THERE was a circumstance
which made some sensation at Paris at the time it took place, not only
from the peculiar features of the case, but from the means by which the
discovery of the real offender was made. You know that long narrow
street which runs close by where the Bastille used to stand. I cannot at
present remember the name, but that is of little importance. It is now
many years since, that the “rez de chaussee” of one of the houses in
that street was inhabited by an elderly woman who had formerly been
attendant on an infirm gentleman for a long period, and at his death, as
a recompense for her assiduous attentions, had been left by him in
comfortable circumstances. She was one of those old women who were ever
searing the instability of the institutions of her country, and could
not be prevailed upon to put her money either in the funds or on
mortgage, but kept dipping from time to time, as her necessities re.
quired, into her principal, which she always kept by her, quaintly
remarking to those few of her friends who were in her secrets, that the
sieur's chest, lock and key, were highly responsible bankers. The old
lady, whose name was Audran, had been for some time seriously indisposed, and was attended by a highly respectable surgeon, a Monsieur D'Arsac, and
under his care was fast recovering, and wanted, as the surgeon said,
only a few days’ quiet to effect her perfect restoration—poor woman! she
was soon quiet enough, but her quietude was that of eternity! —sor M. D'Arsac came
to me one morning, and with wild and horror-stricken looks informed me,
that on going as usual to visit his patient, he had sound her brutally
murdered. I accompanied him to her rooms, and sound, as he had stated,
the poor old woman lying in her bed, with her throat cut so as almost to
sever the head from the body. The room had been rifled of every
valuable it contained, and the poor old lady's favorite bankers had
stopped payment. There was no appearance of force in entering the rooms.
It had been Madame Audran's habit during
her illness to open her door by a pulley attached to her bedside, which
listed a strong iron bar, and had any attempt been made to force it,
the neighborhood must have been alarmed, as it was well known that she
kept no servant, and was so excessively nervous on her bankers' account,
that she
never opened the door unless she was fully
convinced by the sound of the person's voice, that they were friends
whom she might safely admit. There could, therefore, be no doubt that it
was done by some persons on intimate terms with their victim—but who,
was the question; her acquaintances were sew, very few, but they were
all persons of irreproachable characters, and it would have been cruel
in the highest degree to have attached the suspicion of the crime to any
of them, unless there were some strong grounds for so doing. All,
theresore, that could be done on the occasion, was to draw up a
“process” of the circumstance, attested by the surgeon and some of the
neighbors— and it was left to time to point out some clue to the
murderer. But, in the course of a few months, the circumstance seemed
almost forgotten, or, if remembered, it was merely as a gossip's story,
related because there hung some strange mystery, which all being unable
to solve, they might safely hazard a conjecture, and appear nuarvellous
wise. “You are going, M. Vidocq, to the wedding tonight, are you not 7” said Madame Parguet,
the winemerchant's wife, one day, when she came to me to make her
pretty usual inquiry as to where her husband had slept out the night
before, not giving implicit credence to the “little way out of town, my
dear.” “Mons. D'Arsac was kind enough to
send me an invitation, and, as the day seems fine, I shall look in to
see the festivities of the evening. He keeps his marriage at the “Jardin
Beaulieu,' I think—I must go, for I have not seen him since that affair
of poor Madame Audran's.” “Ah! poor Madame Audran" replied
the winemerchant's wife, with a long sigh “she was a good woman, and a
most particular sriend of mine. I used to be there almost every day, and
it makes me shudder to think of it—it was a sad business!” “Who is D'Arsac to
be married to ?” “Oh, to a beautiful creature—only eighteen such a
shape—so distingue'—you remember Emile de Lucevalle; she and D'Arsac have
loved each other from childhood; they will be a happy pair." “They
ought to be. But I thought that match was off on account of D'Arsac not being rich enough to
settle an equal sum with that brought by Emile. Do you know, Madame, how
that has been arranged?” “An uncle of his died in the provinces, and
left him the money.” “I never knew he had one.” “Nor I, until the other
day; I never heard him mention a word about an uncle until it had been
al. settled about the marriage, and the money on each side paid into the
trustees' hands. But I must wish you a good day, Mons. Vidocq, and
aim much obliged to you for the information. I am an unhappy woman to
have such a husband as Parguet—“going out of town,’ indeed — I'll out of
town him with a vengeance,” said Madame, and
hastened out of the room to scold her husband—dress for the wedding—and
asterwards appear with him so lovingly as to elicit the usual
exclamation, “if we were as happy as Monsieur and Madame Parguet,
we should indeed be happy.” The evening was delightful, and the
illuminations at the “Jardin Beaulieu" every body pronounced to be
superior to any thing that had been seen for a long time; so charming—so
happy every body looks—how beautifully the bride is dressed—what a very
pleasant evening we shall have were the expressions passing from one to
another. The dancing was kept up with. out cessation; first
quadrilles—then waltzing—every body, in fact, seemed determined to be
pleased. “Oh, look,” said some, “the bride is going to stand up in a
quadrille; how elegantly she dances!” “Happy man, D'Arsacs" sighed many
an admiring swain. “Eh! why what is the matter?—the quadrille has
stopped.” “Madame Parguet has sainted. Lead her away from the dancers into the open air of the garden,” cried some one. “It is nothing.” said Madame Parguet;
“merely a slight spasm. I shall be much better if you will let me walk a
few minutes about the garden by myself. But here is Mons. Vidocq-he does
not dance, and will allow me to lean on his arm.” So saying, she took
my arm, and the rest, at her request, resumed their dancing. “Oh, Mons. Vidocq,” said she, “I have had such a shock.” “What occasioned it, Madame 7"
said I. “Are you sure nobody can overhear us?” “They are all engaged
dancing.” “You know I danced next the bride.” * Yes.” “And I was
admiring the beautiful dress she had on, when my eyes sell upon a brooch
she wears upon her bosom, and I thought I should have fainted.” “What,
because you saw a brooch!" “Yes,” said she, drawing close to me, and
whispering in my ear; “that brooch was Madame Au. dran's.” “Madame Audran's"
“Hush—speak low !” “How do you know it? you may—you must be mistaken.”
“No, no, I have seen it a thousand times; besides, it was so uncommon a
pattern that I often asked her to sell it to me, but was always refused. She
said she would part with it only at her death.” “This is very strange; I
hardly know what to think! I do not wish to hurt her feelings, but can
you learn from her how she became possessed of it?” This Madame Parguet
undertook to do under pretence of admiring it, and saying she wished to
know where she might obtain a similar one. In a few minutes she
returned, having gleaned from the gentle and ill-fated bride all that
she knew concerning it; it had been given to her that morning by her
dear D'Arsac, and she would ask him where
he got it, and let her know in the morning. This information in some
degree confirmed the suspicions I had previously entertained, that none
but D'Arsac could be the murderer; but
then his character had hitherto been unblemished, and he stood high in
every man's report. It was not a thing to hesitate about; the conviction
in my own mind was so strong, that I considered it my duty to arrest
him without delay. I accordingly procured some of my agents, who were in
the neighborhood, and sent to him to say I wished a few moments’
private conversation with him. As he entered the room, I heard the soft,
sweet voice of his bride chiding him for leaving her, and exacting a
promise he would not stay long—long! poor girl, she little thought how
long the separation would be—that his promise of a quick return would be the last words to fall upon her ear.
As the door closed, I approached D'Arsac, and
said, “Sir, you are my prisoner!" Looking at me, at the same time, as
if to read in my face the answer to what he dared not ask, at last, with
a gasp for breath, he saltered out, “For what?” “You are accused of the
murder of Madame Audran'" His color fled
in an instant, and he seemed as if he were about to fall, but covering
his face with his hands, he remained a few moments in thought. His deep
hard breathing betokened a suppressed sigh— one that tried for
utterance, but was forced back; presently he sobbed out, “Oh, my poor
Emile! this will be your death !” and dashing his hand across his
forehead, and striving to recover the sudden shock he had sustained,
said, “I am ready to follow you.” At the door he paused a moment,
saying, “Could not something be said to Emile that I am ill? something
to console her for my absence? any thing but the truth, though it must
soon out. Oh, Heavens; but this is too much"—and he dashed into the
coach at the door, and was at once conveyed to prison. The Tribunals
being always sitting at Paris, his trial soon took place, and many
things came out against him which he could not rebut; the sudden
possession of a large sum of money, which he had accounted for by the
death of an uncle, was proved to be false, as he had never had one. The
brooch, too, which was proved to have belonged to Madame Audran, he
could not say where he had obtained: besides other minor circumstances,
which left so little doubt in the minds of the majority of his jury,
that he was found guilty. Murder, in all countries, is punished alike-by
death—and such was his sentence.
That he did not die by the hands of the
executioner, was not the fault of the law. He had procured some strong
poison, which he took the morning previous to his intended death on a
scaffold, and left in disgrace a world wherein, by his talents, he might
have shone one of its brightest ornaments. A short time previous to his
death, he confessed the crime, and how it had taken place. He had been
or some long time striving to amass a sufficient sum of money to meet
the views ef Emile's friends; he had got together more than half the
requisite amount, when he thought he might by one coup obtain
the whole; in an evil hour, he tried for the first time in his life the
gaming table, and sound himself in a few minutes, a beggar, and the
hopes of possessing Emile arther than ever removed from him. Returning
home, he chanced to pass by Madame Audran's, and the force of habit led him to inquire after his patient's health. He sat down in her room, musing on the waywardness of his fate for a few minutes, and on rising to go, perceived Madame Audran had
fallen into a slumber; his eye, at that moment, sell upon her chest of
valuables, and the devil instigated him to that murder as the fulfilment
of all his hopes, which a few moments consideration would have shown
the sal. lacy of With all the pains which were taken the truth could not
be concealed from Emile; it cast a fixed gloom upon her mind that could
not be removed; she sickened at the sight, and thought of all her
former pleasures and pursuits, and lived in the world as one who bore no
part in the events of life—a stranger to all around. It was not of long
duration, sor a few months saw her a prey to those morbid feelings of
the mind which nought on earth could allay.
Burton's Gentleman's Magazine and American Monthly Review, Volume 3, 1838
