible calmness:

“‘When can I have some money?’

“‘Woman!’ cried Jericho vehemently, as though at once and for ever he emptied his heart of the sex; and, rushing from the room, he felt himself in the flattering vivacity of the moment a single man. ‘I’m sure, after all, I do my best to love the woman,’ thought Jericho, ‘and yet she will ask me for money.’”

Disgusted with these unreasonable demands for money, Mr. Jericho determines to revenge himself by taking a day’s pleasure with three special friends, to be ended by “a quiet banquet at which the human heart would expand in good fellowship, and where the wine was above doubt.”

The dinner was a great success. It was very late – or rather somewhat early, as the sparrows were twittering from the eaves – when Mr. Jericho sought the marital couch, in which, too, his “wife Sabilla” was evidently “in a sound, deep, sweet sleep.”

“Untucking the bed-clothes, and making himself the thinnest slice of a man, Jericho slides between the sheets; and there he lies feloniously still, and he thinks to himself – Being asleep, she cannot tell how late I came to bed. At all events, it is open to dispute, and that is something.

“‘Mr. Jericho, when can you let me have some money?’

“With open eyes, and clearly ringing every word upon the morning air, did Mrs. Jericho repeat this primal question.