The Tales of Hoffmann, page 4
‘I’ll wager,’ said Madame de Maintenon, ‘that, if I send out to Cardillac to learn for whom he made this jewellery, he would refuse to come here because he would fear another order and he absolutely will not do anything for me, although he does seem to be desisting from his inflexible obstinacy, for I hear he is now working more industriously than ever and is delivering his work on time, though still with ill-humour and an averted face.’
Mademoiselle Scudery, who also set great store on returning the jewellery to its rightful owner if that were still possible, thought they might tell the strange master that it was not his work but only his opinion that was required. This the Marquise agreed to. A message was sent to Cardillac and, as if he had already been on his way, in a short time he entered the room.
When he saw Mademoiselle Scudery he seemed embarrassed and confused: he bowed low to the worthy lady, and then turned to the Marquise, who asked him abruptly whether the jewellery which sparkled on the dark green table was his work. Cardillac hardly glanced at it but, his eyes fixed on the face of the Marquise, he quickly packed the bracelets and necklace back into the casket and pushed it violently away from him. Then, with an unpleasant smile, he said: ‘Indeed, Madame Marquise, one must have a very poor knowledge of René Cardillac’s work to believe even for a moment that any other goldsmith in the world could set such jewellery. Certainly it is my work.’
‘Tell me then,’ the Marquise continued, ‘for whom you made this jewellery.’
‘For myself,’ Cardillac replied. Madame Maintenon and Mademoiselle Scudery looked at him in amazement. ‘Yes, you might find that rather strange, Madame Marquise,’ he went on, ‘but it is a fact. Desiring some beautiful work, I collected all my finest stones together and worked more diligently and carefully than ever before, purely for the joy of it. The jewellery inexplicably disappeared from my workshop some time ago.’
‘Heaven be praised,’ cried Mademoiselle Scudery, her eyes shining with joy. She jumped up from the armchair like a young girl, stepped across to Cardillac, and laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Take it,’ she said, ‘Master René, take back the property which those villains stole from you.’
Now she told how she came to possess the jewellery. Cardillac listened to everything in silence and with downcast eyes. Only now and then did he emit an inaudible ‘Hm! So! Fancy! Oh!’ now placing his hands behind his back, now stroking his chin. As Mademoiselle Scudery concluded, it was as if Cardillac were battling with his thoughts, as if some decision were refusing to be made. He rubbed his brows, he sighed, he passed his hand over his eyes as if to control impending tears. Finally, he grasped the little box which Mademoiselle Scudery offered him, dropped slowly on to one knee, and said: ‘Fate has intended this jewellery for you, noble, worthy lady. Yes! I now realize for the first time that it was you I was thinking of while I worked. Yes! I was working for you. Do not disdain to take this from me and to wear it. This jewellery is indeed the finest I have made for a long time.’
‘Now, now!’ cried Mademoiselle Scudery, ‘what are you thinking of, Master René? Does it become me at my age to dress myself in jewels? And how comes it that you wish to make me such a magnificent gift? If I were as beautiful as the Marquise de Fontange, and as rich, I would not let the jewellery out of my hands; but what will such splendour do for these wrinkled arms, what will this sparkling finery do for this scrawny neck?’
Cardillac had risen and, as if beside himself, with a wild look he extended the box to Mademoiselle Scudery and said: ‘Have compassion on me, Mademoiselle, and take the jewels. You cannot believe what a profound admiration I have for your virtue, for your great merits! Accept my small gift if only to let me prove it to you.’
As Mademoiselle Scudery continued to hesitate, Madame Maintenon took the little casket from Cardillac’s hands and said: ‘Now, by Heaven, Mademoiselle, you are always talking of your great age; what have we to do with years, you and I, or with their burden? Do not behave like a young, bashful thing who would like to take the fruit if it could only be done without touching it. Do not reject honest Master René. Take as a gift what others cannot obtain for all the gold they have, for requests and supplications beyond number.’
Madame Maintenon had meanwhile forced the box on Mademoiselle Scudery. Now Cardillac dropped to his knees, kissed the hem of Mademoiselle Scudery’s skirt, kissed her hands, moaned, sighed, wept, sobbed, and ran out upsetting the armchair and table, so that the porcelain and glasses rattled together. ‘By all the saints, what has happened to the man?’ Mademoiselle Scudery cried.
The Marquise emitted a shrill laugh, and cried: ‘There we have it, Mademoiselle! Master René is desperately in love with you, and in accordance with practice and custom is with true gallantry beginning to storm your heart with rich gifts!’
She amplified the jest, admonished Mademoiselle Scudery not to be too cruel towards the desperate lover, and avowed that, if this was how matters stood, the world would soon behold the unexampled spectacle of a seventy-three years old lady of irreproachable aristocracy becoming the bride of a goldsmith. She volunteered to plait the bridal garland and to instruct Mademoiselle Scudery on the duties of a good housewife, for a young slip of a thing such as she was could certainly not know much about such matters.
When at last Mademoiselle Scudery rose to take leave of the Marquise, notwithstanding the jesting she became very serious again, since the jewel box was once more in her hands. She said: ‘To be sure, Marquise, I shall never be able to wear this jewellery. It has been in the hands of those fiends who, with the cheek of the Devil and, indeed, even in association with him, commit robbery and murder. I shudder at the blood which seems to cling to these gems. And now even Cardillac’s behaviour has, I must confess, for me something peculiarly unnerving and uncanny about it. I cannot resist a dark foreboding that behind all this there is some dreadful, terrible secret hidden. I cannot imagine how honest Master René, the model of a good, pious citizen, should have anything to do with such damnable evil. But this much is certain: I shall never dare to wear these jewels.’
The Marquise felt this was taking scruples too far. However, when Mademoiselle Scudery asked her, on her conscience, what she would do in her place, she answered seriously and firmly: ‘Sooner throw the jewels into the Seine than ever wear them.’
Mademoiselle Scudery penned some verses about her meeting with Master René, which she read the following evening to the King in Madame Maintenon’s apartments: the King laughed his sides sore, and swore that Boileau Despréaux had met his match, Mademoiselle Scudery’s poem being one of the wittiest ever written.
Several months later Mademoiselle Scudery was driving across the Pont Neuf in the glass coach belonging to the Duchess of Montansier. The invention was still so new that the gaping crowd encircling the coach almost blocked the horses’ path. Mademoiselle Scudery suddenly became aware of a swearing and cursing, and observed someone fighting and elbowing his way through the thickest part of the crowd; as he came nearer, she met the penetrating gaze of a deathly pale, grief-distorted youthful countenance. The young man stared at her as he made his way through, until he came within reach of the door of the carriage, which he tore open, threw a note into Mademoiselle Scudery’s lap and, dealing and receiving cuffs and blows, disappeared as he had come. Martinière, who was sitting next to Mademoiselle Scudery, collapsed in a faint against the cushions. In vain did Mademoiselle Scudery pull at the cord and call to the coachman: as if driven by an evil spirit, he whipped at the horses, which, foaming at the mouth, veered round, reared up, and thundered on across the bridge. Mademoiselle poured her smelling salts over the unconscious woman, who at length opened her eyes and, shaking and stammering and clutching hold of her mistress, stammered with difficulty: ‘In the name of the Holy Virgin, what did that dreadful man want? It was him, it was him – the same who brought you the little casket that awful night!’
Mademoiselle Scudery calmed the poor woman, and told her that nothing had happened and that it was only necessary to find out what the note contained. She unfolded the piece of paper, and read:
An evil fate which you can avert has hurled me into an abyss. I beseech you, take the necklace and bracelets which you received from me to René Cardillac under any pretext whatever – so as to have something improved or altered, perhaps. Your wellbeing, your life, depend on it. If you do not do this by the day after tomorrow, I shall force my way into your apartment and kill myself before your eyes.
‘Now it is certain,’ said Mademoiselle Scudery when she had read this, ‘that though this mysterious man may belong to the band of villainous thieves and murderers, he harbours no evil designs against me. If he had succeeded in speaking to me that night, perhaps he would have given me the key to these mysteries, which I now seek for in my soul in vain. But let happen what will, what is asked of me I will do, if only to be rid of this unlucky jewellery. Cardillac will not so easily let it out of his hands again.’
Mademoiselle Scudery intended to make her way to the goldsmith’s with the jewellery the next day, yet it was as if all the fine minds of Paris had agreed to besiege her that morning with poems, plays and anecdotes: hardly had La Chapelle finished the scene of a tragedy, and slyly assured her that he now believed he would conquer Racine, than the latter himself appeared and outdid him with a speech by some king or other. Noon was past, Mademoiselle Scudery had to visit the Duchess of Montansier, and Master René Cardillac had therefore to be postponed until the next day.
Mademoiselle Scudery felt tormented by a strange restlessness: the young man appeared constantly before her eyes, and an obscure memory seemed to want to rise from her innermost depths, as if she had seen that countenance, those features, before. Anxious dreams troubled the lightest slumber; it seemed to her that she had thoughtlessly failed to grasp the hand which the unfortunate fellow, sinking into the abyss, had stretched out to her, that she had failed to avert some ruinous event, some terrible crime. As soon as it was morning, she dressed and drove to the goldsmith’s, bearing the jewel box.
People were streaming towards the Rue Nicaise, where Cardillac lived, gathering around the door, shouting, making an uproar, trying to storm inside and being with difficulty prevented by men-at-arms who surrounded the house. In a wild, confused uproar, angry voices shouted: ‘Lynch him! tear the murderer to pieces!’
At length, Desgrais appeared with a party of men, who forced a way through the thickest part of the crowd. The main door burst open. A man weighed down with chains was brought out and dragged away under the curses of the furious mob. On the instant Mademoiselle Scudery, half fainting with terror and apprehension, became aware of all this, a wail of misery reached her ears.
‘On! Keep going!’ she cried to the coachman, who had with a rapid turn parted the crowd and stopped directly in front of Cardillac’s door. There she saw Desgrais, and at his feet a young girl, as lovely as the day, with her hair loose, half undressed, wild anxiety and hopeless despair in her face, who gripped him about the knees and cried in a tone of mortal agony: ‘But he is innocent! He is innocent!’
Desgrais’s efforts, and those of his men, to pull her away and stand her on her feet were in vain. A strong, rough youth finally laid hold on the poor girl, and tore her away from Desgrais by force; then he stumbled and let go of the girl, who fell down the steps and lay, motionless and as if dead, in the roadway. Mademoiselle Scudery could restrain herself no longer. ‘In Christ’s name, what has happened? What is going on here?’ she cried, and opened the door and climbed down. The people gave way to her; and she approached Desgrais and repeated her question.
‘A terrible thing has happened,’ said Desgrais. ‘René Cardillac was found murdered this morning by a dagger. His apprentice, Olivier Brusson, is the murderer. He has just been led away to prison.’
‘And the girl?’ cried Mademoiselle Scudery.
‘She’, said Desgrais, ‘is Madelon, Cardillac’s daughter. The wicked man was her lover. Now she is crying that Brusson is innocent, quite innocent. But she knows about the deed, and I must take her to the Conciergerie too.’
As he spoke, Desgrais threw a malicious glance at the girl, at which Mademoiselle Scudery trembled. The girl was beginning to breathe, but she still lay incapable of sound or movement, with her eyes closed. Deeply moved, Mademoiselle Scudery gazed at the angelic child and shuddered at the thought of Desgrais and his men. There was a muffled rumbling down the steps: they were bringing Cardillac’s body. With a sudden resolve, Mademoiselle Scudery cried: ‘I am taking the girl with me. You can look after the rest, Desgrais!’
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The women lifted the girl, everyone pressed round, a hundred pairs of hands laboured to assist them and, as if floating on air, the girl was borne into the carriage.
Dr Serons, one of the most famous physicians in Paris, finally succeeded in reviving Madelon. Mademoiselle Scudery completed what the doctor had begun, until at last a flood of tears gave vent to Madelon’s feelings. The overpowering pain of her words now and then choking her with great sobs, she tried to relate how everything had happened.
At about midnight she was awoken by a gentle knocking on her bedroom door, and she recognized Olivier’s voice imploring her to get up immediately – her father was dying, he said. She sprang up and opened the door. Olivier, pale, in disarray, and pouring with sweat, went with the light in his hand, reeling towards the workshop; she followed him. There lay her father in the throes of death. She threw herself upon him, and only then did she notice his bloodstained shirt. Olivier had gently drawn her away, and endeavoured to wash and bandage the wound in her father’s left side. During this time her father’s senses returned: he regarded her and then Olivier with a tender look, took hold of her hand, laid it in Olivier’s and pressed them both firmly. Olivier and she had gone on their knees by her father’s bed; with a piercing cry he raised himself up, but at once sank back again, and with a deep sigh passed away. Olivier had related how the master, on an errand which he had had to make with him that night, had been murdered in his presence, and how, with the greatest effort, he had carried the heavy man, whom he had not thought mortally wounded, back home. As soon as morning came, the occupants of the house, whose attention had been attracted by the banging, wailing and lamenting in the night, came up and found them, still quite inconsolable, on their knees beside her father’s body. Now there was uproar. The constables burst in and hauled Olivier off to prison as his master’s murderer. Madelon gave the most touching description of the virtue, piety and loyalty of her beloved Olivier: how he had held his master in high esteem, as if he had been his own father; how the latter had returned his love in full; how, in spite of Olivier’s poverty, he had chosen him as his son-in-law, because his skill equalled his loyalty and noble spirit. All this Madelon related from the depths of her heart, and ended by saying that, even if Olivier had stabbed her father in her own presence, she would sooner regard it as a trick of Satan’s than believe him capable of so dreadful and gruesome a crime.
Mademoiselle Scudery, deeply touched by Madelon’s sufferings and inclined to regard the poor Olivier as innocent, made enquiries and confirmed everything Madelon had said as to the relations between master and apprentice. The other occupants of the house, the neighbours, all concurred in praising Olivier as a model of piety, loyalty and diligence; no one knew anything ill of him, and when the dreadful deed was mentioned, each shrugged his shoulders and said there was something incomprehensible about it.
Brought before the Chambre ardente, so Mademoiselle Scudery learned, Olivier steadfastly denied his guilt, and asserted that his master had been attacked in the street in his presence, and that he had dragged him back home still alive. This, too, accorded with Madelon’s tale.
Mademoiselle Scudery had the details of the dreadful event repeated to her again and again. She inquired whether there had ever been any dispute between master and apprentice; whether perhaps Olivier was not entirely free of that violent temper which often overcomes even the most good-natured people and can lead to irrational deeds. The more Madelon spoke of the domestic happiness in which the three of them had lived, the more completely every shadow of suspicion against Olivier vanished away. Even discounting everything which spoke for his innocence, Mademoiselle Scudery could find not a single motive for the deed. ‘He is poor, but gifted. He gained the affection of one of the most famous of master craftsmen and fell in love with his daughter; the master looked kindly on his love; happiness and prosperity opened to him!’ Convinced of Olivier’s innocence, Mademoiselle Scudery resolved to save the innocent youth whatever the cost.
Before appealing to the King’s mercy, she approached La Regnie, to acquaint him with all the circumstances which spoke for Olivier’s innocence, and thus perhaps to arouse in his soul a favourable disposition towards the accused which might communicate itself to the judges. La Regnie received Mademoiselle Scudery with the respect due to a lady esteemed by the King himself; he listened in silence to everything she said; but a thin, almost mocking smile was the only indication he gave that her protestations, accompanied by frequent tears, did not fall on completely deaf ears. As Mademoiselle, quite exhausted, dried the tears from her eyes and at last fell silent, La Regnie began: ‘It is worthy of your splendid heart, dear lady, that, touched by the tears of a young, lovesick girl, you should believe everything she puts to you; indeed, that you should be incapable of grasping the idea of so dreadful a crime. But it is quite otherwise with the judge, who is used to unmasking hypocrisy. It is not my office to determine the course of criminal proceedings on behalf of everyone who asks it, Mademoiselle! I do my duty. The opinion of the world troubles me little. Evil-doers shall tremble before the Chambre ardente, which knows of no punishment other than blood and fire. But I should not like you, dear lady, to take me for a monster of cruelty and brutality. Therefore permit me to set out clearly before you in a few words the guilt of this young scoundrel on whom, Heaven be praised, vengeance has fallen. Your own intelligence will then repudiate that kind heart which does you credit but would not become me. So! René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger. Nobody is with him except his apprentice, Olivier Brusson, and his daughter. In Brusson’s room there is found, among other things, a dagger stained with fresh blood which fits the wound exactly. “Cardillac,” says Brusson, “was knocked down and killed last night before my eyes.” – “Did someone want to rob him?” – “That I don’t know.” – “You were with him and it was not possible for you to ward off the murderer? to hold him? to call for help?” – “The master went some fifteen or twenty paces in front of me; I followed him.” – “Why in the world so far behind?” – “The master wanted it so.” – “What was Master Cardillac about so late in the street?” – “That I cannot say.” – “Except on this occasion, however, he never went out of the house after nine o’clock in the evening?” – Here Brusson falters, he is dismayed, he sighs, he sheds tears, he protests by everything holy that Cardillac really did go out that night and meet his death. Now, however, pay great attention, Mademoiselle. It has been proved with absolute certainty that Cardillac never left his house that night; Brusson’s assertion that he went out with him is therefore an insolent lie.
