“Well, well,” said la Regnie with a spiteful smile, “who can give assurances that she’s not in on the plot! What did she care about her father, she only shed tears for the murderous lout.”

  “What are you saying!” cried de Scudéry. “It’s not possible. Not for her father! That girl!”

  “Is that so!” la Regnie continued. “Just think of Brinvillier! You will have to forgive me if perchance I soon find it necessary to snatch up your protégé and lock her up in the Conciergerie.”

  De Scudéry shuddered at such an abominable suggestion. It seemed to her as if no loyalty, no virtue could endure in the presence of this terrible man, as if in his heart of hearts he could conceive of nothing but murder and bloody guilt. She got up.

  “Be human!” Those were the only words she managed to painstakingly bring from her lips in her breathless state. About to descend the stairs, to which la Regnie had ceremoniously conducted her, a curious thought came to her mind – she could not say what got into her – and with a rapid pivot she asked, “Might I be permitted to visit the unfortunate Olivier Brusson?”

  La Regnie regarded her with a dubious expression, his face thereafter twisting into that distinctive and repulsive smile of his. “No doubt,” he said, “no doubt, my good Mademoiselle, trusting your own intuition rather than the facts at hand, you wish to verify for yourself Olivier’s guilt or innocence. If your modesty does not make you blanch at a sinister sojourn, if you are not loathe to face the very picture of depravity in all its nefarious shades, then the door of his cell in the Conciergerie will stand open to you for two hours. You will be introduced to the wretched Olivier, whose fate appears to concern you.”

  The fact is, de Scudéry was not convinced of the guilt of the young man. Everything appeared to speak against him – indeed, in the face of such convincing facts, no judge in the world would have reacted differently from la Regnie. But the picture of domestic bliss, as Madelon had painted for de Scudéry in the most expressive terms, outshone any suspicion of evil intent, and so she preferred to hypothesize some inexplicable secret than believe a foregone conclusion which she rejected in body and soul.

  She intended to have Olivier again recount everything that happened on that fateful night, and as much as possible to elucidate a secret that perhaps remained closed to the judges, since it seemed to them to be useless to pay it any more mind.

  Upon arriving at the Conciergerie, de Scudéry was led into a big, bright chamber. Not long after that, she heard a rattling of chains. Olivier Brusson was brought in. But as soon as he appeared in the doorway, de Scudéry fainted. By the time she regained consciousness, Olivier had vanished. She begged to be taken back to her carriage, to be gone, gone from the chambers of wicked depravity. Dear God! She had immediately recognized Olivier Brusson as the young man who flung the note into her carriage on the Pont Neuf, the same person who had brought her the coffret of jewels. Any doubt was now dispelled, and la Regnie’s terrible suspicion was confirmed. Olivier Brusson belonged to the terrible band of cutthroats, he definitely murdered his master. And Madelon? Never having been so bitterly deceived by her intuition, chilled to the bone by a diabolical force in which she did not believe, de Scudéry wavered in her faith in all she held to be true. She conceded to the terrible suspicion that Madelon may have been in on the plot, and that she might have played a role in the grisly deed. Once an illusion has been dispelled, it is human nature to take pains to depict one’s disillusion in the most glaring colors; thus, in assessing Madelon’s comportment down to the most minute detail, de Scudéry found much to support a suspicion of guilt. Even some things that had heretofore appeared to attest to her innocence and purity, now seemed an unmistakable sign of criminal malice and cold-blooded dissemblance. That heartrending wailing, those bloody tears might well have been prompted by a mortal terror, not of seeing her beloved condemned to death, but rather of herself being brought to the executioner.

  Having resolved to rid herself of the snake feeding on her good nature, de Scudéry stepped out of her carriage. As she entered her apartment, Madelon flung herself at her feet. With a heavenly gaze no less faithful than that of an angel of God, her hands folded in front of her heaving breast, the girl wept and begged for help and comfort. Taking pains to pull herself together, de Scudéry strove to speak with a tone of voice imbued with as much seriousness and composure as she could muster. “Go!— Go, my girl, and console yourself for the murderer who will meet his just punishment for the scandalous crimes he committed! May the Holy Virgin keep you from bearing the weight of the murderous guilt on your own shoulders!”

  “Then all is lost!” Having uttered these words, with a piercing cry Madelon collapsed. De Scudéry let Martinière tend to the girl, and departed to another room.

  All torn up inside, having had enough of it all, de Scudéry no longer wanted to live in a world full of hellish deceit. She bemoaned the bitter trick of fate that had accorded her so many years to foster her faith in virtue and constancy, only in old age to dispel the lovely illusion that had illuminated her life.

  As Martinière led Madelon away, de Scudéry heard the girl quietly moaning and wailing, “Dear God!— Her too!— The monsters have pulled the wool over her eyes too!— All’s lost!— My poor, unfortunate Olivier!” The words touched her deeply, yet again awakening in her heart of hearts the suspicion of a dark mystery, and the belief in Olivier’s innocence.

  Beset by contradictory emotions, absolutely distraught, de Scudéry cried out, “What demon from hell got me embroiled in this wretched business that will be the death of me!”

  At that very moment, Baptiste strode into the room, looking pale, aghast with the news that Desgrais was waiting outside. Ever since the horrid trial of la Voisin, Desgrais’s appearance in a house was the certain harbinger of an imminent accusation, hence Baptiste’s shocked expression which prompted her to ask him with a smile, “What is it, Baptiste? The name de Scudéry appeared on la Voisin’s list – isn’t that it!”

  “But for heaven’s sake,” replied Baptiste, trembling all over, “how can you even say such a thing? Desgrais, the terrible Desgrais, is acting so secretive, so imperious, he can’t wait to see you!”

  “Well then,” said de Scudéry, “well then, Baptiste, make haste to bring that person so odious to you in at once. I at the very least have nothing to fear from him.”

  “The presiding judge,” declared Desgrais upon entering the room, “His Honor, Monsieur la Regnie, has sent me with a request, my dear Mademoiselle, your acquiescence to which he would not presume were he not cognizant of your virtue, your courage, and if the last hope of bringing to light the perfidious guilt of the accused did not rest in your hands, not to mention if you yourself were not already embroiled in the matter of the grim trial before the chambre ardente that is keeping us all breathless with anticipation. Ever since seeing you, Olivier Brusson has gone half mad. As much as he previously appeared to be on the verge of confessing, he now swears again in the name of Christ and all saints that he is completely innocent of the murder of Cardillac, even though he would gladly suffer the death that he says he earned. Please note, my dear Mademoiselle, that the last ancillary remark clearly indicates an admission of culpability in other crimes that burden his conscience. And yet we have failed to elicit another word from his lips, even the threat of torture falls flat. He begs, he implores us to set up a meeting with you. Only to you, to you alone will he tell all. Do please deign, my dear Mademoiselle, to hear Brusson’s confession.”

  “How,” cried de Scudéry, beside herself with anger, “can I serve as an instrument of this bloodthirsty court; do you expect me to betray the trust of that poor unfortunate person so as to deliver him to your judgment? No, Desgrais! Even if Brusson were the nefarious murderer you make him out to be, I could never conceive of so roguishly going behind his back. I would never reveal a single one of his secrets – secrets which, were he to reveal them to me, would remain locked in my breast like the stuff of a sacred confession.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Desgrais with a hint of a smile, “perhaps, my dear Mademoiselle, your attitude may change once you have heard Brusson out. Did you not beg the presiding judge himself to be human? What could be more human than heeding Brusson’s misguided request, and thereby making a last attempt to avoid resorting to the torture that Brusson has so long merited? Rest assured, most esteemed lady, you will not be required to set foot again in those dark chambers that fill you with dread and disgust. In the still of the night, without any big to-do, Olivier Brusson will be brought like a free man to your house. While he will be under guard, no one will be listening in, so that he may freely confess all. I can vouch with my life that you will have nothing to fear from that dreaded individual. He speaks of you with fervid devotion. He swears that only the dark calamity that kept him from seeing you sooner precipitated him into the abyss. And then it will be up to you to reveal as much as you see fit of that which Brusson confesses. Might you be persuaded to concede?”

  De Scudéry looked down, thinking long and hard. It seemed to her as if she was called upon to heed a higher power who demanded of her the resolution to some deep dark mystery, as if she could no longer elude the wondrous slings of fortune into which she had involuntarily slipped. Making her mind up suddenly, she spoke with dignity. “God will grant me composure and fortitude; bring Brusson here, I will speak with him.”

  Just like the night when Brusson brought by the coffret, someone knocked at the front door at midnight. Having been informed of the upcoming visit, Baptiste opened the door. A cold shudder ran down de Scudéry’s spine when she heard the soft steps and muffled mutterings of the guards who brought Brusson echoing in the corridor of her house.

  Finally, the door to her room opened quietly. Desgrais entered, followed by Olivier Brusson, unshackled and dressed in decent clothes. “Here, honored Mademoiselle, is Brusson,” said Desgrais, who bowed deferentially and left the room.

  Brusson dropped to his knees before de Scudéry and raised his folded hands in supplication as tears streamed from his eyes.

  Turning pale, de Scudéry gazed down at him, unable to utter a word. Though disfigured by grief and terrible pain, the pure expression of a trustworthy spirit shone through the twisted countenance of his youthful face. The longer de Scudéry let her eyes rest on Brusson’s face, the more it brought to mind the memory of a beloved person she could not quite place. All dread drained away and, forgetting that Cardillac’s alleged murderer stood there before her, she spoke with her characteristic quiet kindness. “So, Brusson, what do you have to say to me?”

  Still kneeling before her, emitting a sigh of deep and poignant sadness, the young man replied, “Oh, my worthy, most esteemed Mademoiselle, has every trace of your memory of me faded?”

  Eying him more closely, de Scudéry replied that she did indeed perceive in his features a certain resemblance with a once beloved person, and that it was only this resemblance that permitted her to surmount the profound abhorrence she felt before a murderer, and to quietly hear him out.

  Pained by these words, Brusson quickly rose to his feet and took a step back, with his gaze fixed on the ground. Then he spoke to her in a whisper. “Have you completely forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son Olivier? The boy you so often rocked on your knees stands here before you.”

  “Oh, my God!” cried de Scudéry, covering her face with both hands and sinking into the pillows. Mademoiselle indeed had cause enough to be horror-stricken. Anne Guiot, the daughter of an impoverished bourgeois, had from early childhood lived with de Scudéry, who cared for her as a mother for a beloved child, raising her with the greatest trust and care. And when Anne came of age, a handsome, upright young man named Claude Brusson asked for her hand in marriage. Since he was a highly skilled watchmaker likely to do well in Paris, and Anne dearly loved him, Mademoiselle de Scudéry had no qualms about ascenting to her ward being wed to him. The young couple set up a household and lived together in quiet happy harmony, the knot of love being tied even more tightly between them when the young woman gave birth to a beautiful boy, the spitting image of his lovely mother.

  De Scudéry idolized little Olivier, whom she wrested from his mother for hours, often days at a time to pamper and coddle. Consequently, the boy became so accustomed to her that he was just as glad to spend time with her as with his mother. After being in business for three years, Brusson’s commissions diminished day by day due to the jealousy of his competitors until finally he could hardly keep his family fed. In addition to this, he was consumed by longing for his native Geneva, and so it came to pass that the family moved there, regardless of the resistance of de Scudéry who offered all possible support. Anne wrote a few more times to her benefactress, then stopped writing, and the mademoiselle felt compelled to believe that the happy life in Brusson’s hometown superseded the memory of former days.

  Twenty-three years had passed since Bruson left Paris with his wife and child to live in Geneva.

  “Oh, horror!” cried de Scudéry, once she had somewhat recuperated from the shock, “Oh, horror! So you are Olivier? The son of my dear Anne! And now…!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Olivier retorted, quiet and composed, “yes, indeed, my esteemed Mademoiselle, you could never have imagined that the boy you coddled like a most loving mother, whom you rocked on your knees, in whose mouth you stuffed treat after treat, whom you called by the sweetest nicknames, might have grown into a youth who would one day stand before you, accused of the most terrible crime! I am not blameless, the court can rightfully link me to certain crimes; but though I hope to die honorably, be it by the hand of the executioner, I am innocent of murder, I am blameless in the death of the poor unfortunate Cardillac!” With these words, Olivier started trembling and teetering. De Scudéry pointed in silence to a small chair beside him, upon which he let himself sink.

  “I have had time enough,” he went on, “to prepare myself for this tête-à-tête with you, which I perceive as merciful heaven’s last favor, and have braced myself sufficiently to attain enough peace of mind to tell you the story of my terrible, incredible misfortune. Please be merciful enough to hear me out, as much as the resolution of a mystery that you would never have suspected will surprise you and fill you with horror. If only my poor father had never left Paris! As far back as my memories of Geneva reach, I am drenched with the tears of my inconsolable parents, myself brought to tears by their incomprehensible laments. Later I fully fathomed the complete extent of the dire need, the utter misery in which my parents lived. My father found all his hopes shattered. Brought down by great grief, crushed by disappointment, he died at the very moment when he finally managed to apprentice me to a goldsmith. My mother spoke so much about you, she wanted to tell all to you, but then she was overcome by the despondence born of misery. That and a touch of false pride that often gnaws at the fatally wounded spirit kept her from carrying through on her resolve to reach out to you. A few months after my father’s death my mother followed him to the grave.”

  “Poor Anne! My poor Anne!” de Scudéry cried out, overwhelmed by grief.

  “Thanks and praised be to the eternal heavenly power that she has gone to the great beyond, and so will not see her beloved son pass under the hand of the executioner, branded with shame!” Olivier wailed at the top of his lungs, flashing a wild and terrible look. His cry aroused unrest outside the door, agitated steps went back and forth. “Ho ho,” Olivier muttered with a bitter smile, “Desgrais alerted his henchmen, as if I could escape from here. I was badly treated by my master, even though I did my best work, and even surpassed his skills. It so happened that a stranger once came to our workshop to purchase some pieces of jewelry. When he set eyes on a necklace that I made, he patted me on the shoulder and gave me a friendly look, gazing at the piece. ‘Well, well, my young friend, you did a superb job,’ he said. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t know anyone who could surpass your skill but René Cardillac, unquestionably the greatest goldsmith in the world. You really ought to seek him out; he’d gladly take you on in his workshop, I’m sure, since you have what it takes to assist him in his artful craft, and he’s the only master goldsmith from whom you could still learn a thing or two.’ The stranger’s words touched me deeply. I could no longer sit still in Geneva, but had a burning desire to leave town. I finally managed to sever my apprenticeship to my master and came to Paris, where René Cardillac initially received me coldly and curtly. I did not let up, insisting he give me work, as trifling as it might be. He instructed me to fashion a little ring for him. When I brought him the completed work, he peered at me with his sparkling eyes as if he wanted to look deep into my soul. Then he said, ‘You are an able, honest journeyman, you can move in with me and help me in my workshop. I will pay you well, you’ll be happy here.’ Cardillac kept his word. I had already spent many weeks there without having seen Madelon, who, if I’m not mistaken, was staying at the time with one of Cardillac’s cousins in the country. At last she arrived. Oh, God in Heaven, how can I describe the effect on me once I set eyes on that angelic person! Has ever a man been as smitten as I was! And now— oh, my Madelon!”

  His misery made him fall silent. He held both his hands in front of his face and burst out sobbing uncontrollably. Finally managing with great effort to overpower the wild pain that gripped him, he continued speaking.

  “Madelon gave me a friendly look. She came more and more frequently to the workshop. I was overjoyed to realize that she loved me. As closely as her father kept watch, a few furtive squeezes that Cardillac did not seem to notice confirmed our bond. I resolved to first earn his favor and achieve full mastery of the craft before seeking Madelon’s hand in marriage. One morning, as I prepared to start work, Cardillac strode before me, his face consumed with a dark look of fury and contempt. ‘You are no longer needed in my workshop,’ he began, ‘be gone from my house within the hour and never let me set eyes on you again. I need not tell you why you have outlived your welcome. For you, poor devil, the sweet fruit you’re yearning for hangs too high out of reach!’ I wanted to speak in my defense, but he grabbed me with a strong fist and flung me out the door with such a great force that I fell down and badly bruised my head and arm.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38