The Invisible Ones

  “How is it possible? cried Mademoiselle de Scudéry, once she had recovered somewhat from the initial shock. “How is it possible that anyone might have the shameless effrontery to take a wicked taunt to such a degree?” The sun shone brightly through the crimson silk curtains, so the jewels lying beside the open coffret on the table were lit up in a reddish glimmer. After peering at them awhile, the mademoiselle hid her face in horror, and ordered Martinière to immediately remove the terrible adornments dripping with the blood of the murdered victims. After sweeping the necklaces and armbands back into the little box, the servant thought it would be most expedient to surrender the jewels to the chief of police, and to reveal to him all that had happened, from the appearance of the troubled young man to his having left the packet.

  Mademoiselle de Scudéry got up and paced quietly back and forth in the room, as if pondering what to do next. She then bid Baptiste go fetch a sedan chair, and ordered Martinière to help her get dressed, as she intended to hasten to the Marquise de Maintenon.

  Taking the coffret of jewelry with her, she had herself carried to the home of the marquise at the precise time when, as she well knew, the latter would be alone.

  The marquise was stunned at the sight of the mademoiselle, ordinarily the epitome of dignity – indeed, despite her advanced age, the picture of kindliness and grace – who entered with tottering steps, her face twisted and pale. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?” she called out to the cowering old lady, who, completely beside herself and hardly able to stand upright, rushed to reach the easy chair that the marquise pushed toward her. Finally able to speak, the mdemoiselle related how profoundly mortified she was to find herself the butt of such a thoughtless jest as a result of her poetic reply to the petition of the imperiled lovers. Following a blow-by-blow account of all that had transpired, the marquise judged that Mademoiselle de Scudéry took the strange occurrence too much to heart, that the derision of profligates was never of a pious, gallant sort, and finally asked to see said jewelry.

  De Scudéry passed her the open coffret, and no sooner had she laid eyes on the precious adornments, than the Marquise let out a cry of amazement. She took out the necklaces and armbands and strode with them to the window where, first letting the jewels shimmer in the bright rays of sunlight, she promptly held the delicate gold work up close to her eyes to behold with what wondrous art and craft every clasp of the entwined necklaces was fashioned.

  All of a sudden, the marquise pivoted round to the mademoiselle and cried out, “You must know, my dear Mademoiselle, that this could not possibly be the handiwork of anyone but René Cardillac!”

  René Cardillac was then the most adroit goldsmith in Paris, one of the most artful craftsmen and most extraordinary people of his time. Rather short of stature, albeit broad-shouldered and of a strong and muscular build, Cadillac, already well into his fifties, still had the vigor and dexterity of a youth. His thick head of curly reddish hair and squashed, glistening visage further added to the effect of his extraordinary vigor. Had Cardillac not been known all over Paris as the most upright, unselfish, open, straight-shooting man of honor, always ready to help his fellow man, the altogether quirky expression of his small, deep-set, sparkling green eyes might well have put him under suspicion of guile and ill will.

  As already stated, Cardillac was not only the most skilled practitioner of his craft in Paris, but perhaps anywhere in his time. Endowed with a profound grasp of the nature of precious stones, he knew how to handle and set them such that jewelry initially considered unremarkable emerged from his workshop imbued with a remarkable splendor. He took on every commission with a burning desire and charged so meager a price that it seemed to bear no relation to the result. And he was then tireless in his execution. Day and night you could hear him hammering away in the workshop, and oftentimes when the task was almost completed, the shape suddenly displeased him or he began to doubt the finesse of a jewel setting or a tiny clasp – cause enough to fling the entire piece back into the crucible and to start again. So every confection became a consummate masterpiece that made the client pause in amazement. But then it was almost impossible to make him part with the finished product. With a thousand pretexts he held the customer off from week to week, from month to month. To no avail, clients offered to pay him double; he would not accept a Louis d’or more than the agreed-upon price. And when, finally, he was obliged to succumb to the urging of a persistent customer and hand over the jewelry, he could not refrain from giving vent to the most profound vexation, the rage that boiled within. Should he feel compelled to deliver a more significant work of great value, perhaps worth several thousand, given the costliness of the jewels and the extremely delicate gold crafting, he was often inclined to run around like a madman, cursing his work and everything around him.

  But as soon as someone else would come running up behind him and cry out at the top of his lungs: “René Cardillac, wouldn’t you like to fashion a necklace for my wife— armbands for my daughter, etc.,” he would suddenly stand still, glare at the person with his beady eyes and, rubbing his hands together, ask, “What have you got?”

  Whereupon the new customer would pull out a coffret and say: “Here are the jewels, not particularly special, ordinary stones, but in your hands – !”

  Cardillac would not let him finish his sentence, but would tear the little box out of his hands, take out the jewels that really weren’t worth much, hold them up to the light, and cry out with delight, “Well, well— common stuff?— not on your life!— lovely stones— lovely stones, let me take a crack at them! And if you don’t mind parting with a handful of Louis d’or, I’ll add a few more little stones that will sparkle in your eyes like the blessed sun itself.”

  To which the new customer always replies, “I’ll leave everything to you, Master René, and pay what you wish!”

  And without fail, whether the fellow is a wealthy burgher or a noble at court, Cardillac impetuously flings his arms around his neck, squeezes and kisses his new customer, says he’s happy again and that the job will be done in a week’s time. Then he hurries home, hastens into his workshop, and hammers away, and in a week’s time he has whipped off a new masterpiece. But as soon as the person who commissioned it pays the modest requested price and expects to take the finished work, Cardillac becomes cantankerous, gruff, truculent.

  “But Master Cardillac, please bear in mind, tomorrow is my wedding.”

  “I don’t give a hoot about your wedding, ask again in two weeks!”

  “The piece is completed, here’s the money, I must have it.”

  “And I tell you that I still have to make some modifications and so can’t give it to you today.”

  “And I tell you that if you don’t hand over the piece, for which I am willing to pay double, you will soon see me back here with Argenson’s armed guard.”

  “Then may Satan torment you with a hundred red-hot pincers and hang three hundredweights on this necklace so that it strangles your bride!” Whereupon Cardillac stuffs the jewelry into the bridegroom’s breast pocket, grabs him by the arm, flings him out the door, so that he tumbles down the entire flights of stairs, and standing at the window, he laughs like the devil upon seeing the poor young man wiping his bloody nose with a handkerchief, limping away.

  Nor could anyone explain how, as often came to pass, after Cardillac enthusiastically undertook a commission, he suddenly implored the client with all manner of temper tantrums, with the most moving protestations, sobbing and weeping, to retract the commission. Some people highly esteemed by the king, some by the common folk, offered considerable sums of money in vain just to acquire the smallest piece of Cardillac’s handiwork. The artisan flung himself before the king and begged His Majesty for the favor not to have to work for him. In much the same manner he declined Madame de Maintenon’s every commission, indeed he once responded with an expression of utter disgust and dismay at her request to fashion a small ring emblazoned with the emblems of the arts to give to Racine.

  “I bet,” responded Madame de Maintenon, “I bet that even if I were to send a messenger to Cardillac to at least find out for whom he fashioned this jewelry, he would hesitate dropping by, as he might perhaps fear a new commission, and does not want to work for me. Even though, as I hear, he has for some time now let up on his pigheaded obstinacy and works harder than ever, handing over his finished work on the spot, albeit with great displeasure and a twisted expression.”

  De Scudéry, who desperately wished that the jewelry be returned to its rightful owner posthaste, if still possible, replied that it might be a good idea to inform Master Crank right off that no new commission was asked of him, but rather his assessment of some jewelry. The marquise concurred. Cardillac was sent for and, as if he were already on his way, a little while later he entered the room.

  As soon as he set eyes on de Scudéry, he seemed taken aback, like someone who, suddenly confronted with the unexpected, promptly forgets the demands of social niceties. He bowed down low and reverentially before the venerable old lady first, and only then turned to face the marquise. Pointing to the adornments laid out on the table with the dark green throw cloth, the latter asked point-blank if they were his handiwork. Cardillac cast a fleeting glance at it then, looking the marquise right in the eye, hustled the precious pieces back into the little coffret lying beside them and gave it a hefty shove away from him. With a flushed face and an ugly smile playing on his lips, he replied, “Yes, indeed, Madame la Marquise, one would have to be ill acquainted with the work of René Cardillac to believe for an instant that some other goldsmith might have fashioned this jewelry. Of course, it’s of my fabrication.”

  “Be so good as to inform us then,” the marquise continued, “for whom you fashioned it.”

  “For myself,” Cardillac replied, and when both Maintenon and de Scudéry eyed him with amazement, the one full of mistrust, the other with eager anticipation as to how this whole matter would turn out, he added, “you might find it strange, Madame la Marquise, but it’s true. Just for the sake of enjoying the splendid challenge, I gathered together my most precious stones and took great pleasure in working more diligently and more meticulously than ever before. Not long ago these pieces vanished inexplicably from my workshop.”

  “Thank God,” cried de Scudéry, her eyes sparkling with joy. As swiftly and nimbly as a young girl, she leapt up from her easy chair, strode toward Cardillac, and lay both hands on his shoulders. “Here it is,” she declared. “Take back, Master René, the precious property that nefarious thieves stole from you!” She then proceeded to recount in detail how she came to gain possession of the jewels.

  Cardillac listened in silence with a downcast gaze. He only interrupted every now and then with a half-muttered: “Hm!— Is that so!— Ei!— Haha!” now flinging his hands back, now quietly stroking his chin and cheeks. And when de Scudéry came to the end of her story, it was as if Cardillac struggled with a string of the strangest thoughts that had struck him while listening, as if a conclusion refused to follow and fall in line. He stroked his brow, he sighed, he rubbed his hand over his eyes, as if indeed to quell tears. Finally, he seized the coffret proffered by de Scudéry, slowly sank to one knee, and said, “Fate has destined you to receive this jewelry, most noble, worthy Mademoiselle! Only now do I recall that I thought of you while fashioning it, indeed that I made it for you. I beg you not to refuse to accept and wear this jewelry as the best that I have made in a long time!”

  “Now, now,” replied de Scudéry in jest, “what can you be thinking, Master René? Does it behoove a lady of my advanced age to galivant about decked out in such precious stones? And whatever prompted you to make me such a lavish gift? Come now, Master René, were I as lovely as the Marquise de Fontange and wealthy to boot, I wouldn’t let this jewelry out of my hands, but what should these flaccid arms do with such vain adornment, what should this sagging neck do with that glimmering necklace?”

  Cardillac had in the meantime risen to his feet, and spoke with a troubled look, as if beside himself with emotion, continuing to hold the coffret out to Mademoiselle de Scudéry. “Be so charitable, Mademoiselle, and take this jewelry. You cannot imagine how much I admire your sublime virtue, in what great esteem I hold you for your merits! Please accept my modest gift as a token of my innermost feelings.”

  And since de Scudéry continued to hesitate, Madame de Maintenon took the coffret out of Cardillac’s hands, and said, “Well for heaven’s sake, Mademoiselle, you are forever talking of your advanced age. But what do we, you and I, have to do with age and its burden? And don’t carry on like a shameless young thing who would gladly help herself to the sweet fruit if only she could have it without stretching out a little finger! Do not spurn the worthy master by refusing to accept what a thousand others will never possess for all the money, begging, and pleading in the world!”

  Madame de Maintenon had in the meantime pressed the coffret into Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s hands, whereupon Cardillac fell to his knees before her, kissed the hem of her skirt— her hands— sighed— groaned— sobbed—jumped up— ran around like a lunatic, overturning chairs, tables, making porcelain and glasses rattle and, in a mad dash, raced out the door.

  Altogether at her wit’s end, de Scudéry cried out, “For the love of God, what’s got into that man!”

  To which the marquise, herself in an ebullient mood bordering on uncustomary waggery, laughed out loud and said, “There we have it, Mademoiselle. Master René is head over heels in love, and has set out, according to common practice and the established custom of true gallantry, to besiege the bastion of your heart with lavish gifts.” Madame de Maintenon kept up the pleasantry, exhorting de Scudéry not to be too beastly with her desperate would-be paramour. The mademoiselle, giving vent to an innate caprice, let herself be carried away by a thousand whimsical fancies. She maintained that, matters being as they were, finally succumbing to such entreaties, she had no choice but to present to the world the unheard-of example of a seventy-three-year-old goldsmith’s bride of impeccable noble blood. Maintenon offered to braid the bridal crown and instruct her in the duties of a good homemaker, of which, surely, such a maidenly neophyte as she could not know much.

  And when, finally, Mademoiselle de Scudéry picked up the coffret of jewelry and rose from her chair to be on her way, all the jest notwithstanding, she once again became very serious. “But Madame la Marquise!” she said, “I will never be able to don this jewelry. However it came into being and whatever just transpired, it passed through the hands of that infernal knave, committed with a devilish daring, indeed by a pact with the devil himself, to robbery and murder. I am filled with horror at the thought of the blood that stains these glittering bijoux. And I must admit that I even found something strangely skittish and weird in the way Cardillac carried on. I cannot dispel a dark inkling that there is some terrible and gruesome secret hidden behind all this, but when I try to paint a clear mental picture of the entire business, I cannot even begin to guess what that secret might be, and what in heaven’s name the honest, upright Master René, a model citizen, might possibly have to do with some evil, accursed business. But this much is certain: I will never be able to bring myself to don this jewelry.”

  The marquise maintained that her friend was taking her scruples too far; but when de Scudéry asked her on her honor, were their places reversed, what she would do, she affirmed in all seriousness that she would rather toss the jewels in the Seine than ever wear them.

  De Scudéry rendered Master René’s curious comportment in charming verses that she recited the following evening at Madame de Maintenon’s apartments before the king. It may well be that, having stilled all sinister apprehension, and at the cost of ridiculing Master René, she managed to paint a priceless picture in brilliant colors of the comic encounter, including a parody of herself, the seventy-three-year-old goldsmith’s bride of noble birth. Suffice to say, the king laughed himself silly and swore that Boileau-Despréaux had met his match, and that de Scudéry’s poem was the most hilarious ever written.

  * * *

  —

  Many months later, as chance would have it, de Scudéry happened to ride over the Pont Neuf in the glass-topped coach of the Duchesse de Montansier. The invention of the glass-topped coach was still so recent that curious onlookers crowded round when such a vehicle appeared on the street. So it came to pass that the gaping rabble ringed Montansier’s coach on the Pont Neuf, almost blocking the horses’ path. Suddenly, de Scudéry heard a cursing and swearing, as a man shoved his way through the unruly crowd with fisticuffs and jabs in the ribs. And as he drew near, she was struck by the piercing look of a deathly pale, grief-stricken youth. The young man kept his gaze glued to her, fighting his way forward with elbows and fists until he came to the carriage door, which he hastened to tear open; he tossed a note onto de Scudéry’s lap and, giving and receiving shoves and punches, disappeared in the crowd. With a cry of horror, Martinière, who was seated beside de Scudéry, sank back in a faint on the cushioned bench. To no avail, de Scudéry tugged at the bell and cried to the coachman; as if possessed by an evil spirit, he whipped the horses until, foaming at the muzzle, spewing their spittle, they reared up and finally thundered across the bridge in a fierce gallop. De Scudéry emptied the bottle of her smelling salts on the face of the unconscious woman, who at last opened her eyes and, writhing and shaking, hanging on to her mistress for dear life, her face riddled with terror and horror, piteously groaned, “Holy Mother of God! What did that awful man want? Ach! It was him, it was him, the same one who brought you the coffret on that dreadful night!”

 

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