"At that point," said the goodman, interrupting himself and looking at Godefroid with a shrewd air, "I thought it best to tell him a bit of a fib."

"'That is all I possess in the world,' I said. 'I have been waiting for a fall in the Funds to invest that money; but I will put it in your hands instead, and you shall consider me your partner; I will leave to your conscience the duty of returning it to me in due time. The conscience of an honest man,' I said, 'is a better security than the Funds.' Mongenod looked at me fixedly as I spoke, and seemed to be inlaying my words upon his heart. He put out his right hand, I laid my left into it, and we held them together,—I deeply moved, and he with two big tears rolling down his cheeks. The sight of those tears wrung my heart. I was more moved still when Mongenod pulled out a ragged foulard handkerchief to wipe them away. 'Wait here,' I said; and I went to my secret hiding-place with a heart as agitated as though I had heard a woman say she loved me. I came back with two rolls of fifty louis each. 'Here, count them.' He would not count them; and he looked about him for a desk on which to write, he said, a proper receipt. I positively refused to take any paper. 'If I should die,' I said, 'my heirs would trouble you. This is to be between ourselves.'

"Well," continued Monsieur Alain, smiling, "when Mongenod found me a good friend he ceased to look as sad and anxious as when he entered; in fact, he became quite gay. My housekeeper gave us some oysters, white wine, and an omelet, with broiled kidneys, and the remains of a pate my old mother had sent me; also some dessert, coffee, and liqueur of the Iles. Mongenod, who had been starving for two days, was fed up. We were so interested in talking about our life before the Revolution that we sat at table till three in the afternoon. Mongenod told me how he had lost his fortune. In the first place, his father having invested the greater part of his capital in city loans, when they fell Mongenod lost two thirds of all he had. Then, having sold his house in the rue de Savoie, he was forced to receive the price in assignats. After that he took into his head to found a newspaper, 'La Sentinelle;' that compelled him to fly at the end of six months. His hopes, he said, were now fixed on the success of a comic opera called 'Les Peruviens.' When he said that I began to tremble. Mongenod turned author, wasting his money on a newspaper, living no doubt in the theatres, connected with singers at the Feydeau, with musicians, and all the queer people who lurk behind the scenes,—to tell you the truth, he didn't seem my Mongenod. I trembled. But how could I take back the hundred louis? I saw each roll in each pocket of his breeches like the barrels of two pistols.

"Then," continued Monsieur Alain, and this time he sighed, "Mongenod went away. When I was alone, and no longer in presence of hard and cruel poverty, I began, in spite of myself, to reflect. I was sobered. 'Mongenod,' thought I, 'is perhaps thoroughly depraved; he may have been playing a comedy at my expense.' His gaiety, the moment I had handed over to him readily such a large sum of money, struck me then as being too like the joy of the valets on the stage when they catch a Geronte. I ended, where I ought to have begun, by resolving to make some investigations as to my friend Mongenod, who had given me his address,—written on the back of a playing card! I did not choose, as a matter of delicacy, to go and see him the next day; he might have thought there was distrust in such promptness, as, indeed, there would have been. The second day I had certain matters to attend to which took all my time, and it was only at the end of two weeks that, not seeing or hearing of Mongenod, I went one morning from the Croix-Rouge, where I was then living, to the rue des Moineaux, where he lived. I found he was living in furnished lodgings of the lowest class; but the landlady was a very worthy woman, the widow of a magistrate who had died on the scaffold; she was utterly ruined by the Revolution, and had only a few louis with which to begin the hazardous trade of taking lodgers."

Here Monsieur Alain interrupted himself to explain. "I knew her later," he said; "she then had seven houses in Saint-Roch, and was making quite a little fortune.

"'The citizen Mongenod is not at home,' the landlady said to me; 'but there is some one there.' This remark excited my curiosity. I went up to the fifth story. A charming person opened the door,—oh, such a pretty young woman! who looked at me rather suspiciously and kept the door half closed. 'I am Alain, a friend of Mongenod's,' I said. Instantly the door opened wide, and I entered a miserable garret, which was, nevertheless, kept with the utmost neatness. The pretty young woman offered me a chair before a fireplace where were ashes but no fire, at the corner of which I saw a common earthen foot-warmer. 'It makes me very happy, monsieur,' she said, taking my hand and pressing it affectionately, 'to be able to express to you my gratitude. You have indeed saved us. Were it not for you I might never have seen Mongenod again. He might,—yes, he would have thrown himself in the river. He was desperate when he left me to go and see you.' On examining this person I was surprised to see her head tied up in a foulard, and along the temples a curious dark line; but I presently saw that her head was shaved. 'Have you been ill?' I asked, as I noticed this singularity. She cast a glance at a broken mirror in a shabby frame and colored; then the tears came into her eyes. 'Yes, monsieur,' she said, 'I had horrible headaches, and I was obliged to have my hair cut off; it came to my feet.' 'Am I speaking to Madame Mongenod?' I asked. 'Yes, monsieur,' she answered, giving me a truly celestial look. I bowed to the poor little woman and went away, intending to make the landlady tell me something about them; but she was out. I was certain that poor young woman had sold her hair to buy bread. I went from there to a wood merchant and ordered half a cord of wood, telling the cartman and the sawyer to take the bill, which I made the dealer receipt to the name of citizen Mongenod, and give it to the little woman.

"There ends the period of what I long called my foolishness," said Monsieur Alain, clasping his hands and lifting them with a look of repentance.

Godefroid could not help smiling. He was, as we shall see, greatly mistaken in that smile.

"Two days later," resumed the worthy man, "I met one of those men who are neither friends nor strangers, with whom we have relations from time to time, and call acquaintances,—a certain Monsieur Barillaud, who remarked accidentally, a propos of the 'Peruviens,' that the author was a friend of his. 'Then you know citizen Mongenod?' I said.

"In those days we were obliged by law to call each other 'citizen,'" said Monsieur Alain to Godefroid, by way of parenthesis. Then he continued his narrative:—

"The citizen looked at me, exclaiming, 'I wish I never had known him; for he has several times borrowed money of me, and shown his friendship by not returning it. He is a queer fellow,—good-hearted and all that, but full of illusions! always an imagination on fire! I will do him this justice,—he does not mean to deceive; but as he deceives himself about everything, he manages to behave like a dishonest man.' 'How much does he owe you?' I asked. 'Oh! a good many hundred francs. He's a basket with a hole in the bottom. Nobody knows where his money goes; perhaps he doesn't know himself.' 'Has he any resources?' 'Well, yes,' said Barillaud, laughing; 'just now he is talking of buying land among the savages in the United States.' I carried away with me the drop of vinegar which casual gossip thus put into my heart, and it soured all my feelings. I went to see my old master, in whose office Mongenod and I had studied law; he was now my counsel. When I told him about my loan to Mongenod and the manner in which I had acted,—'What!' he cried, 'one of my old clerks to behave in that way! You ought to have put him off till the next day and come to see me. You would then have found out that I have forbidden my clerks to let Mongenod into this office. Within the last year he has borrowed three hundred francs of me in silver,—an enormous sum at present rates. Three days before he breakfasted with you I met him on the street, and he gave such a piteous account of his poverty that I let him have two louis.' 'If I have been the dupe of a clever comedian,' I said to Bordin, 'so much the worse for him, not for me. But tell me what to do.' 'You must try to get from him a written acknowledgment; for a debtor, however, insolvent he may be, may become solvent, and then he will pay.' Thereupon Bordin took from a tin box a case on which I saw the name of Mongenod; he showed me three receipts of a hundred francs each. 'The next time he comes I shall have him admitted, and I shall make him add the interest and the two louis, and give me a note for the whole. I shall, at any rate, have things properly done, and be in a position to obtain payment.' 'Well,' said I to Bordin, 'can you have my matter set right so far, as well as yours? for I know you are a good man, and what you do will be right.' 'I have remained master of my ground,' he said; 'but when persons behave as you have done they are at the mercy of a man who can snap his fingers at them. As for me, I don't choose that any man should get the better of me,—get the better of a former attorney to the Chatelet!—ta-ra-ra! Every man to whom a sum of money is lent as heedlessly as you lent yours to Mongenod, ends, after a certain time, by thinking that money his own. It is no longer your money, it is his money; you become his creditor,—an inconvenient, unpleasant person. A debtor will then try to get rid of you by some juggling with his conscience, and out of one hundred men in his position, seventy-five will do their best never to see or hear of you again.' 'Then you think only twenty-five men in a hundred are honest?' 'Did I say that?' he replied, smiling maliciously. 'The estimate is too high?'"

Monsieur Alain paused to put the fire together; that done, he resumed:—

"Two weeks later I received a letter from Bordin asking me to go to his office and get my receipt. I went. 'I tried to get fifty of your louis for you,' he said, 'but the birds had flown. Say good-by to your yellow boys; those pretty canaries are off to other climes. You have had to do with a sharper; that's what he is. He declared to me that his wife and father-in-law had gone to the United States with sixty of your louis to buy land; that he intended to follow, for the purpose, he said, of making a fortune and paying his debts; the amount of which, carefully drawn up, he confided to me, requesting me to keep an eye on what became of his creditors. Here is a list of the items,' continued Bordin, showing me a paper from which he read the total,—'Seventeen thousand francs in coin; a sum with which a house could be bought that would bring in two thousand francs a year.' After replacing the list in the case, Bordin gave me a note for a sum equivalent to a hundred louis in gold, with a letter in which Mongenod admitted having received my hundred louis, on which he owed interest. 'So now I am all right,' I said to Bordin. 'He cannot deny the debt,' replied my old master; 'but where there are no funds, even the king—I should say the Directory—can't enforce rights.' I went home. Believing that I had been robbed in a way intentionally screened from the law, I withdrew my esteem from Mongenod, and resigned myself philosophically.

"If I have dwelt on these details, which are so commonplace and seem so slight," said the worthy man, looking at Godefroid, "it is not without good reason. I want to explain to you how I was led to act, as most men act, in defiance of the rules which savages observe in the smallest matters. Many persons would justify themselves by the opinion of so excellent a man as Bordin; but to-day I know myself to have been inexcusable. When it comes to condemning one of our fellows, and withdrawing our esteem from him, we should act from our own convictions only. But have we any right to make our heart a tribunal before which we arraign our neighbor? Where is the law? what is our standard of judgment? That which in us is weakness may be strength in our neighbor. So many beings, so many different circumstances for every act; and there are no two beings exactly alike in all humanity. Society alone has the right over its members of repression; as for punishment, I deny it that right. Repression suffices; and that, besides, brings with it punishment enough.

"So," resumed Monsieur Alain, continuing his history, having drawn from it that noble teaching, "after listening to the gossip of the Parisian, and relying on the wisdom of my old master, I condemned Mongenod. His play, 'Les Peruviens,' was announced. I expected to receive a ticket from Mongenod for the first representation; I established in my own mind a sort of claim on him. It seemed to me that by reason of my loan my friend was a sort of vassal of mine, who owed me a number of things besides the interest on my money. We all think that. Mongenod not only did not send me a ticket, but I saw him from a distance coming towards me in that dark passage under the Theatre Feydeau, well dressed, almost elegant; he pretended not to see me; then, after he had passed and I turned to run after him, my debtor hastily escaped through a transverse alley. This circumstance greatly irritated me; and the irritation, instead of subsiding with time, only increased, and for the following reason: Some days after this encounter, I wrote to Mongenod somewhat in these terms: 'My friend, you ought not to think me indifferent to whatever happens to you of good or evil. Are you satisfied with the success of 'Les Peruviens'? You forgot me (of course it was your right to do so) for the first representation, at which I should have applauded you. But, nevertheless, I hope you found a Peru in your Peruvians, for I have found a use for my funds, and shall look to you for the payment of them when the note falls due. Your friend, Alain.' After waiting two weeks for an answer, I went to the rue des Moineaux. The landlady told me that the little wife really did go away with her father at the time when Mongenod told Bordin of their departure. Mongenod always left the garret very early in the morning and did not return till late at night. Another two weeks, I wrote again, thus: 'My dear Mongenod, I cannot find you, and you do not reply to my letters. I do not understand your conduct. If I behaved thus to you, what would you think of me?' I did not subscribe the letter as before, 'Your friend,' I merely wrote, 'Kind regards.'

"Well, it was all of no use," said Monsieur Alain. "A month went by and I had no news of Mongenod. 'Les Peruviens' did not obtain the great success on which he counted. I went to the twentieth representation, thinking to find him and obtain my money. The house was less than half full; but Madame Scio was very beautiful. They told me in the foyer that the play would run a few nights longer. I went seven different times to Mongenod's lodging and did not find him; each time I left my name with the landlady. At last I wrote again: 'Monsieur, if you do not wish to lose my respect, as you have my friendship, you will treat me now as a stranger,—that is to say, with politeness; and you will tell me when you will be ready to pay your note, which is now due. I shall act according to your answer. Your obedient servant, Alain.' No answer. We were then in 1799; one year, all but two months, had expired. At the end of those two months I went to Bordin. Bordin took the note, had it protested, and sued Mongenod for me. Meantime the disasters of the French armies had produced such depreciation of the Funds that investors could buy a five-francs dividend on seven francs capital. Therefore, for my hundred louis in gold, I might have bought myself fifteen hundred francs of income. Every morning, as I took my coffee and read the paper, I said to myself: 'That cursed Mongenod! if it were not for him I should have three thousand francs a year to live on.' Mongenod became by bete-noire; I inveighed against him even as I walked the streets. 'Bordin is there,' I thought to myself; 'Bordin will put the screws on, and a good thing, too.' My feelings turned to hatred, and my hatred to imprecations; I cursed the man, and I believed he had every vice. 'Ah! Monsieur Barillaud was very right,' thought I, 'in all he told me!'"

Monsieur Alain paused reflectively.

"Yes," he said again, "I thought him very right in all he told me. At last, one morning, in came my debtor, no more embarrassed than if he didn't owe me a sou. When I saw him I felt all the shame he ought to have felt. I was like a criminal taken in the act; I was all upset. The eighteenth Brumaire had just taken place. Public affairs were doing well, the Funds had gone up. Bonaparte was off to fight the battle of Marengo. 'It is unfortunate, monsieur,' I said, receiving Mongenod standing, 'that I owe your visit to a sheriff's summons.' Mongenod took a chair and sat down. 'I came to tell you,' he said, 'that I am totally unable to pay you.' 'You made me miss a fine investment before the election of the First Consul,—an investment which would have given me a little fortune.' 'I know it, Alain,' he said, 'I know it. But what is the good of suing me and crushing me with bills of costs? I have nothing with which to pay anything. Lately I received letters from my wife and father-in-law; they have bought land with the money you lent me, and they send me a list of things they need to improve it. Now, unless some one prevents it, I shall sail on a Dutch vessel from Flushing, whither I have sent the few things I am taking out to them. Bonaparte has won the battle of Marengo, peace will be signed, I may safely rejoin my family; and I have need to, for my dear little wife is about to give birth to a child.' 'And so you have sacrificed me to your own interests?' said I. 'Yes,' he answered, 'for I believed you my friend.' At that moment I felt myself inferior to Mongenod, so sublime did he seem to me as he said those grand words. 'Did I not speak to you frankly,' he said, 'in this very room? I came to you, Alain, as the only person who would really understand me. I told you that fifty louis would be lost, but a hundred I could return to you. I did not bind myself by saying when; for how could I know the time at which my long struggle with disaster would end? You were my last friend. All others, even our old master Bordin, despised me for the very reason that I borrowed money of them. Oh! you do not know, Alain, the dreadful sensation which grips the heart of an honest man when, in the throes of poverty, he goes to a friend and asks him for succor,—and all that follows! I hope you never may know it; it is far worse than the anguish of death. You have written me letters which, if I had written them to you in a like situation, you would have thought very odious. You expected of me that which it was out of my power to do. But you are the only person to whom I shall try to justify myself. In spite of your severity, and though from being a friend you became a creditor on the day when Bordin asked for my note on your behalf (thus abrogating the generous compact you had made with me there, on that spot, when we clasped hands and mingled our tears),—well, in spite of all that, I have remembered that day, and because of it I have come here to say to you, You do not know misery, therefore do not judge it. I have not had one moment when I could answer you. Would you have wished me to come here and cajole you with words? I could not pay you; I did not even have enough for the bare necessities of those whose lives depended on me. My play brought little. A novice in theatrical ways, I became a prey to musicians, actors, journalists, orchestras. To get the means to leave Paris and join my family, and carry to them the few things they need, I have sold "Les Peruviens" outright to the director, with two other pieces which I had in my portfolio. I start for Holland without a sou; I must reach Flushing as best I can; my voyage is paid, that is all. Were it not for the pity of my landlady, who has confidence in me, I should have to travel on foot, with my bag upon my back. But, in spite of your doubts of me, I, remembering that without you I never could have sent my wife and father-in-law to New York, am forever grateful to you. No, Monsieur Alain, I shall not forget that the hundred louis d'or you lent me would have yielded you to-day fifteen hundred francs a year.' 'I desire to believe you, Mongenod,' I said, shaken by the tone in which he made this explanation. 'Ah, you no longer say monsieur to me!' he said quickly, with a tender glance. 'My God! I shall quit France with less regret if I can leave one man behind me in whose eyes I am not half a swindler, nor a spendthrift, nor a man of illusions! Alain, I have loved an angel in the midst of my misery. A man who truly loves cannot be despicable.' At those words I stretched out my hand to him. He took it and wrung it. 'May heaven protect you!' I said. 'Are we still friends?' he asked. 'Yes,' I replied. 'It shall never be that my childhood's comrade and the friend of my youth left me for America under the feeling that I was angry with him.' Mongenod kissed me, with tears in his eyes, and rushed away."

Monsieur Alain stopped in his narrative for an instant and looked at Godefroid. "I remember that day with some satisfaction," he said. Then he resumed:

"A week or so later I met Bordin and told him of that interview. He smiled and said: 'I hope it was not a pretty bit of comedy. Didn't he ask for anything?' 'No,' I answered. 'Well, he came to see me the same day. I was almost as touched as you; and he asked me for means to get food on his journey. Well, well, time will show!' These remarks of Bordin made me fear I had foolishly yielded to mistaken sensibility. 'Nevertheless,' I said to myself, 'he, the old lawyer, did as I did.' I do not think it necessary to explain to you how I lost all, or nearly all, my property. I had placed a little in the Funds, which gave me five hundred francs a year; all else was gone. I was then thirty-four years old. I obtained, through the influence of Monsieur Bordin, a place as clerk, with a salary of eight hundred francs, in a branch office of the Mont-de-piete, rue des Augustins.[*] From that time I lived very modestly. I found a small lodging in the rue des Marais, on the third floor (two rooms and a closet), for two hundred and fifty francs a year. I dined at a common boarding-house for forty francs a month. I copied writings at night. Ugly as I was and poor, I had to renounce marriage."

[*] The Mont-de-Piete and its branches are pawn-shops under control of the government.—TR.

As Godefroid heard this judgment which the poor man passed upon himself with beautiful simplicity and resignation, he made a movement which proved, far more than any confidence in words could have done, the resemblance of their destinies; and the goodman, in answer to that eloquent gesture, seemed to expect the words that followed it.

"Have you never been loved?" asked Godefroid.

"Never!" he said; "except by Madame, who returns to us all the love we have for her,—a love which I may call divine. You must be aware of it. We live through her life as she lives through ours; we have but one soul among us; and such pleasures, though they are not physical, are none the less intense; we exist through our hearts. Ah, my child!" he continued, "when women come to appreciate moral qualities, they are indifferent to others; and they are then old—Oh! I have suffered deeply,—yes, deeply!"

"And I, in the same way," said Godefroid.

"Under the Empire," said the worthy man, resuming his narrative, "the Funds did not always pay their dividends regularly; it was necessary to be prepared for suspensions of payment. From 1802 to 1814 there was scarcely a week that I did not attribute my misfortune to Mongenod. 'If it were not for Mongenod,' I used to say to myself, 'I might have married. If I had never known him I should not be obliged to live in such privation.' But then, again, there were other times when I said, 'Perhaps the unfortunate fellow has met with ill luck over there.' In 1806, at a time when I found my life particularly hard to bear, I wrote him a long letter, which I sent by way of Holland. I received no answer. I waited three years, placing all my hopes on that answer. At last I resigned myself to my life. To the five hundred francs I received from the Funds I now added twelve hundred from the Mont-de-piete (for they raised my salary), and five hundred which I obtained from Monsieur Cesar Birotteau, perfumer, for keeping his books in the evening. Thus, not only did I manage to get along comfortably, but I laid by eight hundred francs a year. At the beginning of 1814 I invested nine thousand francs of my savings at forty francs in the Funds, and thus I was sure of sixteen hundred francs a year for my old age. By that time I had fifteen hundred a year from the Mont-de-piete, six hundred for my book-keeping, sixteen hundred from the Funds; in all, three thousand seven hundred francs a year. I took a lodging in the rue de Seine, and lived a little better. My place had brought me into relations with many unfortunates. For the last twelve years I had known better than any man whatsoever the misery of the poor. Once or twice I had been able to do a real service. I felt a vivid pleasure when I found that out of ten persons relieved, one or two households had been put on their feet. It came into my mind that benevolence ought not to consist in throwing money to those who suffered. 'Doing charity,' to use that common expression, seemed to me too often a premium offered to crime. I began to study the question. I was then fifty years of age, and my life was nearly over. 'Of what good am I?' thought I. 'To whom can I leave my savings? When I have furnished my rooms handsomely, and found a good cook, and made my life suitable in all respects, what then?—how shall I employ my time?' Eleven years of revolution, and fifteen years of poverty, had, as I may say, eaten up the most precious parts of my life,—used it up in sterile toil for my own individual preservation. No man at the age of fifty could spring from that obscure, repressed condition to a brilliant future; but every man could be of use. I understood by this time that watchful care and wise counsels have tenfold greater value than money given; for the poor, above all things, need a guide, if only in the labor they do for others, for speculators are never lacking to take advantage of them. Here I saw before me both an end and an occupation, not to speak of the exquisite enjoyments obtained by playing in a miniature way the role of Providence."

"And to-day you play it in a grand way, do you not?" asked Godefroid, eagerly.

"Ah! you want to know everything," said the old man. "No, no! Would you believe it," he continued after this interruption, "the smallness of my means to do the work I now desired to do brought back the thought of Mongenod. 'If it were not for Mongenod,' I kept saying to myself, 'I could do so much more. If a dishonest man had not deprived me of fifteen hundred francs a year I could save this or that poor family.' Excusing my own impotence by accusing another, I felt that the miseries of those to whom I could offer nothing but words of consolation were a curse upon Mongenod. That thought soothed my heart. One morning, in January, 1816, my housekeeper announced,—whom do you suppose?—Mongenod! Monsieur Mongenod! And whom do you think I saw enter my room? The beautiful young woman I had once seen,—only now she was thirty-six years old,—followed by her three children and Mongenod. He looked younger than when he went away; for prosperity and happiness do shed a halo round their favorites. Thin, pale, yellow, shrivelled, when I last saw him, he was now plump, sleek, rosy as a prebendary, and well dressed. He flung himself into my arms. Feeling, perhaps, that I received him coldly, his first words were: 'Friend, I could not come sooner. The ocean was not free to passenger ships till 1815; then it took me a year to close up my business and realize my property. I have succeeded, my friend. When I received your letter in 1806, I started in a Dutch vessel to bring you myself a little fortune; but the union of Holland with the French Empire caused the vessel to be taken by the English and sent to Jamaica, from which island I escaped by mere chance. When I reached New York I found I was a victim to the bankruptcy of others. In my absence my poor Charlotte had not been able to protect herself against schemers. I was therefore forced to build up once more the edifice of my fortunes. However, it is all done now, and here we are. By the way those children are looking at you, you must be aware that we have often talked to them of their father's benefactor.' 'Oh, yes, yes, monsieur!' said the beautiful Mongenod, 'we have never passed a single day without remembering you. Your share has been set aside in all our affairs. We have looked forward eagerly to the happiness we now have in returning to you your fortune, not thinking for a moment that the payment of these just dues can ever wipe out our debt of gratitude.' With those words Madame Mongenod held out to me that magnificent box you see over there, in which were one hundred and fifty notes of a thousand francs each."

The old man paused an instant as if to dwell on that moment; then he went on:—

"Mongenod looked at me fixedly and said: 'My poor Alain, you have suffered, I know; but we did divine your sufferings; we did try every means to send the money to you, and failed in every attempt. You told me you could not marry,—that I had prevented it. But here is our eldest daughter; she has been brought up in the thought of becoming your wife, and she will have a dowry of five hundred thousand francs.' 'God forbid that I should make her miserable!' I cried hastily, looking at the girl, who was as beautiful as her mother when I first saw her. I drew her to me to kiss her brow. 'Don't be afraid, my beautiful child!' I said. 'A man of fifty to a girl of seventeen?—never! and a man as plain and ugly as I am?—never!' I cried. 'Monsieur,' she said, 'my father's benefactor could not be ugly for me.' Those words, said spontaneously, with simple candor, made me understand how true was all that Mongenod had said. I then gave him my hand, and we embraced each other again. 'My friend,' I said, 'I have done you wrong. I have often accused you, cursed you.' 'You had the right to do so, Alain,' he replied, blushing; 'you suffered, and through me.' I took Mongenod's note from my desk and returned it to him. 'You will all stay and breakfast with me, I hope?' I said to the family. 'On condition that you dine with us,' said Mongenod. 'We arrived yesterday. We are going to buy a house; and I mean to open a banking business between Paris and North America, so as to leave it to this fellow here,' he added, showing me his eldest son, who was fifteen years old. We spent the rest of the day together and went to the play; for Mongenod and his family were actually hungry for the theatre. The next morning I placed the whole sum in the Funds, and I now had in all about fifteen thousand francs a year. This fortune enabled me to give up book-keeping at night, and also to resign my place at the Mont-de-piete, to the great satisfaction of the underling who stepped into my shoes. My friend died in 1827, at the age of sixty-three, after founding the great banking-house of Mongenod and Company, which made enormous profits from the first loans under the Restoration. His daughter, to whom he subsequently gave a million in dowry, married the Vicomte de Fontaine. The eldest son, whom you know, is not yet married; he lives with his mother and brother. We obtain from them all the sums we need. Frederic (his father gave him my name in America),—Frederic Mongenod is, at thirty-seven years of age, one of the ablest, and most upright, bankers in Paris. Not very long ago Madame Mongenod admitted to me that she had sold her hair, as I suspected, for twelve francs to buy bread. She gives me now twenty-four cords of wood a year for my poor people, in exchange for the half cord which I once sent her."

"This explains to me your relations with the house of Mongenod," said Godefroid,—"and your fortune."

Again the goodman looked at Godefroid with a smile, and the same expression of kindly mischief.

"Oh, go on!" said Godefroid, seeing from his manner that he had more to tell.

"This conclusion, my dear Godefroid, made the deepest impression on me. If the man who had suffered so much, if my friend forgave my injustice, I could not forgive myself."

"Oh!" ejaculated Godefroid.

"I resolved to devote all my superfluous means—about ten thousand francs a year—to acts of intelligent benevolence," continued Monsieur Alain, tranquilly. "About this time it was that I made the acquaintance of a judge of the Lower Civil Court of the Seine named Popinot, whom we had the great grief of losing three years ago, and who practised for fifteen years an active and most intelligent charity in the quartier Saint-Marcel. It was he, with the venerable vicar of Notre-Dame and Madame, who first thought of founding the work in which we are now co-operating, and which, since 1825, has quietly done much good. This work has found its soul in Madame de la Chanterie, for she is truly the inspiration of this enterprise. The vicar has known how to make us more religious than we were at first, by showing us the necessity of being virtuous ourselves in order to inspire virtue; in short, to preach by example. The farther we have advanced in our work, the happier we have mutually found ourselves. And so, you see, it really was the repentance I felt for misconceiving the heart of my friend which gave me the idea of devoting to the poor, through my own hands, the fortune he returned to me, and which I accepted without objecting to the immensity of the sum returned in proportion to the sum lent. Its destination justified my taking it."

This narration, made quietly, without assumption, but with a gentle kindliness in accent, look, and gesture, would have inspired Godefroid to enter this noble and sacred association if his resolution had not already been taken.

"You know the world very little," he said, "if you have such scruples about a matter that would not weigh on any other man's conscience."

"I know only the unfortunate," said Monsieur Alain. "I do not desire to know a world in which men are so little afraid of judging one another. But see! it is almost midnight, and I still have my chapter of the 'Imitation of Jesus Christ' to meditate upon! Good-night!"

Godefroid took the old man's hand and pressed it, with an expression of admiration.

"Can you tell me Madame de la Chanterie's history?"

"Impossible, without her consent," replied Monsieur Alain; "for it is connected with one of the most terrible events of Imperial policy. It was through my friend Bordin that I first knew Madame. He had in his possession all the secrets of that noble life; it was he who, if I may say so, led me to this house."

"I thank you," said Godefroid, "for having told me your life; there are many lessons in it for me."

"Do you know what is the moral of it?"

"Tell me," said Godefroid, "for perhaps I may see something different in it from what you see."

"Well, it is this: that pleasure is an accident in a Christian's life; it is not the aim of it; and this we learn too late."

"What happens when we turn to Christianity?" asked Godefroid.

"See!" said the goodman.

He pointed with his finger to some letters of gold on a black ground which the new lodger had not observed, for this was the first time he had ever been in Monsieur Alain's room. Godefroid turned and read the words: TRANSIRE BENEFACIENDO.

"That is our motto. If you become one of us, that will be your only commission. We read that commission, which we have given to ourselves, at all times, in the morning when we rise, in the evening when we lie down, and when we are dressing. Ah! if you did but know what immense pleasures there are in accomplishing that motto!"

"Such as—?" said Godefroid, hoping for further revelations.

"I must tell you that we are as rich as Baron de Nucingen himself. But the 'Imitation of Jesus Christ' forbids us to regard our wealth as our own. We are only the spenders of it; and if we had any pride in being that, we should not be worthy of dispensing it. It would not be transire benefaciendo; it would be inward enjoyment. For if you say to yourself with a swelling of the nostrils, 'I play the part of Providence!' (as you might have thought if you had been in my place this morning and saved the future lives of a whole family), you would become a Sardanapalus,—an evil one! None of these gentlemen living here thinks of himself when he does good. All vanity, all pride, all self-love, must be stripped off, and that is hard to do,—yes, very hard."

Godefroid bade him good-night, and returned to his own room, deeply affected by this narrative. But his curiosity was more whetted than satisfied, for the central figure of the picture was Madame de la Chanterie. The history of the life of that woman became of the utmost importance to him, so that he made the obtaining of it the object of his stay in that house. He already perceived in this association of five persons a vast enterprise of Charity; but he thought far less of that than he did of its heroine.



VIII. WHO SHE WAS—WIFE AND MOTHER

The would-be disciple passed many days in observing more carefully than he had hitherto done the rare persons among whom fate had brought him; and he became the subject of a moral phenomenon which modern philosophers have despised,—possibly out of ignorance.

The sphere in which he lived had a positive action upon Godefroid. The laws which regulate the physical nature under relation to the atmospheric environment in which it is developed, rule also in the moral nature. Hence it follows that the assembling together of condemned prisoners is one of the greatest of social crimes; and also that their isolation is an experiment of doubtful success. Condemned criminals ought to be in religious institutions, surrounded by prodigies of Good, instead of being cast as they are into sight and knowledge of Evil only. The Church can be expected to show an absolute devotion in this matter. If it sends missionaries to heathen or savage nations, with how much greater joy would it welcome the mission of redeeming the heathen of civilization? for all criminals are atheists, and often without knowing they are so.

Godefroid found these five associated persons endowed with the qualities they required in him. They were all without pride, without vanity, truly humble and pious; also without any of the pretension which constitutes devotion, using that word in its worst sense. These virtues were contagious; he was filled with a desire to imitate these hidden heroes, and he ended by passionately studying the book he had begun by despising. Within two weeks he reduced his views of life to its simplest lines,—to what it really is when we consider it from the higher point of view to which the Divine spirit leads us. His curiosity—worldly at first, and excited by many vulgar and material motives—purified itself; if he did not renounce it altogether, the fault was not his; any one would have found it difficult to resign an interest in Madame de la Chanterie; but Godefroid showed, without intending it, a discretion which was appreciated by these persons, in whom the divine Spirit had developed a marvellous power of the faculties,—as, indeed, it often does among recluses. The concentration of the moral forces, no matter under what system it may be effected, increases the compass of them tenfold.

"Our friend is not yet converted," said the good Abbe de Veze, "but he is seeking to be."

An unforeseen circumstance brought about the revelation of Madame de la Chanterie's history to Godefroid; and so fully was this made to him that the overpowering interest she excited in his soul was completely satisfied.

The public mind was at that time much occupied by one of those horrible criminal trials which mark the annals of our police-courts. This trial had gathered its chief interest from the character of the criminals themselves, whose audacity, superior intelligence in evil, and cynical replies, had horrified the community. It is a matter worthy of remark that no newspaper ever found its way into the hotel de la Chanterie, and Godefroid only heard of the rejection of the criminals' appeal from his master in book-keeping; for the trial itself had taken place some time before he came to live in his new abode.

"Do you ever encounter," he said to his new friends, "such atrocious villains as those men? and if you do encounter them, how do you manage them?"

"In the first place," said Monsieur Nicolas, "there are no atrocious villains. There are diseased natures, to be cared for in asylums; but outside of those rare medical cases, we find only persons who are without religion, or who reason ill; and the mission of charity is to teach them the right use of reason, to encourage the weak, and guide aright those who go astray."

"And," said the Abbe de Veze, "all is possible to such teachers, for God is with them."

"If they were to send you those criminals, you could do nothing with them, could you?" asked Godefroid.

"The time would be too short," remarked Monsieur Alain.

"In general," said Monsieur Nicolas, "persons turn over to religion souls which have reached the last stages of evil, and leave it no time to do its work. The criminals of whom you speak were men of remarkable vigor; could they have been within our hands in time they might have become distinguished men; but as soon as they committed a murder, it was no longer possible to interfere; they then belonged to human justice."

"That must mean," said Godefroid, "that you are against the penalty of death?"

Monsieur Nicolas rose hastily and left the room.

"Do not ever mention the penalty of death again before Monsieur Nicolas," said Monsieur Alain. "He recognized in a criminal at whose execution he was officially present his natural son."

"And the son was innocent!" added Monsieur Joseph.

Madame de la Chanterie, who had been absent for a while, returned to the salon at this moment.

"But you must admit," said Godefroid, addressing Monsieur Joseph, "that society cannot exist without the death penalty, and that those persons who to-morrow morning will have their heads cut—"

Godefroid felt his mouth suddenly closed by a vigorous hand, and he saw the abbe leading away Madame de la Chanterie in an almost fainting condition.

"What have you done?" Monsieur Joseph said to him. "Take him away, Alain!" he added, removing the hand with which he had gagged Godefroid. Then he followed the Abbe de Veze into Madame de la Chanterie's room.

"Come!" said Monsieur Alain to Godefroid; "you have made it essential that I should tell you the secrets of Madame's life."

They were presently sitting in the old man's room.

"Well?" said Godefroid, whose face showed plainly his regret for having been the cause of something which, in that peaceful home, might be called a catastrophe.

"I am waiting till Manon comes to reassure us," replied the goodman, listening to the steps of the maid upon the staircase.

"Madame is better," said Manon. "Monsieur l'abbe has deceived her as to what was said." And she looked at Godefroid angrily.

"Good God!" cried the poor fellow, in distress, the tears coming into his eyes.

"Come, sit down," said Monsieur Alain, sitting down himself. Then he made a pause as if to gather up his ideas. "I don't know," he went on, "if I have the talent to worthily relate a life so cruelly tried. You must excuse me if the words of so poor a speaker as I are beneath the level of its actions and catastrophes. Remember that it is long since I left school, and that I am the child of a century in which men cared more for thought than for effect,—a prosaic century which knew only how to call things by their right names."

Godefroid made an acquiescing gesture, with an expression of sincere admiration, and said simply, "I am listening."

"You have just had a proof, my young friend," resumed the old man, "that it is impossible you should remain among us without knowing at least some of the terrible facts in the life of that saintly woman. There are ideas and illusions and fatal words which are completely interdicted in this house, lest they reopen wounds in Madame's heart, and cause a suffering which, if again renewed, might kill her."

"Good God!" cried Godefroid, "what have I done?"

"If Monsieur Joseph had not stopped the words on your lips, you were about to speak of that fatal instrument of death, and that would have stricken down Madame de la Chanterie like a thunderbolt. It is time you should know all, for you will really belong to us before long,—we all think so. Here, then, is the history of her life:—

"Madame de la Chanterie," he went on, after a pause, "comes from one of the first families of Lower Normandy. Her maiden name was Mademoiselle Barbe-Philiberte de Champignelles, of the younger branch of that house. She was destined to take the veil unless she could make a marriage which renounced on the husband's side the dowry her family could not give her. This was frequently the case in the families of poor nobles.

"A Sieur de la Chanterie, whose family had fallen into obscurity, though it dates from the Crusade of Philip Augustus, was anxious to recover the rank and position which this ancient lineage properly gave him in the province of Normandy. This gentleman had doubly derogated from his rightful station; for he had amassed a fortune of nearly a million of francs as purveyor to the armies of the king at the time of the war in Hanover. The old man had a son; and this son, presuming on his father's wealth (greatly exaggerated by rumor), was leading a life in Paris that greatly disquieted his father.

"The word of Mademoiselle de Champignelle's character was well known in the Bessin,—that beautiful region of Lower Normandy near Bayeux, where the family lived. The old man, whose little estate of la Chanterie was between Caen and Saint-Lo, often heard regrets expressed before him that so perfect a young girl, and one so capable of rendering a husband happy, should be condemned to pass her life in a convent. When, on reflection, he expressed a desire to know more of the young lady, the hope was held out to him of obtaining the hand of Mademoiselle Philiberte for his son, provided he would take her without dowry. He went to Bayeux, had several interviews with the Champignelles's family, and was completely won by the noble qualities of the young girl.

"At sixteen years of age, Mademoiselle de Champignelles gave promise of what she would ultimately become. It was easy to see in her a living piety, an unalterable good sense, an inflexible uprightness, and one of those souls which never detach themselves from an affection under any compulsion. The old father, enriched by his extortions in the army, recognized in this charming girl a woman who could restrain his son by the power of virtue, and by the ascendancy of a nature that was firm without rigidity.

"You have seen her," said Monsieur Alain, pausing in his narrative, "and you know that no one can be gentler than Madame de la Chanterie; and also, I may tell you, that no one is more confiding. She has kept, even to her declining years, the candor and simplicity of innocence; she has never been willing to believe in evil, and the little mistrust you may have noticed in her is due only to her terrible misfortunes.

"The old man," said Monsieur Alain, continuing, "agreed with the Champignelles family to give a receipt for the legal dower of Mademoiselle Philiberte (this was necessary in those days); but in return, the Champignelles, who were allied to many of the great families, promised to obtain the erection of the little fief of la Chanterie into a barony; and they kept their word. The aunt of the future husband, Madame de Boisfrelon, the widow of a parliamentary councillor, promised to bequeath her whole fortune to her nephew.

"When these arrangements had been completed by the two families, the father sent for the son. At this time the latter was Master of petitions to the Grand Council. He was twenty-five years of age, and had already lived a life of folly with all the young seigneurs of the period; in fact, the old purveyor had been forced more than once to pay his debts. The poor father, foreseeing further follies, was only too glad to make a settlement on his daughter-in-law of a certain sum; and he entailed the estate of la Chanterie on the heirs male of the marriage.

"But the Revolution," said Monsieur Alain in a parenthesis, "made that last precaution useless.

"Gifted with the beauty of an angel," he continued, "and with wonderful grace and agility in all exercises of the body, the young Master of petitions possessed the gift of charm. Mademoiselle de Champignelles became, as you can readily believe, very much in love with her husband. The old man, delighted with the outset of the marriage, and believing in the reform of his son, sent the young couple to Paris. All this happened about the beginning of the year 1788.

"Nearly a whole year of happiness followed. Madame de la Chanterie enjoyed during that time the tenderest care and the most delicate attentions that a man deeply in love can bestow upon a loving woman. However short it may have been, the honeymoon did shine into the heart of that noble and most unfortunate woman. You know that in those days women nursed their children. Madame de la Chanterie had a daughter. That period during which a woman ought to be the object of redoubled care and tenderness proved, in this case, the beginning of untold miseries. The Master of petitions was obliged to sell all the property he could lay his hands on to pay former debts (which he had not acknowledged to his father) and fresh losses at play. Then the National Assembly decreed the dissolution of the Grand Council, the parliament, and all the law offices so dearly bought.

"The young household, increased by a daughter, was soon without other means than those settled upon Madame de la Chanterie by her father-in-law. In twenty months that charming woman, now only seventeen and a half years old, was obliged to live—she and the child she was nursing—in an obscure quarter, and by the labor of her hands. She was then entirely abandoned by her husband, who fell by degrees lower and lower, into the society of women of the worst kind. Never did she reproach her husband, never has she allowed herself to blame him. She has sometimes told us how, during those wretched days, she would pray for her 'dear Henri.'

"That scamp was named Henri," said the worthy man interrupting himself. "We never mention that name here, nor that of Henriette. I resume:

"Never leaving her little room in the rue de la Corderie du Temple, except to buy provisions or to fetch her work, Madame de la Chanterie contrived to get along, thanks to a hundred francs which her father-in-law, touched by her goodness, sent to her once a month. Nevertheless, foreseeing that that resource might fail her, the poor young woman had taken up the hard and toilsome work of corset-making in the service of a celebrated dressmaker. This precaution proved a wise one. The father died, and his property was obtained by the son (the old monarchical laws of entail being then overthrown) and speedily dissipated by him. The former Master of petitions was now one of the most ferocious presidents of the Revolutionary tribunals of that period; he became the terror of Normandy, and was able to satisfy all his passions. Imprisoned in his turn after the fall of Robespierre, the hatred of his department doomed him to certain death.

"Madame de la Chanterie heard of this through a letter of farewell which her husband wrote to her. Instantly, giving her little girl to the care of a neighbor, she went to the town where that wretch was imprisoned, taking with her the few louis which were all that she owned. These louis enabled her to make her way into the prison. She succeeded in saving her husband by dressing him in her own clothes, under circumstances almost identical with those which, sometime later, were so serviceable to Madame de la Valette. She was condemned to death, but the government was ashamed to carry out the sentence; and the Revolutionary tribunal (the one over which her husband had formerly presided) connived at her escape. She returned to Paris on foot, without means, sleeping in farm buildings and fed by charity."

"Good God!" cried Godefroid.

"Ah! wait," said Monsieur Alain; "that is nothing. In eight years the poor woman saw her husband three times. The first time he stayed twenty-four hours in the humble lodging of his wife, and carried away with him all her money; having showered her with marks of tenderness and made her believe in his complete conversion. 'I could not,' she said, 'refuse a husband for whom I prayed daily and of whom I thought exclusively.' On the second occasion, Monsieur de la Chanterie arrived almost dying, and with what an illness! She nursed him and saved his life. Then she tried to bring him to better sentiments and a decent life. After promising all that angel asked, the jacobin plunged back into frightful profligacy, and finally escaped the hands of justice only by again taking refuge with his wife, in whose care he died in safety.

"Oh! but that is nothing!" cried the goodman, seeing the pain on Godefroid's face. "No one, in the world in which he lived, had known he was a married man. Two years after his death Madame de la Chanterie discovered that a second Madame de la Chanterie existed, widowed like herself, and, like her, ruined. That bigamist had found two angels incapable of discarding him.

"Towards 1803," resumed Alain after a pause, "Monsieur de Boisfrelon, uncle of Madame de la Chanterie, came to Paris, his name having been erased from the list of emigres, and brought Madame the sum of two hundred thousand francs which her father-in-law, the old purveyor, had formerly entrusted to him for the benefit of his son's children. He persuaded the widow to return to Normandy; where she completed the education of her daughter and purchased on excellent terms and still by the advice of her uncle, a patrimonial estate."

"Ah!" cried Godefroid.

"All that is still nothing," said Monsieur Alain; "we have not yet reached the period of storms and darkness. I resume:

"In 1807, after four years of rest and peace, Madame de la Chanterie married her daughter to a gentleman of rank, whose piety, antecedents, and fortune offered every guarantee that could be given,—a man who, to use a popular saying, 'was after every one's own heart,' in the best society of the provincial city where Madame and her daughter passed their winters. I should tell you that this society was composed of seven or eight families belonging to the highest nobility in France: d'Esgrignon, Troisville, Casteran, Nouatre, etc. At the end of eighteen months the baron deserted his wife, and disappeared in Paris, where he changed his name.

"Madame de la Chanterie never knew the causes of this desertion until the lightning of a dreadful storm revealed them. Her daughter, brought up with anxious care and trained in the purest religious sentiments, kept total silence as to her troubles. This lack of confidence in her mother was a painful blow to Madame de la Chanterie. Already she had several times noticed in her daughter indications of the reckless disposition of the father, increased in the daughter by an almost virile strength of will.

"The husband, however, abandoned his home of his own free will, leaving his affairs in a pitiable condition. Madame de la Chanterie is, even to this day, amazed at the catastrophe, which no human foresight could have prevented. The persons she prudently consulted before the marriage had assured her that the suitor's fortune was clear and sound, and that no mortgages were on his estate. Nevertheless it appeared, after the husband's departure, that for ten years his debts had exceeded the entire value of his property. Everything was therefore sold, and the poor young wife, now reduced to her own means, came back to her mother. Madame de la Chanterie knew later that the most honorable persons of the province had vouched for her son-in-law in their own interests; for he owed them all large sums of money, and they looked upon his marriage with Mademoiselle de la Chanterie as a means to recover them.

"There were, however, other reasons for this catastrophe, which you will find later in a confidential paper written for the eyes of the Emperor. Moreover, this man had long courted the good-will of the royalist families by his devotion to the royal cause during the Revolution. He was one of Louis XVIII.'s most active emissaries, and had taken part after 1793 in all conspiracies,—escaping their penalties, however, with such singular adroitness that he came, in the end, to be distrusted. Thanked for his services by Louis XVIII., but completely set aside in the royalist affairs, he had returned to live on his property, now much encumbered with debt.

"These antecedents were then obscure (the persons initiated into the secrets of the royal closet kept silence about so dangerous a coadjutor), and he was therefore received with a species of reverence in a city devoted to the Bourbons, where the cruellest deeds of the Chouannerie were accepted as legitimate warfare. The d'Esgrignons, Casterans, the Chevalier de Valois, in short, the whole aristocracy and the Church opened their arms to this royalist diplomat and drew him into their circle. Their protection was encouraged by the desire of his creditors for the payment of his debts. For three years this man, who was a villain at heart, a pendant to the late Baron de la Chanterie, contrived to restrain his vices and assume the appearance of morality and religion.

"During the first months of his marriage he exerted a sort of spell over his wife; he tried to corrupt her mind by his doctrines (if it can be said that atheism is a doctrine) and by the jesting tone in which he spoke of sacred principles. From the time of his return to the provinces this political manoeuvrer had an intimacy with a young man, overwhelmed with debt like himself, but whose natural character was as frank and courageous as the baron's was hypocritical and base. This frequent guest, whose accomplishments, strong character, and adventurous life were calculated to influence a young girl's mind, was an instrument in the hands of the husband to bring the wife to adopt his theories. Never did she let her mother know the abyss into which her fate had cast her.

"We may well distrust all human prudence when we think of the infinite precautions taken by Madame de la Chanterie in marrying her only daughter. The blow, when it came to a life so devoted, so pure, so truly religious as that of a woman already tested by many trials, gave Madame de la Chanterie a distrust of herself which served to isolate her from her daughter; and all the more because her daughter, in compensation for her misfortunes, exacted complete liberty, ruled her mother, and was even, at times, unkind to her.

"Wounded thus in all her affections, mistaken in her devotion and love for her husband, to whom she had sacrificed without a word her happiness, her fortune, and her life; mistaken in the education exclusively religious which she had given to her daughter; mistaken in the confidence she had placed in others in the affair of her daughter's marriage; and obtaining no justice from the heart in which she had sown none but noble sentiments, she united herself still more closely to God as the hand of trouble lay heavy upon her. She was indeed almost a nun; going daily to church, performing cloistral penances, and practising economy that she might have means to help the poor.

"Could there be, up to this point, a saintlier life or one more tried than that of this noble woman, so gentle under misfortune, so brave in danger, and always Christian?" said Monsieur Alain, appealing to Godefroid. "You know Madame now,—you know if she is wanting in sense, judgment, reflection; in fact, she has those qualities to the highest degree. Well! the misfortunes I have now told you, which might be said to make her life surpass all others in adversity, are as nothing to those that were still in store for this poor woman. But now let us concern ourselves exclusively with Madame de la Chanterie's daughter," said the old man, resuming his narrative.

"At eighteen years of age, the period of her marriage, Mademoiselle de la Chanterie was a young girl of delicate complexion, brown in tone with a brilliant color, graceful in shape, and very pretty. Above a forehead of great beauty was a mass of dark hair which harmonized with the brown eyes and the general gaiety of her expression. A certain daintiness of feature was misleading as to her true character and her almost virile decision. She had small hands and small feet; in fact, there was something fragile about her whole person which excluded the idea of vigor and determination. Having always lived beside her mother, she had a most perfect innocence of thought and behavior and a really remarkable piety. This young girl, like her mother, was fanatically attached to the Bourbons; she was therefore a bitter enemy to the Revolution, and regarded the dominion of Napoleon as a curse inflicted by Providence upon France in punishment of the crimes of 1793.

"The conformity of opinion on this subject between Madame de la Chanterie and her daughter, and the daughter's suitor, was one of the determining reasons of the marriage.

"The friend of the husband had commanded a body of Chouans at the time that hostilities were renewed in 1799; and it seems that the baron's object (Madame de la Chanterie's son-in-law was a baron) in fostering the intimacy between his wife and his friend was to obtain, through her influence, certain succor from that friend.

"This requires a few words of explanation," said Monsieur Alain, interrupting his narrative, "about an association which in those days made a great deal of noise. I mean the 'Chauffeurs.'[*] Every province in the west of France was at that time more or less overrun with these 'brigands,' whose object was far less pillage than a resurrection of the royalist warfare. They profited, so it was said, by the great number of 'refractories,'—the name applied to those who evaded the conscription, which was at that time, as you probably know, enforced to actual abuse.

[*] Chauffeurs. This name applies to royalists who robbed the mail-coaches conveying government funds, and levied tribute on those who bought the confiscated property of emigres at the West. When the Thermidorian reaction began, after the fall of Robespierre, other companies of royalists, chiefly young nobles who had not emigrated, were formed at the South and East under various names, such as "The Avengers," and "The Company of Jehu," who stopped the diligences containing government money, which they transmitted to Brittany and La Vendee for the support of the royalist troops. They regarded this as legitimate warfare, and were scrupulous not to touch private property. When captured, however, they were tried and executed as highwaymen.—TR.

"Between Mortagne and Rennes, and even beyond, as far as the banks of the Loire, nocturnal expeditions were organized, which attacked, especially in Normandy, the holders of property bought from the National domain.[*] These armed bands sent terror throughout those regions. I am not misleading you when I ask you to observe that in certain departments the action of the laws was for a long time paralyzed.

[*] The National domain was the name given to the confiscated property of the emigres, which was sold from time to time at auction to the highest bidder.—TR.

"These last echoes of the civil war made much less noise than you would imagine, accustomed as we are now to the frightful publicity given by the press to every trial, even the least important, whether political or individual. The system of the Imperial government was that of all absolute governments. The censor allowed nothing to be published in the matter of politics except accomplished facts, and those were travestied. If you will take the trouble to look through files of the 'Moniteur' and the other newspapers of that time, even those of the West, you will not find a word about the four or five criminal trials which cost the lives of sixty or eighty 'brigands.' The term brigands, applied during the revolutionary period to the Vendeans, Chouans, and all those who took up arms for the house of Bourbon, was afterwards continued judicially under the Empire against all royalists accused of plots. To some ardent and loyal natures the emperor and his government were the enemy; any form of warfare against them was legitimate. I am only explaining to you these opinions, not justifying them.

"Now," he said, after one of those pauses which are necessary in such long narratives, "if you realize how these royalists, ruined by the civil war of 1793, were dominated by violent passions, and how some exceptional natures (like that of Madame de la Chanterie's son-in-law and his friend) were eaten up with desires of all kinds, you may be able to understand how it was that the acts of brigandage which their political views justified when employed against the government in the service of the good cause, might in some cases be committed for personal ends.

"The younger of the two men had been for some time employed in collecting the scattered fragments of Chouannerie, and was holding them ready to act at an opportune moment. There came a terrible crisis in the Emperor's career when, shut up in the island of Lobau, he seemed about to give way under the combined and simultaneous attack of England and Austria. This was the moment for the Chouan uprising; but just as it was about to take place, the victory of Wagram rendered the conspiracy in the provinces powerless.

"This expectation of exciting civil war in Brittany, La Vendee, and part of Normandy, coincided in time with the final wreck of the baron's fortune; and this wreck, coming at this time, led him to undertake an expedition to capture funds of the government which he might apply to the liquidation of the claims upon his property. But his wife and friend refused to take part in applying to private interests the money taken by armed force from the Receiver's offices and the couriers and post-carriages of the government,—money taken, as they thought, justifiably by the rules of war to pay the regiments of 'refractories' and Chouans, and purchase the arms and ammunition with which to equip them. At last, after an angry discussion in which the young leader, supported by the wife, positively refused to hand over to the husband a portion of the large sum of money which the young leader had seized for the benefit of the royal armies from the treasury of the West, the baron suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, to avoid arrest for debt, having no means left by which to ward it off. Poor Madame de la Chanterie was wholly ignorant of these facts; but even they are nothing to the plot still hidden behind these preliminary facts.

"It is too late to-night," said Monsieur Alain, looking at his little clock, "to go on with my narrative, which would take me, in any case, a long time to finish in my own words. Old Bordin, my friend, whose management of the famous Simeuse case had won him much credit in the royalist party, and who pleaded in the well-known criminal affair called that of the Chauffeurs de Mortagne, gave me, after I was installed in this house, two legal papers relating to the terrible history of Madame de la Chanterie and her daughter. I kept them because Bordin died soon after, before I had a chance to return them. You shall read them. You will find the facts much more succinctly stated than I could state them. Those facts are so numerous that I should only lose myself in the details and confuse them, whereas in those papers you have them in a legal summary. To-morrow, if you come to me, I will finish telling you all that relates to Madame de la Chanterie; for you will then know the general facts so thoroughly that I can end the whole story in a few words."



IX. THE LEGAL STATEMENT

Monsieur Alain placed the papers, yellowed by time, in Godefroid's hand; the latter, bidding the old man good-night, carried them off to his room, where he read, before he slept, the following document:—

THE INDICTMENT

Court of Criminal and Special Justice for the Department of the Orne

The attorney-general to the Imperial Court of Caen, appointed to fulfil his functions before the Special Criminal Court established by imperial decree under date September, 1809, and sitting at Alencon, states to the Imperial Court the following facts which have appeared under the above procedure.

The plot of a company of brigands, evidently long planned with consummate care, and connected with a scheme for inciting the Western departments to revolt, has shown itself in certain attempts against the private property of citizens, but more especially in an armed attack and robbery committed on the mail-coach which transported, May —, 18—, the money in the treasury at Caen to the Treasury of France. This attack, which recalls the deplorable incidents of a civil war now happily extinguished, manifests a spirit of wickedness which the political passions of the present day do not justify.

Let us pass to the facts. The plot is complicated, the details are numerous. The investigation has lasted one year; but the evidence, which has followed the crime step by step, has thrown the clearest light on its preparation, execution, and results.

The conception of the plot was formed by one Charles-Amedee-Louis-Joseph Rifoel, calling himself Chevalier du Vissard, born at the Vissard, district of Saint-Mexme, near Ernee, and a former leader of the rebels.

This criminal, whom H.M. the Emperor and King pardoned at the time of the general pacification, and who has profited by the sovereign's magnanimity to commit other crimes, has already paid on the scaffold the penalty of his many misdeeds; but it is necessary to recall some of his actions, because his influence was great on the guilty persons now before the court, and he is closely connected with the facts of his case.

This dangerous agitator, concealed, according to the usual custom of the rebels, under the name of Pierrot, went from place to place throughout the departments of the West gathering together the elements of rebellion; but his chief resort was the chateau of Saint-Savin, the residence of a Madame Lechantre and her daughter, a Madame Bryond, situated in the district of Saint-Savin, arrondissement of Mortagne. Several of the most horrible events of the rebellion of 1799 are connected with this strategic point. Here a bearer of despatches was murdered, his carriage pillaged by the brigands under command of a woman, assisted by the notorious Marche-a-Terre. Brigandage appeared to be endemic in that locality.

An intimacy, which we shall not attempt to characterize, existed for more than a year between the woman Bryond and the said Rifoel.

It was in this district that an interview took place, in April, 1808, between Rifoel and a certain Boislaurier, a leader known by the name of August in the baneful rebellions of the West, who instigated the affair now before the court.

The somewhat obscure point of the relations between these two leaders is cleared up by the testimony of numerous witnesses, and also by the judgment of the court which condemned Rifoel.

From that time Boislaurier had an understanding with Rifoel, and they acted in concert.

They communicated to each other, at first secretly, their infamous plans, encouraged by the absence of His Imperial and Royal Majesty with the armies in Spain. Their scheme was to obtain possession of the money of the Treasury as the fundamental basis of future operations.

Some time after this, one named Dubut, of Caen, sent an emissary to the chateau of Saint-Savin named Hiley—commonly called "The Laborer," long known as a highwayman, a robber of diligences—to give information as to the men who could safely be relied upon.

It was thus by means of Hiley that the plotters obtained, from the beginning, the co-operation of one Herbomez, otherwise called General Hardi, a former rebel of the same stamp as Rifoel, and like him faithless to his pledges under the amnesty.

Herbomez and Hiley recruited from the surrounding districts seven brigands whose names are:—

1. Jean Cibot, called Pille-Miche, one of the boldest brigands of the corps formed by Montauran in the year VII., and a participator in the attack upon the courier of Mortagne and his murder.

2. Francois Lisieux, called Grand-Fils, refractory of the department of the Mayenne.

3. Charles Grenier, called Fleur-de-Genet, deserter from the 69th brigade.

4. Gabriel Bruce, called Gros-Jean, one of the most ferocious Chouans of Fontaine's division.

5. Jacques Horeau, called Stuart, ex-lieutenant in the same brigade, one of the confederates of Tinteniac, well-known for his participation in the expedition to Quiberon.

6. Marie-Anne Cabot, called Lajeunesse, former huntsman to the Sieur Carol of Alencon.

7. Louis Minard, refractory.

These confederates were lodged in three different districts, in the houses of the following named persons: Binet, Melin, and Laraviniere, innkeepers or publicans, and all devoted to Rifoel.

The necessary arms were supplied by one Jean-Francois Leveille, notary; an incorrigible assistant of the brigands, and their go-between with certain hidden leaders; also by one Felix Courceuil, commonly called Confesseur, former surgeon of the rebel armies of La Vendee; both these men are from Alencon.

Eleven muskets were hidden in a house belonging to the Sieur Bryond in the faubourg of Alencon, where they were placed without his knowledge.

When the Sieur Bryond left his wife to pursue the fatal course she had chosen, these muskets, mysteriously taken from the said house, were transported by the woman Bryond in her own carriage to the chateau of Saint-Savin.

It was then that the acts of brigandage in the department of the Orne and the adjacent departments took place,—acts that amazed both the authorities and the inhabitants of those regions, which had long been entirely pacificated; acts, moreover, which proved that these odious enemies of the government and the French Empire were in the secret of the coalition of 1809 through communication with the royalist party in foreign countries.

The notary Leveille, the woman Bryond, Dubut of Caen, Herbomez of Mayenne, Boislaurier of Mans, and Rifoel, were therefore the heads of the association, which was composed of certain guilty persons already condemned to death and executed with Rifoel, certain others who are the accused persons at present under trial, and a number more who have escaped just punishment by flight or by the silence of their accomplices.

It was Dubut who, living near Caen, notified the notary Leveille when the government money contained in the local tax-office would be despatched to the Treasury.

We must remark here that after the time of the removal of the muskets, Leveille, who went to see Bruce, Grenier, and Cibot in the house of Melin, found them hiding the muskets in a shed on the premises, and himself assisted in the operation.

A general rendezvous was arranged to take place at Mortagne, in the hotel de l'Ecu de France. All the accused persons were present under various disguises. It was then that Leveille, the woman Bryond, Dubut, Herbomez, Boislaurier and Hiley (the ablest of the secondary accomplices, as Cibot was the boldest) obtained the co-operation of one Vauthier, called Vieux-Chene, a former servant of the famous Longuy, and now hostler of the hotel. Vauthier agreed to notify the woman Bryond of the arrival and departure of the diligence bearing the government money, which always stopped for a time at the hotel.

The woman Bryond collected the scattered brigands at the chateau de Saint-Savin, a few miles from Mortagne, where she had lived with her mother since the separation from her husband. The brigands, with Hiley at their head, stayed at the chateau for several days. The woman Bryond, assisted by her maid Godard, prepared with her own hands the food of these men. She had already filled a loft with hay, and there the provisions were taken to them. While awaiting the arrival of the government money these brigands made nightly sorties from Saint-Savin, and the whole region was alarmed by their depredations. There is no doubt that the outrages committed at la Sartiniere, at Vonay, and at the chateau of Saint-Seny, were committed by this band, whose boldness equals their criminality, though they were able to so terrify their victims that the latter have kept silence, and the authorities have been unable to obtain any testimony from them.

While thus putting under contribution those persons in the neighborhood who had purchased lands of the National domain, these brigands carefully explored the forest of Chesnay which they selected as the theatre of their crime.

Not far from this forest is the village of Louvigney. An inn is kept there by the brothers Chaussard, formerly game-keepers on the Troisville estate, which inn was made the final rendezvous of the brigands. These brothers knew beforehand the part they were to play in the affair. Courceuil and Boislaurier had long made overtures to them to revive their hatred against the government of our august Emperor, telling them that among the guests who would be sent to them would be certain men of their acquaintance, the dreaded Hiley and the not less dreaded Cibot.

Accordingly, on the 6th, the seven bandits, under Hiley, arrived at the inn of the brothers Chaussard, and there they spent two days. On the 8th Hiley led off his men, saying they were going to a palace about nine miles distant, and asking the brothers to send provisions for them to a certain fork in the road not far distant from the village. Hiley himself returned and slept at the inn.

Two persons on horseback, who were undoubtedly Rifoel and the woman Bryond (for it is stated that this woman accompanied Rifoel on these expeditions on horseback and dressed as a man), arrived during the evening and conversed with Hiley.

The next day Hiley wrote a letter to the notary Leveille, which one of the Chaussard brothers took to the latter, bringing back his answer.

Two hours later Rifoel and the woman Bryond returned and had an interview with Hiley.

It was then found necessary to obtain an axe to open, as we shall see, the cases containing the money. The notary went with the woman Bryond to Saint-Savin, where they searched in vain for an axe. The notary returned alone; half way back he met Hiley, to whom he stated that they could not obtain an axe.

Hiley returned to the inn, where he ordered supper for ten persons; seven of them being the brigands, who had now returned, fully armed. Hiley made them stack their arms in the military manner. They then sat down to table and supped in haste. Hiley ordered provisions prepared to take away with him. Then he took the elder Chaussard aside and asked him for an axe. The innkeeper who, if we believe him, was surprised, refused to give one. Courceuil and Boislaurier arrived; the night wore on; the three men walked the floor of their room discussing the plot. Courceuil, called "Confesseur," the most wily of the party, obtained an axe; and about two in the morning they all went away by different paths.

Every moment was of value; the execution of the crime was fixed for that night. Hiley, Courceuil, and Boislaurier led and placed their men. Hiley hid in ambush with Minard, Cabot, and Bruce at the right of the Chesnay forest; Boislaurier, Grenier, and Horeau took the centre; Courceuil, Herbomez, and Lisieux occupied the ravine to the left of the wood. All these positions are indicated on the ground-plan drawn by the engineer of the government survey-office, which is here subjoined.

The diligence, which had left Mortagne about one in the morning, was driven by one Rousseau, whose conduct proved so suspicious that his arrest was judged necessary. The vehicle, driven slowly, would arrive about three o'clock in the forest of Chesnay.

A single gendarme accompanied the diligence, which would stop for breakfast at Donnery. Three passengers only were making the trip, and were now walking up the hill with the gendarme.

The driver, who had driven very slowly to the bridge of Chesnay at the entrance of the wood, now hastened his horses with a vigor and eagerness remarked by the passengers, and turned into a cross-road, called the road of Senzey. The carriage was thus out of sight; and the gendarme with the three young men were hurrying to overtake it when they heard a shout: "Halt!" and four shots were fired at them.

The gendarme, who was not hit, drew his sabre and rushed in the direction of the vehicle. He was stopped by four armed men, who fired at him; his eagerness saved him, for he ran toward one of the three passengers to tell him to make for Chesnay and ring the tocsin. But two brigands followed him, and one of them, taking aim, sent a ball through his left shoulder, which broke his arm, and he fell helpless.

The shouts and firing were heard in Donnery. A corporal stationed there and one gendarme ran toward the sounds. The firing of a squad of men took them to the opposite side of the wood to that where the pillage was taking place. The noise of the firing prevented the corporal from hearing the cries of the wounded gendarme; but he did distinguish a sound which proved to be that of an axe breaking and chopping into cases. He ran toward the sound. Meeting four armed bandits, he called out to them, "Surrender, villains!"

They replied: "Stay where you are, or you are a dead man!" The corporal sprang forward; two shots were fired and one struck him; a ball went through his left leg and into the flank of his horse. The brave man, bathed in blood, was forced to give up the unequal fight; he shouted "Help! the brigands are at Chesnay!" but all in vain.

The robbers, masters of the ground thanks to their numbers, ransacked the coach. They had gagged and bound the driver by way of deception. The cases were opened, the bags of money were thrown out; the horses were unharnessed and the silver and gold loaded on their backs. Three thousand francs in copper were rejected; but a sum in other coin of one hundred and three thousand francs was safely carried off on the four horses.

The brigands took the road to the hamlet of Menneville, which is close to Saint-Savin. They stopped with their plunder at an isolated house belonging to the Chaussard brothers, where the Chaussards' uncle, one Bourget, lived, who was knowing to the whole plot from its inception. This old man, aided by his wife, welcomed the brigands, charged them to make no noise, unloaded the bags of money, and gave the men something to drink. The wife performed the part of sentinel. The old man then took the horses through the wood, returned them to the driver, unbound the latter, and also the young men, who had been garotted. After resting for a time, Courceuil, Hiley, and Boislaurier paid their men a paltry sum for their trouble, and the whole band departed, leaving the plunder in charge of Bourget.

When they reached a lonely place called Champ-Landry, these criminals, obeying the impulse which leads all malefactors into the blunders and miscalculations of crime, threw their guns into a wheat-field. This action, done by all of them, is a proof of their mutual understanding. Struck with terror at the boldness of their act, and even by its success, they dispersed.

The robbery now having been committed, with the additional features of assault and assassination, other facts and other actors appear, all connected with the robbery itself and with the disposition of the plunder.

Rifoel, concealed in Paris, whence he pulled every wire of the plot, transmits to Leveille an order to send him instantly fifty thousand francs.

Courceuil, knowing to all the facts, sends Hiley to tell Leveille of the success of the attempt, and say that he will meet him at Mortagne. Leveille goes there.

Vauthier, on whose fidelity they think they can rely, agrees to go to Bourget, the uncle of the Chaussards, in whose care the money was left, and ask for the booty. The old man tells Vauthier that he must go to his nephews, who have taken large sums to the woman Bryond. But he orders him to wait outside in the road, and brings him a bag containing the small sum of twelve hundred francs, which Vauthier delivers to the woman Lechantre for her daughter.

At Leveille's request, Vauthier returns to Bourget, who this time sends for his nephews. The elder Chaussard takes Vauthier to the wood, shows him a tree, and there they find a bag of one thousand francs buried in the earth. Leveille, Hiley, and Vauthier make other trips, obtaining only trifling sums compared with the large sum known to have been captured.

The woman Lechantre receives these sums at Mortagne; and, on receipt of a letter from her daughter, removes them to Saint-Savin, where the woman Bryond now returns.

This is not the moment to examine as to whether the woman Lechantre had any anterior knowledge of the plot.

It suffices here to note that this woman left Mortagne to go to Saint-Savin the evening before the crime; that after the crime she met her daughter on the high-road, and they both returned to Mortagne; that on the following day Leveille, informed by Hiley of the success of the plot, goes from Alencon to Mortagne, and there visits the two women; later he persuades them to deposit the sums obtained with such difficulty from the Chaussards and Bourget in a house in Alencon, of which we shall speak presently,—that of the Sieur Pannier, merchant.

The woman Lechantre writes to the bailiff at Saint-Savin to come and drive her and her daughter by the cross-roads towards Alencon.

The funds now in their possession amount to twenty thousand francs; these the girl Godard puts into the carriage at night.

The notary Leveille had given exact instructions. The two women reach Alencon and stop at the house of a confederate, one Louis Chargegrain, in the Littray district. Despite all the precautions of the notary, who came there to meet the women, witnesses were at hand who saw the portmanteaux and bags containing the money taken from the carriole.

At the moment when Courceuil and Hiley, disguised as women, were consulting in the square at Alencon with the Sieur Pannier (treasurer of the rebels since 1794, and devoted to Rifoel) as to the best means of conveying to Rifoel the sum he asked for, the woman Lechantre became alarmed on hearing at the inn where she stopped of the suspicions and arrests already made. She fled during the night, taking her daughter with her through the byways and cross-roads to Saint-Savin, in order to take refuge, if necessary, in certain hiding-places prepared at the chateau de Saint-Savin. Courceuil, Boislaurier, and his relation Dubut, clandestinely changed two thousand francs in silver money for gold, and fled to Brittany and England.

On arriving at Saint-Savin, the women Lechantre and Bryond heard of the arrest of Bourget, that of the driver of the diligence, and that of the two refractories.

The magistrates and the gendarmerie struck such sure blows that it was thought advisable to place the woman Bryond beyond the reach of human justice; for she appears to have been an object of great devotion on the part of these criminals, who were captivated by her. She left Saint-Savin, and was hidden at first in Alencon, where her followers deliberated, and finally placed her in the cellar of Pannier's house.

Here new incidents develop themselves.

After the arrest of Bourget and his wife, the Chaussards refuse to give up any more of the money, declaring themselves betrayed. This unexpected refusal was given at a moment when an urgent want of money was felt among the accomplices, if only for the purposes of escape. Rifoel was always clamorous for money. Hiley, Cibot, and Leveille began to suspect the Chaussards.

Here comes in a new incident, which calls for the rigor of the law.

Two gendarmes, detailed to discover the woman Bryond, succeeded in tracking her to Pannier's. There a discussion is held; and these men, unworthy of the trust reposed in them, instead of arresting the woman Bryond, succumb to her seductions. These unworthy soldiers, named Ratel and Mallet, showed this woman the utmost interest and offered to take her to the Chaussards and force them to make restitution.

The woman Bryond starts on horseback, disguised as a man, accompanied by Ratel, Mallet, and the girl Godard. She makes the journey by night. She has a conference alone with one of the brothers Chaussard, an excited conference. She is armed with a pistol, and threatens to blow out the brains of her accomplice if he refuses the money. Then he goes with her into the forest, and they return with a heavy bag of coin. In the bag are copper coins and twelve-sous silver pieces to the amount of fifteen hundred francs.

When the woman Bryond returns to Alencon the accomplices propose to go in a body to the Chaussards' house and torture them until they deliver up the whole sum.

When Pannier hears of this failure he is furious. He threatens. The woman Bryond, though threatening him in return with Rifoel's wrath, is forced to fly.

These facts rest on the confession of Ratel.

Mallet, pitying the woman Bryond's position, offers her an asylum. Then Mallet and Ratel, accompanied by Hiley and Cibot, go at night to the brothers Chaussard; this time they find these brothers have left the place and have taken the rest of the money with them.

This was the last effort of the accomplices to recover the proceeds of the robbery.

It now becomes necessary to show the exact part taken by each of the actors in this crime.

Dubut, Boislaurier, Herbomez, Courceuil, and Hiley were the ringleaders. Some deliberated and planned, others acted.

Boislaurier, Dubut, and Courceuil, all three fugitives from justice and outlawed, are addicted to rebellion, fomenters of trouble, implacable enemies of Napoleon the Great, his victories, his dynasty, and his government, haters of our new laws and of the constitution of the Empire.

Herbomez and Hiley audaciously executed that which the three former planned.

The guilt of the seven instruments of the crime, namely, Cibot, Lisieux, Grenier, Bruce, Horeau, Cabot, and Minard, is evident; it appears from the confessions of those of them who are now in the hands of justice; Lisieux died during the investigation, and Bruce has fled the country.

The conduct of Rousseau, who drove the coach, marks him as an accomplice. His slow method of driving, his haste at the entrance of the wood, his persistent declaration that his head was covered, whereas the passengers testify that the leader of the brigands told him to take the handkerchief off his head and recognize them; all these facts are strong presumptive evidence of collusion.

As for the woman Bryond and the notary Leveille, could any co-operation be more connected, more continuous than theirs? They repeatedly furnished means for the crime; they were privy to it, and they abetted it. Leveille travelled constantly. The woman Bryond invented scheme after scheme; she risked all, even her life, to recover the plunder. She lent her house, her carriage; her hand is seen in the plot from the beginning; she did not dissuade the chief leader of all, Rifoel, since executed, although through her guilty influence upon him she might have done so. She made her waiting-woman, the girl Godard, an accomplice. As for Leveille, he took an active part in the actual perpetration of the crime by seeking the axe the brigands asked for.

The woman Bourget, Vauthier, the Chaussards, Pannier, the woman Lechantre, Mallet and Ratel, all participated in the crime in their several degrees, as did the innkeepers Melin, Binet, Laraviniere, and Chargegrain.

Bourget has died during the investigation, after making a confession which removes all doubt as to the part played by Vauthier and the woman Bryond; if he attempted to extenuate that of his wife and his nephews Chaussard, his motives are easy to understand.

The Chaussards knowingly fed and lodged the brigands, they saw them armed, they witnessed all their arrangements and knew the object of them; and lastly, they received the plunder, which they hid, and as it appears, stole from their accomplices.

Pannier, the former treasurer of the rebels, concealed the woman Bryond in his house; he is one of the most dangerous accomplices of this crime, which he knew from its inception. In him certain mysterious relations which are still obscure took their rise; the authorities now have these matters under investigation. Pannier was the right hand of Rifoel, the depositary of the secrets of the counter-revolutionary party of the West; he regretted that Rifoel introduced women into the plot and confided in them; it was he who received the stolen money from the woman Bryond and conveyed it to Rifoel.

As for the conduct of the two gendarmes Ratel and Mallet, it deserves the severest penalty of the law. They betrayed their duty. One of them, foreseeing his fate, committed suicide, but not until he had made important revelations. The other, Mallet, denies nothing, his tacit admissions preclude all doubt, especially as to the guilt of the woman Bryond.