"I should like to save him in spite of his ingratitude."

This was not at all what the detective wished. He had hoped she would, in her turn, accuse the man who had betrayed her; but he could gain nothing on this point. She felt no desire for revenge. The letters she wrote to Le Chevalier (Licquet encouraged correspondence between prisoners) are full of the sadness of a broken but still loving heart.

"It is not when a friend is unfortunate that one should reproach him, and I am far from doing so to you, in spite of your conduct as regards me. You know I did everything for you,—I am not reproaching you for it,—and after all, you have denounced me! I forgive you with all my heart, if that can do you any good, but I know your reason for being so unjust to me; you thought I had abandoned you, but I swear to you I had not."

There was not much information in that for Licquet, and in the hope of learning something, he excited Mme. Acquet strongly against d'Ache. According to him d'Ache was the one who first "sold them all"; it was he who caused Le Chevalier to be arrested, to rid himself of a troublesome rival after having compromised him; it was to d'Ache alone that the prisoners owed all their misfortunes. And Licquet found a painful echo of his insinuations in all Mme. Acquet's letters to her lover; but he found nothing more. "You know that Delorriere d'Ache is a knave, a scoundrel; that he is the cause of all your trouble; that he alone made you act; you did not think of it yourself, and he advised you badly. He alone deserves the hatred of the government. He is abhorred and execrated as he deserves to be, and there is no one who would not be glad to give him up or kill him on the spot. He alone is the cause of your trouble. Recollect this; do not forget it."

It is not necessary to say that these letters never reached Le Chevalier, who was secretly confined in the tower of the Temple until Fouche decided his fate. He was rather an embarrassing prisoner; as he could not be directly accused of the robbery of Quesnay in which he had not taken part, and as they feared to draw him into an affair to which his superb gift of speech, his importance as a Chouan gentleman, his adventurous past and his eloquent professions of faith might give a political significance similar to that of Georges Cadoudal's trial, there remained only the choice of setting him at liberty or trying him simply as a royalist agent. Now, in 1808 they did not wish to mention royalists. It was understood that they were an extinct race, and orders were given to no longer speak of them to the public, which must long since have forgotten that in very ancient days the Bourbons had reigned in France.

Thus, Real did not know what was to become of Le Chevalier when Licquet conceived the idea of giving him a role in his comedy. We have not yet obtained all the threads of this new intrigue. Whether Licquet destroyed certain over-explicit papers, or whether he preferred in so delicate a matter to act without too much writing, there remain such gaps in the story that we have not been able to establish the correlation of the facts we are about to reveal. It is certain that the idea of exploiting Mme. Acquet's passion and promising her the freedom of her lover in exchange for a general confession, was originated by Licquet. He declares it plainly in a letter addressed to Real. By this means they obtained complete avowals from her. On December 12th she gave a detailed account of her adventurous life from the time of her departure from Falaise until her arrest; a few days later she gave some details of the conspiracy of which d'Ache was the chief, to which we shall have to return. What must be noted at present is this remarkable coincidence: on the 12th she spoke, after receiving Licquet's formal promise to ensure Le Chevalier's escape, and on the 14th he actually escaped from the Temple. Had Licquet been to Paris between these two dates? It seems probable; for he speaks in a letter of a "pretended absence" which might well have been real.

The manner of Le Chevalier's escape is strange enough to be described. By reason of his excited condition, "which threw him into continual transports, and which had seemed to the concierge of the prison to be the delirium of fever," he had been lodged, not in the tower itself, but in a dependence, one of whose walls formed the outer wall of the prison, and overlooked the exterior courts. He had been ill for several days, and being subject to profuse sweats had asked to have his sheets changed frequently, and so was given several pairs at a time. On December 13th, at eight in the morning, the keeper especially attached to his person (Savard) had gone in to arrange the little dressing-room next to Le Chevalier's chamber. Returning at one o'clock to serve dinner, he found the prisoner reading; at six in the evening another keeper (Carabeuf), bringing in a light, saw him stretched on his bed. The next day on going into his room in the morning, they found that he had fled.

Le Chevalier had made in the wall of his dressing-room, which was two yards thick, a hole large enough to slip through. They saw that he had done it with no other tool than a fork; two bits of log, cut like wedges, had served to dislodge and pull out the stones. The operation had been so cleverly managed, all the rubbish having been carefully taken from within, that no trace of demolition appeared on the outside. The prisoner (Vandricourt) who was immediately below had not noticed any unwonted noise, although he did not go to bed till eleven o'clock. Le Chevalier, whose cell was sixteen feet above the level of the court, had also been obliged to construct a rope to descend by; he had plaited it with long strips cut from a pair of nankeen breeches and the cover of his mattress. Having got into the courtyard during the night by this means, he had to wait till the early morning when bread was brought in for the prisoners. The concierge of the Temple was in the habit of going back to bed after having admitted the baker, and the gate remained open for "a quarter of an hour and longer, while bread was being delivered at the wickets."

People certainly escaped from the Temple as much as from any other prison. The history of the old tower records many instances of men rescued by their friends in the face of gaolers and guard, but confederates were necessary for the success of these escapes. Given the topography of the Temple in 1807, it would seem impossible for one man alone, with no outside assistance, to have pierced a wall six feet thick in a few hours, and to have crossed the old garden of the grand prior, where in order to reach the street he would either have had to climb the other wall of the enclosure, or to pass the palace and courts to get to the door—that of the Rue du Temple—which, as stated in the official report, remained open every morning for twenty minutes during the baker's visit. The impossibility of success leads us to think that if Le Chevalier triumphed over so many obstacles, it was because some one made it easy for him to do so.

Real put a man on his track who for ten years had been the closest confidant of the secrets of the police, and had conducted their most delicate affairs. This was Inspector Pasque. With Commissary Beffara, he set off on the search. Licquet, one of the first to be informed of Le Chevalier's escape, immediately showed Mme. Acquet the letter announcing it, taking care to represent it, confidentially, as his own work. He received in return a copious confession from his grateful prisoner. This time she emptied all the corners of her memory, returning to facts already revealed, adding details, telling of all d'Ache's comings and goings, his frequent journeys to England, and of the manner in which David l'Intrepide crossed the channel. Licquet tried more than all to awaken her memories of Le Chevalier's relations with Parisian society. She knew that several official personages were in the "plot," but unfortunately could not recollect their names, "although she had heard them mentioned, notably by Lefebre, with whom Le Chevalier corresponded on this subject." However, as the detective persisted she pronounced these words, which Licquet eagerly noted:

"One of these personages is in the Senate; M. Lefebre knows him. Another was in office during the Terror, and can be recognised by the following indications: he frequently sees Mme. Menard, sister of the widow, Mme. Flahaut, who has married M. de ——, now ambassador to Holland, it is believed. This lady lives sometimes at Falaise and sometimes in Paris, where she is at present. This individual is small, dark and slightly humped; he has great intellect, and possesses the talent for intrigue in a high degree. The other personages are rich. The declarant cannot state their number. Le Chevalier informed her that affairs were going well in Paris, that they were awaiting news of the Prince's arrival to declare for him."

Licquet compelled Mme. Acquet to repeat these important declarations before the prefect, and on the 23d of December, she signed them in Savoye-Rollin's office. The same evening Licquet tried to put names to all these anonymous persons. With the prisoner by his side and the imperial almanac in his hand, he went over the list of senators, great dignitaries and notabilities of the army and the administration, but without success. "The names that were pronounced before her," he wrote to Real, "are effaced from her memory; perhaps Lefebre will tell us who they are."

The lawyer, in fact, since he saw things becoming blacker, had been very loquacious with Licquet. He cried with fear when in the prefect's presence, and promised to tell all he knew, begging them to have pity on "the unfortunate father of a family." He spoke so plainly, this time, that Licquet himself was astounded. The lawyer had it indeed from Le Chevalier, that the day the Duc de Berry landed in France, the Emperor would be arrested by two officers "who were always near his person, and who each of them would count on an army of forty thousand men!" And when Lefebre was brought before the prefect to repeat this accusation, and gave the general's names, Savoye-Rollin was so petrified with astonishment that he dared not insert them in the official report of the inquiry; furthermore, he refused to write them with his own hand, and compelled the lawyer himself to put on paper this blasphemy before which official pens recoiled.

"Lefebre insists," wrote Savoye-Rollin to Real, "that Le Chevalier would never tell him the names of all the conspirators. Lefebre has, however, given two names, one of which is so important and seems so improbable, that I cannot even admit a suspicion of it. Out of respect for the august alliance which he has contracted, I have not put his name in the report of the inquiry; it is added to my letter, in a declaration written and signed by the prisoner." And in his letter there is a note containing these lines over Lefebre's signature: "I declare to Monsieur le Prefect de la Seine Inferieur that the two generals whom I did not name in my interrogation to-day and who were pointed out to me by M. le Chevalier, are the Generals Bernadotte and Massena."

Bernadotte and Massena! At the ministry of police they pretended to laugh heartily at this foolish notion; but perhaps some who knew the "true inwardness" of certain old rivalries—Fouche above all—thought it less absurd and impossible than they admitted it to be. This fiend of a man, with his way of searching to the bottom of his prisoners' consciences, was just the one to find out that in France Bonaparte was the sole partisan of the Empire. In any case these were not ideas to be circulated freely, and from that day Real promised himself that if Pasque and Beffara succeeded in finding Le Chevalier, he should never divulge them before any tribunal.

The two agents had established a system of surveillance on all the roads of Normandy, but without much hope: Le Chevalier, who had escaped so many spies and got out of so many snares during the past eight years, was considered to bear, as it were, a charmed life. He was taken, however, and as his escape had seemed to be the result of the detective's schemes, so in the manner in which he again fell into the hands of Real's agents was Licquet's handiwork again recognised. The latter, indeed, was the only one who knew enough to make the capture possible. In his long conversation with Mme. Acquet, he had learned that in leaving Caen in the preceding May, Le Chevalier had confided his five-year-old son to his servant Marie Humon, with orders to take him to his friend the Sieur Guilbot at Evreux. At the beginning of August the child had been taken to Paris and placed with Mme. Thiboust, Le Chevalier's sister-in-law.

In what way was the son used to capture the father? We have never been able thoroughly to clear up this mystery. The accounts that have been given of this great detective feat are evidently fantastic, and remain inexplicable without the intervention of a comrade betraying Le Chevalier after having given him unequivocal proofs of devotion. Thus, it has been said that Real, "having recourse to extraordinary means," could have caused the arrest of "the sister-in-law and daughter of the fugitive, and their incarceration in the prisons of Caen with filthy and disreputable women." Le Chevalier, informed of their incarceration—by whom?—would have offered himself in place of the two women, and the police would have accepted the bargain.

Told in this manner, the story does not at all agree with the documents we have been able to collect. Le Chevalier had no daughter, and no trace is to be found of the transference of Mme. Thiboust to Caen. The other version is no more admissible. Scarcely out of the Temple, we are assured, the outlaw would not have been able to resist the desire to see his son, and would have sent to beg Mme. Thiboust—by whom again?—to bring him to the Passage des Panoramas. Naturally the police would follow the woman and child, and Le Chevalier be taken in their arms. It is difficult to imagine so sharp a man setting such a childish trap for himself, even if his adventurous life had not accustomed him for a long time to live apart from his family.

The truth is certainly far otherwise. It is necessary, first of all, to know who let Le Chevalier out of prison. Mme. de Noel, one of his relations, said later, that "they had offered employment to the prisoner if he would denounce his accomplice," which offer he haughtily refused. As his presence was embarrassing, his gaolers were ordered "to let him go out on parole in the hope that he would not come back," and could then be condemned for escaping. Le Chevalier profited by the favour, but returned at the appointed time. This toleration was not at all surprising in this strange prison, the theatre of so many adventures that will always remain mysteries. Desmarets tells how the concierge Boniface allowed an important prisoner, Sir Sidney Smith, to leave the Temple, "to walk, take baths, dine in town, and even go out hunting;" the commodore never failed to return to sleep in his cell, and "took back his parole in reentering."

It was necessary then, for some one to undertake to get Le Chevalier out of the Temple, as he would not break his parole when he was outside; and this explains the simulated escape. What cannot be established, unfortunately, is the part taken by Fouche and Real. Were they the instigators or the dupes? Did they esteem it better to feign ignorance, or was it in reality the act of subalterns working unknown to their chiefs? In any case, no one for a moment believed in the wall two yards thick bored through in one night by the aid of a fork, any more than in the rope-ladder made from a pair of nankeen breeches. Real, in revenge, dismissed the concierge of the prison, put the gaoler Savard in irons, and exacted a report on "all the circumstances that could throw any light on the acquaintances the prisoner must have had in the prison to facilitate his escape."

It seems very probable that Licquet, either directly or through an agent like Perlet, in whom Le Chevalier had the greatest confidence, had had a hand in this escape. As soon as the prisoner was free, as soon as Mme. Acquet had given up all her secrets as the price of her lover's liberty, it only remained to secure him again, and the means employed to gain this end must have been somewhat discreditable, for in the reports sent to the Emperor, who was daily informed of the progress of the affair, things were manifestly misrepresented. The following facts cannot be questioned: Le Chevalier had found in Paris "an impenetrable retreat where he could boldly defy all the efforts of the police;" Fouche, guessing at the feelings of the fugitive, issued a warrant against Mme. Thiboust. By whom was Le Chevalier informed in his hiding-place of his sister-in-law's arrest? It is here, evidently, that a third person intervened. However that may be, the outlaw wrote to Fouche "offering to show himself as soon as the woman who acted as a mother to his son should be set at liberty." Fouche had Mme. Thiboust brought before him, and gave her a safe conduct of eight days for Le Chevalier, with positive and reiterated assurance that he would give him a passport for England as soon as he should deliver himself up.

Mme. Thiboust returned home to the Rue des Martyrs, where Le Chevalier came to see her; it was the evening of the 5th of January, 1808. He covered his little son with kisses and put him in bed: the child always remembered the caresses he received that evening. Mme. Thiboust, who did not put much faith in Fouche's promises, begged her brother-in-law to flee. "No, no," he replied; and later on she reported his answer thus: "The minister has kept his promise in setting you at liberty and I must keep mine—honour demands it; to hesitate would be weak, and to fail would be a crime." On the morning of the 6th, persuaded—or pretending to be—that Fouche was going to assist his crossing to England, he embraced his child and sister-in-law.

"Come," he said, "it is Twelfth-Night, and it is a fine day; have a mass said for us, and get breakfast ready. I shall be back in two hours."

Two hours later Inspector Pasque restored him to the Temple, and saw that he was put "hands and feet in irons, in the most rigorous seclusion, under the surveillance of a police agent who was not to leave him day or night."

The same evening Fouche sent the Emperor a report which contained no mention of the chivalrous conduct of Le Chevalier; it said that "the police had seized this brigand at the house of a woman with whom he had relations, and that they had succeeded in throwing themselves upon him before he could use his weapons." On the morning of the 9th, Commandant Durand, of the staff, presented himself at the Temple, and had the irons removed from the prisoner, who appeared at noon before a military commission in a hall in the staff office, 7 Quoi Voltaire. This expeditious magistracy was so sparing of its paper and ink that it took no notes. It played, in the social organisation, the role of a trap into which were thrust such people as were found embarrassing. Some were condemned whose fate is only known because their names have been found scribbled on a torn paper that served as an envelope for police reports.

Le Chevalier was condemned to death; he left the office of the staff at four o'clock and was thrown into the Abbaye to await execution. While the preparations were being made he wrote the following letter to Mme. Thiboust who had been three days without news, and it reached the poor woman the next day.

"Saturday, 9 January, 1808.

"I am going to die, my sister, and I bequeath you my son. I do not doubt that you will show him all a mother's tenderness and care. I beg you also to have all the firmness and vigilance that I should have had in forming his character and heart.

"Unfortunately, in leaving you the child that is so dear to me, I cannot also leave you a fortune equal to that which I inherited from my parents. I reproach myself, more than for any other fault in my life, for having diminished the inheritance they transmitted to me. Bring him up according to his actual fortune, and make him an artisan, if you must, rather than commit him to the care of strangers.

"One of my greatest regrets in quitting this life, is leaving it without having shown my gratitude to you and your daughter.

"Good-bye; I shall live, I hope, in your remembrance, and you will keep me alive in that of my son.

"Le Chevalier."

Night had come—a cold misty winter night—when the cab that was to take the prisoner to his execution arrived at the door of the Abbaye. It was a long way from Saint-Germain-des-Pres to the barriers by way of the Rue du Four and Rue de Grenelle, the Avenue de l'Ecole Militaire, and the tortuous way that is now the Rue Dupleix. The damp fog made the night seem darker; few persons were about, and the scene must have been peculiarly gloomy and forbidding. The cab stopped in the angle formed by the barrier of Grenelle, and on the bare ground the condemned man stood with his back to the wall of the enclosure. It was the custom at night executions to place a lighted lantern on the breast of the victim as a target for the men.

It was all over at six o'clock. While the troop was returning to town the grave-diggers took the corpse which had fallen beneath the wall and carried it to the cemetery of Vaugirard; a neighbouring gardener and an old man of eighty, whom curiosity had led to the corpse of this unknown Chouan, served as witnesses to the death certificate.

The death of Le Chevalier put an end to the prosecution of the affair of Quesnay. He was one of those prisoners of whom the grand judge said "that they could not be set at liberty, but that the good of the State required that they should not appear before the judges"; and they feared that by pushing the investigations farther they might bring on some great political trial that would agitate the whole west of France, always ready for an insurrection, and shown in the reports to be organised for a new Chouan outburst. It is certain that d'Ache's capture would have embarrassed Fouche seriously, and in default of causing him to disappear like Le Chevalier, he would much have preferred to see him escape the pursuit of his agents. The absence of these two leaders in the plot would enable him to represent the robbery of June 7th, as a simple act of brigandage which had no political significance whatever.

They therefore imposed silence on the gabblings of Lefebre, who had become a prey to such incontinence of denunciations that he only stopped them to lament his fate and curse those who had drawn him into the adventure; they moderated Licquet's zeal, and the prefect confided to him the drawing up of the general report of the affair, a task of which he acquitted himself so well that his voluminous work seemed to Fouche "sufficiently luminous and circumstantial to be submitted as it was to his Majesty."

Then they began, but in no haste, to concern themselves with the trial of the other prisoners. It was necessary, according to custom, to interrogate and confront the forty-seven persons imprisoned; of this number the prosecution only held thirty-two, of whom twenty-three were present. These were Flierle, Harel, Grand-Charles, Fleur d'Epine and Le Hericey who by Allain's orders had attacked the waggon; the Marquise de Combray, her daughter and Lefebre, instigators of the crime; Gousset the carrier; Alexandre Buquet, Placene, Vannier, Langelley, who had received the money; Chauvel and Lanoe as accomplices, and the innkeepers of Louvigny, d'Aubigny and elsewhere who had entertained the brigands. Those absent were d'Ache, Allain, Le Lorault called "La Jeunesse," Joseph Buquet, the Dupont girl, and the friends of Le Chevalier or Lefebre who were compromised by the latter's revelations—Courmaceul, Reverend, Dusaussay, etc., Grenthe, called "Coeur-le-Roi," had died in the conciergerie during the enquiry. Mme. de Combray's gardener, Chatel, had committed suicide a few days after his arrest. As to Placide d'Ache and Bonnoeil, it was decided not to bring them to trial but to take them later before a military commission. Everything was removed that could give the trial political significance.

Mme. de Combray, who was at last enlightened as to the kind of interest taken in her by Licquet, and awakened from the illusions that the detective had so cleverly nourished, had been able to communicate directly with her family. Her son Timoleon had never approved of her political actions and since the Revolution had stayed away from Tournebut; but as soon as he heard of their arrest he hurried to Rouen to be near his mother and brother in prison. The letters he exchanged with Bonnoeil, as soon as it was permitted, show a strong sense of the situation on the part of both, irreproachable honesty and profound friendship. This family, whom it suited Licquet to represent as consisting of spiteful, dissolute or misguided people, appears in a very different light in this correspondence. The two brothers were full of respect for their mother, and tenderly attached to their sister: unfortunate and guilty as she was, they never reproached her, nor made any allusion to facts well-known and forgiven. They were all leagued against the common enemy, Acquet, whom they considered the cause of all their suffering. This man had returned from the Temple strengthened by the cowardly service he had rendered, and entered Donnay in triumph; he did not try to conceal his joy at all the catastrophes that had overtaken the Combrays, and treated them as vanquished enemies. The family held a council. The advice of Bonnoeil and Timoleon, as well as of the Marquise, was to sacrifice everything to save Mme. Acquet. They knew that her husband's denunciations made her the chief culprit, and that the accusation would rest almost entirely on her. They determined to appeal to Chauveau-Lagarde, whom the perilous honour of defending Marie-Antoinette before the Revolutionary tribunal had rendered illustrious. The great advocate undertook the defence of Mme. Acquet and sent a young secretary named Ducolombier, who usually lived with him, to Rouen to study the case—"an intriguer calling himself doctor," wrote Licquet scornfully. Ducolombier stayed in Rouen and set himself to examine the condition of the Combrays' fortune. Mme. de Combray had consented some years back to the sale of a part of her property, and Timoleon, in the hope of averting financial disaster and being of use to his mother by diminishing her responsibility, had succeeded in having a trustee appointed for her.

The matter was brought to Rouen and it was there that, "for the safety of the State," the trial took place that excited all Normandy in advance. Curiosity was greatly aroused by the crime committed by "ladies of the chateau," and surprising revelations were expected, the examination having lasted more than a year and having brought together an army of witnesses from around Falaise and Tournebut. Mme. de Combray's house in the Rue des Carmelites had become the headquarters of the defence. Mlle. Querey had come out of prison after several weeks' detention, and was there looking after the little Acquets, who had been kept at the pension Du Saussay in ignorance of what was going on around them: the three children still suffered from the ill-treatment they had received in infancy. Timoleon also lived in the Rue des Carmelites when the interests of his family did not require his presence in Falaise or Paris. There, also, lived Ducolombier, who had organised a sort of central office in the house where the lawyers of the other prisoners could come and consult. Mme. de Combray had chosen Maitre Gady de la Vigne of Rouen to defend her; Maitre Denise had charge of Flierle's case, and Maitre le Bouvier was to speak for Lefebre and Placene.

Chauveau-Lagarde arrived in Rouen on December 1, 1808. He had scarcely done so when he received a long epistle from Acquet de Ferolles, in which the unworthy husband tried to dissuade him from undertaking the defence of his wife, and to ruin the little testimony for the defence that Ducolombier had collected. It seems that this scoundrelly proceeding immediately enlightened the eminent advocate as to the preliminaries of the drama, for from this day he proved for the Combray family not only a brilliant advocate, but a friend whose devotion never diminished.

The trial opened on December 15th in the great hall of the Palais. A crowd, chiefly peasants, collected as soon as the doors were opened in the part reserved for the public. A platform had been raised for the twenty-three prisoners, among whom all eyes searched for Mme. Acquet, very pale, indifferent or resigned, and Mme. de Combray, very much animated and with difficulty induced by her counsel to keep silent. Besides the president, Carel, the court was composed of seven judges, of whom three were military; the imperial and special Procurer-General, Chopais-Marivaux, occupied the bench.

From the beginning it was evident that orders had been given to suppress everything that could give political colour to the affair. As neither d'Ache, Le Chevalier, Allain nor Bonnoeil was present, nor any of the men who could claim the honour of being treated as conspirators and not as brigands, the judges only had the small fry of the plot before them, and the imperial commissary took care to name the chiefs only with great discretion. He did it by means of epithets, and in a melodramatic tone that caused the worthy people who jostled each other in the hall to shiver with terror.

Never had the gilded panels, which since the time of Louis XII had formed the ceiling of the great hall of the Palais, heard such astonishing eloquence; for three hours the Procurer Chopais-Marivaux piled up his heavy sentences, pretentious to the point of unintelligibility. When, after having recounted the facts, the magistrate came to the flight of Mme. Acquet and her sojourn with the Vanniers and Langelley, and it was necessary without divulging Licquet's proceedings to tell of her arrest, he became altogether incomprehensible. He must have thought himself lucky in not having before him, on the prisoners' bench, a man bold enough to show up the odious subterfuges that had been used in order to entrap the conspirators and obtain their confessions; there is no doubt that such a revelation would have gained for the two guilty women, if not the leniency of the judges, the sympathy at least of the public, who all over the province were awaiting with anxious curiosity the slightest details of the trial. The gazettes had been ordered to ignore it; the Journal de Rouen only spoke of it once to state that, as it lacked space to reproduce the whole trial, it preferred to abstain altogether; and but for a few of Licquet's notes, nothing would be known of the character of the proceedings.

The interrogation of the accused and the examination of the witnesses occupied seven sittings. On Thursday, December 22d, the Procurer-General delivered his charge. The prosecution tried above all to show up the antagonism existing between Mme. de Combray and M. Acquet de Ferolles. The latter's denunciations had borne fruit; the Marquise was represented as having tried "to get rid of her son-in-law by poisoning his drink." And the old story of the bottles of wine sent to Abbe Clarisse and of his inopportune death were revived; all the unpleasant rumours that had formerly circulated around Donnay were amplified, made grosser, and elevated to the position of accomplished facts. It was decided that poison "was a weapon familiar to the Marquise of Combray," and as, after having replied satisfactorily to all the first questions asked her, she remained mute on this point, a murmur of disapprobation ran round the audience, to the great joy of Licquet. "The prisoner," he notes, "whose sex and age at first rendered her interesting, has lost to-day every vestige of popularity."

We know nothing of Mme. Acquet's examination, and but little of Chauveau-Lagarde's pleading; a leaf that escaped from his portfolio and was picked up by Mme. de Combray gives a few particulars. This paper has some pencilled notes, and two or three questions written to Mme. Acquet on the prisoners' bench, to which she scrawled a few words in reply. We find there a sketch of the theme which the advocate developed, doubtless to palliate his client's misconduct.

"Mme. Acquet is reproached with her liaisons with Le Chevalier; she can answer—or one can answer for her—that she suffered ill-treatment of all kinds for four years from a man who was her husband only from interest, so much so that he tried to get rid of her.... Fearful at one time of being poisoned, at another of having her brains dashed out,... her suit for separation had brought her in touch with Le Chevalier, whom she had not known until her husband let him loose on her in order to bring about an understanding...."

During the fifteen sittings of the court a restless crowd filled the hall, the courts of the Palais, and the narrow streets leading to it. At eight o'clock in the morning of December 30th, the president, Carel, declared the trial closed, and the court retired to "form its opinions." Not till three o'clock did the bell announce the return of the magistrates. The verdict was immediately pronounced. Capital punishment was the portion of Mme. Acquet, Flierle, Lefebre, Harel, Grand-Charles, Fleur d'Epine, Le Hericey, Gautier-Boismale, Lemarchand and Alexandre Buquet. The Marquise de Combray was condemned to twenty-two years' imprisonment in irons, and so were Lerouge, called Bornet, Vannier and Bureau-Placene. The others were acquitted, but had to be detained "for the decision of his Excellency, the minister-of-police." The Marquise was, besides, to restore to the treasury the total sum of money taken. Whilst the verdict was being read, the people crowded against the barriers till they could no longer move, eagerly scanning the countenances of the two women. The old Marquise, much agitated, declaimed in a loud voice against the Procurer-General: "Ah! the monster! The scoundrel! How he has treated us!"

Mme. Acquet, pale and impassive, seemed oblivious of what was going on around her. When she heard sentence of death pronounced against her, she turned towards her defender, and Chauveau-Lagarde, rising, asked for a reprieve for his client. Although she had been in prison for fourteen months, she was, he said, "in an interesting condition." There was a murmur of astonishment in the hall, and while, during the excitement caused by this declaration, the court deliberated on the reprieve, one of the condemned, Le Hericey, leapt over the bar, fell with all his weight on the first rows of spectators, and by kicks and blows, aided by the general bewilderment, made a path for himself through the crowd, and amid shouts and shoves had already reached the door when a gendarme nabbed him in passing and threw him back into the hall, where, trampled on and overcome with blows, he was pushed behind the bar and taken away with the other condemned prisoners. The reprieve asked for Mme. Acquet was pronounced in the midst of the tumult, the crush at the door of the great hall being so great that many were injured.

The verdict, which soon became known all over the town, was in general ill received. If the masses showed a dull satisfaction in the punishment of the Combray ladies, saying "that neither rank nor riches had counted, and that, guilty like the others, they were treated like the others," the bourgeois population of Rouen, still very indulgent to the royalists, disapproved of the condemnation of the two women, who had only been convicted of a crime by which neither of them had profited. The reprieve granted to Mme. Acquet, "whose declaration had deceived no one," seemed a good omen, indicating a commutation of her sentence. The nine "brigands" condemned to death received no pity. Lefebre was not known in Rouen, and his attitude during the trial had aroused no sympathy; the others were but vulgar actors in the drama, and only interested the populace hungry for a spectacle on the scaffold. The executions would take place immediately, the judgments pronounced by the special court being without appeal, like those of the former revolutionary tribunals.

The nine condemned men were taken to the conciergerie. It was night when their "toilet" was begun. The high-executioner, Charles-Andre Ferey, of an old Norman family of executioners, had called on his cousins Joanne and Desmarets to help him, and while the scaffold was being hastily erected on the Place du Vieux-Marche, they made preparations in the prison. In the anguish of this last hour on earth Flierle's courage weakened. He sent a gaoler to the imperial procurer to ask "if a reprieve would be granted to any one who would make important revelations." On receiving a negative reply the German seemed to resign himself to his fate. "Since that is the case," he said, "I will carry my secret to the tomb with me."

The doors of the conciergerie did not open until seven in the evening. By the light of torches the faces of the condemned were seen in the cart, moving above the crowds thronging the narrow streets. The usual route from the prison to the scaffold was by the Rue du Gros-Horloge, and this funeral march by torchlight and execution at midnight in December must have been a terrifying event. The crowd, kept at a distance, probably saw nothing but the glimmering light of the torches in the misty air, and the shadowy forms moving on the platform. According to the Journal de Rouen of the next day, Flierle mounted first, then Harel, Grand-Charles, Fleur d'Epine and Le Hericey who took part with him in the attack on June 7th. Lefebre "passed" sixth. The knife struck poor Gautier-Boismale badly, as well as Alexandre Buquet, who died last. The agony of these two unfortunates was horrible, prolonged as it was by the repairs necessary for the guillotine to continue its work. The bloody scene did not end till half-past eight in the morning.

The next day, December 31st, the exhibition on the scaffold of Mme. de Combray, Placene, Vannier, and Lerouge, all condemned to twenty-two years' imprisonment, was to take place. But when they went to the old Marquise's cell she was found in such a state of exasperation, fearful crises of rage being succeeded by deep dejection, that they had to give up the idea of removing her. The three men alone were therefore tied to the post, where they remained for six hours. As soon as they returned to the conciergerie they were sent in irons to the House of Detention at the general hospital, whence they were to go to the convict prison.

The Marquise had not twenty-two years to live. The thought of ending her days in horrible Bicetre with thieves, beggars and prostitutes; the humiliation of having been defeated, deceived and made ridiculous in the eyes of all Normandy; and perhaps more than all, the sudden comprehension that it had all been a game, that the Revolution would triumph in the end, that she, a great and powerful lady—noble, rich, a royalist—was treated the same as vulgar criminals, was so cruel a blow, that it was the general impression that she would succumb to it. It is impossible nowadays to realise what an effect these revelations must have produced on a mind obstinately set against all democratic realities. For nearly a month the Marquise remained in a state of stupefaction; from the day of her condemnation till January 15th it was impossible to get her to take any kind of nourishment. She knew that they were watching for the moment when she would be strong enough to stand the pillory, and perhaps she had resolved to die of hunger. There had been some thought—and this compassionate idea seems to have originated with Licquet—of sparing the aged woman this supreme agony, but the Procurer-General showed such bitter zeal in the execution of the sentence, that the prefect received orders from Real to proceed. He writes on January 29th: "I am informed of her condition daily. She now takes light nourishment, but is still extremely feeble; we could not just now expose this woman to the pillory without public scandal."

What was most feared was the indignation of the public at sight of the torture uselessly inflicted on an old woman who had already been sufficiently punished. The prefect's words, "without scandal," showed how popular feeling in Rouen had revolted at the verdict. More than one story got afloat. As the details of the trial were very imperfectly known, no journal having published the proceedings, it was said that the Marquise's only crime was her refusal to denounce her daughter, and widespread pity was felt for this unhappy woman who was considered a martyr to maternal love and royalist faith. Perhaps some of this universal homage was felt even in the prison, for towards the middle of February the Marquise seemed calmer and morally strengthened. The authorities profited by this to order her punishment to proceed. It was February the 17th, and as one of her "attacks" was feared, they prudently took her by surprise. She was told that Dr. Ducolombier, coming from Chauveau-Lagarde, asked to see her at the wicket. She went down without suspicion and was astonished to find in place of the man she expected, two others whom she had never seen. One was the executioner Ferey, who seized her hands and tied her. The doors opened, and seeing the gendarmes, the cart and the crowd, she understood, and bowed her head in resignation.

On the Place du Vieux-Marche the scaffold was raised, and a post to which the text of the verdict was affixed. The prisoner was taken up to the platform; she seemed quite broken, thin, yet very imposing, with her still black hair, and her air of "lady of the manor." She was dressed in violet silk, and as she persisted in keeping her head down, her face was hidden by the frills of her bonnet. To spare her no humiliation Ferey pinned them up; he then made her sit on a stool and tied her to the post, which forced her to hold up her head.

What she saw at the foot of the scaffold brought tears of pride to her eyes. In the first row of the crowd that quietly and respectfully filled the place, ladies in sombre dresses were grouped as close as possible to the scaffold, as if to take a voluntary part in the punishment of the old Chouanne; and during the six hours that the exhibition lasted the ladies of highest rank and most distinguished birth in the town came by turns to keep her company in her agony; some of them even spread flowers at the foot of the scaffold, thus transforming the disgrace into an apotheosis.

The heart of the Marquise, which had not softened through seventeen months of torture and anxiety, melted at last before this silent homage; tears were seen rolling down her thin cheeks, and the crowd was touched to see the highest ladies in the town sitting round this old unhappy woman, and saluting her with solemn courtesies.

At nightfall Mme. de Combray was taken back to the conciergerie; later in the evening she was sent to Bicetre, and several days afterwards Chopais-Marivaux, thinking he had served the Master well, begged as the reward of his zeal for the cross of the Legion of Honour.



CHAPTER IX

THE FATE OF D'ACHE

D'Ache, however, had not renounced his plans; the arrest of Le Chevalier, Mme. de Combray and Mme. Acquet was not enough to discourage him. It was, after all, only one stake lost, and he was the sort to continue the game. It is not even certain that he took the precaution, when Licquet was searching for him all over Normandy, to leave the Chateau of Montfiquet at Mandeville, where he had lived since his journey to England in the beginning of 1807. Ten months after the robbery of Quesnay he was known to be in the department of the Eure; Licquet, who had just terminated his enquiry, posted to Louviers, d'Ache, he found, had been there three days previously. From where had he come? From Tournebut, where, in spite of the search made, he could have lived concealed for six months in some well-equipped hiding-place? Unlikely as this seems, Licquet was inclined to believe it, so much was his own cunning disconcerted by the audacious cleverness of his rival. The letter in which he reports to Real his investigation in the Eure, is stamped with deep discouragement; he did not conceal the fact that the pursuit of d'Ache was a task as deceptive as it was useless. Perhaps he also thought that Le Chevalier's case was a precedent to be followed; d'Ache would have been a very undesirable prisoner to bring before a tribunal, and to get rid of him without scandal would be the best thing for the State. Licquet felt that an excess of zeal, bringing on a spectacular arrest such as that of Georges Cadoudal, would be ill-received in high quarters, and he therefore showed some nonchalance in his search for the conspirator.

D'Ache, meanwhile, showed little concern on learning of the capture of his accomplices. Lost in his illusions he took no care for his own safety, and remained at Mandeville, organising imaginary legions on paper, arranging the stages of the King's journey to Paris, and discussing with the Montfiquets certain points of etiquette regarding the Prince's stay at their chateau on the day following his arrival in France. One day, however, when they were at table—it was in the spring of 1808—a stranger arrived at the Chateau de Mandeville, and asked for M. Alexandre (the name taken by d'Ache, it will be remembered, at Bayeux). D'Ache saw the man himself, and thinking his manner suspicious, and his questions indiscreet, he treated him as a spy and showed him the door, but not before the intruder had launched several threats at him.

This occurrence alarmed M. de Montfiquet, and he persuaded his guest to leave Mandeville for a time. During the following night they both started on foot for Rubercy, where M. Gilbert de Mondejen, a great friend and confidant of d'Ache's, was living in hiding from the police in the house of a Demoiselle Genneville. This old lady, who was an ardent royalist, welcomed the fugitives warmly; they were scarcely seated at breakfast, however, when a servant gave the alarm. "Here come the soldiers!" she cried.

D'Ache and Mondejen rushed from the room and bounded across the porch into the courtyard just as the gendarmes burst in at the gate. They would have been caught if a horse had not slipped on the wet pavement and caused some confusion, during which they shut themselves into a barn, escaped by a door at the back, and jumping over hedges and ditches gained a little wood on the further side of the Tortoue brook.

But d'Ache had been seen, and from that day he was obliged to resume his wandering existence, living in the woods by day and tramping by night. He was entirely without resources, for he had no money, but was certain of finding a refuge, in case of need, in this region where malcontents abounded and all doors opened to them. In this way he reached the forest of Serisy, a part of which had formerly belonged to the Montfiquets; it was here that the abandoned mines were situated that had been mentioned to Licquet as Allain's place of refuge. Though obliged to abandon the Chateau de Mandeville, where, as well as at Rubercy, the gendarmes had made a search, d'Ache did not lack shelter around Bayeux. A Madame Chivre, who lived on the outskirts of the town, had for fifteen years been the providence of the most desperate Chouans, and d'Ache was sure of a welcome from her; but he stayed only a few days.

Mme. Amfrye also assisted him. This woman who never went out except to church, and was seen every morning with eyes downcast, walking to Saint-Patrice with her servant carrying her prayer book, was one of the fiercest royalists of the region. She looked after the emigrants' funds and took charge of their correspondence. Once a week a priest rang her door-bell; it was the Abbe Nicholas, cure of Vierville, a little fishing village. The Abbe, whose charity was proverbial, and accounted for his visits to Mme. Amfrye, was in reality a second David l'Intrepide; mass said and his beads told, he got into a boat and went alone to the islands of Saint-Marcouf, where an exchange of letters was made with the English emissaries, the good priest bringing his packet back to Bayeux under his soutane.

D'Ache could also hide with Mademoiselle Dumesnil, or Mlle. Duquesnay de Montfiquet, to both of whom he had been presented by Mme. de Vaubadon, an ardent royalist who had rendered signal service to the party during the worst days of the Terror. She was mentioned among the Normans who had shown most intelligent and devoted zeal for the cause.

Born de Mesnildot, niece of Tourville, she had married shortly before the Revolution M. le Tellier de Vaubadon, son of a member of the Rouen Parliament, a handsome man, amiable, loyal, elegant, and most charmingly sociable. She was medium-sized, not very pretty, but attractive, with a very white skin, tawny hair, and graceful carriage. Two sons were born of this union, and on the outbreak of the Revolution M. de Vaubadon emigrated. After several months of retreat in the Chateau of Vaubadon, the young woman tired of her grass-widowhood, which seemed as if it would be eternal, and returned to Bayeux where she had numerous relations. The Terror was over; life was reawakening, and the gloomy town gave itself up to it gladly. "Never were balls, suppers, and concerts more numerous, animated and brilliant in Bayeux than at this period." Mme. de Vaubadon's success was marked. When some of her papers were seized in the year IX the following note from an adorer was found: "All the men who have had the misfortune to see you have been mortally wounded. I therefore implore you not to stay long in this town, not to leave your apartment but at dusk, and veiled. We hope to cure our invalids by cold baths and refreshing drinks; but be gracious enough not to make incurables."

So that her children should not be deprived of their father's fortune, which the nation could sequestrate as the property of an emigre, Mme. de Vaubadon, like many other royalists, had sued for a divorce. All those who had had recourse to this extremity had asked for an annulment of the decree as soon as their husbands could return to France, and had resumed conjugal relations. But Mme. de Vaubadon did not consider her divorce a mere formality; she intended to remain free, and even brought suit against her husband for the settlement of her property. This act, which was severely criticised by the aristocracy of Bayeux, alienated many of her friends and placed her somewhat on the outskirts of society. From that time lovers were attributed to her, and it is certain that her conduct became more light. She scarcely concealed her liaison with Guerin de Bruslart, the leader of the Norman Chouans, the successor of Frotte, and a true type of the romantic brigand, who managed to live for ten years in Normandy and even in Paris, without falling into one of the thousand traps set for him by Fouche. Bruslart arrived at his mistress's house at night, his belt bristling with pistols and poniards, and "always ready for a desperate hand-to-hand fight."

Together with this swaggerer Mme. de Vaubadon received a certain Ollendon, a Chouan of doubtful reputation, who was said to have gone over to the police through need of money. Mme. de Vaubadon, since her divorce, had herself been in a precarious position. She had dissipated her own fortune, which had already been greatly lessened by the Revolution. She was now reduced to expedients, and seeing closed to her the doors of many of the houses in Bayeux to which her presence had formerly given tone, she went to Caen and settled in the Rue Guilbert nearly opposite the Rue Coupee.

Whether it was that Ollendon had decided to profit by her relations with the Chouans, or that Fouche had learned that she was in need and would not refuse good pay for her services, Mme. de Vaubadon was induced to enter into communication with the police. The man whom in 1793 Charlotte Corday had immortally branded with a word, Senator Doulcet de Pontecoulant, undertook to gain this recruit for the imperial government.

If certain traditions are to be trusted, Pontecoulant, who was supposed to be one of Acquet de Ferolles' protectors, had insinuated to Mme. de Vaubadon that "her intrigues with the royalists had long been known in high places, and an order for her arrest and that of d'Ache, who was said to be her lover, was about to be issued." "You understand," he added, "that the Emperor is as merciful as he is powerful, that he has a horror of punishment and only wants to conciliate, but that he must crush, at all costs, the aid given to England by the agitation on the coasts. Redeem your past. You know d'Ache's retreat: get him to leave France; his return will be prevented, but the certainty of his embarkation is wanted, and you will be furnished with agents who will be able to testify to it."

In this way Mme. de Vaubadon would be led to the idea of revealing d'Ache's retreat, believing that it was only a question of getting him over to England; but facts give slight support to this sugared version of the affair. After the particularly odious drama that we are about to relate, all who had taken part in it tried to prove for themselves a moral alibi, and to throw on subordinates the horror of a crime that had been long and carefully prepared. Fouche, whom few memories disturbed, was haunted by this one, and attributed to himself a role as chivalrous as unexpected. According to him, d'Ache, in extremity, had tried a bold stroke. This man, who, since Georges' death, had so fortunately escaped all the spies of France, had of his own will suddenly presented himself before the Minister of Police, to convert him to royalist doctrines! Fouche had shown a loyalty that equalled his visitor's boldness. "I do not wish," he said, "to take advantage of your boldness and have you arrested hic et nunc; I give you three days to get out of France; during this time I will ignore you completely; on the fourth day I will set my men on you, and if you are taken you must bear the consequences."

This is honourable, but without doubt false. Besides the improbability of this conspirator offering himself without reason to the man who had hunted him so long, it is difficult to imagine that such a meeting could have taken place without any mention of it being made in the correspondence in the case. None of the letters exchanged between the Minister of Police and the prefects makes any allusion to this visit; it seems to accord so little with the character of either that it must be relegated to the ranks of the legends with which Fouche sought to hide his perfidies. It is certain that a snare was laid for d'Ache, that Mme. de Vaubadon was the direct instrument, that Pontecoulant acted as intermediary between the minister and the woman; but the inventor of the stratagem is unknown. A simple recital of the facts will show that all three of those named are worthy to have combined in it.

Public rumour asserts that Mme. de Vaubadon had been d'Ache's mistress, but she did not now know where he was hidden. In the latter part of August, 1809, she went to Bayeux to find out from her friend Mlle. Duquesnay de Montfiquet if d'Ache was in the neighbourhood, and if so, with whom. Mlle. de Montfiquet, knowing Mme. de Vaubadon to be one of the outlaw's most intimate friends, told her that he had been living in the town for a long time, and that she went to see him every week. The matter ended there, and after paying some visits, Mme. de Vaubadon returned by coach the same evening to Caen.

It became known later that she had a long interview with Pontecoulant the next day, during which it was agreed that she should deliver up d'Ache, in return for which Fouche would pay her debts and give her a pension. But she attached a strange condition to the bargain; she refused "to act with the authorities, and only undertook to keep her promise if they put at her disposal, while leaving her completely independent, a non-commissioned officer of gendarmerie, whom she was to choose herself, and who would blindly obey her orders, without having to report to his chiefs." Perhaps the unfortunate woman hoped to retain d'Ache's life in her keeping, and save him by some subterfuge, but she had to deal with Pontecoulant, Real and Fouche, three experienced players whom it was difficult to deceive. They accepted her conditions, only desiring to get hold of d'Ache, and determined to do away with him as soon as they should know where to catch him.

On Thursday, September 5th, Mme. de Vaubadon reappeared in Bayeux, and went to Mlle. Duquesnay de Montfiquet to tell her of the imminent danger d'Ache was in, and to beg her to ensure his safety by putting her in communication with him. We now follow the story of a friend of Mme. de Vaubadon's family who tried to prove her innocent, if not of treachery, at least of the crime that was the result of it. Mlle. de Montfiquet had great confidence in her friend's loyalty, but not in her discretion, and obstinately refused to take Mme. de Vaubadon to d'Ache. The former, fearing that action would be taken without her, returned to the charge, but encountered a firm determination to be silent that rendered her insistence fruitless. In despair at the possibility of having aroused suspicions that might lead to the disappearance of d'Ache, she resolved not to leave the place.

"I do not wish to be seen in Bayeux," she said to her friend, "I am going to sleep here."

"But I have only one bed."

"I will share it with you."

During the night, as the two women's thoughts kept them from sleeping, Mme. de Vaubadon changed her tactics.

"You have no means of saving him," she hinted, "whilst all my plans are laid. I have at my disposal a boat that for eight or nine hundred francs will take him to England; I have some one to take him to the coast, and two sailors to man the boat. If you will not tell me his retreat, at least make a rendezvous where my guide can meet him. If you refuse he may be arrested to-morrow, tried, and shot, and the responsibility for his death will fall on you."

Mlle. de Montfiquet gave up; she promised to persuade d'Ache to go to England. It was now Friday, September 6th. It was settled that at ten o'clock in the evening of the following day she herself should take him to the village of Saint-Vigor-le-Grand, at the gates of Bayeux. She would advance alone to meet the guide sent by Mme. de Vaubadon; the men would say "Samson," to which Mlle. de Montfiquet would answer "Felix," and only after the exchange of these words would she call d'Ache, hidden at a distance.

Mme. de Vaubadon returned to Caen, arriving at home before midday. Most of the frequenters of her salon at this period were aspirants for her favours, and among whom was a young man of excellent family, M. Alfred de Formigny, very much in love, and consequently very jealous of Ollendon, who was then supposed to be the favoured lover. In the evening of this day, M. de Formigny went to Mme. de Vaubadon's. He was told that she was not at home, but as he saw a light on the ground floor, and thought he could distinguish the silhouette of a man against the curtains, he watched the house and ascertained that its mistress was having an animated conversation with a visitor whose back only could be seen, and whom he believed to be his rival. Wishing to make sure of it, and determined to have an explanation, he stood sentinel before the door of the house. "Soon a man wrapped in a cloak came out, who, seeing that he was watched, pulled the folds of it up to his eyes. M. de Formigny, certain that it was Ollendon, threw himself on the man, and forced off the cloak." But he felt very sheepish when he found himself face to face with Foison, quartermaster of gendarmerie, who, not less annoyed, growled out a few oaths, and hastily made off. The same evening M. de Formigny told his adventure to some of his friends, but his indiscretion had no consequences, it seemed, Mme. de Vaubadon's reputation being so much impaired that a new scandal passed unnoticed.

Meanwhile Mlle. de Montfiquet had kept her promise. As soon as her friend left her, she went to Mlle. Dumesnil's, where d'Ache had lived for the last six weeks, and told him of Mme. de Vaubadon's proposition. The offer was so tempting, it seemed so truly inspired by the most zealous and thoughtful affection, and came from so trusted a friend, that he did not hesitate to accept. It appears, however, that he was not in much danger in Bayeux, and took little pains to conceal himself, for on Saturday morning he piously took the sacrament at the church of Saint-Patrice, then returned to Mlle. Dumesnil's and arranged some papers. As soon as it was quite dark that evening Mlle. de Montfiquet came to fetch him, and found him ready to start. He was dressed in a hunting jacket of blue cloth, trousers of ribbed green velvet and a waistcoat of yellow pique. He put two loaded English pistols in the pockets of his jacket and carried a sword-cane. Mlle. de Montfiquet gave him a little book of "Pensees Chretiennes," in which she had written her name; then, accompanied by her servant, she led him across the suburbs to Saint-Vigor-le-Grand. She found Mme. de Vaubadon's guide at the rendezvous before the church door; it was Foison, whom she recognised. The passwords exchanged, d'Ache came forward, kissed Mlle. de Montfiquet's hand, bade her adieu, and started with the gendarme. The anxious old lady followed him several steps at a distance, and saw standing at the end of the wall of the old priory of Saint-Vigor, two men in citizen's dress, who joined the travellers. All four took the cross road that led by the farm of Caugy to Villiers-le-Sec. They wished, by crossing the Seule at Reviers, to get to the coast at Luc-sur-Mer, seven leagues from Bayeux, where the embarkation was to take place.

* * * * *

When d'Ache and his companions left Bayeux, Luc-sur-Mer was in a state of excitement. The next day, Sunday, lots were to be drawn for the National Guard, and the young people of the village, knowing that this fete was only "conscription in disguise," had threatened to prevent the ceremony, to surround the Mairie and burn the registers and the recruiting papers. What contributed to the general uneasiness was the fact that four men who were known to be gendarmes in disguise had been hovering about, chiefly on the beach; they had had the audacity to arrest two gunners, coast-guards in uniform and on duty, and demand their papers. A serious brawl had ensued. At night the same men "suddenly thrust a dark lantern in the face of every one they met."

M. Boullee, the Mayor of Luc, lived at the hamlet of Notre-Dame-de-la-Delivrande, some distance from the town, and in much alarm at the disturbances watched with his servants through part of the night of the 7th-8th. At one o'clock in the morning, while he was with them in a room on the ground floor, a shot was heard outside and a ball struck the window frame. They rushed to the door, and in the darkness saw a man running away; the cartouche was still burning in the courtyard. M. Boullee immediately sent to the coast-guards to inform them of the fact, and to ask for a reinforcement of two men who did not arrive till near four o'clock. Having passed the night patrolling at some distance from La Delivrande, they had not heard the shot that had alarmed the mayor, but towards half-past three had heard firing and a loud "Help, help!" in the direction of the junction of the road from Bayeux with that leading to the sea.

It was now dawn and M. Boullee, reassured by the presence of the two gunners, resolved to go out and explore the neighbourhood. On the road to Luc, about five hundred yards from his house, a peasant hailed him, and showed him, behind a hayrick almost on the edge of the road, the body of a man. The face had received so many blows as to be almost unrecognisable; the left eye was coming out of the socket; the hair was black, but very grey on the temples, and the beard thin and short. The man lay on his back, with a loaded pistol on each side, about two feet from the body; the blade and sheath of a sword-cane had rolled a little way off, and near them was the broken butt-end of a double-barrelled gun. On raising the corpse to search the pockets, the hands were found to be strongly tied behind the back. No papers were found that could give any clue to his identity, but only a watch, thirty francs in silver, and a little book on the first page of which was written the name "Duquesnay de Montfiquet."

The growing daylight now made an investigation possible. Traces of blood were found on the road to Luc from the place where the body lay, to its junction with the road to Bayeux, a distance of about two hundred yards. It was evident that the murder had been committed at the spot where the two roads met, and that the assassins had carried the corpse to the fields and behind the hayrick to retard discovery of the crime. The disguised gendarmes whose presence had so disturbed the townsfolk had disappeared. A horse struck by a ball was lying in a ditch. It was raised, and though losing a great deal of blood, walked as far as the village of Mathieu, on the road to Caen, where it was stabled.

These facts having been ascertained, M. Boullee's servants and the peasants whom curiosity had attracted to the spot, escorted the dead body, which had been put on a wheelbarrow, to La Delivrande. It was laid in a barn near the celebrated chapel of pilgrimages, and there the autopsy took place at five in the afternoon. It was found that "death was due to a wound made by the blade of the sword-cane; the weapon, furiously turned in the body, had lacerated the intestines." Three balls had, besides, struck the victim, and five buckshot had hit him full in the face and broken several teeth; of two balls fired close to the body, one had pierced the chest above the left breast, and the other had broken the left thigh, and one of the murderers had struck the face so violently that his gun had broken against the skull.

The mayor had been occupied with the drawing of lots all day, and only found time to write and inform the prefect of the murder when the doctors had completed their task. He was in great perplexity, for the villagers unanimously accused the gendarmes of the mysterious crime. It was said that at dawn that morning the quartermaster Foison and four of his men had gone into an inn at Mathieu, one of them carrying a gun with the butt-end broken. While breakfasting, these "gentlemen," not seeing a child lying in a closed bed, had taken from a tin box some "yellow coins" which they divided, and the inference drawn was that the gendarmes had plundered a traveller whom they knew to be well-supplied, and sure of impunity since they could always plead a case of rebellion, had got rid of him by murder. This was the sense of the letter sent to Caffarelli by the Mayor of Luc on the evening of the 8th. The next morning Foison appeared at La Delivrande to draw up the report. When Boullee asked him a few questions about the murder, he answered in so arrogant and menacing a tone as to make any enquiry impossible. Putting on a bold face, he admitted that he had been present at the scene of the crime. He said that while he was patrolling the road to Luc with four of his men, two individuals appeared whom he asked for their papers. One of them immediately fled, and the other discharged his pistols; the gendarmes seized him, and in spite of his desperate resistance succeeded in bringing him down. He stayed dead on the ground, "having been struck several times during the struggle."

"But his pistols were still loaded," said some one.

Foison made no reply.

"But his hands were tied," said the mayor.

Foison tried to deny it.

"Here are the bands," said Boullee, drawing from his pocket the ribbon taken from the dead man's hands. And as Captain Mancel, who presided at the interview, remarked that those were indeed the bands used by gendarmes, Foison left the room with more threats, swearing that he owed an account to no one.

The news of the crime had spread with surprising rapidity, and indignation was great wherever it was heard. In writing to Real, Caffarelli echoed public feeling:

"How did it happen that four gendarmes were unable to seize a man who had struggled for a long time? How came it that he was, in a way, mutilated? Why, after having killed this man, did they leave him there, without troubling to comply with any of the necessary formalities? Ask these questions, M. le Comte; the public is asking them and finds no answer. What is the reply, if, moreover, as is said, the person was seized, his hands tightly tied behind his back, and then shot? What are the terrible consequences to be expected from these facts if they are true? How will the gendarmes be able to fulfil their duties without fear of being treated as assassins or wild beasts?"

It must be mentioned that as soon as the crime was committed, Foison had gone to Caen and given Pontecoulant the papers found on d'Ache, which contained information as to the political and military situation on the coast of Normandy, and on the possibility of a disembarkation. Pontecoulant had immediately posted off, and on the morning of the 11th told Fouche verbally of the manner in which Foison and Mme. de Vaubadon had acquitted themselves of their mission. It remained to be seen how the public would take things, and Caffarelli's letter presaged no good; what would it be when it became known that the gendarme assassins had acted with the authorisation of the government? Happily, a confusion arose that retarded the discovery of the truth. In the hope of determining the dead man's identity, the Mayor of Luc had exposed the body to view, and many had come to see it, including some people from Caen. Four of these had unanimously recognised the corpse as that of a clock-maker of Paris, named Morin-Cochu, well known at the fairs of Lower Normandy. Fouche allowed the public to follow this false trail, and it was wonderful to see his lieutenants, Desmarets, Veyrat, Real himself, looking for Morin-Cochu all over Paris as if they were ignorant of the personality of their victim. And when Morin-Cochu was found alive and well in his shop in the Rue Saint-Denis, which he had not left for four years, they began just as zealously to look for his agent Festau, who might well be the murdered man.

Caffarelli, however, was not to be caught in this clumsy trap. He knew how matters stood now, and showed his indignation. He wrote very courageously to Real: "You will doubtless ask me, M. le Comte, why I have not tried to show up the truth? My answer is simple: it is publicly rumoured that the expedition of the gendarmes was ordered by M. the Senator Comte de P——, to whom were given the papers found on the murdered man, and who has gone to Paris, no doubt to transmit them to his Excellency the Minister of Police. Ought I not to respect the secret of the authorities?"

And all that had occurred in his department for the two last years that it had not been considered advisable to tell him of, all the irregularities that in his desire for peace he had thought he should shut his eyes to, all the affronts that he had patiently endured, came back to his mind. He felt his heart swell with disgust at cowardly acts, dishonourable tools, and odious snares, and nobly explained his feelings:

"Certainly I am not jealous of executing severe measures and I should like never to have any of that kind to enforce. But I owe it to myself as well as to the dignity of my office not to remain prefect in name only, and if any motives whatever can destroy confidence in me to this point on important matters I must simply be told of it and I shall know how to resign without murmuring. It is not permissible to treat a man whose honesty and zeal cannot be mistaken, in the manner in which I have been treated for some time. I cannot conceal from you, M. le Comte, that I am keenly wounded at the measures that have been taken towards me. It has been thought better to put faith in people of tarnished and despicable reputation, the terror of families, than in a man who has only sought the good of the country he represented, and known no other ambition than that of acting wisely."

And this letter, so astonishing from the pen of an imperial prefect, was a sort of revenge for all the poor people for whom the police had laid such odious traps; it would remind Fouche of all the Licquets and Foisons who in the exercise of justice found matter for repugnant comedies. It was surprising that Licquet had had no hand in the affair of La Delivrande. Had he breathed it to Real? It is possible, though there is no indication of his interference, albeit his manner is recognised in the scenario of the snare to which d'Ache fell a victim, and in the fact that he appeared at the end, coming from Rouen with his secretary Dupont, and the husband of the woman Levasseur who was said to have been d'Ache's mistress.

On the morning of September 23d, a meeting took place at seven o'clock at the Mayor of Luc's house. The doctors who had held the autopsy were there, Captain Mancel and Foison, who was in great agitation, although he tried to hide it, at having to assist at the exhumation of his victim. They started for the cemetery, and the grave-digger did his work. After fifteen minutes the shovel struck the board that covered d'Ache's body, and soon after the corpse was seen. The beard had grown thick and strong. Foison gazed at it. It was indeed the man with whom he had travelled a whole night, chatting amiably while each step brought him nearer to the assassins who were waiting for him. Licquet moved about with complete self-control, talking of the time when he had known the man who lay there, his face swollen but severe, his nose thin as an eagle's beak, his lips tightened. Suddenly the detective remembered a sign that he had formerly noted, and ordered the dead man's boots to be removed. All present could then see that d'Ache's "toe-nails were so grown over into his flesh that he walked on them." Foison also saw, and wishing to brave this corpse, more terrifying for him than for any one else, he stooped and opened the dead lips with the end of his cane. A wave of fetid air struck the assassin full in the face, and he fell backward with a cry of fear.

This incident terminated the enquiry; the body was returned to the earth, and those who had been present at the exhumation started for La Delivrande. Foison walked alone behind the others; no one spoke to him, and when they arrived at the mayor's, where all had been invited to dine, he remained on the threshold which he dared not cross, knowing that for the rest of his life he would never again enter the house of an honest man.

The same evening at Caen, where everything was known, although Fouche was still looking for Morin-Cochu, the vengeance of the corpse annihilating Foison was the topic of all conversations. There was a certain gaiety in the town, that was proud of its prefect's attitude. When the curtain went up at the theatre, while all the young "swells" were in the orchestra talking of the event that was agitating "society," they saw a blonde woman with a red scarf on her shoulders in one of the boxes. The first one that saw her could not believe his eyes: it was Mme. de Vaubadon! The name was at first whispered, then a murmur went round that at last broke into an uproar. The whole theatre rose trembling, and with raised fists cried: "Down with the murderess! She is the woman with the red shawl; it is stained with d'Ache's blood. Death to her!"

The unhappy woman tried to put on a bold face, and remained calm; it is supposed that Pontecoulant was in the theatre, and perhaps she hoped that he, at least, would champion her. But when she understood that in that crowd, among whom many perhaps had loved her, no one now would defend her, she rose and left her box, while some of the most excited hustled into the corridor to hoot her in passing. She at last escaped and got to her house in the Rue Guilbert, and the next day she left Caen forever.

Less culpable certainly, and now pitied by all to whom d'Ache's death recalled the affair of Quesnay, Mme. Acquet was spending her last days in the conciergerie at Rouen. After the petition for a reprieve on account of her pregnancy, and the visit of two doctors, who said they could not admit the truth of her plea, Ducolombier used all his efforts to obtain grace from the Emperor. As soon as the sentence was pronounced he had hurried to Paris in quest of means of approaching his Majesty. His relative, Mme. de Saint-Leonard, wife of the Mayor of Falaise, joined him there, and got her relatives in official circles to interest themselves. But the Emperor was then living in a state of continual agitation; Laeken, Mayence and Cassel were as familiar stopping-places as Saint-Cloud and Fontainebleau, and even if a few minutes' audience could be obtained, what hope was there of fixing his attention on the life of an insignificant woman? Chauveau-Lagarde advised the intervention of Mme. Acquet's three girls, the eldest now twelve, and the youngest not eight years old. Mourning garments were hastily bought for them, and they were sent to Paris on January 24th, with a Mlle. Bodinot. Every day they pursued the Emperor's carriage through the town, as he went to visit the manufactories. Timoleon, Mme. de Saint-Leonard, and Mlle. de Seran took turns with the children; they went to Malmaison, to Versailles, to Meudon. At last, on March 2d, at Sevres, one of the children succeeded in getting to the door of the imperial carriage, and put a petition into the hands of an officer, but it probably never reached the Emperor, for this step that had cost so much money and trouble remained ineffectual.

There are among Mme. de Combray's papers more than ten drafts of petitions addressed to the Emperor's brothers, to Josephine, and even to foreign princes. But each of them had much to ask for himself, and all were afraid to importune the master. The latter was now in Germany, cutting his way to Vienna, and poor Mme. Acquet would have had slight place in his thoughts in spite of the illusions of her friends, had he ever even heard her name. In April the little Acquets returned to Mme. Dusaussay in Rouen. She wrote to Timoleon:

"I am not surprised that you were not satisfied with the children; until now they have only been restrained by fear, and the circumstances of the journey to Paris brought them petting and kindness of which they have taken too much advantage. If worse trouble comes to Mme. Acquet, we will do our best to keep them in ignorance of it, and it is to be hoped the same can be done for your mother."

And so all hope of grace seemed lost for the poor woman, and it would have been very easy to forget her in prison, for who could be specially interested in her death? Neither Fouche, Real, the prefect nor even Licquet, who, once the verdict was given, seemed to have lost all animosity towards his victims. Only the imperial procurer, Chapais-Marivaux, seemed determined on the execution of the sentence. He had already caused two consultations to be held on the subject of Mme. Acquet's health. The specialists could not or would not decide upon it, and this gave some hope to Mme. de Combray, who from her cell in Bicetre still presided over all efforts made for her daughter, and continued to hold a firm hand over her family.

As the Emperor had now entered Vienna in triumph, the Marquise thought it a good time to implore once more the conqueror's pity. She sent for her son Timoleon on June 1st. She had decided to send her two eldest grandchildren to Vienna with their aunt Mme. d'Houel and the faithful Ducolombier, who offered to undertake the long journey. Chauveau-Lagarde drew up a petition for the children to give to Napoleon, and they left Rouen about July 10th, arriving in Vienna the fortnight following the battle of Wagram. Ducolombier at once sought a means of seeing the Emperor. Hurried by the Marquise, who allowed no discussion of the methods that seemed good to her, he had started without recommendations, letters of introduction or promises of an audience, and had to wait for chance to give him a moment's interview with Napoleon. He established himself with Mme. d'Houel and the children at Schoebruenn, where the imperial quarters were, and by dint of solicitations obtained the privilege of going into the court of the chateau with other supplicants.

The Emperor was away; he had wished to revisit the scene of his brilliant victory, and during the whole day Ducolombier and his companions waited his return on the porch of the chateau. Towards evening the gate opened, the guard took up arms, drums beat and the Emperor appeared on horseback in the immense courtyard, preceded by his guides and his mameluke, and followed by a numerous staff. The hearts of the poor little Acquets must have beaten fast when they saw this master of the world from whom they were going to beg their mother's life. In a moment the Emperor was upon them; Ducolombier pushed them; they fell on their knees.

Seeing these mourning figures, Napoleon thought he had before him the widow and orphans of some officer killed during the campaign. He raised the children kindly.

"Sire! Give us back our mother!" they sobbed.

The Emperor, much surprised, took the petition from Mme. d'Houel's hands and read it through. There were a few moments of painful silence; he raised his eyes to the little girls, asked Ducolombier a few brief questions, then suddenly starting on,

"I cannot," he said drily.

And he disappeared among the groups humbly bowing in the hall. Some one who witnessed the scene relates that the Emperor was very much moved when reading the petition. "He changed colour several times, tears were in his eyes and his voice trembled." The Duke of Rovigo asserted that pardon would be granted; the Emperor's heart had already pronounced it, but he was very angry with the minister of police, who after having made a great fuss over this affair and got all the credit, left him supreme arbiter without having given him any information concerning it.

"If the case is a worthy one," said Napoleon, "why did he not send me word of it? and if it is not, why did he give passports to a family whom I am obliged to send away in despair?"

The poor children had indeed to return to France, knowing that they took, as it were, her death sentence to their mother. Each relay that brought them nearer to her was a step towards the scaffold; nothing could now save the poor woman, and she waited in resignation. Never, since Le Chevalier's death, had she lost the impassive manner that had astonished the spectators in court. Whether solitude had altered her ardent nature, or whether she looked on death as the only possible end to her adventurous existence, she seemed indifferent as to her fate, and thought no longer of the future. Licquet had long abandoned her; he had been "her last friend." Of all the survivors of the affair of Quesnay she was the only one left in the conciergerie, the others having gone to serve their terms in Bicetre or other fortresses.

Whilst it had seemed possible that Mme. Acquet's friends might obtain the Emperor's interest in her case, she had received great care and attention, but since the return of her daughters from Vienna things had changed. She had become once more "the woman Acquet," and the interest that had been taken in her gave place to brutal indifference. On August 23d (and this date probably accords with the return of the children and their aunt) Chapais-Marivaux, in haste to end the affair, sent three health-officers to examine her, but these good people, knowing the consequence of their diagnosis, declared that "the symptoms made it impossible for them to pronounce an opinion on the state of the prisoner."

Chapais-Marivaux took a month to find doctors who would not allow pity to interfere with their professional duty, and on October 6th the prefect wrote to Real: "M. le Procureur-General has just had the woman Acquet examined by four surgeons, three of whom had not seen her before. They have certified that she is not pregnant, and so she is to be executed to-day."

We know nothing of the way in which she prepared for death, nor of the feeling which the news of her imminent execution must have occasioned in the prison; but when she was handed over to the executioner for the final arrangements, Mme. Acquet wrote two or three letters to beg that her children might never fall into her husband's hands. Her toilet was then made; her beautiful black hair, which she had cut off on coming to the conciergerie two years previously, fell now under the executioner's scissors; she put on a sort of jacket of white flannel, and her hands were tied behind her back. She was now ready; it was half past four in the afternoon, the doors opened, and a squad of gendarmes surrounded the cart.

The cortege went by the "Gros-Horloge" to the "Vieux-Marche." Some one who saw Mme. Acquet pass, seated in the cart beside the executioner Ferey, says that "her white dress and short black hair blowing in her face made the paleness of her skin conspicuous; she was neither downcast nor bold; the sentence was cried aloud beside the cart."

She died calmly, as she had lived for months. At five o'clock she appeared on the platform, very white and very tranquil; unresisting, she let them tie her; without fear or cry she lay on the board which swung and carried her under the knife. Her head fell without anything happening to retard the execution, and the authorities congratulated themselves on the fact in the report sent to Real that evening: "The thing caused no greater sensation than that ordinarily produced by similar events; the rather large crowd did not give the slightest trouble."

And those who had stayed to watch the scaffold disappeared before the gendarmes escorting the men who had come to take away the body. A few followed it to the cemetery of Saint-Maur where the criminals were usually buried. The basket was emptied into a ditch that had been dug not far from a young tree to which some unknown hand had attached a black ribbon, to mark the spot which neither cross nor tombstone might adorn. The rain and wind soon destroyed this last sign; and nothing now remains to show the corner of earth in the deserted and abandoned cemetery in which still lies the body of the woman whose rank in other times would have merited the traditional epitaph: "A very high, noble and powerful lady."



CHAPTER X

THE CHOUANS SET FREE

A letter in a woman's handwriting, addressed to Timoleon de Combray, Hotel de la Loi, Rue de Richelieu, its black seal hastily broken, contains these words: "Alas, my dear cousin, you still continued to hope when all hope was over.... I cannot leave your mother and I am anxious about M. de Bonnoeil's condition."

This is all that we can glean of the manner in which Mme. Acquet's mother and brothers learned of her execution on October 6th. Mme. de Combray at least displayed a good deal of energy, if not great calmness. After the winter began, the letters she wrote Timoleon regained their natural tone. The great sorrow seems to have been forgotten; they all were leagued together against Acquet, who still reigned triumphant at Donnay, and threatened to absorb the fortune of the whole family. The trial had cost an enormous sum. Besides the money stolen in the woods at Quesnay, which the Marquise had to refund, she had been obliged to spend money freely in order to "corrupt Licquet," for Chauveau-Lagarde's fee, for her advocate Maitre Gady de la Vigne, and for Ducolombier's journeys to Paris and Vienna with the little girls,—the whole outlay amounting to nearly 125,000 francs; and as the farms at Tournebut were tenantless, while Acquet retained all the estates in lower Normandy and would not allow them anything, the Marquise and her sons found their income reduced to almost nothing. There remained not a single crown of the 25,000 francs deposited in August, 1807, with Legrand. All had been spent on "necessaries for the prisoners, or in their interests."

Acquet was intractable. When the time for settling up came, he refused insolently to pay his share of the lawsuit or for his children's education. "Mme. de Combray, in order to carry out her own frenzied plots," he stated, "had foolishly used her daughter's money in paying her accomplices, and now she came and complained that Mme. Acquet lacked bread and that she supported her, besides paying for the children's schooling.... Mme. Acquet left her husband's house on the advice of her mother who wished to make an accomplice of her. They took away the children, their father did not even know the place of their retreat, and the very persons who had abducted them came and asked him for the cost of their maintenance."

This was his plea; to which the Combrays replied: "The fee of Mme. Acquet's lawyer, the expenses of the journey to Vienna and of the little girls' stay in Paris that they might beg for their mother's pardon, devolved, if not on the prisoner's husband, at least on her young children as her heirs; and in any case Acquet ought to pay the bill." But the latter, who was placed in a very strong position by the services he had rendered Real and by the protection of Pontecoulant, with whom he had associated himself, replied that Chauveau-Lagarde, while pretending to plead for Mme. Acquet, had in reality only defended Mme. de Combray: "All Rouen who heard the counsel's speech bears witness that the daughter was sacrificed to save the mother.... The real object of their solicitude had been the Marquise. Certainly they took very little interest in their sister, and the moment her eyes were closed in death, were base enough to ask for her funeral expenses in court, and hastened to denounce her children to the Minister of Public Affairs in order that they might be forced to pay for the sentence pronounced against their mother."

The case thus stated, the discussion could only become a scandal. Bonnoeil disclosed the fact that his brother-in-law, on being asked by a third person what influences he could bring to bear in order to obtain Mme. Acquet's pardon, had replied that "such steps offered little chance of success, and that from the moment the unhappy woman was condemned, the best way to save her from dying on the scaffold, would be to poison her in prison." A fresh suit was begun. The correspondence which passed between the exasperated Combrays and their brother-in-law, who succeeded in maintaining his self-control, must have made all reconciliation impossible. A letter in Bonnoeil's handwriting is sufficient to illustrate the style:

"Is it charitable for an old French chevalier, a defender of the Faith and of the Throne, to increase the sorrows on which his two brothers-in-law are feeding in the silence of oblivion? Does he hope in his exasperation that he will be able to force them into a repetition of the story of the crimes committed by Desrues, Cartouche, Pugatscheff, Shinderhannes, and other impostors, thieves, garrotters and ruffians, who have rendered themselves famous by their murders, poisonings, cruelties and cowardly actions? They promise that, once their case is decided, they will not again trouble Sieur Acquet de Ferolles."

The invectives were, to say the least, ill-timed. The Combrays had gone to law in order to force this man, whom they compared to the most celebrated assassins, to undertake the education of their sister's three children. These orphans, for whose schooling at the Misses Dusaussay's no one was ready to pay, were pitied by all who knew of their situation. Some pious ladies mentioned it to the Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen, who kindly offered to subscribe towards the cost of their education. The Combrays proudly refused, for which Acquet naturally blamed them. "They think their nieces would be dishonoured by accepting a favour," he wrote.

Mme. de Combray might perhaps have yielded, if any one had made her understand that her granddaughters were the only stake she had left. In fact, since Mme. Acquet's death, no stone had been left unturned to obtain the old Marquise's pardon. Ducolombier even went to Navarre to entreat the help of the Empress Josephine, whose credit did not stand very high. We can understand that after the official notification of the imperial divorce, and as soon as the great event became known, the Combrays, renouncing their relationship (which was of the very slightest) with the Tascher de la Pageries, began immediately to count in advance on the clemency of the future Empress, be she who she might. When it was certain that an Archduchess was to succeed General Beauharnais's widow on the throne of France, Ducolombier set out for Vienna in the hope of outstripping the innumerable host of those who went there as petitioners. It does not appear that he got farther than Carlsruhe, and his journey was absolutely fruitless; but it soon became known that the imperial couple intended making a triumphal progress through the north of France, ending at Havre or Rouen, and it was then decided that the little Acquets should appear again.

At three o'clock in the afternoon of May 30th, the Emperor and Empress arrived at Rouen. Ducolombier, walking in front of the three little girls, who were escorted by Mlle. Querey, tried to force a passage for them through the streets leading to the imperial residence, but could not get into the house, and was obliged to content himself with handing the petition, drawn up by Chauveau-Legarde, to the King of Westphalia. He hoped the next day to be able to place the children on the Emperor's route as he was on his way to visit some spinning mills; but as soon as he was in the street with the orphans, he learnt that Napoleon had inspected the factories at half past three in the morning, and that his departure was fixed for ten o'clock. Branzon, a revenue collector and friend of Licquet's procured the little Acquets a card from the prefect, by showing which they were allowed to wait at the door of the Emperor's residence. We quote the very words of the letter written the same day by Ducolombier to Bonnoeil and the old Marquise:

"Mlle. Querey and the three little girls were permitted to wait at the door of the prefecture where, as you must know, they allow no one. As soon as their Majesties' carriage came out, little Caroline cried out to the Empress. The Emperor lowered the window to take the petition, and handed it to the Empress, as it was meant for her. The Empress bent forward in order to see them...."