Delphi collected works o.., p.147
Delphi Collected Works of E. T. A. Hoffmann (Illustrated), page 147
It was a remarkable feature of this business that, notwithstanding all search and investigation in every quarter where there seemed to be any chance of dealing in jewels going on, not a trace of even the smallest of the plundered precious stones ever came to light. Desgrais foamed in fury that even his acumen and skill were powerless to prevent the escape of those scoundrels. Whatever part of the town he happened to be in for the time was let alone, whilst in some other quarter, robbery and murder were lying in wait for their rich prey.
Desgrais hit upon the clever idea of setting several facsimiles of himself on foot — various Desgrais, exactly alike in gait, speech, figure, face, &c.; so that his own men could not tell the one of them from the other, or say which was the real Desgrais. Meanwhile he, at the risk of his life, watched alone in the most secret hiding-places, and followed, at a distance, this or the other person who seemed, by the looks of him, to be likely to have jewels about him. But those whom he was watching were unharmed, so that this artifice of his was as well known, to the culprits as everything else seemed to be. Desgrais was in utter despair.
One morning he came to President La Regnie, pale, distorted, almost out of his mind.
“What is it — what news? Have you come upon the clue?” the President cried to him as he came in.
“Ah, Monsieur!” cried Desgrais, stammering in fury, “last night, near the Louvre, the Marquis de la Fare was set upon under my very nose!”
“Heaven and earth!” cried La Regnie, overjoyed, “we have got them!”
“Wait a moment, listen,” said Desgrais, with a bitter smile. “I was standing near the Louvre, watching and waiting, with hell itself in my heart, for those devils who have been baffling me for such a length of time. There came a figure close by me — not seeing me — with careful uncertain steps, always looking behind it. By the moonlight I recognised the Marquis de la Fare. I expected that he would be passing. I knew where he was gliding to. Scarcely had he got ten or twelve paces beyond me, when, out of the ground apparently, springs a figure, dashes the Marquis to the ground, falls down upon him. Losing my self-command at this occurrence, which seemed to be likely to deliver the murderer into my hands, I cried out aloud, and meant to spring from my hiding-place with a great jump and seize hold of him. But I tripped up in my cloak and fell down. I saw the fellow flee away as if on the wings of the wind; I picked myself up, and made off after him as fast as I could. As I ran, I sounded my horn. Out of the distance the whistles of my men answered me. Things grew lively — clatter of arms, tramp of horses on all sides. ‘Here! — come to me! — Desgrais!’ I cried, till the streets re-echoed. All the time I saw the man before me in the bright moonlight, turning off right — left — to get away from me. We came to the Rue Nicaise. There his strength seemed to begin to fail. I gathered mine up. He was not more than fifteen paces ahead of me.”
“You got hold of him! — your men came up!” cried La Regnie, with flashing eyes, grasping Desgrais by the arm as if he were the fleeing murderer himself.
“Fifteen paces ahead of me,” said Desgrais, in a hollow voice, and drawing his breath hard, “this fellow, before my eyes, dodged to one side, and vanished through the wall.”
“Vanished! — through the wall! Are you out of your senses?” La Regnie cried, stepping three steps backwards, and striking his hands together.
“Call me as great a madman as you please, Monsieur,” said Desgrais, rubbing his forehead like one tortured by evil thoughts. “Call me a madman, or a silly spirit-seer; but what I have told you is the literal truth. I stood staring at the wall, while several of my men came up out of breath, and with them the Marquis de la Fare (who had picked himself up), with his drawn sword in his hand. We lighted torches, we examined the wall all over. There was not the trace of a door, a window, any opening. It is a strong stone wall of a courtyard, belonging to a house, in which people are living — against whom there is not the slightest suspicion. I have looked into the whole thing again this morning in broad daylight. It must be the very devil himself who is at work befooling us in the matter.”
This story got bruited abroad through Paris, where all heads were full of the witch-business, spirit conjuration, devil-covenants of La Voisin, Vigoureux, and the wicked priest Le Sage; and as it does lie in our eternal nature that the bent towards the supernatural and the marvellous overpasses all reason, people soon believed nothing less than that which Desgrais had only said in his impatience — namely, that the very devil himself must protect those rascals, and that they had sold their souls to him. We can readily understand that Desgrais’s story soon received many absurd embellishments. It was printed, and hawked about the town, with a woodcut at the top representing a horrible devil-form sinking into the ground before the terrified Desgrais. Quite enough to frighten the people, and so terrify Desgrais’s men that they lost all courage, and went about the streets behung with amulets, and sprinkled with holy water.
Argenson, seeing that the Chambre Ardente was unsuccessful, applied to the King to constitute — with special reference to this novel description of crime — a tribunal armed with greater powers for tracking and punishing offenders. The King, thinking he had already given powers too ample to the Chambre Ardente, and shocked at the horrors of the numberless executions, carried out by the bloodthirsty La Regnie, refused.
Then another method of influencing His Majesty was devised.
In the apartments of Madame de Maintenon, — where the King was in the habit of spending much of his time in the afternoons, — and also, very often, would be at work with his Ministers till late at night — a poetical petition was laid before him, on the part of the “Endangered Lovers,” who complained that when “galanterie” rendered it incumbent on them to be the bearers of some valuable present to the ladies of their hearts, they had always to do it at the risk of their lives. They said, that, of course, it was honour and delight to pour out their blood for the lady of their heart, in knightly encounter, but that the treacherous attack of the assassin, against which it was impossible to guard, was quite a different matter. They expressed their hope that Louis, the bright pole-star of love and gallantry, might deign — arising and shining in fullest splendour — to dispel the darkness of night, and thus reveal the black mysteries hidden thereby; that the God-like hero, who had hurled his foes to the dust, would now once more wave his flashing faulchion, and, as did Hercules in the case of the Lærnean Hydra, and Theseus in that of the Minotaur, vanquish the threatening monster who was eating up all love-delight, and darkening all joy into deep sorrow and inconsolable mourning.
Serious as the subject was, this poem was not deficient in most wittily-turned phrases, particularly where it described the state of watchful anxiety in which lovers had to glide to their lady-loves, and how this mental strain necessarily destroyed all love-happiness, and nipped all adventures of “galanterie” in the very bud. And, as it wound up with a high-flown panegyric of Louis XIV., the King could not but read it with visible satisfaction. When he perused it, he turned to Madame de Maintenon — without taking his eyes from it — read it again — aloud this time — and then asked, with a pleased smile, what she thought of the petition of the ‘Endangered Lovers.’ Madame de Maintenon, faithful to her serious turn, and ever wearing the garb of a certain piousness, answered that hidden and forbidden ways did not deserve much in the form of protection, but that the criminals probably did require special laws for their punishment. The King, not satisfied with this answer, folded the paper up, and was going back to the Secretary of State, who was at work in the ante-room, when, happening to glance sideways, his eyes rested on Mademoiselle Scuderi, who was present, seated in a little arm-chair. He went straight to her; and the pleased smile which had at first been playing about his mouth and cheeks — but had disappeared — resumed the ascendency again. Standing close before her, with his face unwrinkling itself, he said —
“The Marquise does not know, and has no desire to learn, anything about the ‘galanteries’ of our enamoured gentlemen, and evades the subject in ways which are nothing less than forbidden. But, Mademoiselle, what do you think of this poetical petition?”
Mademoiselle Scuderi rose from her chair; a transient blush, like the purple of the evening sky, passed across her pale cheeks, and, gently bending forward, she answered, with downcast eyes —
“Un amant qui craint les voleurs.
N’est point digne d’amour.”
The King, surprised, and struck by admiration at the chivalrous spirit of those few words — which completely took the wind out of the sails of the poem, with all its ell-long tirades — cried, with flashing eyes —
“By Saint Denis, you are right, Mademoiselle! No blind laws, touching the innocent and the guilty alike, shall shelter cowardice. Argenson and La Regnie must do their best.”
Next morning La Martinière enlarged upon the terrors of the time, painting them in glowing colours to her lady, when she told her all that had happened the previous night, and handed her the mysterious casket, with much fear and trembling. Both she and Baptiste (who stood in the corner as white as a sheet, kneading his cap in his hand from agitation and anxiety) implored her, in the name of all the saints, to take the greatest precautions in opening it. She, weighing and examining the unopened mystery in her hand, said with a smile, “You are a couple of bogies! The wicked scoundrels outside, who, as you say yourselves, spy out all that goes on in every house, know, no doubt, quite as well as you and I do, that I am not rich, and that there are no treasures in this house worth committing a murder for. Is my life in danger, do you think? Who could have any interest in the death of an old woman of seventy-three, who never persecuted any evil-doers except those in her own novels; who writes mediocre poetry, incapable of exciting any one’s envy; who has nothing to leave behind her but the belongings of an old maid, who sometimes goes to Court, and two or three dozen handsomely-bound books with gilt edges. And, alarming as your account is, La Martinière, of the apparition of this man, I cannot believe that he meant me any harm, so — —”
La Martinière sprang three paces backwards, and Baptiste fell on one knee with a hollow, “Ah!” as Mademoiselle Scuderi pressed a projecting steel knob, and the lid of the casket flew open with a certain amount of noise.
Great was her surprise to see that it contained a pair of bracelets, and a necklace richly set in jewels. She took them out and as she spoke in admiration of the marvellous workmanship of the necklace, La Martinière cast glances of wonder at the bracelets, and cried, again and again, that Madame Montespan herself did not possess such jewelry.
“But why is it brought to me?” cried Mademoiselle Scuderi. “What can this mean?” She saw, however, a little folded note at the bottom of the casket, and in this she rightly thought she would find the key to the mystery. When she had read what was written in the note, it fell from her trembling hands; she raised an appealing look to heaven, and then sank down half fainting in her chair. Baptiste and La Martinière hurried to her, in alarm. “Oh!” she cried, in a voice stifled by tears, “the mortification! The deep humiliation! Has it been reserved for me to undergo this in my old age? Have I ever been frivolous, like some of the foolish young creatures? Are words, spoken half in jest, to be found capable of such a terrible interpretation? Am I, who have been faithful to all that is pure and good from my childhood, to be made virtually an accomplice in the crimes of this terrible confederation?”
She held her handkerchief to her eyes, so that Baptiste and La Martinière, altogether at sea in their anxious conjectures, felt powerless to set about helping her, who was so dear to them, as the best and kindest of mistresses, in her bitter affliction.
La Martinière picked up the paper from the floor. On it was written —
“Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N’est point digne d’amour.”
“Your brilliant intellect, most honoured lady, has delivered us, who exercise, on weakness and cowardice, the rights of the stronger, and possess ourselves of treasures which would otherwise be unworthily wasted, from much bitter persecution. As a proof of our gratitude, be pleased to kindly accept this set of ornaments. It is the most valuable that we have been enabled to lay hands on for many a day. Although far more beautiful and precious jewels ought to adorn you, yet we pray you not to deprive us of your future protection and remembrance. — The Invisibles.”
“Is it possible,” cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had partially recovered herself, “that shameless wickedness and abandoned insult can be carried further by human beings?” The sun was shining brightly through the window curtains of crimson silk, and consequently the brilliants, which were lying on the table beside the open casket, were flashing a rosy radiance. Looking at them, Mademoiselle Scuderi covered her face in horror, and ordered La Martinière instantly to take those terrible jewels away, steeped, as they seemed to be, in the blood of the murdered. La Martinière, having at once put the necklace and bracelets back into their case, thought the best thing to do would be to give them to the Minister of Police, and tell him all that had happened.
Mademoiselle Scuderi rose, and walked up and down slowly and in silence, as if considering what it was best to do. Then she told Baptiste to bring a sedan chair, and La Martinière to dress her, as she was going straight to the Marquise de Maintenon.
She repaired thither at the hour when she knew Madame de Maintenon would be alone, taking the casket and jewels with her.
Madame de Maintenon might well wonder to see this dear old lady (who was always kindness, sweetness and amiability personified), pale, distressed, upset, coming in with uncertain steps. “In heaven’s name, what has happened to you?” she cried to her visitor, who was scarcely able to stand upright, striving to reach the chair which the Marquise drew forward for her. At last, when she could find words, she told her what a deep, irremediable insult and outrage the thoughtless speech which she had made in reply to the King had brought upon her.
Madame de Maintenon, when she had heard the whole affair properly related, thought Mademoiselle Scuderi was taking it far too much to heart, strange as the occurrence was — that the insult of a pack of wretched rabble could not hurt an upright, noble heart: and finally begged that she might see the ornaments.
Mademoiselle Scuderi handed her the open casket, and when she saw the splendid and valuable stones, and the workmanship of them, she could not repress a loud expression of admiration. She took the bracelets and necklace to the window, letting the sunlight play on the jewels, and holding the beautiful goldsmith’s work close to her eyes, so as to see with what wonderful skill each little link of the chains was formed.
She turned suddenly to Mademoiselle Scuderi, and cried, “Do you know, there is only one man who can have done this work — and that is René Cardillac.”
René Cardillac was then the cleverest worker in gold in all Paris, one of the most artistic, and at the same time extraordinary men of his day. Short, rather than tall, but broad-shouldered, and of strong and muscular build, Cardillac, now over fifty, had still the strength and activity of a youth. To this vigour, which was to be called unusual, testified also his thick, curling, reddish hair, and his massive, shining face. Had he not been known to be the most upright and honourable of men, unselfish, open, without reserve, always ready to help, his altogether peculiar glance out of his grimly sparkling eyes might have brought him under suspicion of being secretly ill-tempered and wicked. In his art he was the most skilful worker, not only in Paris, but probably in the world at that time. Intimately acquainted with every kind of precious stones, versed in all their special peculiarities, he could so handle and treat them that ornaments which at a first glance promised to be poor and insignificant, came from his workshop brilliant and splendid. He accepted every commission with burning eagerness, and charged prices so moderate as to seem out of all proportion to the work. And the work left him no rest. Day and night he was to be heard hammering in his shop; and often, when a job was nearly finished, he would suddenly be dissatisfied with the form — would have doubts whether some of the settings were tender enough; some little link would not be quite to his mind — in fine, the whole affair would be thrown into the melting-pot, and begun all over again. Thus every one of his works was a real, unsurpassable chef-d’œuvre, which set the person who had ordered it into amazement. But then, it was hardly possible to get the finished work out of his hands. He would put the customer off from one week to another, by a thousand excuses, ay, from month to month. He might be offered twice the price he had agreed upon, but it was useless; he would take no more; and when, ultimately, he was obliged to yield to the customer’s remonstrances, and deliver the work, he could not conceal the vexation — nay, the rage — which seethed within him. If he had to deliver some specially valuable and unusually rich piece of workmanship, worth perhaps several thousand francs, he would get into such a condition that he ran up and down like one demented, cursing himself, his work, and every thing and person about him; but should, then, some one come running up behind him, crying, “René Cardillac, would you be so kind as to make me a beautiful necklace for the lady I am going to marry?” or “a pair of bracelets for my girl?” or the like, he would stop in a moment, flash his small eyes upon the speaker, and say, “Let me see what you have got.” The latter would take out a little case, and say, “Here are jewels; they are not worth much; only every-day affairs; but in your hands —— .” Cardillac would interrupt him, snatch the casket from his hands, take out the stones (really not very valuable), hold them up to the light, and cry, “Ho! ho! common stones you say! Nothing of the kind! — very fine, splendid stones! Just see what I shall make of them; and if a handful of Louis are no object to you, I will put two or three others along with them which will shine in your eyes like the sun himself!” The customer would say: “I leave the matter entirely in your hands, Master René; make what charge you please.” Whether the customer were a rich burgher or a gallant of quality, Cardillac would then throw himself violently on his neck, embrace him and kiss him, and say he was perfectly happy again, and that the work would be ready in eight days’ time. Then he would run home as fast as he could to his work-shop, where he would set to work hammering away; and in eight days’ time there would be a masterpiece ready. But as soon as the customer would arrive, glad to pay the moderate price demanded, and take away his prize, Cardillac would become morose, ill-tempered, rude, and insolent. “But consider, Master Cardillac,” the customer would say, “to-morrow is my wedding-day.” “What do I care?” Cardillac would answer; “what is your wedding-day to me? Come back in a fortnight.” “But it is finished! — here is the money; I must have it.” “And I tell you that there are many alterations which I must make before I let it leave my hands, and I am not going to let you have it to-day.” “And I tell you, that if you don’t give me my jewels — which I am ready to pay you for — quietly, you will see me come back with a file of D’Argenson’s men.” “Now, may the devil seize you with a hundred red-hot pincers, and hang three hundredweight on to the necklace, that it may throttle your bride!” With which he would cram the work into the customer’s breast-pocket, seize him by the arm, push him out of the door, so that he would go stumbling all the way downstairs, and laugh like a fiend, out of window, when he saw the poor wretch go limping out, holding his handkerchief to his bleeding nose. It was not easy of explanation neither that Cardillac, when he had undertaken a commission with alacrity and enthusiasm, would sometimes suddenly implore the customer, with every sign of the deepest emotion — with the most moving adjurations, even with sobs and tears — not to ask him to go on with it. Many persons, amongst those most highly considered by the King and nation, had in vain offered large sums for the smallest specimen of Cardillac’s work. He threw himself at the King’s feet, and supplicated that, of his mercy, he would not command him to work for him; and he declined all orders of Madame de Maintenon’s: once, when she wished him to make a little ring, with emblems of the arts on it, which she wanted to give to Racine, he refused with expressions of abhorrence and terror.
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