 | IV. Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
4. IV.
I RETURNED to Paris by the way of Belgium.
I think it was in the Hôtel de Saxe, of Brussels,
where I first happened upon a budget of French papers
which contained a report of the trial of poor Roque.
It was a hopeless case with him; every one foresaw
that. For a time I do not think there was any sympathy
felt for him. The testimony all went to show the
harmless and benevolent character of the murdered
Count. The culprit had appeared to all who saw him
within the year past, of a morose and harsh disposition.
I say that for a time sympathy was with the murdered
man; but certain circumstances came to light toward
the close of the trial, and indeed after it was over,
and the poor fellow's fate was fixed, which gave a new
turn to popular feeling.
These circumstances had a special interest for me,
inasmuch as they cleared up the mystery which had belonged
to his change of manner in the galleries of the
Louvre, and to his relations with the Count de Roquefort.
I will try and state these circumstances as they
of that date.
In the first place, the Count, after the visit of
Emile Roque, had communicated to those in his confidence
nothing respecting the nature or the objects of
that visit; and this, notwithstanding he had such reason
to apprehend violence on its repetition, that he had secured
the presence of two officers to arrest the offensive
person. To these officers he had simply communicated
the fact of his expecting a visit from an unknown individual,
who had threatened him with personal violence.
The officers were quite sure that the Count had
spoken of the criminal as a stranger to him; indeed, he
seemed eager to convey to them the idea that he had no
previous knowledge whatever of the individual who so
causelessly threatened his peace.
Nothing was found among the Count's papers to forbid
the truthfulness of his assertion on this point; no
letter could be discovered from any person bearing that
name.
The mother of the prisoner, upon learning the accusation
urged against him, had become incapacitated
by a severe paralytic attack, from appearing as a witness,
or from giving any intelligible information whatever.
She had said only, in the paroxysm of her distress,
and before her faculties were withered by the
shock:—“Lui aussi! Il s'y perd!”
Not one of the companions of Emile Roque (and he
had many in his jovial days) had ever heard him speak
of the Count de Roquefort. Up to the time of his departure
for the South, he had communicated to no one his
intentions, or even his destination. His old friends had,
indeed, remarked the late change in his manner, and
had attributed it solely to what they supposed a bitter
disappointment in relation to his proposed marriage
with Virginie C—.
I have already alluded (through a letter from De
Courcy) to the singular fact, that Emile Roque continued
his familiarity and intimacy with Monsieur C— long
after the date of the change in his appearance, and even
up to the time of his departure for the South. It was
naturally supposed that Monsieur C— would prove
an important witness in the case. His testimony, however,
so far from throwing light upon the crime, only
doubled the mystery attaching to the prisoner's fate.
He spoke in the highest terms of the character which
the criminal had always sustained. He confirmed the
rumors which had coupled his name with that of a
member of his own family. The marriage between the
parties had been determined upon with his full consent,
and only waited the final legal forms usual in such cases
for its accomplishment, when it was deferred in obedience
to the wishes of only M. Roque himself!
The witness regarded this as a caprice at the first;
from that time, had satisfied him that some secret anxiety
was weighing on his mind. His high regard for the
character of M. Roque prompted (and that alone
had prompted) a continuance of intimacy with him, and
a vain repetition of endeavors to win from him some explanation
of his changed manner.
One fact more, which seemed to have special significance
in its bearing upon the crime, was this;—in the
pocket of the prisoner at the time of his seizure was found
a letter purporting to be from the murdered Count, and
addressed to a certain Amedée Brune. It was a tender
letter, full of expressions of devotion, and promising that
upon a day not very far distant, the writer would meet
his fair one, and they should be joined together, for woe
or for weal, thenceforth, through life.
The letter was of an old date—thirty odd years ago
it had been written; and on comparison with the manuscript
of the Count of that date, gave evidence of anthenticity.
Who this Amedée Brune might be, or what
relation she bore to the criminal, or how the letter came
into his possession, none could tell. Those who had been
early acquaintances of the Count had never so much as
heard a mention of that name. A few went so far as to
doubt the genuineness of his signature. He had been a
man remarkable for his quiet and studious habits. So
far as the knowledge of his friends extended, no passing
gallantries had ever relieved the monotony of his life.
The accused, in the progress of the inquiries which
had elicited these facts, had maintained a dogged silence,
not communicating any statement of importance even to
his legal advisers. The sudden illness which had befallen
his mother, and which threatened a fatal termination,
seemed to have done more to prostrate his hope
and courage than the weight of the criminal accusation.
The fiancée, meantine, Mademoiselle C—, was,
it seems, least of all interested in the fate of the prisoner.
Whether incensed by his change of manner, or stung by
jealousy, it was certain that before this accusation had
been urged she had conceived against him a strong antipathy.
Such was the state of facts developed on the trial.
The jury found him guilty of murder; there were no extenuating
circumstances, and there was no recommendation
to mercy.
After the condemnation the criminal had grown more
communicative. Something of the reckless gayety of
his old days had returned for a time. He amused himself
with sketching from memory some of the heads of
Watteau's nymphs upon his prison walls. His mother
had died, fortunately, only a few days after the rendering
of the verdict, without knowing, however, what fate
was to befal her son.
It was rumored that when this event was made
for the priest, made a full confession of his crime
and its causes. This confession had occasioned that turn
in popular sympathy of which I have spoken. The
friends of the Count, however, and even the prisoner's
own legal advisers (as I was told), regarded it as only an
ingenious appeal for mercy.
For myself, notwithstanding the lack of positive evidence
to sustain his statements, I have been always inclined
to believe his story a true one.
The main points in his confession were these: He
had loved Virginie C—, as she had not deserved to be
loved. He was happy; he had fortune, health, everything
to insure content. Monsieur C— welcomed
him to his family. His mother rejoiced in the cheerfulness
and sunny prospects of her only child. His
father (he knew it only from his mother's lips) had been
a general in the wars of Napoleon, and had died before
his recollection.
He had been little concerned to inquire regarding the
character or standing of his father, until, as the marriage
day approached, it became necessary to secure legal testimonials
respecting his patrimony and name.
No general by the name of Roque had ever served in
the wars of Napoleon or in the armies of France! For
the first time the laughing dream of his life was disturbed.
With his heart full, and his brain on fire, he appealed to
Amidst tears and sobs, the truth was wrung from her,
that he—the gay-hearted Emile, whose life was full of
promise—could claim no legal parentage. But the man
who had so wronged both him and herself was still alive;
and, with the weakness of her sex, she assured him that
he was of noble birth, and had never shown tenderness
toward any woman save herself.
Who was this noble father, on whose riches the son
was living? No entreaties or threats could win this secret
from the mother.
Then it was that the change had come over the
character of Emile; then it was that he had deserted
the smiling nymphs of Watteau for the despairing castaway
of Géricault. Too proud to bring a tarnished escutcheon
to his marriage rites; doubting if that stain
would not cause both father and daughter to relent, he
had himself urged the postponement of the legal arrangements.
One slight hope—slighter than that belonging to
the castaway of the wrecked Médusa—sustained him.
The mother (she avowed it with tears and with grief)
had become such only under solemn promise of marriage
from one she had never doubted.
To find this recreant father was now the aim of the
crazed life of Emile. With this frail hope electrifying
his despair, he pushed his inquiries secretly in every quarter,
and solaced his thoughts with his impassioned work
in the corner salon of the Louvre.
In the chamber of his mother was a little escritoire,
kept always closed and locked. His suspicions, after a
time, attached themselves there. He broke the fastenings,
and found within a miniature, a lock of hair, a
packet of letters, signed—De Roquefort. Of these last
he kept only one; the others he destroyed as so many tokens
of his shame.
That fatal one he bore with him away from Paris,
out from the influence of his mother. He pushed his
inquiries with the insidious cunning of a man crazed by
a single thought. He found at length the real address
of the Count de Roquefort. He hurried to his presence,
bearing always with him the letter of promise, so
ruthlessly broken.
The Count was startled by his appearance, and
startled still more by the wildness of his story and of
his demands. The son asked the father to make good,
at this late day, the promise of his youth. The Count
replied evasively; he promised to assist the claimant
with money, and with his influence, and would engage
to make him heir to the larger part of his fortune.
All this fell coldly upon the ear of the excited Emile.
He wished restitution to his mother. Nothing less
could be listened to.
The Count urged the scandal which would grow out
of such a measure; with his years and reputation, he
could not think of exposing himself to the ribald tongues
necessarily belong to the marriage would, he considered,
be of serious injury to Emile himself. The fact of
his illegitimacy was unknown; the old relation of his
mother to himself was a secret one; the obstacles which
might now lie in the way of his own marriage to Virginie
C— were hardly worth consideration, when
compared with the inconvenience which would follow a
public exposure of the circumstances. He set before
Emile the immense advantages of the fortune which he
would secure to him on his (the Count's) death, provided
only he was content to forbear his urgence as regarded
his mother.
Emile listened coldly, calmly. There was but one
thought in his mind—only one hope; there must be
restitution to his mother, or he would take justice in his
own hands. The Count must make good his promise,
or the consequences would be fatal. He gave the Count
two days for reflection.
At the end of that time he returned, prepared for
any emergency. The Count had utterly refused him
justice: he had uttered his own death-warrant.
His mother was no longer living, to feel the sting of
the exposure. For himself, he had done all in his power
to make her name good: he had no ties to the world;
he was ready for the worst.
Such was the relation of Emile; and there was a
facts established by evidence, which gave it an air of
great probability.
But, on the other hand, it was alleged by the friends
of the Count that such a relation on his part never could
have existed; that not the slightest evidence of it could
be found among his papers, nor did the recollection of
his oldest friends offer the smallest confirmation. The
reported conversations of Emile with the Count were,
they contended, only an ingenious fiction.
Singularly enough, there was nothing among the
effects of the deceased Madame Roque to confirm the allegation
that she had ever borne the name of Amedée
Brune. She had been known only to her oldest acquaintances
of the capital as Madame Roque: of her
previous history nothing could be ascertained.
The solitary exclamation of that lady, “Il s'y perd!”
was instanced as proof that Emile was laboring under a
grievous delusion.
Notwithstanding this, my own impression was that
Emile had executed savage justice upon the betrayer
of his mother.
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