IT has been asserted, that there is in human nature a propensity to every kind of evil; and that persons of the best disposition, and most liberal education, may find themselves in such situations as will, if their passions are suf­fered to predominate, betray them into the most frightful excesses, into crimes which can­not be related without horror.

Under the dominion of such dreadful pas­sions the abbé and the chevalier de Gange must have been, when they committed the inhuman cruelties which are the subject of the following narrative.

The unfortunate victim of their malice and inhumanity, was the only daughter of the sieur de Roussan of Avignon; and though her birth was not noble, the splendid fortune she was to inherit from the sieur de Nocheres, her maternal grandfather, made her to be consi­dered as a desirable match by the first nobility [Page 8] in the province.—Mademoiselle de Chateau­blanc (as she was [...]sled before her marriage), was not only a [...]ch heiress, but one of the loveliest women in France; and the description that remains of her person, which paints her as possessed of almost every perfection that adorns the female form, corresponds with the minia­ture which is extant of her, drawn by Mig­nard, and allowed to be one of his most ex­quisite performances.

With so much personal beauty, with a soft and compassionate heart, sense rather solid than lively, a temper serene and gentle, and manners calculated to adorn and enjoy society, she was married, at the age of thirteen, to the marquis de Castillane, grandson of the duke de Villars. This young man was of an illus­trious family, handsome and well made, and had received an excellent education, which heightened the good qualities be inherited from nature.

They were married in the year 1649, and the marquis soon afterwards carried his wife to court, where such a blazing star could not appear withoutattracting universal admiration.—She was immediately acknowledged the reigning beauty of the season, and that gay and gallant monarch Louis the fourteenth, was himself sensible of her uncommon attrac­tions—admiration of so flattering a nature as would have intoxicated any other young per­son.—At some of those magnificent spectacles [Page] that were then given at court, the king chose madame de Castillane for his partner in danc­ing—where her elegant dress, which was most fortunately chosen, and the grace with which she performed, gave new lustre to her charming face and figure.—She was less known at court by the name of the marchio­ness de Castillane than by that of the beautiful Provençal.

In the midst of this dissipated circle, so dangerous to a very young person, the fair madame de Castillane continued perfectly to possess her reason; and to those with whom she was intimate declared, that she felt the emptiness and fallacy of the pleasures with which she was surrounded, and that they af­forded her no real satisfaction.—It is not to be supposed, however, that envy would wholly spare a woman so universally admired. Some adventures of gallantry were attributed to her, which those who knew her best, declared to be totally void of foundation; and, as no better proof was ever offered of their reality than the scandal of the day, it is probable they were the inventions of malice and dis­appointment, always ready to raise, against superior excellence, reports, which idleness and folly are as ready to propagate.

Surrounded with gaieties and luxuries; admired by those who saw her, beloved by those who knew her, madame de Castillane continued some time at court. And there she [Page 10] heard the melancholy account of the loss of the galley in which her husband some short time before had embarked, who being overta­ken by a storm on the coast of Sicily, perished, together with all who were on board.—Sin­cerely afflicted at his death, she retired to the house of a friend, madame d'Ampus, till the regulation of her affairs obliged her to return to Avignon.

When she arrived at her native place, nei­ther the pleasures of liberty, which she might now enjoy, being a widow in the earliest bloom of youth, nor the effect that her charms (which received new splendour from the dark contrast of her weeds) had on all who beheld her, could engage her to continue in the world—and she retired for a considerable time to a convent, where she permitted none to see her but her particular friends, or such as had bu­siness with her relative to her estate.

But as soon as the severe confinement to which she thought it right to conform, during the first year of her widowhood, began to re­lax, through the solicitation of her friends, a crowd of lovers surrounded her—and among the most conspicuous, was the young marquis de Gange. His person was not less a model of manly beauty, than that of the marchioness de Castillane of female grace and loveliness. His fortune was perfectly suitable, and his rank illustrious, being baron de Languedoc, marquis de Gange, and governor of St. Andre.

[Page 11] —His manners were extremely engaging, and his age did not much exceed twenty—and so well did the exterior qualities of these young persons appear to correspond, that it slruck all who know them, that they were designed by Heaven for each other.—Madame de Cas­tillane, insensible of every other passion, soon felt and returned that of monsieur de Gange. This second marriage took place in 1658, and the world applauded a union, which seemed so likely to secure the happiness of both parties. But however in outward advantages they ap­peared to agree, their souls were very differ­ent. Proud, fierce, capricious, obstinate, and gloomy, how little the marquis de Gange re­sembled her, with whom his destiny was united! For some time, however, after their marriage, he concealed, under the fond at­tentions of the lover and the bridegroom, that unhappy temper, and those unpleasant man­ners, that afterwards appeared in the husband—and the beautiful marchioness, who was herself all truth and mildness, never suspected him to be otherwise than he then appeared.— Alas! to these halcyon days succeeded others, in which the ardour of his passion being abated, he no longer thought it worth his while to disguise his disposition. En [...]ui and disgust insensibly took possession of the marquis, who began to mix again with the societies he had quitted on his marriage—and the marchioness, being left to follow her own amusements, [Page 12] turned to be again the admiration of the crowds she had deserted for him; but it was merely for amusement she did so; and not with any design of engaging in affairs of gallan­try.—She never seriously listened to any of her admirers; but, as soon as she perceived an attachment forming, that was likely to create any real uneasiness, she either wholly excluded such pretenders from her society; or, if she admitted them to it, received them with so much coolness, that the vainest among them soon found they had nothing to hope.—But though her conduct was perfectly in­nocent, the marquis (conscious perhaps of the inequality of their minds) beheld it with jealousy and mistrust. His temper, naturally morose and vindictive, was much disposed to suspicion; and his humour became every day more teasing and disagreeable to his wife—Yet, as a jealous husband is in France an ob­ject of ridicule, and as he could find nothing in the conduct of madame de Gange, on which to found any real complaint, he con­strained himself as much as he could, and suffered the uneasiness of his mind to appear only in the invincible ill temper with which he received his wife—by which, if she had really had the inclinations he suspected her of, he would only have accelerated the evil he so greatly dreaded.

Such was his situation of mind, when his two brothers, the abbé and the chevalier de [Page 13] Gange, came to reside at his house. The elder of them, who was called the abbé de Gauge, possessed an uncommon share of un­derstanding, with the malice and cunning of a fiend. Violent, proud, and ambitious, he studied to govern every one about him; in which, from his superior abilities, he usually succeeded too well. Having neither prin­ciples of honour or sentiments of humanity, no considerations, no laws, either divine or human, could prevent his carrying any point on which he had once resolved. Yet this diabolical spirit he had art enough to conceal, with the profoundest dissimulation, and could assume the appearance of the most amiable, benevolent, and honest man in the world, while his heart was the receptacle of every vice that disgraces human nature. He was not in orders, but took the equivocal title of abbé, as being the most favourable to the in­dulgence of his licentious passions. The che­valier, whose understanding w [...] below medi­ocrity, seemed born only to be directed by others; and the abbé, without his perceiving it, governed him entirely. Over the marquis also the abbé acquired the same ascendancy. His estate and his family were soon given up to the management of this assiduous brother; who left him the name of master, but en­joyed all the power. The uncommon charms of the marchioness [...] Gange made an imme­diate and deep impression on the heart of this [Page 14] bad man; nor did the consideration of her be­ing his brother's wife deter him a moment from forming designs upon her honour. Scorning to put any restraint on his inclina­tions, however unwarrantable, he determined to attempt seducing madame de Gange; and for this purpose, knowing the influence of gratitude on such a heart as hers, he began by endeavouring to oblige her. He saw how uneasily she lived with his brother, who fa­tigued her incessantly with jealousy and ill-hu­mour—and the first use he made of his power over the marquis was, to induce him to alter his conduct towards his wife: of whom the abbé spoke so advantageously, that his jealousy began to give place to those sentiments of es­teem and tenderness which he had at first felt for her. The marchioness, sensible of this change in her husband's behaviour, gave way to the natural goodness and sweetness of her disposition, and forgot the harsh treatment she had lately suffered; treatment which was on the point of changing her former attachment into a settled coldness, if not aversion. The abbé, however, did not intend that madame de Gange should enjoy the satisfaction she re­ceived from her husband's returning affection, without knowing to whom she owed it. As soon as an opportunity offered, he took care to tell her, that the marquis's present attention and kindnes [...], was [...]usequence of what he had said in her favour—and he gave her at the [Page 15] same time to understand, that the heart of his brother was so entirely in his hands, that her treatment must depend wholly on him. Dis­gusted at such a declaration, the marchioness answered coolly, that she thanked him. The abbé was a good deal disappointed at the re­ception she gave him on this occasion. He had flattered himself that she would have ac­cepted with more vivacity his proffered ser­vices, and that, by first engaging her grati­tude, he should in time create in her breast warmer sentiments in his favour. But though a man of abilities, such as he possessed, who de­termines to make himself agreeable, and has such continual opportunities of doing so, is above all others the most dangerous object a young woman can encounter, it happened that the dislike, even bordering on antipathy, which madame de Gange had conceived, on the first sight of the abbé, was an invincible obstacle to his designs. Her manner towards him was civil, bnt so cold and distant, that he could very seldom find an occasion to speak to her apart. And after some time, as he saw she studied to avoid him, and that all his assiduities made no impression on her, he de­termined to speak plainly, and to acknowledge his passion, in terms that she could not mis­understand.

The marchioness had engaged herself to pass some days at the country residence of a friend.—Thither the abbé followed her, [Page 16] and as his conversation was extremely agree­able, he was received with pleasure by the whole party.—He was usually the life of whatever company he was in, and now he ex­erted himself to the utmost, and was more brilliant and entertaining than ever. A hunt­ing party being proposed, at which every gen­tleman was to attend on a lady, the abbé of­fered himself to escort madame de Gange; which she accepted, with her usual cool civi­lity, as a matter of perfect indifference.—As soon as the company began to disperse in the woods, the abbé, who now saw the opportu­nity at hand that he had so long wished for, led madame de Gange into the most unfre­quented spot he could find, and then, with very little preface, made the confession he had meditated—but so abruptly, and with expres­sions so strong and ardent, that they inspired madame de Gange with terror rather than pi­ty—who turning pale with surprise and an­ger, could not immediately form any reply; while the abbé continued to declare himself with such violence of manner, and in terms so unequivocal, that she could not doubt of his being very much in earnest—and she saw, that to endeavour to laugh it off, us she would have done such a declaration from a less resolute lover, would have availed her nothing; as­suming, therefore, an air more reserved than before, she said—‘I will not, monsieur Pab­bé, affect to misunderstand you—but you [Page 17] must know how I ought to receive such a confession as you have presumed to make. Ask your own heart, sir, ask your own con­science, what decency and duty should urge me to say to you—and spare me the pain of holding a farther conversation on so odi­ous a subject.’—The manner in which she pronounced these words, made them infi­nitely more mortifying to the abbé, than the words themselves. Stung to the soul, his dis­simulation entirely forsook him, and he fiercely answered—‘Know you not, madam, when you brave my vengeance thus, that your fate is entirely in my hands? Have you forgotten that it is in my power to make you the most miserable of women—and that I will do so if you refuse to listen to me? In declining to return my passion, you risk having your life embittered by the severest trials. Love me, madam, suffer me at least to hope that you will, and [...] my power shall be dedicated to your hap [...] ­ness and tranquility.’ The marchioness, [...] making an effort to command her indignation, replied—‘As you affect to love, learn now to esteem me. Be assured, monsieur l'ab­bé, that the dread of those evils worse than death, shall never induce me to commit a wicked action.—But,’ added she, as if to mortify him still more; ‘if I were indeed capable of such weakness, you are the last man on earth who could influence me to be [Page 18] guilty of it.’ So saying, she rejoined her company, leaving the abbé overwhelmed with rage and confusion. His pride so severely humbl [...]d, his love hopeless, irritated him al­most to madness; and, incapable with all his art of commanding his temper, while his heart was corroded by such uneasy sensations, he took a fullen leave of the lady of the house, and returned in the evening to Avignon; no­body but madam de Gange being able to guess the cause of this sudden access of ill-hu­mour, which all his complaisance and dissimu­lation did not enable him a moment to dis­guise.

While the abbé became every day more odious in the eyes of madame de Gange, and while she carefully avoided any other com­munication with him, than the most distant politeness required, her husband's younger [...]ther, the chevalier, appeared to her in a ve­ [...] [...]fferent light. Without possessing an un­ [...]tanding equal to either of the others, his [...]nners were softer, and his temper seemed [...]ore equal and amiable; and though ma­dame de Gange felt no other sentiments for him than those of friendship, which their alli­ance authorised, yet she grew insensibly fond of his company, and found great relief in opening her heart freely to him, on all her domestic uneasiness; while the comparison she could not avoid making, between his gen­tle attentions and the turbulent and insolent [Page 19] passion with which the abbé had dared to trouble her, never failed to be greatly in his favour. But unhappily the chevalier, equally susceptible of the power of beauty, could not be continually with her, and receive marks of her esteem, without feeling the same passion rising in his bosom. The regard she testified for him on all occasions, and the pleasure she took in his society, inspired him with hopes, that she was very far from meaning to give. The abbé soon saw the situation of his bro­ther's heart, and saw it with inexpressible rage and anguish. He determined to watch them narrowly; but having done so for some time, all his malice did not enable him to discover any one circumstance, that was at all incon­sistent with the purest virtue, on the part of madame de Gange. Though he was irritated to distraction, by the partiality she so avow­edly shewed the chevalier, yet he wished to try whether it was to him only that her vir­tue was impregnable; and he determined to speak to the chevalier, and to engage him to push his good fortune. For this purpose, he took the first opportunity of their being alone, to say to him—‘Brother, we are both in love with the marchioness; if you can make yourself acceptable, I will withdraw my pretensions, and shall be satisfied to rejoice in your happiness; but if you fail, I expect you will have the generosity to acknowledge it, und give me leave, in my [Page 20] turn, to try my fortune. I trust that we are so much united, that we shall not be embroiled about a woman.’ The cheva­lier, who was a dupe to this pretended gene­rosity, protested, that, rather than give his brother, the abbé, any unasiness, he would en­deavour to conquer his passion. "No," said the abbé, ‘if I see you happy, I shall be con­tent. My friendship is yet dearer to me than my love.’ They embraced on the strength of this convention, and the chevalier agreed immediately to open the siege. In consequence of which, though he never had the courage to declare himself in such direct terms as the abbé had done, he threw so much passion into his eyes and manner, and redoub­led his assiduities in a way so much warmer than mere brotherly sentiments would have inspired, that madame de Gange could not [...]istake their source; and soon found it ne­cessary to avoid his company, as much as she had till then sought it. But as she perceived, that this alteration in her conduct, marked as it was, did not sufficiently discourage him, she sometimes mingled in her conversation the most poignant raillery, on the mistakes the chevalier often made in company: and though she was naturally very candid, and wished to pal­liate or conceal such errors, she made use of this method to let the chevalier see how con­temptible he appeared to her, and by that means to deprive him of all the hopes her [Page 21] kindness had made him entertain; and per­haps to this severity she owed the cruel re­venge he harboured against her, since nothing is so likely to pique such a man and to irri­tate him beyond forgiveness, as to let him see he is contemned and despised, for weakness of which he is conscious. Certain it is, that the chevalier was, by this means, not only cured of hi [...] presumption, but his love for his sister-in- [...] [...]as changed into the bitterest and most [...] hatred.

As soon as [...] chevalier acknowleged that he gave up [...] pursuit as hopeless the abbé returned to the charge. He found that cementing the union between his brother, the marquis, and madame, had procured him none of the advantages he expected from the gratitude of the latter, and he de­termined to try the effect of an opposite conduct, and to inspire the marquis with jealousy, to which he was naturally inclined. For this purpose he affected to remark, that madame de Gange had lately taken particular delight in associating with a certain party, among whom was a young man of a most en­gaging person and manners; and in fact, ma­dame de Gange was fond of his society, and frequen [...]ly conversed with him, but always in [...] [...]th people of rank and reputation, and with that purity of heart, which, feeling itself incapable of ill, never imagines it can be suspected of it. Such an object, however, as [Page 22] this young man, was exactly fitted to pro­mote the designs of the abbé; and he repre­sented her partiality in such a light to the marquis, that he became inflamed with the most furious jealousy, and, forgetting the common forms of decency, he not only per­petually insulted his wife with language the most affronting and injurious, but proceeded to greater enormities; while the abbé, con­tinually pouring oil on the flam [...] the situation of the unhappy madame de [...]ge became every day more insupportable. But she made no attempt to undeceive her husband, as to the motive of his brothers' conduct, foreseeing, that whatever she could say would be totally fruitless.

The abbé having suffered her to continue for some time under the sufferings he had himself occasioned, determined again to at­tempt moving her in favour of himself. She so cautiously avoided any interview with him, [...]hat it was not without great difficulty he [...]ound an opportunity of speaking to her alone. At length he contrived to join her in the gar­den, "Well, madam," said he, attempting to take her hand—‘are we always to be ene­mies? Why do you oblige me to make you unhappy, when you know I would sa­crifice my life to your satisfaction. By what you have lately experienced, you find I did nor exaggerate my power, when I told you it depended on me, to make you the [Page 23] most unhappy of women: and you know that you may, on certain terms, engage me to use that power only to contribute to your felicity.’—Madame de Gange heard him without interruption, and, as soon as he had concluded his harangue, she cast on him a look expressive of the most profound con­tempt, and walked from him without deign­ing to reply; leaving the abbé more enraged and mortified than before.

It was about this time that the marchioness de Gange, and several persons who were with her, eat of some cream in which arsenic had been infused, but in so small quantity, that the oily nature of the vehicle, in which it was administered, prevented its having the ill effect that had been intended. On this occasion, a prediction, that had been made to her some years before, at Paris, returned to her remem­brance:—an astrologer, whom it was the fashion to consult, assured her she would die a violent death; and though she had too much sense to give much credit to the vain and fal­lacious science of divination, she could not, on this event, forbear speaking of the pre­diction that had been made. The affair of the [...] cream made for some time a great [...] [...]ignon; but, as the marchioness was [...] to forbear speaking of it, it was soon forgotten, like all other wonders of the day.—Soon after this, her grandfather, the sieur de Nocheres, died, and she came into [Page 24] possession of a very large fortune, which he left to her sole use and disposal. The marquis now thought it necessary again to alter his be­haviour, and to treat with respect a woman who had so much in her power. The abbé was the forwardest to advise him to assume the semblance of his former affection, since he saw that he could himself gain nothing, but that his family might lose a great deal by con­trary behaviour. As to the chevalier, he was a mere cypher, whom the abbé directed as he pleased. But the change was too great, at this time, to deceive madame de Gange. Whatever their professions were, she believed their hearts were still the same, and that their present complaisance she owed entirely to her acquisition of fortune, and her power of dis­posing of it. As the affairs of this wealthy succession were likely to occupy a great deal of their time, and to prevent their going to Gange so much as they used to do, the mar­quis designed passing [...]ome months there, in order to regulate the business of that estate, that no inconvenience might arise from his future absence. He proposed to the mar­chioness to accompany him thither; to which, with her usual sweetness, she [...] though she had a decided and in [...] [...] tipathy to the place. On this [...] she felt a particular repugnancy, and presentiments of such melancholy import, as determined her before she went to make a will, by which [Page 25] she declared madame de Roussan, her mother, her sole heir, for life, to all her fortune, with liberty to give it, at her death, to either of the children which she (the marchionese de Gange) had by the marquis. One was a son, then about six years old; and the other a daughter, [...]bout five: and mistrusting, perhaps, her own [...]irmness, she went before a magistrate at A­ [...]ignon, and declared that the testament she [...]igned in his presence was her real meaning, [...]nd that any subsequent one should be con­ [...]idered as extorted from her, and be of no ef­fect; and the signed a declaration to that pur­pose, as strong as could be drawn up. It was easy to see, from the purport of this will, that the treatment she had received from the marquis had made a deep impression on her heart, for his name was not mentioned. As soon as she had confirmed this disposition of her effects, by the most authentic and certain precautions, she prepared for her journey to [...]he chateau de Gange, though with so strong [...] persuasion that she should return no more, [...]hat she took a solemn and affecting farewel of all her friends, who, with tears, heard her [...]xpress the unaccountable prejudice she had [...]ouceived, that she was bidding than an eter­ [...]l adieu [...]

Under the same mournful idea, she distri­u [...] several sums of money among the con­ [...]ents at Avignon; particularly, she gave a sum [...]o the recollects, beseechin [...] them to say mass [Page 26] for her, and to pray that she might not die without receiving the holy sacraments; and so earnestly did she recommend herself to their prayers, that see seemed convinced her death was inevitable.

What shall we say to these presentiments, so frequent in history? how account for the unseen hand, which, while it warns the vic­tims of their fate, seems to take from them, the power of avoiding it? ^* Under such im­pressions, however, madame de Gange began her journey to the chateau de Gange; si­tuated nineteen leagues from Avignon; where, on her arrival, she was received by the dow­ager marchioness de Gange, the marquis's mother, with every demonstration of esteem and affection. This lady, who was of a cha­racter uncommonly amiable, and had a very superior understanding, was charmed with her daughter-in-law, and on this and every other occasion had behaved to her with the greatest politeness and regard. Her usual residence was at Montpellier, but she now came to pass some time with her son, and endeavoured to contribute, as much as possible, to make her residence at Gange agreeable to the young marchioness. The marquis himself, as well [Page 27] as the abbé and the chevalier, seemed also to strive, by their present kindness and attention, to make her forget every impropriety in their former behaviour, and left nothing undone that they thought would convince her that their hearts were entirely changed.—The most insinuating manners, the most delicate atten­tions, were employed to persuade madame de Gange of their sincerity; and the abbé and chevalier, as if convinced that their presum­tuous attachment had justly incurred the dis­pleasure of the marchioness, now appeared no longer as importunate lovers, but as tender friends; and they assumed this character with so much ease, that she, who was the most can­did and sincere of women, forget insensibly the dislike she had conceived, and lived with them on a footing of unreserved friendship and intimacy; flattering herself that her future life would be tranquil, and even happy. After the whole family had continued together for some time, the dowager madame de Gange returned to Montpellier, and the marquis said he was obliged by business to return to Avig­non. But before he went, there is reason to believe he held a long consultation with his brothers; which contributed but too much to the tragical event that so soon followed his departure.

The dowager marchioness and her eldest son being gone, madame de Gange found her­self alone with two persons who were in fact [Page 28] her greatest enemies, but who hid their enmity under such refined hypocrisy, that she not only believed them entirely cured of their former dishonourable thoughts of her, but that they had been converted by her conduct to a just sense of what they owed her and her husband. A [...] soon as the abbé saw that his dissimulation had on her soft and ingenious mind all the effect he had hoped for, he contrived, under pretence of consulting only her happiness, to mention to her the will the had made at A­vignon, which he besought her to alter, repre­senting to her, that while such a will remained in force, the world, as well as the marquis her husband, would believe, that she still har­boured anger and resentment against him; and that, as he was determined to live with her for the future in the most perfect harmony, it was her part to convince him, by revoking that will, that she no longer remembered their former disagreements. Madame de Gange, whose heart was formed for affection and forgiveness, could [...]ot resist these reasons; she consented to make a new will, in which she gave every thing to her husband. The abbé either did not know of the declaration she had signed at Avignon, or did not believe it would inva­lidate a subsequent act. Certain it is, that he did not ask her to revoke that act; but having, as he thought, secured her property to his fa­mily, he prepared to execute the infamous de­sign he had formed; and, by his influence with [Page 29] the infatuated chevalier, he forced him to enter into all his views, and even to keep pace with him in the most atrocious crimes.—Some time in May, 1667, madame de Gange, being slightly indisposed, sent to the apothecary of the place for a medicine she had occasion to take; but when it came, it was so black and thick, that she found her aversion to it invin­cible, and refused to swallow it. She contented herself with taking some pills she had by her. It is more than probable, that the abbé and the chevalier had mixed poison in this medi­cine; for, as they did not know, for some hours, that the marchioness had not taken it, they sent in the course of the morning several times, to the door of her chamber, to enquire how she did; undoubtedly expecting, with im­patience, to hear, that the potion had the effect they intended; but being undeceived, as to her having drank it, they formed the diabolical resolution of destroying, at all events, the un­fortunate object of their malignity.

Madame de Gange, who found it necessary to keep her bed all day, invited several ladies of the neighbourhood to come and pass the af­ternoon with her, and, though she was not quite well, she never appeared more interesting or entertaining. The abbé and the chevalier, who were admitted to join the party, seemed unusually absent and melancholy, particularly the chevalier, whom the marchioness laugh­ingly attacked on his absence of mind, and at [Page 30] length obliged him to return her raillery. The abbé, though he also seemed much more re­served than usual, failed not to enliven the conversation by some of those agreeable sal­lies, for which he was so remarkable. But still there was in the behaviour of them both, something that the company remarked as ex­traordinary. Neither of them partook of a collation that was served up to the ladies, of which madame de Gange not only did the ho­nours with her usual graceful ease, but also eat heartily. When it was over, the ladies took their leave; the abbé attended them to the door, but the chevalier remained sitting by the bed side, buried in thought, and with a countenance so gloomy, as very much puzzled the marchioness, who knew not how to ac­count for it. The dreadful mystery was soon cleared up, on the return of the abbé into the room. She saw him enter in about ten mi­nutes, holding in one hand a pistol, and in the other a glass filled with a black liquid. Fury and distraction was in his eyes; his hair seemed bristled on his head, and his features were con [...]ulsed with passion. No description can do justice to the terror his whole figure inspired. He fastened the door, and advanc­ing some pa [...]s towards the bed where the af­frighted marchioness lay, he stopped us if to contemplate his victim, and, fixing on her his glaring eyes, which seemed forced out of their sockets by the rage that possessed him, he con­tinued [Page 31] for above a minute to stand staring on her with a petrifying look, as if to announce to her all the horrors of her fate!—On the other side of her appeared the che­valier; his countenance as expressive of the rage that consumed him, as was his brother's, but the expression was different, and when he drew his sword, some saint hope arose in the marchioness, that he drew it to defend her; but she did not long continue in that error. These two wratches, with the hearts and in­tentions of demons, came close to her bed, and the abbé, with a hollow, but determined voice, said,—‘Now, madam, you are to die—choose whether it shall be by sword, pistol, or poison.’—"To die!"exclaimed ma­dame de Gange—‘Good God! what have I done? how have I deserved this excess of cruelty? and why are you to be my judge and executioner?’—Finding that remon­strance seemed to aggravate his fury, she ad­dressed herself to the chevalier, and, turning on him her lovely eyes, she cried—‘Ah! my dear brother, are you too armed against me? is it possible that you can have the heart to become my murderer? and does all my kindness and regard for you deserve no other return?’ (She had often lent him sums of money of her own, and only a few days before given him a draught for five hundred livres.) But far from being sof­tened by this pathetic address, it seemed to re­double [Page 32] his rage against her, and, with a coun­tenance and voice yet more terrible, he cried, ‘Our resolution is taken, madam—you must die—choose therefore the means, for we can hesitate no longer.’ — If the fact were not well authenticated, it could not be believed that two young men, on whom the beauty of madame de Gange had had such an effect, should now harden their hearts against her, pleading with all that beauty, and with the most moving remonstrances, for her life, and determine to dip their hands in her blood: but so it was!—and, while the abbé held the pistol to her head, and the chevalier his sword to her heart, she took out of the abbé's other hand the poison, and, finding there was no remedy, swallowed it. The nature of it was so corrosive, that some of it falling on her breast turned the skin quite black, and her lips were also burnt and parched by drinking it. Not content with having made her swallow the liquid, the chevalier took a silver bodkin, and collecting the dregs, that remained on the sides and at the bottom of the glass, he put them on its edge, and insisted on her swallowing that also, using expressions of indecency and brutality which embittered his cruelty. The unhappy marchioness obeyed; but though she took this last destructive mixture into her mouth, she did not swallow it, but held it there till she had an opportunity, unperceived, to conceal it in the bed-clothes. But, as she [Page 33] had now swallowed more than enough to des­troy her, she exclaimed, in a voice of the mo [...] piercing anguish, ‘My death is now inevita­ble; in the name of God, then, I implor [...] you to have mercy on my soul!—do no deprive me of my existence here and here after, but send me a confessor, that I ma [...] die like a christian.’ They then went out carefully securing the door after them; and seeking the priest of the parish, who was en­tirely devoted to them, ordered him to confes [...] madame de Gange. It is astonishing, that i [...] the midst of such a complication of horrors madame de Gange still possessed herself, tha [...] her presence of mind did not for a mome [...] forsake her, and that her resolution and re [...] ­lection enabled her to make strong efforts (ala [...] how fruitlessly!) to preserve her life. N [...] sooner had the inhuman brothers shut th [...] door, than she determined to attempt her es­cape; and putting on a taffeta petticoat, th [...] only garment she had at hand, she ran to th [...] window of her chamber, which looked int [...] the court-yard of the castle, to throw hersel [...] out of it, though it was twenty-two feet from the ground. At the instant that she was abo [...] to precipitate herself from this height, t [...] priest opened the door of her room, and see [...]n what she was going to do, endeavoured t [...] prevent her. Had she thrown herself directly down, she would probably have dashed he [...] head or her breast against the stones, but he [Page 34] snatched at her petticoat, and caught it with such force, that a piece of it remained in his hand; and the turn this gave to her whole body, so broke her fall, that she came to the ground with her feet first, which were terribly cut by the stones. The wicked priest, who was entirely devoted to the service of the abbé and the chevalier, seeing she had reached the ground without being materially hurt, threw at her a very heavy pitcher of water, which stood in the window next to that from whence she had jumped; and which, if it had fallen on her head, must have certainly killed her; but it fell within two or three inches of her. The first thought that occurred to her, as soon as she reached the ground, was to endeavour to discharge the poison that she had swallowed: for this purpose she took one of the tresses of her long hair, and put it as far as she could down her throat; the expedient succeeded, and she brought up the noxious mixture, to­gether with what she had eaten, and then at­tempted to make her way out of the inclosure where she was; but every door was fastened. She then went towards the stables; they were shut also; and she now despaired of escaping before her cruel assassins could reach her. At length she saw a groom, "—Oh friend!" cried she, ‘save my life—I am poisoned—let me go through the stables, that I may re­ceive help before it is too late.’ The man, moved by her situation, took her in his arm [...] [Page 35] and carried her through his stables into the road, where he put her under the care of some women who were passing by.

The priest, in the meantime, hastened to the abbé and the chevalier, to inform them of her escape; and they resolved not to leave their work imperfect. While she ran wildly along, imploring succour from every one she met, they pursued her, crying out that she was delirious in a fever, and had escaped from her attendants. The people, who be­held her almost without clothes, her feet na­ked and bleeding, her hair dishevelled, and running along she knew not where, were ea­sily persuaded that she was indeed out of her senses. At length, as she reached the door of the sieur des Prats, about three hundred yards from the cheateau, the chevalier over­took her; and forcing her into the house with him, shut the door, while the abbé re­mained on the outside with a pistol in his hand, protesting that he would kill the first person that offered to approach, for that he would not suffer his sister-in-law, in the situ, ation she then was, to become a spectacle to strangers. His real design was to prevent her receiving any assistance that might counter­act the effect of the poison. The sieur des Prats [...] absent, but his wife was at home, in company with several friends: among these ladies, the unfortunate marchioness wildly rushed, beseeching them to save her, [Page 36] [...]d exclaimed that she had just been poisoned. [...]he chevalier protested to them, that she was [...]erely delirious; but while he traversed the [...]om in great agitation, these women crouded [...]und her, and as she still continued to cry [...]t, "I am poisoned, I am poisoned!" one of [...]em gave her a box of orvietan, a counter [...]ison, of which she swallowed several pie­ [...]s; and another presented her with a glass [...] water; but so great was the inhumanity of [...]e chevalier, that, just as she was raising it her burning lips, he dashed it out of her [...]nd, and, addressing himself to the ladies, sought them not to attend to the incohe­ [...]t ravings of madame de Gange; adding [...]t he should be obliged to them, if they [...]uld leave her wholly to his care, as she [...]s unfit, in her present situation, to be with [...] but her own family. The marchioness [...]w conceived a hope of being able to pre­ [...]l on the chevalier to have mercy on her, [...], in that hope, she desired to be left alone moment with him: the ladies at her re­ [...]est retired to another room; and then [...]dame de Gange, throwing herself on her [...]ees before the chevalier, cried—‘My dear brother, will nothing prevail on you to re­voke the cruel vow you have made to de­stroy me? will nothing excite your pity? Suppose I were an unhappy stranger, who reduced to the most dreadful extremity came to implore your pity!—you would [Page 37] surely, as a gentleman, as a man, defend and protect such a stranger; and is your heart shut only against me? I will engage, by the most solemn oath, to represent what has hitherto happened just as you will dic­tate—I will forget it—and, if I have de­served your hatred by the least injury, I will submit to any acknowledgment, any pu­nishment you please. But in God's name, my dear brother, have compassion on me! pity me, my dear brother, pity me! and do not precipitate a death, which is perhaps al­ready inevitable.’ This supplication, enfor­ced with all the touching energy of despair, all the persuasive eloquence of beauty, only irrita­ted the cruelty of the monster to whom it was addressed: he took a short sword which he wore, and, using it as a dagger, stabbed the marchioness twice with it in her breast. She flew from him, and called for help: he pursued her, and gave her five other blows on the back; and having snapped his sword; left the broken end in her shoulder. As he now thought he had concluded this bloody scene, he quitted the room, and going hastily to the door, he said to the abbé, who was waiting there, ‘Come, abbé, we must be gone, the business is done.’—By this time the ladies were returned to the room where madame de Gange lay weltering in her blood, and to all appearance, breathing her last. Her blood ran from her in streams; her respiration was [Page 38] short and [...]aborious; but, as she was not ac­tually dead, they thought it possible yet to assist her; and one of them went to the win­dow, and called out for a surgeon to be im­mediately sent for.—On hearing which, the abbé found their work was yet incomplete: whereupon, he rushed like a demoniac into the room, and, approaching the dying victim on the floor, snapped his pistol close to her breast; but it missed fire; and at the same in­stant madame de Brunel, one of the ladies present, seized his arm and turned the pistol aside. The enraged abbé, seeing this blow which he thought so effectual, defeated, gave madame Brunel a violent stroke with his fist, and then attempted to stun the marchioness with the end of his pistol; but the women now all pressed round him, overwhelmed him with blows, and driving him in spite of all his efforts to the door, they thrust him out and shut it upon him. They then returned to the unhappy lady; and one of them, who knew something of [...]urgery, staunched the blood, and took from her shoulder the end of the sword, encouraged by madame de Gange her­self, who, weak and fainting as she was, be­sought her to put her knee against her she al­ter to force out the broken weapon. By this idme a surgeon arrived, who dressed her wounds, none of which he thought would be fatal; the chevalier, in his confusion, not having struck her where his [...] [Page 39] have been mortal. She was put to bed, and hopes were entertained that she might yet survive. In the mean time the two assassins, taking advantage of the night, fled from the scene of their cruelty. It was nine o'clock in the evening when they set out together for Abe­ras, another estate of the marquiss's, about a league from Gange. There they remained some time, considering what they should next do; and the reproaches they made each other, for not having completed their infa­mous undertaking, rose at length to such a height, that they were ready to draw their swords on each other. They talked of re­turning to Gange, there to finish their sacri­fice; but they recollected is was improbable they should ga [...]n access to her; that they should certainly be taken; and that there­fore it was wiser to consult their own safety.

The horrid event was soon spread through­out the country. All the neighbouring nobi­lity came to offer their services to madame de Gange, and the consuls of the district waited on her to offer her a guard, which the accept­ [...]d, and which was placed round the house of the sieur des Prats, where she remained. The baron de Tressan, grand provost, endeavoured to overtake the assassins, but they had already reached the coast and embarked at a port called the Gra [...] de Pa [...]aval, near Aqd [...]. A physician and surgeon were sent for from M [...]pe [...]lier to attend the marchioness, and [Page 40] every possible assistance and convenience pro­vided for her.

The marquis de Gange was at Avignon when the news of this bloody catastrophe reached him; and though there is little doubt but that he had agreed with his bro­thers, and even that the design originated with him, yet it is probable that he expected they would have completed their undertak­ing by the certain but silent mode of poison, and not in a manner so open and undisguised. As soon as he learned the particulars, he af­fected the utmost concern and distress, and protested he would revenge the cruel treat­ment his wife had received from his brothers, by putting them to death with his own hands. In a word, he rather over-acted his part at first, in some respects; for it was remarked that, instead of setting out immediately for Gange, he deferred his departure for four and twenty hours, though it should seem that not a mo­ment would have been lost by a man who really loved a wife, sosiuated as was madame de Gange. It appeared also very extraordinary, that to the friends he saw at Avignon after he received the intelligence, he never mentioned what had happened, though it is so natural for a person under the pressure of a new affliction to speak of it to every body, and to think of nothing else. When the marquis arrived at Gange, a monk announced his being there to [...]he marchioness, and she received him with all [Page 41] the tenderness and regard that the most be­loved husband could have expected; she only gently reproached him for having left her in the power of his cruel brother. The great judge of hearts, only knows what passed in that of the marquis. If he was indeed ac­cessary to her murder, which there was great room to believe, this reception, so kind and forgiving, must have been one of the most cruel punishments he could undergo: he [...]ad the art, however, to compose his countenance, and not to betray, in his behaviour, the emo­tions which must have torn his heart with re­morse and anguish.

Such was the delicate sensibility of madame de Gange, that recollecting, after some time, that she had perhaps hurt him by her re­proaches in regard to his brother, she apolo­gised to him, and intreated him to impute what­ever she had said not to any want of affection for him, but to the extremity of her sufferings, which extorted such complaints from her; and she held out her hand to him in token of perfect amity, and with a sweetness peculiar to herself. This excess of goodness, which one would imagine must have been a new punishment to the marquis, only renewed his hopes of availing himself of her affection, to secure the fortune of the dying victim. He desired her to revoke the act, by which she had confirmed her first will made at Avignon; and to confirm that which she had made [Page 42] since at the instigation of the abbè, which the vice-legate, in consequence of the deed be­fore-mentioned, had refused to register. But she firmly and positively protested against making any alteration; and it is believed, that this attempt of the marquis's persuaded her that he had had but too great a share in the dreadful resolution of taking away her life, though she did not shew her suspicions by any change in her behaviour. Certain it is, that those about her, whose notions of the marquis's guilt were before very strong, were by this ill-timed and improper request confirmed in their evil opinion of him. As he found how fixed madame de Gange was in her determination, he forbore to renew the discourse, but continued assiduously to attend on her every day, at the house of the sieur des Prats, where she still remained, not being judged in a situation to reach Montpellier, though she earnestly desired it.

Her mother, madame de Roussan, and some of her relations from Avignon, arrived at Gange the day after the marquis. Ma­dame de Roussan, who had no doubt of the marquis's guilt, was astonished to find him attending on her daughter, and to see them on good terms. Persuaded as she was, that he was the original projector of the infamous scheme to destroy her daughter, she could not with any patience endure to see him with her; her blood seemed to reco [...]l at the sight [Page 43] of him; and, as she was unable to conceal or conquer the aversion she felt for him, she re­turned in three days to Avignon, notwith­standing all her daughter's endeavours to prevail on her to stay.

Nothing could be more affecting than the pious sentiments of madame de Gange, who declared, that she sincerely forgave her mur­derers, and prayed to God to forgive them, and to accept her prayers for their salvation. As there were sometimes faint hopes of her recovery, but oftener total despair of it, she desired to receive the sacrament. What was her astonishment, when she behe [...] it presented by Perette, the same priest who had been em­ployed to assist in her assassination! Dreading least even under the form of the sacred wafer, poison might be again administered, she insisted on the priest's partaking it with her; he con­sented; and then in the most solemn manner she called God to witness, while she received the hostie, that she forgave her murderers, and all who had abetted their crime.

It was with perfect indifference she heard those praises of her beauty, which all who now saw her could not help giving it; for never in the most brilliant health, and sur­rounded with all the means of happiness, did her charms appear to greater advantage, and never perhaps were they so interesting. Her eyes had sometimes all their dazzling lus­tre, at others, that soft langour which added [Page 44] to, rather than diminished their attractions. Her complexion retained all its delicacy; and her sentiments and conversation were calcu­lated to inspire all who saw her with regret, that such an assemblage of perfections was sinking into an early grave!

Her son, of whom she was passionately fond, was constantly at her bedside; and as she knew that nothing was so likely to make a deep and indelible impression on his tender mind, as the sight of his dying mother, and hearing the advice she should give, she em­ployed almost all the hours she did not pass in religious exercises, in endeavouring to im­press on his memory maxims of charity, piety, and forgiveness, while her own conduct gave the purest example of their practice. Above all, she sought to call away his thoughts from those ideas of vengeance, which, young as he was, arose in his mind towards the cruel wretches who had destroyed his mother.—The parliament of Toulouse nominated mon­sieur de Catalan, consellor of the parliament, as a commissioner to interrogate madame de Gange; he arrived on the third of June, but she was then too ill to see him, however the next day he was admitted to her apartment, and was shut up with her alone for some time, when he forgot nothing that was likely to clear up the horrid story, into which he was [...] ­missioned to enquire. When he had [...] such notes as he thought proper, she ment [...] [Page 45] to him her earnest desire to be removed from Gange, where the dreadful ideas of the scene she had passed through were ever before her eyes, and where she had several reasons to fear for her safety. Monsieur de Catalan assured her, that he would take care she should be re­moved as soon as possible—but it was too late; for after passing a night, in which she suffered inexpressible torments, the next day, June the fifth, her complaints seemed to recur with new violence; and about four o'clock that evening she breathed her last, surrounded by her friends, who were drowned in tears; and who were so much affected by her death, that for many years afterwards they felt as lively a sorrow whenever it recurred to them, as they did when they saw her expire.

Thus died the marchioness [...] Gange, in the noon of life; whose virtu [...] and beauty made her the pride and glory of her sex. Dreadful, that she should thus fall the victim of avarice and revenge!

On opening her body, it was found that her death had not been occasioned by the wound she received, but by the poison, which had burnt the coats of her stomach, and turned her brain quite black; such was the cor­rosive quality of the potion she had swallowed that though it did not all remain in her sto­mach, it is astonishing that her constitution could so long resist its effects. But nature, who had adorned her person with so many [Page 46] charms, had given her also an excellent habit of body, as if she had meant to ha [...]e lent long so fair a spectacle to the world. Indeed the length of time she struggled with the deadly consequences of the poison, and her voice and look, which were little impaired, gave hopes, from time to time [...]he might have re­covered. As soon as she was dead, monsieur de Catalan ordered the marquis, who was still at Gange, to be arrested. He said [...] his de­sign was to pursue by law the assassins of his wife; however the magistrate put his seal on the chateau, and ordered him to be carried to the prison of Montpellier; where, though it was night when he arrived, the windows and the streets were filled with spectators, and the populace, who, as well as those of superior rank, were convinced of his guilt, received him with groans, hisses, and imprecations.

Madame de Roussan, the mother of madame de Gange, took possession of her daughter's estates, and loudly declared her resolution of avenging her death on the marquis and his execrable brothers. She published a me­morial against him, which, as it is only a repetition of the foregoing facts, need not be here noticed—except that in one she accuses the marquis of having once beat her daugh­ter, and shut her up in a kind of tower for several days, where she was seized with a disorder resembling an apoplexy. The mar­quis de Gange gave to this memorial a very [Page 47] short answer, of which this is the sense:—He says, that having the misfortune to have two brothers who have taken away the life of his wife, of a wife he tenderly loved, he, in completion of his unhappiness, is accused of being one of the accomplices. Overwhelmed and confounded by a destiny so severe, his innocence has not the power to manifest itself; all he can say is, that on supposition only can he be thought guilty, and that much of what has been said against him is founded on calumny. Such is the story of the mar­chioness's being poisoned in cream, and of the ill treatment she is supposed to have received. And as to his being a party concerned in the murder, it is founded merely on conjecture, and without any shadow of proof. He there­fore appeals to the justice and equity of the judge, against this slight and merely presump­tive evidence.

The popular clamour continued loud against the three brothers; but the judges, after re­peated examinations of the marquis, could find no proof against him, that could justify their condemning him to capital punishment. Yet they could not by any means acquit him. On the 21st of August, they pronounced sen­tence that the abbé and the chevalier de Gange should be broken alive on the wheel; the marquis degraded from his nobility and banished the kingdom for ever, and his for­tune confiscated to the use of the king; and [Page 48] the priest Peret te, after being deprived of his office by the ecclesiastical power, was con­demned to the gallies for life. The ladies of Montpellier, who resented the assassina­tion of madame de Gange, as if every one of them had lost a sister, murmured ex­tremely at the inadequate punishment of the marquis; which was perhaps the reason that, some time afterwards, the marquis de la Douze, accused of poisoning his wife, was condemned to capital punishment, though there was only strong presumptive evidence against him.—Let us now see what became of the murderers; for there is little doubt but that the marquis may be reckoned among them; since, instead of pursuing his bro­thers, to revenge the death of his wife, he re­joined them, it should seem, in perfect friend­ship. He and the chevalier offered themselves together to serve the republic of Venice, who were then at war with the Turks. The re­public accepted their services, and sent them to the island of Archipel (formerly Crete), where they signalized themselves by their courage: till the chevalier was killed by the bursting of a bomb; and the marquis survived him only a few days, being blown up by a mine that the besieged sprung in the outworks; a death too glorious for two wretches stained with so infamous a crime. The priest Pe­rette was chained to go to the gallies, but died on the road.

[Page 49] The history of the abbé, who was the most atrocious criminal, is longer. He took refuge in Holland, and got by some means or other a recommendation to the count de la Lippe, sovereign of the Vi [...]ne, a country two leagues from Utrecht, where he changed his name and embraced the protestant religion. The count, to whose conversation he was admitted, found his understanding highly cultivated, and his manners elegant and refined, which in­duced him to entrust him with the education of his eldest son, then about nine or ten years old. The abbé, by the pains he took with his pupil, and the noble sentiments with which he inspired him, made him a most accomplished youth, and gained for himself the esteem of the count and countess de la Lippe, He carefully concealed his birth, and suffered it to be believed, that his origin was obscure and mean. He became every day more and more in favour with his patrons; who had such an opinion of his judgment and capacity, that they consulted him on all occasions. It hap­pened that a number of French protestants, who had quitted their country on account of their religion, were desirous about this time of settling in the Viane, and asked permission of the sieur de la Fare, the chief justice of the country, to build houses there; who told them they must obtain it of the count de la Lippe, to procure which he advised them to address themselves to their countryman, the sieur de la [Page 50] Martelliere (which was the name the abbé went by); but he, fearing that if a body of French refugees were suffered to settle there, he should be known either by them of some of their connections, persuaded the count to refuse his permission; and, in short, he entirely governed the count and his whole family; yet his heart was a prey to remorse and vexation, Notwithstanding which, he paid his addresses to a young lady nearly related to the countess, under whose protection she was, and inspired her with a mutual passion; which soon became known to the countess, who, though she had a great regard for de la Martelliere, could by no means think of suffering him to form an al­liance with her relation, and therefore told the young lady, that though both the count and herself highly esteemed de la Martelliere, and meant to reward him generously for his services to their son, yet that they never would hear of her uniting herself with a man of ob­scure, and perhaps of scandalous birth, and that she must therefore think of it no more. The young lady, however, was not to be inti­midated or persuaded; but immediately com­municated to her lover the countess's objec­tion to his birth; which occasioned his taking the most absurd resolution that ever entered the head of a man of sense. He thought that in discovering his real situation, he should re­move the obstacle to his wishes; taking there­fore an opportunity of being alone with the [Page 51] countess, he threw himself at her feet, and told her, that since the supposed obscurity of his birth made him be thought unworthy the ho­nour to which he aspired, he was going to declare to her highness a secret of the utmost importance to his life—that he was not a wan­dering adventurer of mean origin, but that unhappy abbé de Gange, whose name was un­fortunately but too well known, and whose crime had ever since pursued him with remorse and sorrow. The countess was so shocked at this declaration, that she flew from him in terror and confusion, and often declared, that every time she thought of the wretch who dared to make it, her blood ran cold to her heart. Thunder-struck to find that the man to whom they had entrusted the education of their son, was a murderer of the blackest die, the count and countess deliberated, at first, whether they should not seize him, and send him to France, to receive the punishment due to his crimes—he owed his safety, however, to the entreaties of the young prince, his pupil, but was ordered instantly to quit the count's territories, and never again to dare to appear in any part of them.

This order he was forced to obey, and he then went to Amsterdam, where he taught languages some time for his support. The young lady of whom he was enamoured fol­lowed him, and was secretly married to him; and his pupil, the young count, generously [Page 52] contributed to their support, till her fortune came into their possession. His good conduct obtained his admission into the protestant con­sistory, and he died some time afterwards in that religion, well respected. One of his in­timate acquaintance, to whom he had some­times spoken of his former life, said, that he complained often of horrors of mind, and that he fancied he continually saw before him ma­dame de Gange, such as she appeared when he stood before her with a pistol in his hand and saw her drink the poison. It is not for us to judge how far his subsequent repentance, and the remorse that pursued him, might ex­piate his dreadful crime—or what suffering may hereafter be reserved for the horrid mon­ster, who seems to have escaped in this world, the punishment due to his atrocious villany!

[This is from Guyot de Pitaval's relation. That made by Richer, relates the death of the marquis de Gange very differently, and says, that he was suffered to return to France, where he resided many years with his son—still de­tested for the share he was supposed to have in his wife's murder; and suspected of the most vicious inclinations to the last period of his life.]

AMONG the many miseries that the un­restrained passions or prejudices of parents bring on their unfortunate offspring, none is more singular, or worthy of compassion, than such as resemble the calamities which the sub­ject of this history sustained.

Joachim Cognot, a physician, residing at Bar sur Seine, married, when in his sixtieth year, Mary Nassier, a woman of reputable parents, then about twenty-nine years old. They had several children, who all died very soon after their birth, except Claude Cognot, who was the last born before a temporary se­paration of the parents. Doctor Cognot, sup­posing he should find more business at Fonte­nay, in Poitou, removed thither, as it should seem, to try his success, and did not, from considerations of prudence, remove his family till he saw a probability of his expectations [...]eing answered. He continued there near twelve months, and then, finding his progress proportioned to his hopes, he sent for his wife, [Page 54] whom he had not seen during his residence at Fontenay. Seven months after madame Cognot rejoined her husband she was delivered of a daughter, who is the subject of this history.

The doctor, already disposed to suspect his wife's fidelity, and perhaps having heard something of her conduct, during his absence, that displeased him, imagined that this infant had no right to call him father, or to share with his son, of whom he was passionately fond, the fortune he now saw a probability of raising. The injurious thoughts he conceived of his wife, he kept however secret, and the little girl was baptized in the usual form, and registered as the daughter of Joachim Cognot, and Mary Nessier, his wife. She was put out to nurse; and about eighteen months after­wards, the doctor, whose fame as a physician encreased, removed to Paris, and was soon established there in good practice.

The unfortunate victim of his jealousy, or of his wife's indiscretion, was left behind at Fontenay—and Cognot though he had, in consequence of his removal, a fair opportunity of concealing this child, whom he was deter­mined to consider as a disgrace to himself, and an intruder on the property of his son. For this purpose he ordered her to be sent to Paris by a common carrier; whom he met, and took her, immediately on her arrival, to the Orsine, in the Fauxbourg St. Marceau, where [Page 55] lived a woman named Frances Fremont, the wife of a locksmith, called John Boutet, with whom he agreed to take the little girl at four livres a month. He paid a month's advance, gave the woman a piece of green serge to clothe the child, told her her Christian name was Mary, but that she need not enquire her surname, and that she was something less than three years old.

The mother of the infant thus abandoned, had been forced, through dread of her hus­band, and perhaps the terror of being exposed, to agree to this cruel concealment; but her heart revolted against it, and, after a struggle of some months between her fear and her affection, she at length went privately to see her daughter. On entering the house, she enquired of the woman, whether she had not taken a little girl to nurse? The woman answered that she had, and then, looking in the face of madame Cognot, she was struck with the likeness between her and the child, and exclaimed—"You, madame, are certainly this little girl's mother."

Madame Cognot answered, in confusion, that she was not; but her heart refused to confirm her denial and unable to con­ceal what she felt, she embraced the child, and burst into a passion of tears. She quitted, however, the house as soon as she could recover herself, and, apprehending the effects of her husband's anger if she went thither again, she wholly forebore to see her [Page 56] daughter, and in lavishing on her son all her tenderness, endeavoured to forget the deserted infant who had a right to share it; but Hea­ven, as if to punish the cruelty and injustice, of which she and her husband had been guilty, took from them this beloved son. This stroke did not bring back the heart of madame Cog­not to a sense of her duty; the only use she made of it seems to have been, that of imme­diately prevailing on her husband to sign a deed, in which they agreed, that the survivor of them should possess the whole property which Cognot had accumulated.

In the mean time, the woman who nursed the little girl, took great care of her, though she was no longer paid. The child was of an amiable temper, and had so good an under­standing, and a person so agreeable, that she interested every body in her favour, but par­ticularly her nurse, who loved her as her own child, and, though she was very poor, never murmured at the burden which had been imposed upon her. Till at length, sickness having disabled her and her husband, she sell into such extreme indigence, that she could no longer provide for her nurseling the abso­lute necessaries of life; she therefore deter­mined, though with the utmost reluctance, to put her into the hospital, till she was old enough to earn her subsistence in a service, or till a more favourable hour should arrive to herself, when she hoped again to be in [Page 57] condition to procure food and raiment for the unfortunate infant which she so tenderly loved.

Time however passed away, and the de­serted girl continued in the hospital; where, notwithstanding the meanness and poverty of her condition, the understanding she had re­ceived from nature unfolded itself, and her gentleness and propriety of manners procured her the esteem of all who approached her. When she was almost fourteen years old, and qualified for a service, her nurse took her from the hospital, and put her, at very low wages, to be a servant to a writing-master; where, while she earned her bread by hard labour, and was employed in the most servile offices, doctor Cognot and his wife enjoyed affluence and prosperity beyond what they had for­merly dared to hope. His practice had very much encreased, and he was appointed phy­sician to Margaret de Valois, then queen of France; yet, persuaded that this poor girl was not his own, he determined not to let her benefit by his success, though he had no longer any child who would have been injured by her participation. Sudden prosperity which too often hardens the heart, had made that of madame Cognot callous even to the tender sentiments of maternal pity and affection. Occupied by her unexpected good fortune, and by avaricious projects to [...] it, in case of her husband's death, she had accus­tomed [Page 58] herself to conquer her feeling for her daughte [...] till she no longer felt at all. It hap­pened, [...]oon after Mary had been sent to ser­vice that her nurse had occasion to visit an acquaintance in the Fauxbourg St. Germain. As she stood at the door talking with this friend, she saw doctor Cognot pass along the street; and though she had only seen him once before, and fourteen years had elapsed since, his figure, which was very remarkable, was so deeply engraven on her memory, that she immediately recollected him—"Look," said she to her acquaintance, "look at that little old man who is passing by. It is the same man who, fourteen years ago, brought poor little Mary to me—Can you tell me who he is?"—To this the other woman replied, that she knew him well; that he lived at an house but a few doors from thence, and his [...]me was the sieur Cognot, a physician in good practice.

The woman, Frances Fremont, determined to avail herself of this discovery, and soon learned that he attended the sick of a neigh­bouring convent. There she waited for him; and, as he left the door, she approached him, and said—‘Sir, it is now near fourteen years since you brought to me a little girl to nurse—will you not now take her back, and pay me for the time I have kept her?’ The doctor, who was at first very much struck by this unexpected application, soon recovered [Page 59] his presence of mind, and told Frances Fre­mont that the child was not his, but belonged to the man who was with him: he inquired, however, where she was? and, being told that she was servant to a writing-master near the great steps of La —, and that she was then ill with a fever, he took a direction to her, and promised to see her; which he did.

This discovery he immediately communi­cated to his wife; who, on hearing her daughter's situation, could not forbear feeling again that she was a mother, and that she wished to have her child rescued from the melancholy destiny to which she had been so long abandoned. Frances Fremont was not disposed to let these good dispositions languish for want of reminding the parents of their duty. She called upon them in a few days, and desired to be paid for her trouble, and the food and clothes she had provided for the little girl. The doctor bid her bring the girl thither, which she did the next day; and on her being introduced to madame Cognot, the latter still affecting to conceal her real situa­tion, began to enquire of Frances Fremont, what where her qualifications and what wages she expected; as if she intended hiring her as a servant; to which Fremont answered, that she had not brought her thither to get her a ser­vice, but to be paid for the many years during which she had kept her, and to restore her to [...]er parent [...] then looking steadily on madame [Page 60] Cognot, she exclaimed,—‘You, madam, are the same lady who came to see Mary once, and wept over her, and I know you are her mother.’ It was agreed that Mary should, for the present, remain with doctor Cognot; but to people so avaricious it was less easy to determined to pay Fremont the long arrear due to her. They put her off from time to time, till her patience being exhausted, and her ne­cessities pressing, she determined to apply to a lawyer; and doctor Cognot was summoned to appear before the bailiff of St. Germain.

Alarmed at this measure, and perceiving that if he suffered a suit against him to go on, the whole transaction, which he was so desi­rous to conceal, would be discovered; he thought it better to satisfy Fremont, and yet to conceal the birth of his daughter. For this purpose he caused a deed to be drawn up by a notary, to this effect:—That whereas he was sued by Frances Fremont for a certain sum due to her, for the care and board of an infant called Mary, for the space of fourteen years, which child was not his, but belonged to the man whom he acknowledged to have been with; and as he might be thought in some measure accessary to the expense brought on Frances Fremont, though it was merely by ac­cident that it happened, yet he did agree, through motives of charity, to take the said Mary into his service, and to pay the sum of four hundred livres to the said Francis Fremont, [Page 61] on condition of having no further trouble on the subject. This deed was signed properly, and Mary was established in the house of her parents. At first she appeared there as a ser­vant; but a servant whom her master and mistress could not resolve to treat as such. Her sole employment was working in the room with madame Cognot, keeping her keys, and doing such little easy offices as might be required of a daughter. She dined at their table, was dressed better than a servant, and money was given her for which she was not expected to account. Still, however, she was not to be considered as any other than a stranger; and she was told that she was the daughter of a person called Croissant, and was called Mary Croissant▪ while the acquaintance of madame Cognot, who observed the great likeness between her and this girl, concluded she was her niece, or some very near relation [...]. But the old doctor, who never lost the persua­sion of his wife's infidelity (whether real or supposed), continued ever to look on her as a servant, whose uncommon merit (which made an impression even on him) could not efface the prejudice he had conceived against her birth. Under the conviction of her illegiti­macy, he made his will anew, and, confirm­ing the former act between him and his wife, which left the survivor in possession of the bulk of his fortune, he gave to Mary Croissant, whom he called his servant, the sum of six hundred [Page 62] divres as a legacy; and two years after making this will he died, at the age of eighty-six.

When he was dead, and his widow se­cured in the possession of his effects, she con­tinued to observe the same conduct towards her daughter, and, making a kind of compro­mise between her avarice and her affection, still kept her with her, but still refused to ac­knowledge her as her daughter; because in that case she must have shared the property she now exclusively enjoyed.

Some time after a suitable match offering with Augustus de Seine, a man established in a reputable profession, she married her, under the name of Mary Croissant, her god-daughter. In this, as in every other part of her conduct, she seemed to unveil the mystery she endea­voured to conceal; doing too much for her if it was only an orphan taken out of charity, as she pretended, and too little if it was her daughter. It happened that Marie de Seine (as she should now be called, in consequence of her marriage), was one day assisting her mother to look over and arrange some pa­pers of the old doctor's. In doing so she cast her eye on a letter from her mother to him, in which were these words,—‘I re­commend our children to your care: Attend to our little Mary, and see her often: I am busy making clothes for her.’ Mary had before had suspicions of the truth; on the perusal of this letter, conviction flashed upon [Page 63] her; but her mother coming into the room from whence she had been a moment absent; she tried to conceal the letter in her pocket. The mother, however, instantly recollecting what it was, insisted on her returning it, which she for some time tried to evade: but her mother's commands being peremptory, she yielded to give up the letter which had taught her to know to whom she belonged; but she said, with tears, to her mother, ‘Ah, madam, I am your daughter; I am the little Mary of whom you here speak so af­fectionately; why would you continue to disown me? I conjure you not to persist in being so cruel to me; but restore me to the place I have a right to, and you will not find me ungratetful.’—This pathetic re­monstrance had its effect on the heart of ma­dame Cognot; she owned that she was her mother, and declared she would take proper measures to enable her to own her as such, without disgrace; for she represented to her, that to do it suddenly, and without preparing her friends, would occasion many ill-natured reflections and much inconvenience; and, she added, that a monk of the order of St. Francis, whom she had consulted, had told her, that she was not in conscience obliged to own her; but that she must nevertheless support her as her daughter, and give her her fortune at her decease. With a promise of being soon pro­perly restored to her right, the young woman [Page 64] was for some time content, as she was every day in hopes that her mother would find the opportunity she pretended to wait for; but she had soon the mortification to find, that other views occupied her, and that to do jus­tice to her daughter was farther than ever from her intention. A man called Nicholas Coquant, who was without any property, and had a great number of children, was intro­duced to the widow Cognot; he soon found the means of gaining her good opinion; she married him, and from that period though only of stifling the claims of her unfortunate daughter, and enriching the family on which she now had placed all her affections.

Her daughter, who saw all the fatal conse­quence of this new connection, conjured her by all that was just, by every consideration o [...] affection and honour, to re-establish her in he [...] rights, before she made this imprudent mar­riage. But madame Cognot was not to b [...] moved by her tears and entreaties. The marriage took place, and her solicitations were renewed afterwards, though there was then little prospect of their success. Wearied at length with their ineffectual efforts, and des­pairing to move the implacable heart of her mother, she determined, in vindication of her own and her childrens' rights, to have recourse to law; though it was with extreme reluctance she was driven to take such a resolutions—Madame Cognot being now again summoned [Page 65] before the bailiff of St. Germain, had recourse to all the chicane of the law. She was ob­liged however to undergo an examination [...] in the course of which a perpetual contest be­tween her avarice, her fear of detection, and her consciousness of the truth, evidently ap­peared. On being asked if she had not a daughter born at Fontenay de Compte, called Mary, and in what year? she answered, that she had, but the year she could not remember. On being farther asked, what was become of her? she said, the child was put to nurse with the wife of a baker; and that four or five months afterwards, on her return from a jour­ney to Bar fur Seine, where she had passed some time, her husband informed her that the child was dead; and that she never enquired any more about it. On being questioned, how she came to receive the plaintiff into her house, and to place her in a rank so different from servitude? she replied, that in returning home one day, she found at her house two women and a little girl; and that her husband said to her, these women have brought a little girl to be your servant, who will be very faith­ful. That she asked Fremont, one of the wo­men, how much wages she was to give her? who answered, that wages were no object; that she thereupon detained her in her service, and that the girl had lived with her from that time till she settled her in her marriage. Many other contradictory and incoherent answers [Page 66] plainly evinced the difficulty of concealing the truth. This appeared so clearly to the bailiff of St. Germain, that he gave sentence; wherein he ordered madame Coquant to re­ceive and acknowledge Mary Cognot, the wife of Augustus de Seine, as her daughter; and condemned her to pay twenty-four louis as costs; to divide all the property of the deceased Joachim Cognot with her daughter; to whom liberty was also given to sue for the arrears and profits received since his death.

From this sentence madame Coquant ap­pealed to the parliament; a provision of four hundred livres was allowed to Mary de Seine, to enable her to carry on the suit; they both underwent an examination; and the suit went on in the usual forms.

But madame Coquant having found that her daughter had been put into the hospital by her nurse, contrived to get access to the book, where all the children received into that asylum, are registered. She found the name of her daughter written there; but simply as Mary the daughter of —, a blank being left after the incomplete name. This blank she contrived to have filled up, so that the re­gister ran thus—Mary Boutet, a foundling; suckled by the wife of John Boutet, deceased.

When the cause came on, monsieur de Mai­tre, counsel for Mary de Seine, recapitulated the events of her life with great precision and exactness,—he proved all the facts here re­lated [Page 67] incontrovertibly; and as to the register of the hospital, he made the alteration clearly appear, as well as the falsehood it asserted. For Frances Fremont the wife of John Boutet, whose name had been inserted, had never had a child, and of course could not have suckled a foundling; whom in fact she never saw till she was three years old.

The defence set up by the mother and her husband was so feeble, and the legitimacy of Mary de Seine was proved so much to the sa­tisfaction of the court, that a definitive sen­tence was obtained in savour of her and her children; whereby the gift of Joachim Cog­not to his wife was annulled—half the effects left by him at his death was awarded to his daughter, after deducting half his funeral ex­penses, the provision made for his wife on her marriage, and his legacies.—Nicholas Coquant and his wife were to bear the costs; and for­bidden to damage, conceal, or dissipate the residue of the effects of Joachim Cognot, which, after the death of the mother, were to descend to the daughter and her chil­dren.

By this equitable decision the unnatural pa­rent was punished for her avarice and cruelty; the hitherto unhappy young woman reinstated in the rank to which she had an undoubted right; and the injury done her by the jealous suspicions of one of her parents, or the un­guarded conduct of the other, was repaid by [Page 68] the justice of her country. She appears to have merited her good fortune, and to have been an instance that the force of natural good sense and a virtuous disposition can alone counteract all the disadvantages of birth, and all the influence of a mean or neglected edu­cation. While her story may serve to guard the mother, who respects the peace of her children, from being guilty of indiscretions which may raise, in jealous and suspicious minds, opinions and prejudices, so fatal to the innocent objects on which the punishment of guilt, or of imprudence, too frequently falls.

LOUIS de la Pivardiere, sieur du Bouchet, was a gentleman of a very ancient family, but being a younger brother, and his family having lost much of its former opulence in the convulsions that had agitated the kingdom, his fortune was hardly enough to support him with decency, in the province of which he was a native; and it must have been inconsi­derable indeed, if the small possessions of the woman he married, induced him to unite himself with her, for they did not amount to above a thousand livres a year; and she had the five children of her former husband to maintain; being the widow of the sieur de Menou, and about five and thirty years of age. Her income arose from the estate and cha [...]eau of Nerbonne, where she resided; and whi­ther, on this marriage with her, monsieur de la Pivardiere went to reside also.

In 1689, on the arriere band being called out, the sieur de la Pivardiere served as lord [Page 70] of Nerbonne, which he possessed in right of his wife, and obtained a lieutenancy in a re­giment of dragoons. This absence was pro­bably equally agreeable to monsieur and ma­dame de la Pivardiere, for they had long lived very uneasy together. On his return their dissentions encreased; for the tongue of ma­lice had been very busy with the fame of the lady. The prior of a neighbouring monastery had been too assiduous in his attentions to madame de Pivardiere; and though there was a chapel in the castle of Nerbonne, where his duty obliged him to say mass every Satur­day, the neighbourhood would not allow that to be a sufficient reason for his passing almost every day there, on a footing of familiarity with madame de la Pivardiere, which might be very innocent, but could hardly fail of being [...] otherwise. The observations which [...] Intimacy had excited, in a place, where people having little to engage their attention, are obliged [...] much of it on their neigh­bours, wer [...] [...] communicated to the hus­band on his re [...] and increased the disgust he had conceived towards his wife. But dis­daining to appear [...]ealous of the honour of a woman whom he had probably never loved, and now thoroughly disliked, he determined to quit his house again, and leave her to the society of the prior, or whoever else she pre­ferred. After a short stay therefore at Ner­bonne, he took his horse, and for some time [Page 71] wandered from one town to another, till chance led him to Auxerre, where, in strol­ling on the ramparts of the town, he saw a party of girls dancing: one of them was un­commonly pretty, and La Pivardiere followed her home, where he found that she was the daughter of a hussier^*, who who kept a little ale-house in the suburbs, where his widow still lived. Access to an inhabitant of such a place was not difficult; La Pivardiere took a lodging in the house, and boarded with the widow, under the name of Du Bouchet. But he soon found that the object of his wishes, though of humble fortune, had principles too strict to listen to him, on any other terms than those of honour, and that he must marry her or quit her. After a short struggle with his pride, and his apprehensions of detection, love got the better of both. He determined to forget that he was born a gentleman, and, as far as he could, to obliterate the remem­brance of his name, and (what he was [...] desirous of burying in oblivion) his ma [...] with madame de Menou. He took upon [...] the charge vacant by the [...]ecent death of the girl's father, married her, and became, jointly with her mother, keeper of the ale-house, where they all resided. He lived for some months perfectly happy with his new wife, [Page 72] who became pregnant; a circumstance that probably made La Pivardiere think more stea­dily of fixing his present establishment on the securest basis it would admit. He determined to go back to Nerbonne, to receive what mo­ney was due from the tenants, and to return with it as soon as possible to his new family at Auxerre. On his arrival at the chateau of Nerbonne, he found the prior with madame de Pivardiere; of which, being wholly occu­pied by the purpose of his jourdey, he took no notice. Se received him with extreme cold­ness; and, as he told her he was just come from his regiment, to which he must imme­diately return, she was more desirous of pro­curing him the money he wanted, to hasten his departure, than anxious to make his stay agreeable. As soon a [...] he had collected all the money he could, he returned impatiently to Auxerre, where his young wife soon after lay in. The second, third, and fourth year, [...] every one of which she brought him a child, Le Pivardierre made the same journey, [...] the same view of obtaining money, and without scruple took from his former wife and his child (for he had at least one daughter by her) their subsistence, to support his new connections, and his increasing family.

Though this commerce had been carried on for four years without discovery, it could not always continue concealed. Madame [...] Pivardiere was at length informed, that [...] [Page 73] husband lived with another woman; but though she had gained this informations, she was ignorant of the name and residence of this person, so carefully had m. de la Pivar­diere eluded the eyes of curiosity, in his va­rious tours to Nerbonne.

The fourth of these journies, however, was less fortunate than the preceding three. Just before he arrived at his chateau, his wife had received the intelligence of his infidelity, and knew how to account for his yearly visit, which she found was not to obtain money to support his rank in the army, but to bestow on another family. Though already estranged from him, the mortifying assurance of his preference of another, was too painful to her vanity, and she determined not to con­ceal the bitterness and anger which she felt. It happened that he arrived at Nerbonne on the fete of Notre Dame, in the month of August; on occasion of which festival madame de la Pivardiere had entertained a party of friends at dinner, among whom her con­stant attendant, the prior of Mezaray, was not forgotten. They were yet in the height of their social entertainment when La Pivardiere entered, about sun-set. The company received him with great marks of respect, and the prior was particularly polite, and affected the great­est satisfaction at his return. [...] madame [...] Pivardiere looked so coldly [...] him, and [...] his enquiries with so fullen and dis­contented [Page 74] an air, that the company began to grow uneasy, and one of the ladies said aside to m. de la Pivardiere, ‘Is it thus that a hus­band is received, after so long an absence?’ To which he answered, ‘I am, indeed, her husband, but her affections are another's.’ The party soon after broke up, and left monsieur and madame de la Pivardiere alone. She re­mained some time with him, but was obsti­nately silent; and when she arose, and went to her chamber, he followed her, and insisted on knowing the reason of such a reception. ‘Go (said she, in an angry tone), go ask of the woman you live with, and to whom you pretend to be married, the reason of my rage and indignation.’ All la Pivardiere could say, to erase the idea of his having ano­ther wife, only irritated madame de la Pivar­diere; who, though she was totally indifferent to her husband, was stung to the soul at the thoughts of a rival. After some fruitless at­tempts to appease her, she flung from him, saying, that he should soon see whether he should with impunity insult and rob her. The husband, despairing to reconcile her, left her, and retired to a room prepared for him. But, alarmed at her threats, which he imagined meant that she would have him arrested, and punished for bigamy (which one of the ser­vants, who [...] in her confidence, assured him she intended and not choosing again to [...] ­pose himself to the fury of an enraged wom [...] [Page 75] he arose before break of day, and taking his gun with him, and a dog who always fol­lowed him, set out on foot for Auxerre. He had lamed his horse in coming from thence, and had been obliged to lead it by the bridle for some miles; he therefore thought it best to leave the horse behind him: and, as it was in the month of August, and he had little occa­sion for a cloak, which would he thought en­cumber him too much, he left that, together with his pistols, in his chamber.

The next morning monsieur de la Pivar­diere was missed, and no one knew whither he was gone; his horse, his cloak, and his pistols being left, made an extraordinary impression on the neighbours; and, after a few days, a report obtained, that his wife, assisted by the prior of Mezaray, had caused him to be assas­sinated. By degrees the rumour increased a­mong the common people, who lov [...] [...] ter­rible and the marvellous, and at [...] it grew so loud, that justice aff [...] [...] [...] ­liged to notice it. Madame de [...] informed of the storm that was gathering, se­cured [...] best of her furniture and effects, and retired to the house of madame d'Auneüil, her friend, where she waited the event of the proceedings, which the officers of justice now began. One of them arrived at Nerbonne, where he examined fifteen witnesses. Two servants, who were more immediately em­ployed about the apartments, were taken into [Page 76] custody. They both, on being interrogated, owned that monsieur de la Pivardiere had been assassinated. The first, who was called Mar­garet Mercier, and who was her mistress's god-daughter, and a great favourite with her, declared that she had sent every body away, who was likely to prevent the murder, and had introduced two servants of the prior of Me­zeray into her master's bed-chamber, who had killed him; to which she added several cir­cumstances which seemed to confirm the truth of her story. The other maid-servant, named Catharine le Moine, corroborated this account; and what appeared yet more con­vincing, the daughter of de la Pivardiere, a girl about eight or nine years old, said, that in the night she was alarmed by hearing her father's voice, who cried,—"Oh my God, have mercy upon me!"

In these accounts they all firmly persisted; and the neighbours declared that they remem­bered [...] heard the report of a gun or pis­tol [...] might.—Margaret Mercier be­ing taken dangerously ill, and being about to receive the last sacraments, again protested that all she had said was true, and that the prior had himself assisted, and had given the final blow which deprived de la Pivardiere of his life.

On receiving these depositions, the officers of justice, of whom the judge of Chatillon was chief, ordered madame de la Pivardere to be [Page 77] prosecuted; and, as the prior of Mezeray was included in the accusation, a like order was issued against him. The judge of Chatillon was said to be the inveterate enemy of the prior de Mezaray; and, from the circumstances that attended the affair, it seems probable that that enmity was the cause of all the measures which were taken, to fix on the prior a share of a crime which had not been committed, and that the evidence given by the two maids, was in consequence of the rewards offered them by this officer, who wished to gratify, under the cloak of justice, his private hatred and revenge.

The circumstance of madame de la Pivar­diere's quitting her house, seemed to be a strong argument of her guilt. As soon as she was gone, the lieutenant of the police went thither to examine the chateau; and in his account he asserted, among many other particulars, which seemed to confirm the assassination, that blood was found on the floor of the room where de la Pivardiere had slept. Madame de la Pivardiere then went to Paris, where she laid before a superior court, an account of the prosecution that had been commenced against her, and desired that cognizance might be taken of it, by its being referred to an officer of the law more impartial than him who had instituted the process. Her request was granted, and the judge of Remorentin was di­rected to investigate the whole.

[Page 78] In the mean time madame de la Pivardiere assiduously employed [...] in endeavours to discover the place of her husband's retreat. She traced him, by persons who had met him on the ro [...] as far as Auxerre; but there they lost all intelligence. They therefore be­gan to enquire narrowly into the probability of his being in that town, and with some dif­ficulty discovered him keeping a little public house, and under the name of Du Bouchet, acting as a h [...]ssier. He soon found that agents from his wife were in pursuit of him; and, fearing that she was now about to have him confined for bigamy, he fled from his house; but his pursuers overtook him at Flavigny, and quieted his fears on that account by informing him that he had nothing to ap­prehend from his wife at present, in regard to his liberty, for that his appearance was abso­lutely necessary to save her life. He no sooner learned this, than, forgetting all their animosity, he hastened to clear her from the imputation of so horrid a crime. His second wife generously encouraged him to this ex­ertion; and, far from resenting the injury he had done her by a feigned marriage, or wishing to destroy her rival, she was anxiously desirous of saving her from the fatal conse­quence of a false accusation.

De la Pivardiere went before a notary at Auxerre, where he signed a declaration of his being living and in health. He wrote [Page 79] also to his wife and to his brother, who in their answers informed him his presence was absolutely necessary at Nerbonne. Thither, therefore, he went, and found his chateau plundered of every thing: the best of his ef­fects his wife had removed, to secure them; the rest, as she had foreseen, were the prey of the officers of justice.

He presented himself before the judge of Remorentin, and desired that the authenticity of his appearance might be testified by the proper persons, and that he would accompany him to Nerbonne. On their arrival, the in­habitants of the village, the tenants and neighbours of La Pivardiere, signed the testi­monial of his being alive; he went from thence to the little town of Jeumaloches and being desirous to shew himself as publicly as possible, he entered the church just as ves­pers began on St. Anthony's day, who being the [...]utelary saint of the parish, and of the church, it was on that occasion very much crouded. Had the most frightful spectre en­tered, it could hardly have caused a greater alarm, or more sudden surprise; for so much pains had been taken to persuade the people of the death of la Pivardiere, that they could hardly believe he was living, though they saw him before them.

But notwithstanding the undoubted cer­tainty of his being alive, such was the singular power lodged in the hands of the provincial [Page 80] judges in France, and such the abuse often made of it, that the judge of Chatillon still carried on the prosecution; the sus­pension of the prior of Mezaray was conti­nued, and his benefices for the time remained under confiscation. To ruin him, seems to have been the sole reason for so extraordinary and so absurd a procedure, as that which still attempted to establish proof of the death of a man, who was living and present.

The two servants were confined in the pri­son of Chatillon, where this magistrate had them entirely in his power, and where his offers of reward and threats of punishment were all employed to bring them to his purpose. The judge of Remorentin took de la Pivardiere to these women; who, being now consummate in perjury, alleged that the person they at present saw, pretending to be monsieur de la Pivardiere, their master, was an impostor, whom they knew not. But the judge of Chatillon, apprehending that they would not have strength of mind long to per­sist in a falsehood so glaring, forbade the judge of Remorentin and la Pivardiere admission to the prison; and he ordered de la Pivardiere to be stopped, that he might be examined.—La Pivardiere was by no means inclined to put himself in the power of a man, who had gone such lengths to prove him dead; he was be­sides apprehensive, that the affair of his hav­ing two wives would be productive of fatal [Page 81] consequence, from which, if he were once in custody, he could not escape. For these rea­sons, he refused to obey the order of the judge of Chatillon, and went from thence with the judge of Remorentin, who afterwards ac­companied him to all his relations, to those who were present when he arrived at the chateau of Nerbonne, the night of his sup­posed assassination; to his two sisters, nuns in the Ursul [...]ne convent at Valence; and his person was by all these people acknowledged and identified. Having taken all th [...]se me­thods to clear his wife from the imputation against her, and remained three weeks with her and his relations, he concluded that he should have no more trouble with this extra­ordinary affair.

But the judge of Chatillon would not so easily relinquish the prey he held with the strong grasp of authority. He found, that as he had gone so far, the boldest steps only could carry him on. He arrested the prior of Mezaray, put irons on his legs, and threw him into the prison of Chatillon; and began a suit against the judge of Remorentin, for in­terfering in his district; and at length ob­tained an arret against his future proceed­ings.

After various appeals and evasions, which, as the principal facts are known, it would be tedious and uninteresting to recapitulate, the cause was heard before the parliament of the [Page 82] province. The judge of Chatillon died be­fore it came on; and his heirs, ashamed pro­bably of a transaction that would throw in­famy on his memory, petitioned for leave to withdraw; but de la Pivardiere, and the prior of Mezaray, now insisted on its being brought to an issue. It was heard accordingly. No damages were allowed de la Pivardiere for all the injury he had sustained, as the judge was supposed to have proceeded origi­nally on good grounds. But Margaret Mer­cier, the principal witness, who had perjured herself in three or four instances, was to make the amende honourable, by standing in a sheet at the door of the church of Chatillon, holding a torch in her hand; and there, on her knees, and in an audible voice, to ac­knowledge that she had borne false witness, for which she asked pardon of God and the injured parties; afterwards she was to be whipped, burned with a hot iron, and banished the province for ever.

Madame de la Pivardiere, the prior of Mezaray, and his servants, were declared in­nocent, and discharged from any future trouble.

This affair terminated, de la Pivardiere could not determine to reside with his wife, whose attachment to the prior he still re­membered—nor would he now return to his imaginary wife and her children, unless to bid them an eternal adieu.—The duke de [Page 83] Feüillade, whose distant relation he was, gave him an employment, such as we now call an office in the revenue; in exercising which, he was killed in a skirmish with a party of smugglers. Not long afterwards, madame de la Pivardiere was found dead in her bed; and his second wife married another person.

The prior of Mezaray lived to a very ad­vanced age, and long survived those whose connections with him had been so fatal to their repose.

COURTIN de Villiers, a young officer of a noble family, being in garrison at Metz, became acquainted with, madame Geoffroi, who having been left a widow, while yet in the earliest bloom of youth, re­sided there with the mother of her deceased husband. De Villiers, who was at first at­tracted by the beauty of the young widow, found the charms of her understanding, and the sweetness of her temper, equal to the per­fections of her person. He found also, that all hopes of forming with her a connection of gallantry, were rashly entertained; and that his addresses must be open, and authorised by the laws of honour. The longer his acquaint­ance continued, the more impossible he found it to quit her; but he knew he must not hope for the consent of his father and mother; yet, flattering himself, that if he were actually married he should obtain their pardon, and his insurmountable passion urging him to hazard the trial, he, prevailed on madame [Page 85] Geoffroi, who was not insensible of his merit or his affection, to consent to a union, which it was not possible for them to celebrate in France with the usual forms. Her father was yet living, and had not been consulted; and the parents of de Villiers, he was sure, would refuse their consent, without which, as he was but two-and-twenty, and the lady only three months older, they could not be married according to law. The mother of her first husband, with whom madame Geoffroi re­sided, moved by the importunities of Villiers, and the wishes of her daughter, consented to assist at, and to conceal the marriage▪ but as no priest dared solemnize it at Metz, they were still embarrassed with difficulties, that seemed unsurmountable, till the almoner of the regiment to which Villiers belonged told them, he could marry them in Lorraine, that country being then under the government of its own princes, and the laws in force there, in regard to marriage, did not require the consent of parents to the marriage of mi­nors.

The almoner therefore was sent into Lor­raine, with the secrecy his scheme required. Thither he was followed by Villiers and the fair widow; and as soon as they were married they returned to Metz, equally happy in their union, and not doubting its legality; after the precautions they had taken. Madame Vil­liers, about ten months afterwards, was deli­vered [Page 86] of a son; an event which, while it in­creased the happiness of her husband, made him reflect with anxiety on the disadvantage under which this beloved infant might lie, from the clandestine manner of its parents' marriage. Not daring to baptize it by his own name, he called it Tincour de Virilles, an anagram on the name of Courtin de Villiers.

As soon as his wife was well enough to al­low him to quit her, Villiers, who grew more uneasy every day for the fate of his son, went to Paris. He there addressed himself to the sieur de Lalande, the father of madame Vil­liers, and besought, in the most affecting manner, his approbation of their marriage; but he found only anger and indignation, which embittered the absolute refusal he re­ceived. To add to his unhappiness, his father and mother were by this, time informed of his connection, and he heard that they had not only passed an act, which dis-inherited him, if he did not immediately relinquish his wife, but had commenced a suit against her for se­duction, and having made a pretended marriage with a minor.

Their first measure was, to petition for leave to collect information. It was obtained, and the wife of Villiers was summoned to appear. She appealed against the summons, and procured an arret, in the name of the widow Geoffroi, which delayed any further [Page 87] proceedings for some time. In the mean time Villiers, and every friend he could inte­rest on his behalf, tried, by intreaties and supplications, to prevail on his parents to ra­tify by their consent a union on which the happiness of their son depended. But it was in vain he endeavoured to move them by tears and prayers; in vain his friends inter­ceded for him, with remonstrance and exhor­tation: his parents were inexorable; and, hoping that time and possession, which so often cure excessive passions, would, before many months were elapsed, make their son as anxious to break his connexion as he now was to confirm it, they persevered in those measures, by which they hoped to render the marriage abortive, and the child illegitimate. While they were prosecuting these measures, Villiers and his family were reduced to the cruelest exigence. His allowance had been withdrawn, and he had no longer money to support his rank in his regiment, or to pro­cure his wife and his child the necessaries they required. The expenses of the suit filled up the measure of those inconveniencies to which they were exposed; and when he found that his father would furnish him with nothing till he disowned his marriage, he was obliged, rather than see those he so tenderly loved subject to the distress of poverty, to agree to say whatever they would have him, and even to procure a certificate, which on being [Page 88] delivered to the minister^* of the war depart­ment, monsieur Chamillard, he received a sum of money, with which he determined to wait his majority, and then to endeavour to have his marriage confirmed, or at least to try whether his parents could then prevent his renewing an engagement, in which only the satisfaction of his life consisted.

As soon as that period arrived, he produced to a notary the certificate of his marriage; he had by this time prevailed on the sieur Lalande, his wife's father, not only to forgive the in­discretion she had been guilty of, but to enter warmly into their mutual interest, and en­deavour to secure a marriage, which could not be dissolved, without covering with dis­honour a daughter of whom he was deservedly fond. Villiers now signified to his parents, that he was determined to maintain the vali­dity of his marriage: whereupon they again applied to have it set aside, as being wholly illegal.

Their son, at the same time, presented to the same tribunal a request, that if his mar­riage was found good, it might be legally es­tablished. The parents opposed it, and in their opposition were sustained by the whole power and interest of the families allied to that of Villiers, who became almost all par­ties. The sieur Dupin, who was appointed to [Page 89] act for the infant born of this contested mar­riage, demanded, that if the first marriage, should be declared null, his ward should ne­vertheless be declared legitimate, in conse­quence of the second; or fully established in all the claims of his birth, if it should be con­firmed. In this state the contending parties brought the cause on an hearings; and the sieur Guyot de Chesne undertook the pleadings for the father and mother of Villiers.

^*He defended the importance of the pa­ternal authority, as well as the force of those laws which the young m. de Villiers had vio­lated, by entering into engagements expressly forbidden. He said that his clients believed that their honour required them to oppose a marriage, which was degrading to their son and injurious to his family; since he was of illustrious rank; and the woman with whom he desired to ally himself, greatly inferior to him. Men of high birth should carefully guard against their children's forming alliances with those beneath them, and should preserve untainted the honourable blood they derive from a long line of ancestors. But in fact, the connection which captain de Villiers had formed with the widow Geoffroi, had as yet thrown no blemish on his exalted birth, for it was no marriage. That therefore being out [Page 90] of the question, all that remained was to know, whether, nowithstanding his being no longer a minor, be could now contract a mar­riage, to which his parents were determined never to consent.

To prove that the marriage was not only illegal in itself, but that the very certificate was a forgery, he said it was signed by the priest, with a title which exists not in [...]e church; and the place of celebration, which at the first writing of the certificate had been omitted, had been afterwards interlined. Be­sides, the defence set up was in the name of the widow Geoffroi; which name she should certainly not have continued, while conscious she was the wife of De Villiers. The young man had, moreover, given to the minister, Chamillard, an assurance in writing that he was not married, and had repeated the same in letters to his mother. And if he afterwards affirmed what he had so repeatedly denied, it could be imputed only to the influence which the sieur Lalande, with whom he now lived, had acquired over him, and of his love for the widow, who employed all her art, and all her charms, to retain him in the setters she had forged for him. Why, if the parties were conscious that they were married, did they baptize the child, born of the marriage, by a fictitious name? and not suffer it to bear that of either of its parents? The proofs that the intended marriage was invalid, being thus [Page 91] indisputable, it remained to be known whe­ther the son of an illustrious family, connected with the noblest houses in the kingdom, could, without the consent of his parents, ally him­self with the daughter of an obscure man, who, from a very low station, had by dint of long service obtained the rank of brigadier; and, though it could not be denied, that his wife, who was of the house of Balletrier, in Artois, was the daughter of a very ancient family, yet the nobility of his wife could not conceal or amend his own low origin.

Besides the inequality of birth, the inequa­lity of fortune was also great, between the wi­dow Geoffroi and captain de Villiers. The sieur Lalande, her father, boasted, it is true, of an income of twenty-five thousand livres a year; but when he was asked to name the estates, or source, from whence this revenue arose, he brought no proof that he really pos­sessed it. In the contract of marriage made between his daughter and monsieur Geoffroi, her first husband, he had agreed to give her a portion of twenty-five thousand livres; but they did not appear ever to have been, paid. Yet she possessed nothing else, or any security that her father would give her a share of his fortune, wherever it lay. It was said that the mother of monsieur Geoffroi meant to make her her heir; but of this there was no cer­tainty: as to the jointure of a thousand livres a year, which she was paid from the property [Page 92] of her first husband, it was not only trifling in itself, but terminated with her life.—Captain de Villiers, though his parents had three other children, another son and two daughters, was yet to be considered as heir to the greater part of his father's property, amounting to above four hundred thousand livres; his brother being in the order of Malta, and his two sisters having only very small portions, if they did not (as they proba­bly would) take the veil. The disparity there­fore between his fortune, and that of the wi­dow Geoffroi, was evidently so great, that his parents thought they had on that account, as well as on that of the inequality of birth, a right steadily to oppose the confirmation or renewal of a match, so ruinous to the interest of their son, and so disagreeable to themselves. But were not their objections to the marriage so numerous, and so invincible, from these reasons, the seduction which had been prac­tised on their son, was a circumstance, in it­self sufficient to make them determine, never to consent to his marrying a woman capable of such practice. Her mother-in-law had as­sisted her, and her father had joined in the unjustifiable means that had been used to fas­cinate his judgment and subvert his under­standing—whence he had become, not only es­tranged from his family, but careless of the evil with which he was threatened; that of being disinherited and disowned by a justly [...] [Page 93] offended father. And though the parents, and their relations, could not positively affirm that the widow Geoffroi was a woman of loose character, yet a widow of her age, en­couraging the visits of officers in garrison, could certainly not be thought entirely blame­less; and as she was older than the chevalier Villiers, who had just left the bosom of his family, there was every appearance, that very disho­nourable means had been used to obtain his affections; means, which amounted to the crime of seduction, and which therefore ren­dered her incapable of being received as his wife, and even liable to punishment. That, however, the sieur de Villiers and his family did not insist on; they only desired that the chevalier Villers might for ever be separated from her, and restored to his family. And as to the child, who must at all events be con­sidered as the natural son of the chevalier Villiers, he might be acknowledged as such, if the chevalier chose to acknowledge him; but cannot be received into society, or into the family of Villiers, in any other rank.

These pleadings for the sieur de Villiers and his family, against the marriage, being fi­nished, monsieur Blaru undertook the defence of madame Geoffroi and her infant son. ^*He said, that if ever a marriage was made per­fectly consonant to reason, it was that which [Page 94] was now attempted to be broken, by the un­reasonable ambition and unjust prejudices, of the sieur de Villiers; though reason, justice, and, above all, the situation of the child, de­manded its confirmation. That it was in vain the adverse parties asserted that the celebration of the marriage was merely suppositious, and affected to bring the mistake in the certificate, and the interlineations, as proofs. The first was a mere error, originating in the igno­rance of the person who wrote it; and the se­cond only an omission. Had it been a forgery, more care would have been taken to avoid de­fects. It was objected, that this certificate had not been produced till the parties were out of their minority. But this was occasioned by the fear of their being parted forever by the power of the sieur de Villiers, if they had braved his authority before the laws in some degree had emancipated his son. For the same reason, the wife of the chevalier de Villiers, had answered her summons in the name of the widow Geoffroi. And if the chevalier de Villers had denied his marriage, it was through the pressing exigence to which he was reduced; when his father no longer allowed him money, and he could not either support his wife and his child, or furnish himself with necessaries for the campaign, on which his duty obliged him to serve. On reference to the letters and papers, wherein he had disowned his marriage, it appeared that he had said [Page 95] only that "he was not married at Paris;" which was in fact true, and by this equivo­cation he had obtained the money, without which he must have suffered both in his love and in his honour; and though an equivoca­tion was certainly derogatory to his sentiments of rectitude, yet necessity, from which there [...] defence, had obliged him to break through [...], which he had till then respected.

The same motives had obliged him to bap­tize [...] child by a fictitious name, under which [...] he had concealed the letters of his [...] that by a slight transposition they forme [...] [...] de Villiers. In this innocent deception [...], who was confined at the time, [...]. But admitting that the marriage [...] between the chevalier de Villiers, and [...] Lalande the widow of the sieur Geoffroi, was invalid, because it was celebrated while they were both minors, with­out the consent of the parents of either, and not by the curate of the parish to which either of them belonged the question now is, whe­ther, as they have both attained their majority, [...] may not be legally united, the opposition of [...] p [...]rents of the chevalier Villiers not­withstanding.

The first reason they alleged for this oppo­sition was the inequality of birth between the [...], in endeavouring to prove which, they [...] relative to the sieur de La­ [...]. This gentleman was originally of a [Page 96] good family in England; and, though he could not from thence be accounted noble in France, yet he had obtained a certificate of his rank from the king of England, in conse­quence of which the king of France had granted him letters of nobility. His father had from them [...] taken the title of seigneur de Lalande, which his elder brother now possessed, toge­ther with several estates belonging to the fa­mily. But were it true that the nobility of the sieur de Lalande was merely personal; as it must have been acquired by [...] and meri­torious service in the army, it [...] be esteemed more honourable for him, and reflect greater credit on his family; as it had raised him un­doubtedly to a rank which entitled him to [...] himself gentleman, for he was a knight of St. Louis, governor of the citadel of Metz, and a brigadier in the army.

Their second plea, that of disparity of for­tune, was equally ill-founded. The sieur de Lalande was possessed of several estates; his wife was of an illustrious family in Artois, and by the death of her relations she now possessed, in her right, the estates of the family, to the amount of more than ten thousand livres a year; besides which, the sieur de Lelande possessed other property, which made the whole of his income above twenty-five thou­sand livres: and if the sieur de Villiers would agree to let the cause be concluded by the union of the young people, on condition that [Page 97] he should produce for his daughter a sum equal to what the sieur de Villiers would im­mediately give his son, he was content to abide by the issue. In this part of his pleading, the counsellor Blaru addressed himself to madame de Villiers, mother of the chevalier, who was in court: "Do you hear, madam," said he ‘the offer I make, and do you understand that I am authorized by my client to pro­pose these terms to you?’ The lady remain­ing silent, he repeated this proposal; to which no answer being given, he said, that he ap­prehended his client, so far from being very much inferior to the sieur Villiers in point of fortune, was really in a condition to wish to be put to this proof, which his adversary could not venture to accept.

The third objection, brought by the sieur de Villiers against the daughter of his client, was founded on reflections on her conduct, equally injurious and unjust, since the adverse party knew it was so irreproachable, that, though they had employed every possible me­thod to discover some indiscretion, some error, none could be produced against her; they were therefore forced to content themselves with remote hints and groundless presump­tions; but, as the honour of a woman, and above all of a young and beautiful woman in her situation, is the most delicate, and most easily blemished, he determined to wipe off the stain these cruel, though remote hint [...] [Page 98] might leave, by producing testimony of her conduct. He then proved by witnesses, that not only during her first marriage and widow­hood, her character had been unimpeached, notwithstanding her youth, and the uncommon attractions of her person; but that since she had been connected with the chevalier de Vil­liers, it had been so irreproachable, that ma­lice itself had never dared to throw on it the slightest reflection. The best proof, that the chevalier himself was as much attached to her from the conviction of her virtue and good­ness, as by her personal beauty, was, the ea­gerness with which he sought to confirm, or to renew, a marriage which he preferred to all the satisfaction a great fortune could bestow; and was content to be cut off from his family, and lose his inheritance, rather than abandon a wife so worthy of his tenderness and con­stancy. Had not the excellent character and numerous virtues of his wife secured the heart her eminent beauty first attracted, it was probable, that a young man, after a three years marriage, would willingly avail himself of the opportunity he now had to recover his liberty, and reconcile himself to his father. The conduct of the chevalier de Villiers was the best eulogy on the merit of his wife.

The charge of seduction, the most dan­gerous of all the allegations against Julie de Lalande, the widow of the sieur Geoffroi, alone remained to be controverted. The plaintiffs [Page 99] had asserted, that being a widow, and older than the chevalier de Villiers, and being be­sides assisted in her enterprize by her father, and her late husband's mother, she had art­fully inveigled the chevalier into a clandestine marriage; who was, from his inexperience and youth, liable to fall into the snare. But the facts were here greatly misrepresented. In regard to age, the chevalier was only three months younger than madame Geoffroi; and in point of experience, it is inconceivable that a young man, who had been two years a mousquetaire, as long aid de camp to marshal Bouff [...]ers, and three years a captain of horse, should be without knowledge of the world, and unable to discover the artful practices of the defendants, had any such been used; yet he is represented as a novice, without judg­ment, and incapable of conducting himself.

And why should madame Geoffroi wish to engage the chevalier Villiers, had not a mu­tual affection bound them to each other? She lived easy and respected with her mother-in-law; she was young, beautiful, and conse­quently much followed and admired, and had among her lovers several of established fortune, and of higher rank; with whom she would not have experienced the inconveniences and persecutions to which her present union had exposed her. Her prospects of fortune from her father were at least equal to those of the chevalier de Villiers; and, being born a gen­tlewoman, [Page 100] she might justly aspire to an union wish a man of family; why, therefore, should the chevalier Villiers be an object to her, and what should attach her to him, but that dis­interested and sincere affection, which induce her to prefer him to the rest of mankind, and even to her own peace and convenience?—The charge of seduction, brought against the sieur de Lalande, her father, was equally ground­less. He was at first ignorant of the mar­riage; and, when he was informed of it, ex­pressed what he really felt, anger and indig­nation, foreseeing all the ill consequences of such an indiscreet connection. But the ho­nour of his daughter, and the welfare of his grandson obliged him, since the thing was done, to receive his daughter, and to endea­vour to have her marriage confirmed. He is accused of keeping the chevalier de Villiers always with him, and by that means depriv­ing him of the freedom of choice. That as­sertion is contradicted by the notorious fact of the chevalier's having made two campaigns since his marriage, when he was many months absent from his wife and her family. On his return to winter at home, he presented him­self at his father's house; he was refused ad­mission; it was then natural for him to go where his wife and child were, and to make his abode with the sieur de Lalande. In fact, he had, during his minority, neither home or support but with his wife; since he attained [Page 101] his majority, he had removed from the house of his wife's father: the idea therefore, of his being under guidance or influence, was wholly unfounded. It was also said, that the sieur de Lalande had impressed [...]ars on the mind of the chevalier de Villier [...]. He did indeed fear—but what?—he feared to become perjured and faithless; to act against his con­science, against the laws of nature and huma­nity; against the peace and honour of a vir­tuous and innocent woman, and a child who claimed all his tenderness and protection.—These crimes he certainly was afraid to com­mit; and the fear of such guilt was so great, that he lost the lesser fear of being disinherited, though the consequence were to be the loss of a splendid fortune, and, what he valued more, his father's favour. However flattering it would be to him to possess both, he could not do it by an act which would make him guilty and unworthy in his own eyes, and in those of every man of honour; his hope there­fore was, that in his profession he might ac­quire that fortune which he would not owe to perjury and injustice, and that his sword would be the means of repairing the injustice of his father: and, if he must choose between possessing unstained the honour of his wife, his child, and himself, though in the lowest indigence; or of forfeiting it all to become the heir to his father's fortune, and to be re­stored to his favour; he preferred poverty, en­dured [Page 102] from principle, to affluence, so dearly brought, and which he never could enjoy with the approbation of his own heart.—It has been asserted that there is no law which permits a child to marry without the consent, or in di­rect [...]position to the will of a parent; but the common right of humanity surely say, that when a person has attained a certain age, he [...] liberty to choose for himself. Madame [...], the mother of the chevalier, des­ [...] to succeed in her suit by the direct means of [...] and justice, was known to have [...] the judges, and to have exerted [...] influence to obtain their surfrage.^* Madame de V [...]lliers hoped by these methods [...]are a prohibition of be the marriage, at least for some time, if it could not be entirely prevented. But would it be just to keep the chevalier and his wife yet longer in suspence? Surely not; and particularly as the chevalier was again called by his profession into the [...]. He might fall; and his wife would [...] [...]noured, his child deprived of his [...] would in such circumstances, be [...] fear [...]s for himself, he would go [...] reluctance to his duty, when he foresaw that any accident be falling him would involve [Page 103] in extreme misery those he loved infinitely more, and whose welfare he ought above all things to secure. In the soldier he could not lose the father and the husband; and while he exposed his life for his country the laws of that country should guard the honour and the peace of the sacred pledges he had left, and for whom he had a right to claim protec­tion.^*

When the pleadings on behalf of the sieur de Lalande and his daughter were finished, the force of what had been advanced on both sides was thus collected by the celebrated monsieur le Nain,^† advocate general.

He said, the first question was, whether the form of marriage had subsisted? Notwith­standing the error in the certificate, he doubted not but it had; but being defective in the requisite forms, in the place where it was con­tracted, and in the consent of the parents on both sides, it was undoubtedly null and of no effect.

The point therefore to be decided was, whether, under the present circumstances, his parents still refusing their consent, the cheva­lier de Villiers being major, might marry Julie de Lalande, the widow of the sieur Geoffroi?

Can the opposition of the parents prevent [Page 104] [...] the age when the law [...] to contract it?—It may, in some cases: as when a son would contract a marriage with an infamous person,^* who would bring disgrace on the posterity of illus­trious ancestors. But that is not here in­tended: the sieur de Lalande was a gentleman, if not by descent by his personal merit and eminent services, and his family at least un­blemished, if not noble. The difference of fortune no well founded cause of opposition. If it were, it is here out of the question, as the sieur de Lalande is willing to make that of his daughter equal to whatever the sieur de Vil­liers will give his son—If Julie de Lalande had been guilty of any irregularities of con­duct, either previous or subsequent to her con­nection with the chevalier de Villiers, such conduct might render effectual the opposition of his parents; but no such fact has appeared; on the contrary, strong testimonies of her vir­tue and rectitude have been produced. If, however, seduction could be proved on the part of the lady, it is a crime so heinous, that the parents would be justified in their refusal to consent to the marriage, and the law would maintain them in it; but nothing had been alleged which could fix that imputation on her. Between two persons so nearly of the same age, love was the seducer of both; and [Page 105] with a person so calculated to inspire it, with temper and talents so likely to fix it, there was no need of seduction. But her fa­ther, the sieur de Lalande, was not equally clear from this charge; for though it appeared that he was not at Metz when the connection began, yet it was clear, that as soon as he was apprised of his daughter's situation, he tried by every means in his power to make the chevalier de Villiers adhere to his en­gagements. In doing so he had acted like a father anxious for the honour of his child. But there still was an appearance of constraint; the chevalier had lived with him during his minority; and immediately on its expiration, and before he could be said to be out of the influence of the sieur de Lalande, this cause had come on. For these reasons, the solicitor general proposed, that the chevalier de Villiers should be obliged to return to his family for a certain time, in order that it should be en­tirely out of the power of the sieur de Lalande to affect his judgment; after which, if he still persisted in using his right to marry Julia de Lalande, it should not be denied him. In regard to the danger he might incur in the ensuing campaign, as he had already returned safe, it was probable he might do so again; at least the hazard must be incurred, where the rights of paternal authority, and the good order of society, were in question. Though the solicitor general seemed by this speech to [Page] act as a moderator, it appears probable, from the close of it, that he was influenced by the parents of the chevalier de Villiers; who hoped if he could detach their son from the family of his wife, they should prevail on him to give up a connection so contrary to their views—But the judges were not, in their sentence, guided by the opinion of the soli­citor general. Their sentence was to this ef­fect—That the marriage contracted between the chevalier Villiers, and the widow Geoffroi, was null and invalid; but that she was cleared from all charge of seduction; and that he was at liberty, being now of age, to contract marriage with her, due regard being paid to the requisite forms; and the parents must withdraw their opposition.

The relation of this cause appears defec­tive; not only in the confused manner in which the parties are indiscriminately called the sieur de Villiers, without duly distinguish­ing the father from the son, but in the obscurity of the recital, which says, that the sieur de Villiers (who, for distinction sake, is here called the chevalier) was married at the age of twenty-two—and, after three years, claimed, as he was major, his right to affirm or to re­new his marriage. He could then be only twenty-five. Yet the laws of France fix the majority of a woman at twenty-five; and that [Page 107] of a man at thirty years old—till which time they cannot marry without the consent of both their parents.

This and some other inaccuracies and con­tradictions have been as much as possible re­medied, without altering the facts: and the repetitions and verbiage of the pleadings, re­duced.

ON the 6th of May 1640, Jane Vachero [...] was married to Launcelot le Moine, a notary of the Chatelet at Paris; in 1645, Launcelot le Moine made his will, in which he named his wife the sole guardian of his three sons, Peter, James, and Louis, and died in January 1649. His will was confirmed by the senate of the Chatelet. The mother be­came guardian of the boys, to whom she gave such an education as was suitable to their cir­cumstances. She sent them to such schools as instruct children in reading, writing, and the rudiments of the Latin tongue. She had several farms in the neighbourhood of Vernon; and, as there were considerable arrears of rent due from her tenants, and other affairs which required her presence, she went thither in September 1654, carrying her youngest son, Louis, with her, and leaving the other two, Peter, who was about fourteen, and James, who was about ten, under the care of her mother and a female servant. While their [Page 109] mother was absent, these two boys, weary of restraint, ran away, no one knew whithe [...], ac­companied by the sons of another tradesman named Coutard. The children of Coutard were met with by an extempt of the grand provost, who brought them back to their fa­ther; but of the children of madame le Moine, no intelligence could be gained. The un­happy mother, overwhelmed with grief and consternation, flew from place to place, in­treating every body she met to assist her in finding her children. Wherever she went the idea of her lost boys followed her; and to find them appeared the first wish of her heart. In this disposition she passed one day by the Hotel Dieu, and observed fitting on the steps, a beggar, whom she had often seen ask­ing charity, in the same place. His child was with him, and a likeness between this child and her second son, James le Moine, imme­diately struck her. She approached and ex­amined the lad more nearly, and found that though there was some resemblance, he was not so very like her son as she had at first imagined. She gave some relief to the beggar, and besought him to enquire, wherever he went, for her children: she described the marks by which they might be known, and again entreating the mendicant to attend to her request, she left him with tears, after having received from him hopes, that in the course of his wandering he might meet with [Page 110] the objects of her search. Some months passed, and every enquiry this wretched mo­ther had made was yet of no avail: she there­fore went to a commissary, in May 1655, and having informed him of the circumstances of her loss, desired such assistance as the civil power could give her.

In the month of July following, business obliged her to go again to Vernon, where she little expected to become an object of public detestation and hatred, on account of those children, whose flight had almost broken her heart. On Sunday the 25th of that month, the beggar, whose name was John Monrous­seau, whom she had seen on the steps of the Hotel Dieu, entered the town of Vernon with his boy. He placed himself, as usual, in the great church to ask alms, and the resemblance between this child and James le Moine, struck a number of people who saw him, and they, as is usual in such cases, communicated their ideas to others. It was asserted, however, that it originated with the sieur Mordant, lieu­tenant general of the police for that town and the sieur Louis, procureur du roy; and that vengeance rather than justice, influenced their proceedings, madame le Moine having refused to sell them some parcels of land; which lay contiguous to theirs, and which they were very desirous of possessing. How­ever that was a notion that the little beggar was James le Moine, became universal Ma­dame [Page 111] le Moine was considered as a cruel and unnatural mother, who had, in concert with the pauper Monrousseau, agreed to condemn one of her children to misery and want, for the sake of aggrandizing the youngest, who was supposed to be her favourite. The crowd eagerly caught the news, and a sort of tumult ensued as the gate of the town, where the mendicant stood with his child. There the procur [...] du roy appeared, and, it is said, rather excited the indignation of the people, than attempted, as he ought to have done, to educe them to reason. Monrousseau, the pauper, was seized and hurried before the judge, who, without hearing him, in a very illegal manner sent him to prison, ordered irons to be put on his fee [...], and that his son should be taken from him and sent to the hos­pital. At the same time the magistrate issued an order for the arrest of madame le Moine. One of the officers was dispatched for her, ac­companied by a guard. They brought the unfortunate woman by force through an im­mense crowd, who lined the streets, quite from her own house to that of the judge; and these people overwhelmed her with abuse, and loaded her with reproaches, such as only the most da [...]gand desperate crimes could deserve. When she arrived before the judge, she was con­fronted with the beggar, who [...] all that has been before mentioned, of [...] seen madame le Moine o [...] the steps of the Ho [...]el [Page 112] Dieu; but he asserted that the child was not her's but his own, by his wife Jane le Blond, the widow of a shoemaker. He related all the particulars of his wife's death, and what had since happened to him. This examination being over, the child of the beggar was brought in, and confronted with madame le Moine. The child said the was his mother. She remained a whole day shut up in the apartment of the judge, who used, it is said, every me­nace and every art to force her to acknowledge that the little beggar was her son, James le Moine. She continued, however, firm in her refusal to assert an untruth, and, as soon as she was dismissed, she took the earliest op­portunity to fly from her persecutors, and returned to Paris. But to such a pitch had the fury of the populace by this time risen, that as soon as they heard she was [...]lown, they entered her house, and broke to pieces her glasses, and furniture of every kind; and had she remained there, she would, in all probability, have become herself the victim of their rage. A suit was now commenced. The procureur du roy directed Claude le Moine, the nearest relation of the children of the deceased Launcelot le Moine, to name a guardian for the supposed child; and on the 21st of August the judge gave sentence, that the child should have a provision assigned him of an hundred livres. Madame le Moine appealed, and obtained a sentence, whereby [Page 113] all proceedings were stopped till the cause could be heard before the parliament of Paris. But Vernon being in the jurisdiction of the parliament of Normandy, the judge would not attend to the decree, but proceeded to force from the tenants of madame le Moine, the sum he had awarded as a support for the supposed Jame le Moine, her son. In hopes of stopping these proceedings, she obtained a new arret, and served it on the lieutenant and procureur, in the public capacity, as well as by their private names; but they re­fused to acknowledge the authority of the parliament of Paris. A contest now arose be­tween these two jurisdictions, the parliaments of Paris and of Normandy; which obliged the parties to have recourse to the source of power, and carry the cause before the privy council.

Monrousseau and his child were conducted to Paris, and sent to fort I'Eveque; there they were interrogated by monsieur de Lamoignon: before him the boy acknowledged Monrous­seau for his father. The cause was now di­rected, by the privy council, to be heard and examined by the parliament of Paris. Eight days after this last sentence of the privy coun­cil Peter le Moine, the eldest of the children who had left their mother, returned. The youngest of her three sons (Louis, who had re­mained with her) was dead, and the disconso­late mother received her eldest son as a gift from Heaven; but her transports, on seeing [Page 114] him so unexpectedly restored to her, were checked, when she found that she should be­hold her second son no more. Peter gave his mother an account of his unhappy travels. He told her, that when he and his brother ran away, they went to Vernon, and from thence to St. Waast, where they were obliged, having no money, to ask charity; a gentleman, named Montaud, saw by their manner that they were children of some creditable person: he took them to his house, and kept them twelve days, during which time the youngest of them, James le Moine, sickened and died; and Peter produced a certificate, signed by the curate, and the monks called the brothers of charity, signifying that his brother was buried in the burying-ground belonging to the church of St. Waast.

This certificate was also signed by monsieur Montaud, and several inhabitants of the parish. Peter, after his brother was dead, left the pro­tection of monsieur Montaud, and had since been a wandering beggar, suffering all the miseries of extreme poverty: till he determined to return, like another prodigal, to the bosom of his mother, who received him as the father in scripture received his repentant son. At length the cause was brought to a hearing, and mr. Pousset de Montauban pleaded in behalf of the widow of Launcelot le Moine.^*

[Page 115] After opening the cause, he proceeded to ac­cuse the judge and procureur of Vernon, of being the cause of the accusation made against madame le Moine; and of many illegal pro­ceedings throughout the affair. They had confined madame le Moine a whole day with­out any authority, and by irritating the popu­lace against her, had obliged her to fly like a criminal, from a place where her life was endangered. He proceeded to prove the mar­riage of his client, the birth of her children, the flight of the two elder, and the distress into which their loss threw their mother;—the means she took to recover them; her application to the police for their assistance, witnessed by eight persons, which evinced a sincere desire in madame le Moine to recover her sons. He proved, by Gabriel Alexander, a writing-master, that both Peter and James le Moine could read and write; the boy who was now produced as James le Moine could do neither; but was buried in that profound ignorance, in which those in his unhappy station live. He produced, on the evidence of Peter le Moine, proof that James le Moine, his brother, was dead; and the certificate of his interement put it beyond a doubt.

He then went on to examine the evidence of Monr [...]sseau the pauper: What did that say? It gave a clear account of his wander­ing life. His wife Jane le Blond, the widow of a shoemaker, lay-in of twins, a boy and [Page 116] at girl, at Mondidier; but these children died three days after their birth. They then (the pauper and his wi [...]e) went to Neuville, where they earned a precarious subsistence by work­ing in guardens, or in the woods; and there the woman was again delivered of twins, a boy and a girl, but the boy only survived; whose baptismal register was produced. The man (Monrousseau) and his wife, afterwards went into the Limous [...]n being reduced to ex­treme poverty, and to the necessity of begging, they returned, after some time, towards Neuville; but on the way the woman was taken ill, and was sent to the Hotel Dieu at Tours, where she died. Monrousseau and his boy then proceeded to Paris; he related his being spoken to on the steps of the Hotel Dieu by madame le Moine, who had lost her two children, and he repeated the conversa­tion he had with her. Monsieur de Montau­ban then produced the examination of the little beggar. He said that James Monrousseau was his father; he related the death of his mo­ther in the Hotel Dieu at Tours; he said that he had always been accustomed to beg with his father, and that he could neither read nor write. When he was asked whether he would always beg with his father, he an­swered yes, that he [...], for he could not leave his father. These sentiments proved that he was the son of Monrousseau. He pre­ferred his father, though poor and destitute [Page 117] of the means of supporting him, to the sup­posed mother, though rich, and surrounded with conveniencies. The miseries of cold, hunger and nakedness, to which he was born, were become habitual to him, and with his father he was content to share them. Here the voice of nature spoke. The interrogatory and answers of madame le Moine were next produced: anxious as she was to recover her children, her heart refused to acknowledge the suppositious one; she felt no emotion to persuade her that it was her son. A slight re­semblance at first attracted her towards the little beggar, but on a nearer inspection she found him not to be her son. She shed tears at the bitter recollection of her lost child, and entreated Monrousseau, the pauper, to enquire for him and his brother; supposing it likely, that in travelling from place to place, he might meet them. A resemblance there cer­tainly was between the child madame le Moine had lost, and the child of the pauper Monrousseau, since it had struck madame le Moine herself; but because this boy had hair and eyes of the same colour, and some like­ness in features, it did not therefore follow that the beggar was James le Moine. In fact, their ages by no means correspond. The son of Monrousseau was proved to be not more than eight years old; whereas the son of madame le Moine would have been, had he been living, in his twelth year. Had James [Page 118] Monronsseau then stolen the son of madame le Moine, as beggars have been known to do? Had he taken him to excite the pity of the charitable, by interesting their feelings? No, it was his own son, who has been accustomed to beg with him from his earliest infancy.

The people of Vernon had conceived a no­tion, that this is the child of madame le Moine; but why?—The likeness at first gave the idea, which the magistrate encouraged. The com­mon people love wonders; a discovery of this sort is exactly suited to their taste; and when fire is once laid to the train of popular preju­dice and enthusiasm, who shall say where it will stop? The magistrate, to gratify a pique against the widow le Moine, endeavoured to force her to acknowledge a child not her own; and would have torn from the mendicant, the only blessing he had, a child whom he had brought up, and who assisted him to gain his miserable subsistence.—Then, addressing him­self to the parliament, monsieur de Montau­ban exclaimed, ‘Gentlemen, punish these iniquitous judges—give back the child to his father — let the unhappy mother de­plore at liberty the death of the child we cannot restore to her. She has sought her son — she has found him in the grave— [...] ­ver again shall she behold him; but let not her grief be embittered with the sight of a phantom, raised up in his place. To the poor man, his son is every thing. It is on [Page 119] him alone he can depend for bread in his old age.’—In concluding, he demanded that the proceedings of the judges of Vernon should be annulled; that the child should be restored to his former situation, and that the lieutenant-general of the police of Vernon, and the procureur du roy, should be condemned to pay all the costs and damages, with inte­rest.

^*Monsieur de Foureroy, pleaded for John Monrousseau. He related his history; that he was the son of a stone-cutter, and, when a boy, was employed to keep sheep; that he af­terwards became a soldier, and being in gar­rison at Bapaume, married the widow of a shoemaker. He then related all that monsieur de Montauban had before gone through, of the subsequent life of James Monrousseau. This man did not abandon his child, though left to him an helpless infant, and without a mo­ther. The tenderness of the father prevailed over the inconveniences of his situation. He nursed, he protected his son; he shared with him the miserable morsel obtained from cha­rity, and as he grew bigger, he became more and more attached to him; neither could live without the other. Here monsieur Foureroy related every circumstance of his being spoken to on the steps of the Hotel Dieu by madame le Moine, and brought down the history of his [...]ife to the time when he was seized by order [Page 120] of the magistrates of Vernon, and committed in irons to prison. Though the little Mon­rousseau had said, on being confronted with madame le Moine, that she was his mother, yet it was easy to imagine that he had been tutored to do so, by the persons in whose hands he was; for since he had left them, he had constantly persisted in affirming that Monrousseau, the mendicant, was his father, and that he had never known any other. When he was asked at Paris, whether madame le Moine was his mother, he answered, that he wished he had so rich a mother; but that ma­dame le Moine was not; that his mother died at Tours. More than forty relations of the family of le Moine deposed, that the child now shewn them was not either of those which madame le Moine had lost; added to which, the eldest of those children was returned, and had brought proof of his brother's death. Many testimonies were produced of the joy that madame le Moine expressed at the sight of her eldest son, and no reason could be given why she would not with equal pleasure have received the second, who was equally dear to her; for why should she refuse to obey the voice of nature in one instance and not in the other?—why should she disclaim the little Monrousseau, if he were really her son?—The great warmth with which mess [...]s. Mor­dant and Louis, the lieutenant-general and procureur [...] roy, took up this affair, was [Page 121] very remarkable; they themselves became prosecutors, and heard witnesses. Monsieur Mordant was at the trouble and expense of sending him to Bois Gerome, one of madame le Moine's farms, endeavouring to make her tenants and others acknowledge him for James le Moine, and all this at his own expense, pretending to undertake it all, and to disburse money for the sake of justice only, when in reality his zeal, far from being produced by so commendable a motive, was occasioned by his unjustifiable thirst of vengeance, and his desire to distress and harrass a woman who had of­fended him.

Monsieur Foureroy concluded, by demand­ing that the imprisonment of his client Mon­rousseau, the beggar, should be declared ille­gal, his examination erased, and his son res­tored to him; finally, that messieurs Louis Mordant, and Claude Louis, the magistrates acting against him, should be condemned to pay all the damages and costs, with interest.

^*Monsieur Billain then spoke on behalf of the lieutenant-general Mordant, and monsieur Robert pleaded for the child. The former endeavoured to prove that his client had un­dertaken the affair with no other view than to do justice to an unfortunate child, abandoned and disowned by an unnatural mother; that th [...] voice of the people, and no observation of his own, had first obliged him to take cogni­zance [Page 122] of this extraordinary affair; that num­bers, who saw the child, knew and acknow­ledged him to be James le Moine, and they insisted on the mendicant's being carried before the lieutenant particulier, who was cousin-german to the deceased Launcelot le Moine, and who as a magistrate, and a near relation of the injured parties, had sent the pauper Monrousseau to prison. Numberless persons asserted, that the child was not the son of the beggar, but the one who had eloped from the widow le Moine; the beggar prevaricated and contradicted himself; and the most zea­lous of the people insisted that the affair should be fully investigated. Twenty wit­nesses declared their belief, that the child in question was the child of the widow le Moine. [...]nn [...] Pourvandine, who nursed James le Moine for three year, affirmed him to be the same; and testified also, that when she en­quired of his mother after him, she was for­bidden by her to mention his name. Mary Queron, servant to the widow Cretté, a rela­tion of madame le Moine's, at whose house she lodged, at various times, for five or six years, said she knew by his eyes, his hair, his features, and his voice, that this was the same James le Moine who used to accompany his mother. Two other women deposed to the same effect and Francis Varlot, a tailor, who had made him a coat, gave the same evide [...]e; so also did Catherine Timbert, and Magdalen [Page 123] Couturien, two relations of the family. A stonger evidence even than these, was obtained from William Aubert, a surgeon, who knew him by the scar formed by a wound, which he himself had dressed. Notwithstanding all this evdience, the sieur Mordant determined to act with candour, and took the child to the house where the mother lodged, and where every thing appeared familiar to him. The same thing happened at Bois Gerome, the farm belonging to the widow le Moine. He knew his way thither, knew the farmer, and was known by him. With all these testimo­nies in favour of his being really James le Moine, and with the voice of the people so loudly demanding justice for him, what could monsieur Mordant do otherwise than he did. He ordered further information to be taken on the affair; and that the nearest relation James le Moine should be made a party, to sue his mother for a maintenance for him, while the cause was depending.

Monsieur Robert then pleaded for the child. He represented Monrousseau, the beggar, as one of those vagabonds in whom extreme poverty, occasioned by idleness and vice, had almost obliterated the traces of hu­manity: living by imposition, they scruple not to decoy away, and maim, the children of others: to such a wretch it would cost nothing t [...] [...]eceive a suppositious child. He then re­peated the contradictory answers and preva­rications [Page 124] of Monrousseau; insisted on that strong circumstance of the boy's calling ma­dame le Moine his mother; on the evidence of the surgeon, who had dressed his wound; and on the knowledge the child had of persons, he had seen, and places where he had been with his mother. He then attacked the au­thenticity of the evidence that went to prove the death of James le Moine. The cer­tificate, produced by Peter le Moine, the eldest brother, proved indeed that some child was at that time interred; but it by no means proved that the child was the identical James le Moine: it might be any other child, since they who assisted at the interment did not know him. The certificate itself was defec­tive, and without date; and Peter, the eldest son, from motives of avarice, or from being di­rected by his mother, might have attempted to establish the death of James le Moine, which never happened. Monsieur Robert then demanded, in the conclusion, that the boy should be declared the legitimate son of the deceased Launcelot le Moine, by his wife Jane Vacherot; that the acts of the magistrates of Vernon should be confirmed; and Mon­rousseau, the pauper, proceeded against ac­cording to law.

After these pleadings were finished, mon­sieur Bignon, the advocate-general, summoned up the evidence on both sides, with th [...] [...] ­most ability and impartiality; in consequence [Page 125] of which judgment was given to this effect.—That the judges of Vernon should not be pro­secuted—that James Monrousseau should be declared innocent; and his son be restored to him, and directed to obey him as his father—and that the provision assigned to him, out of the effects of Jane Vacherot, widow of Laun­celot le Moine, should be restored to her—and the suit be finally terminated.

THE marshal de St. Geran, of the noble house of De la Guiche, was first married to mademoiselle de Tournon, by whom he had a son, Claude de la Guiche, count de St. Geran; and a daughter, married to the mar­quis de Bouillé. His second was Susannah aux Epaules, the widow of the count de Lon­quenay, to whom she had borne a daughter, Susannah de Lonquenay. This marriage be­tween the marshal de St. Geran and madame de Lo [...]quenay produced another. The count his son married mademoiselle de Lonquenay, the daughter of his mother-in-law, which marriage took place at Rouen, in 1619. The young count was about eighteen, and the lady between thirteen and fourteen; and the extreme youth of the parties made their friends think it expedient for the count to travel into Italy, where he continued [...]ear two years.

The marshal de St. Geran, during the [Page] thirteen years he survived this marriage, saw with regret that it produced no children and to his death which happened in 1632, he la­mented that this branch of the noble house of which he was the principal, was likely to be extinct in his son. He left, by his second lady, two daughters.

On his decease, the count de St. Geran succeeded him in his government of the Bour­bonnois; and the king gave him the ribands of those orders with which his father had been honoured.

For many years after this period the count and countess of St. Geran continued without children; but at length, in 1640, the coun­tess became pregnant; a circumstance that gave the greatest joy to her mother, the mar­shaless, and to all who were attached to the family of de la Guiche. This pleasing ex­pectation was however in some risk of being disappointed, by a fall which the countess had in her seventh month. On this occasion all the ladies related to the family, women of the first [...]ank attended repeatedly on the countess de St. Geran; and they had the satisfaction to find, that, by care the ill effects of the accident she had met with were prevented, and that she was likely to go on safely till the time of her delivery. The count, however, engageda [...] and midwife to be at hand till that pe­ [...]; and the [...] herself arrived at the [...] the expected hour; [Page 128] and brought with her as presents the most superb linen and necessaries she could purchase, for the infant so ardently desired.

But at the castle of St. Geran were also two persons, who, influenced by the most cruel avarice, contrived to render all their preparations useless; to deprive the parents of the object of their tender solicitude, and frus­trate the hopes of those who were interested in beholding an heir to the virtues and estate of the count de St. Geran, The marchioness de Bouillé was sister, by the same mother, to the count; she had been early married to the marquis de Bouillé, who was seventy years of age. The disparity of their years was probably the real occasion of their parting, not long after their marriage; [...]ugh the mar­chioness pretended many causes of complaint against him. They had now lived separate some time, and madame de Bouillé usually resided with her brother; she was young, lively and agreeable; and had her brother died with­out children, would have been heiress to all the extensive possessions of the family of de la Guiche. The castle of St. Geran was an asylum also to the marquis de St. Maixant, a man whose address and talents found a patron in the count de St. Geran, who in the mis­fortunes of the marquis seemed to have for­gotten his crimes and his errors. It is asto­nishing that m. de St. Geran should suffer my consideration to induce him to [...] [Page 129] man of so abandoned a character as St. Maix­ant; who had been accused of having occa­sioned the death of his wife, in hopes of mar­rying another woman, the life of whose hus­band he had also attempted. He had been suspected of coining, and other atrocious ac­tions, for some of which he had fallen into the hands of justice; but he escaped from the marechausse of Auvergne, and had found se­curity in the protection of count de St. Geran. The marquis St. Maixant concealed the bas­est disposition, and most abandoned principles, under elegant manners and agreeable talents. His person too was handsome, and his address insinuating; and less exterior advantages than he possessed, would probably have been suffi­cient to recommend him to the notice of ma­dame de Bouillé. Accustomed to avail him­self of every advantage, he soon saw those which might accrue by a connection with her. He saw that the great age of her husband made it improbable, that the obstacle of her being already married would be long in his way; and perhaps depended on his know­ledge of shortening the lives of those who ob­structed his views. That impediment once removed, he found that he might become the husband of madame de Bouille, who but for the expected infant was heiress to property which would not only restore his ruined for­tune, but raise him to a rank that would by its splendor vanish his crimes, or even give [Page 130] eclat to his vices. With these hopes, and with talents calculated to please, he soon pos­sessed himself of the heart of the marchioness; and her conscience became wholly at his dis­posal. They passed whole hours together alone, and in their long evening walks in the park, they found opportunities enough to con­trive the schemes that were to gratify their avarice, and their love.

The midwife, Louisa Goillard, the two women immediately attending the person of the countess St. Geran, who were sisters of the name of Quinet; and the maitre d'hotel, called Beaulieu; were engaged by St. Maixant and madame de Bouillé in this cruel conspi­racy, and, by dint of presents, and promises of boundlese reward, entered into the inhu­man design of robbing the count and countess of their child. On the 16th of August, ma­dame de St. Geran, being at mass in the cha­pel of the castle, was seized with the pains of labour. She was carried to her chamber, and the marshaless dressed her head herself, and put her to bed, while the greatest part of the family anxiously waited for the event. But the sharp and violent pains with which the countess was tormented, gave them the ut­most reason to fear her strength would fail be­fore the birth of child. The host was brought out to procure the favou [...] [...] Heaven, and prayers were offered up in the churches for the safe delivery of the countess, whose dan­ger [Page 131] continued to be very alarming. The mar­shaless, her mother, madame Saligni, sister of the deceased marshal, his two daughters by his last wife (one about fifteen, the other younger), the count de St. Geran, madame de Bouillé, and St. Maixan [...], were all attend­ing in her chamber; the weather was very hot, and madame de Bouillé, affecting great tenderness and anxiety, represented, and with great appearance of reason, that so many per­sons in the room could not fail to increase the heat of the air and of course the faintness of the patient. She therefore besought the mar­shaless to order every body to retire; and, that nobody might think such an order unkind, that she would herself set the example. To this the marshaless consented, madame de Bouillé undertaking to stay with the countess, and give from time to time information of the situation she was in to the rest of the family. For two hours after they quitted the apart­ment, the sufferings of the countess were so acute, that the midwife declared she would inevitably sink under it, if some rest could not be procured. She gave her therefore to drink a mixture she had prepared, which threw her almost immediately into total insensibility; and in that state she continued till the next morn­ing. During the night the count and the marshaless sent continually to the door to enquire after her; and the intelligence which was always given by madame de Bouillé [Page 132] was, that all was going on well. The domestics were not suffered to enter the room, but received the answers at the door; where it was observed that St. Maixant continually attended, with those marks of solicitude and uneasiness so natural to the state of mind he must have been in, while the success of his execrable plot was precarious. The unfortu­nate countess, now left in the hands of the cruel woman whose interest it was to deprive her of her child, was delivered of a son, while totally unconscious of his birth, the draught given her by the midwife having reduced her to a state so nearly resembling death, that she no longer knew what befel her. As soon as the infant was born, the midwife prepared to destroy him, by crushing his head; but she was prevented, either by madame de Bouillé, who could not resolve to mur­der the innocent creature, or by Beau­lieu, the maitre d'hotel, who was now in the room, and who might have received orders from St. Maixant, or perhaps be influenced by humanity to spare the life of the victim, whom they were determined to rob of every thing else: however that was, the poor little creature was not rescued from the hands of the midwife, till she had injured the skull; a deep mark on which, left by her barbarous hands, the young count bore as long as he lived.

The unhappy child, thus abandoned to the [Page 133] mercy of this inhuman confederacy, no sooner saw the light than he was torn from his mo­ther, who, senseless and surrounded by the shades of death, could not plead for him, or save him by her tears or her entreaties. They put him into a little basket, wrapt in a linen [...]oller, but not dressed or even washed. Beau­lieu took the basket, and hiding it under his cloak, carried it down stairs to a private door that opened to the fossé of the castle; from thence he crossed the terrace and the bridge, and made his way through a private part of the park, all the keys of which he kept. He then mounted a swift horse, and rode to Es­cherolles, a village three miles from St. Geran, where he stopped at the house of Claude Gautier, whose wife gave suck. He entreated the woman to give the breast to the infant he carried, which she did; but not daring to re­main long in the neighbourhood of the castle, he continued his journey immediately, and crossing the river Allier, dismounted with his helpless charge at the house of another man named Boucard, whose wife also gave suck to the child; after which, entering A [...]vergne, he pursued his way; but the heat was ex­cessive, and the horse so fatigued, that he could with difficulty get him on. The poor babe by this time had suffered so much, that Beau­lieu was apprehensive for his life; and meeting with a waggon, driven by Paul Boiton, a com­mon carrier, who used the road from A [...]g [...]e­perce [Page 134] to Riom, he agreed with this man to carry the child to a certain distance in his waggon; and getting in himself took it in his arms, and tied his horse behind. As they went along, the carrier entered into discourse with him; and, in the course of their conversa­tion, Beaulieu told the carrier that he was so careful of the child because he belonged to the noblest family of the Bourbonnois. This conveyance brought him to the village of Ché; and the mistress of the house where it stopped suckled the infant, and, seeing the miserable condition it was in, heated some water and washed it; after which Beaulieu took it again, and, getting into the waggon, was set down near Riom, where he paid the waggoner, and gave him a false direction where to find him: then remounting his horse, and passing by the abbey of Lavoine, he arrived at the village of Descoutoux, which is among the mountains near Thiers, and where the marchioness de Bouillé had a seat, where she sometimes passed a few weeks. Here Beaulieu put the infant [...]o nurse, with Gabriella Moiniot, to whom he paid a mouth before-hand; but as he refused to tell her the names of its parents, or where she should send news of her foster child, this woman would not keep it, and returned it to B [...]ulieu after seven or eight days. The noise this circumstance made, and the clamour of the nurse, prevented any other woman from taking it, and rendered it unsafe to let it re­main [Page 135] in the village.^* Beaulieu therefore again mounted his horse, and taking the high road towards Burgundy, entered the great woods, at the foot of the mountains, and his progress could be traced no farther.

The detail of this journey was substantiated by the evidence of the carrier, and the various women who had suckled the child. We will now relate what happened at the castle of St. Geran, and then return to trace the subsequent fate of the stolen infant.

In the morning the countess de St. Geran slowly recovered her recollection, and enquired eagerly for her child, being convinced, from the situation in which she found herself, that she had been delivered. The midwife and madame de Bouillé protested that she had not; and the former told her, that, since she had passed the time when the moon was favoura­ble, and as her pains had left her, she would not be brought to bed till the next change of the moon. The countess, who had the most convincing proofs that the birth had already taken place, could not be pacified; she wept, she implored them to tell her what was become of her child; but they hardened their hearts against her tears and anxiety, and continued [Page 136] to endeavour to persuade her, that her delivery was only delayed. The midwife artfully de­clared, that such delays very frequently oc­curred in her practice; and by her arguments gained the belief of the marshaless, who the more easily credited the assertion, as she recol­lected that with one of her children she had gone six weeks, after having all the symptoms of an immediate delivery. The mention of a circumstance so favourable to their project, was eagerly caught at, and incessantly repeated by madame de Bouillé and her confidants. But the countess could not be persuaded, but that she had lost her child. She felt too great an alteration to doubt for a moment of the fact; and her anguish was not to be described, when she found the whole family persisted in refusing to believe her, and to look forward to a future day for the birth of the infant so ardently de­sired. The midwife obstinately insisted on the truth of her assertion, the countess as determi­nately adhered to hers, and her tears and des­pair appeared so dangerous to the confederates, that the midwife, fearful that nature and truth would unveil the cruel mystery, endeavoured to put an end to the life of the countess. Af­ter some days, she persuaded her, that if she were to go into a carriage, and be driven over rough ground, it would bring on the labour. The countess, who was weak and exhausted, would not consent to undergo this fatiguing and dangerous experiment; but the count [Page 137] and the marshaless besought her to attempt it. To satisfy them she consented, all unable as she was, and being carried to her coach, was violently driven over ploughed grounds, and along the roughest roads that could be chosen in the neighbourhood of St. Geran. After undergoing this cruel experiment for two hours, she was brought home, fainting, and put again into her bed, whence her inhuman persecutors hoped she would arise no more. But the strength of her constitution prevented her sinking under the means used to deprive her of life. She began, though very slowly, to recover her health; but the conviction of her having lost her infant was every day strengthened. Nobody suspected such a crime as had been committed; and at length as time advanced, and no delivery took place, every one began to suppose she had been de­ceived, as has so often happened to others, by symptoms resembling pregnancy, and by so much wishing to find it so. This opinion gained universal belief; but the countess was not to be so argued out of her senses—till, finding that nobody attended to her complaints, but imputed them to her fondness for an il­lusion so flattering to her wishes, she tried to cease speaking of what was deeply engraven on her heart, and, since she saw no remedy, to forbear to complain:—still however per­suaded that she had borne a child, her grief and melancholy often got the better of her re­solution [Page 138] not to afflict the count by renewing the memory of their disappointment; but, after some months had elapsed, these bursts of affliction became less violent; till a singular circumstance again awakened the recollection of what had happened, together with suspicion of its cause. While this interval passed, we will return to trace the fate of the child thus vainly lamented by its mother.

Beaulieu had a brother, who had been a fencing-master at Paris, and who died, about two years before this period, in great poverty, leaving his wife, the daughter of an actor, whose name was Mary Pigoreau, in wretched circumstances: to the care of this woman Beaulieu determined to give the child, who was very glad to undertake it; two thousand livres being left in the hands of de Raguenet, a grocer, at Paris, which he was from time to time to pay her, without knowing, or proba­bly [...]quiring, for what.

La Pigoreau bought for the infant, every necessary that is furnished for a child of fashion, and took the greatest care of him. She procured him a nurse at Jorcy en Brie, whose name was Paillard, and with whom she was intimate. This woman, after suckling him a short time, was taken ill, and gave no­tice to La Pigoreau, that she might get ano­ther nurse; la Pigorea [...] expressed her concern to her, saying it was a pity she lost so good a chance o [...] making her fortune, for that the [Page 139] little boy belonged to a great nobleman, who one day or other would reward those who brought him up. As another nurse, however, was to be found, la Pigoreau put him to a woman in the same village, who was lately a widow, and whose name was Sequin. To this woman she also said, that he was the son of a great lord, who was able to make her a rich woman. In consequence of this report, and of the woman's being regularly paid every month, great care was taken of the young count; who was at the age of eighteen months, fetched by la Pigoreau from this wet-nurse, and weaned. La Pigoreau had been mother of two sons, the eldest called Anthony, the youngest, born after his father's death, called Henry, who used when only a few months old. Had this youngest son been liv­ing, he would have been three years older than the young count; but when la Pigoreau brought him to her house, she pretended he was her last child, Henry, by this means re­doubling the mystery or his birth, and putting an end to all enquiries—for, that nobody might remark the age of the child, who knew that her youngest by her husband must be much older, she discharged her lodgings, took leave of her acquaintance, as if going into the country, and went to another part of Paris, where she produced the little count as her youngest son.

Whether it was by agreement between La [Page 140] Pigoreau and Beaulieu, or whether the money was no longer so punctually paid, which made her weary of her charge, is uncertain; but at two years and a half old she carried the child to Beaulieu, who was then at Paris with the count and countess, saying, that she was no longer able to maintain both her children, and that as Beaulieu was their father's brother, and having so good a place, was in a situation to help her, he must take the youngest. To this Beaulieu agreed, and asked leave of his lord and lady (who were extremely kind to him) to take the child into the Hotel de St. Geran. The countess told him he was wel­come, but at the same time represented to him how little he could afford to burden him­self with any additional charge, who had five children of his own. His wife, too, was ex­tremely chagrined, to find he meant to under­take to provide for his nephew; but he an­swered, that if his lord and lady would suffer the little boy to be at their hotel, he would be very little expense to him; and the count and countess with their usual goodness, consented to indulge him. La Pigoreau had often been heard to say, she was in no pain about the fate of her youngest son, who was sure of be­ing provided for; some of her neighbours therefore represented to her, that since she was certain of an establishment for one of them, she had better avail herself of it for Anthony, the eldest, who was a plain coarse [Page 141] boy, and keep Henry with her, whose beauty would always be a recommendation; to which she answered, that she could not act otherwise than as she had determined; which was to send Henry to his uncle.

The child therefore was brought to the Ho­tel de St. Geran, just as the countess and her suite were getting into the carriages, which were to carry them from Paris to Moulins; she bid them put the little [...] in [...]o the coach behind hers, where her women were; his supposed uncle led him along in order to do so, near the countess, who was stepping into her own coach. The brilliancy of his complexion, his fine light hair, hi [...] blue eyes, and the general beauty of his innocent face, which had something that appeared to her par­ticularly interesting, struck her; she stopped, looked earnestly on him; and, as if drawn towards him by an irresistible sympathy, took him in her arms—Good God, cried she, Beaulieu! what a lovely child is this nephew of yours! he shall not go in the other coach—put him into mine—I never saw so sweet a creature,—The m [...]tre d'hotel obeyed his lady; and the little count, who was called Henry Beaulieu, and believed to be the son of a fencing-master, and the nephew of her ser­vant, was thus returned to his unconscious parents.—When they arrived at the end of their journey, the countess, who had [...]ever ceased admiring and [...]aressi [...], Henry, could [Page 142] not determine to part with him: she ordered him to remain in her own apartments, and to be attended by her own women; and her attach­ment to him hourly encreased. The count was almost as fond of him as his lady; and the little boy, as if attracted towards them by the force of blood, was never so happy as when they allowed him to play round them, and return their fondness. In all his little distresses he sought shelter in their arms, and every hour their mutual affection increased. The countess often looked on him till her eyes were filled with tears, and she would sigh and say—Alas! had the dear babe lived, whom I thought to have called mine, it would have been just the age of this, and perhaps as lovely and as engaging!

The marquis de St. Maixant, and the marchioness de Bouillé were very much alarmed, when they found that Beaulieu had placed the child so near his parents; yet they dared not use any means to separate them, as their interference in such an affair would only have awaked those suspicions they were so de­sirous of evading.

Beaulieu, who had been seduced by hopes of suddenly enriching his family by the re­wards promised him, which a long course of service could do but slowly, now saw the fallacy of those visionary prospects with which he had been misled, and remorse of conscience pursued him, from which he found no respite. [Page 143] To reveal the crime he had committed, would have been the most immediate remedy; but the fear of St. Maixant, and the dread of his master's resentment, prevented this from time to time; though the anguish of his soul would not suffer him to remain wholly silent. He was sometimes heard to say, that the honour and the life of madame de Bouillé were in his hands; sometimes, that the count and count­ess had more reason to love little Henry than they were aware of; and to his confessor he proposed this question—Whether a man, having assisted to secrete a child from its pa­rents, was exculpated from guilt, if he after­wards restored their child to them as the child of a stranger, and did not reveal the mystery? It is probable that the answer given by the confessor did not calm those scruples, which still seemed to hang heavy on Beaulieu's heart, since he often appeared under great agitation and absence of mind; and once, when a person at Moulins congratulated him on the affection which his lord and lady shewed to his nephew, he hastily answered, that it was natural enough, for that he was nearly related to them. These words, and many others of the same tendency, seemed to es­cape him in spite of himself, and perhaps were the result of the perpetual combat be­tween his conscience and his fear.

St. Maixant, who lived in continual dread of detection, now began to apprehend, that, [Page 144] long ere he should be able to reap the fruits of his crime, the remorse of Beaulieu would not only render it ineffectual, but plunge him into all the horrors of those punishments he had so well deserved. He was not of a tem­per, after having gone so far, to leave any thing undone, and therefore determined to take away by poison the life of the man who daily subjected his to hazard. Beaulieu fell into a disorder, which put an end to his life in a few days; but which first seemed to have affected his reason. He raved of the injury he had done his lord and lady, and besought them to forgive him: while they, supposing him delirious, fearful of hastening his death by enquiry, and besides suspecting nothing of the real meaning of his words, endeavoured only to have him kept calm; and he died without revealing the secret which burdened his heart.

The little Henry, notwithstanding the death of his supposed uncle, still continued to be the favourite of the count and countess, who pro­cured for him masters of all sorts, and at­tended themselves to the cultivation of his un­derstanding and the regulation of his morals. When he was seven years old, they dressed him in a silk vest of the colour of their livery, and called him their little page; in which quality he continued to serve them till the se­cret of his birth was discovered.

The speeches of Beaulieu did not fail of be­ing [Page 145] remembered; the strange circumstances which attended the countess's illness, when she believed herself pregnant; and the stories told by the nurses; all these things had made their impression, and numberless reports ran among the common people. By degrees they made their way to higher circles, and at length reached the count and countess de St. Geran.

About the same time, the count being ill, went to Vichi, where the midwife then lived, to drink the waters. The countess, and the marchioness de Bouillé, attended him; and the former one day unexpectedly entering an apartment where madame de Bouillé was, saw her in close conference with the midwife. The countess asked with an air of surprize, what they we [...] [...]alking of? Madame de Bouillé, who could neither conceal her con­fusion, or evade the question, answered, that dame Louisa was praising her brother, the count; and saying how good he was, not to bear her any ill-will. And why? (said the countess, addressing the old woman) have you any reason to suppose he should be displeased with you?—I—I—feared, madame, said she, that my lord might—might have disliked me, and blamed me for what passed when your ladyship was thought to be in la­bour. The confused looks of them both, and the strangeness of this answer, struck madame de St. Geran; however she commanded her­self, and let the conversation drop for that [Page 146] time. But the marchioness, whose guilt made her tremble at shadows, saw, or fancied she saw, anger and indignation in t [...] coun­tess's manner; and, finding the dread of a discovery grow e [...]ry day more insupportable, she made some p [...]etence to quit her brother, and retired to her own house at Lavoine.

The miseries of conscious guilt had long since taught her, how much [...] satisfaction she had sacrificed to the chimerical hope of mar­rying the artful and unworthy man who had won her heart. The two Quinets, the wo­men who were in the countes's service when she was delivered, and who were in the se­cret, she had taken to wait on herself, and had shewn them for some time great favour; but, as the leagues of the wicked are ea [...] dissolved, these women, who knew how much their mistress was in their power, grew by degrees so insolent, that die marchioness was obliged to dismiss them, but not till the elder had threatened, and almost proceeded to strike her. Though she sent them from her house, she was still obliged, from time to time, to re­new the purchase of their secrecy, by sums of money; and yet lived in constant horror of their divulging the mystery, which she now feared could not be long concealed.

The reports that continually were repeated to the countess, and the circumstance of the conference held between madame de Bouillé and the midwife, at length determined her to [Page 147] apply to justice for an order to arrest the midwife, and oblige her to speak. After several consultations between the count, the countess, and the marshaless, they agreed first to examine the woman themselves, with as little noise as possible; they therefore sent for her to St. Geran, where they questioned her closely. They found that she prevaricated, and contradicted herself; and in her looks and answers there appeared so much of guilt and confusion, that they no longer doubted of her having com [...]ted some great crime, but whether it was the murder or the concealment of their infant, they could not yet tell; they heard however enough to make them adhere to their resolution of arresting the midwife; but they dismissed her for that time, without any marks of anger, that she might not be alarmed, and escape, as she would probably have done, had she supposed that the count would carry his enquiry farther. Immediately afterwards, they laid the com­plaint before the vice senechal of Moulins; upon which the midwife was taken into cus­tody, and examined before that magistrate.

She confessed that the countess the St. Ge­ran had really been delivered of a child, but said it was a daughter, still-born, and that she had buried it under a stone step of the gra­ [...]ary in the [...] yard. The magistrate, ac­companied by a physician and surgeon, wen-to the place, but they found neither the stone [Page 148] the woman described, or any place at all re­sembling it. They examined, very narrowly, every spot that could answer the description, however r [...]motely, but found no trace of the removal of earth, or the least probability of the interment pretended to have been made. An interment for which no reason could be assigned; for if the countess had indeed been delivered of a still-born child, no motive whatever could have induced the midwife or the assistants to have concealed it.

The marshaless, enraged at the midwife's prevarication, and convinced beyond a doubt of her guilt, declared that she deserved death, and determined to leave no effort untried to bring her to justice.

In pursuance of this determination, proper officers of the law proceeded against the mid­wife, Louisa Goillard. On her second ex­amination, she said that the countess de St. Geran had not been delivered; in the third examination, that she had brought forth a mole—and in a fourth, that she had borne a son, which had been secreted by Beaulieu, and carried away in a basket: And in the fifth, when she was put to the bar, and a­gain closely interrogated, she said, that it was through fear only she had been driven to say that the countess had borne a child; for there was no child. In the course of these exam­inations she never accused, or even mentioned [Page 149] the names of, the marchioness de Bouillé or St. Maixant.

But as soon as she found herself arrested, she sent her son to madame de Bouillé, to in­form her of what had happened. Terror and consternation immediately overwhelmed her she the moment at hand, which she had so long dreaded; yet still hoping to evade its consequences, she sent a man, named La Forresterie, who served her as an upper do­mestic, to the lieutenant general of the police, whom she had formerly employed, and who had, she knew a particular enmity to her brother, the count de St. Geran. She desired he would advise her how to assist Goillard the midwife, without appearing in it. He re­commended it to her, to stop the proceedings by obtaining an arret. The marchioness sent therefore to her attorney, ordering him to do this in the name of William Goillard, the son of the woman; and that he might obey this order with alacrity, she sent him a sum of mo­ney. The attorney obtained the arret, and by that means a short suspension of the pro­cedures. The respite however was of little use, for the arret was, on application from the other party, almost immediately annulled, and the cause wept on.

La Forresterie was afterwards sent by his lady to the two Quine [...]s, to whom he carried money. These women, grown more rapacious as the danger encreased, desired La Forres­terie [Page 150] to tell madame de Bouille that they had already had considerable offers of reward, if they would tell what they knew—that the countess de St. Geran had offered to take them back, and to place them in a more ad­vantageous situation than before—that a ca­puchin friar had been tampering with them, in hopes of getting their secret from them, in confession, and by dint of very large offers which the countess had commissioned him to make; but they artfully added, that while madame de Bouillé continued their friend, they could not resolve to discover what might be so prejudicial to her. They put into the hands of La Forresterie a paper, in which was written twenty-five questions which the capuchin had desired them to answer; and they begged that madame de Bouillé would dictate their answers against his return.—Some time after, La Forresterie quitting ma­dame de Bouillé in disgust, she threatened that if ever he dared reveal all this, she would have him assassinated. But dreading the evidence of the Quinets, and finding how lit­tle their secrecy could be depended upon, she determined to engage them again, to be near her, and to purchase their silence at any price. For this purpose she gave the eldest a portion of twelve thousand livres, and married her to De Lisle, her maître d'hotel; and the young­est she took as her femme de chambre. It is probable that continual anxiety and remorse, [Page 151] together with the failure of her project of marriage (for St. Maixant was now again im­prisoned, either for his former crimes, or some more recent one), threw her into a state of despondency, and hastened her death, for she lived not long after. But the suit was sup­ported by persons, who, though not equally guilty, were equally interested in the suppres­sion of the heir to the family of De la Guiche. After her death, La Forresterie appeared, and made oath of the agency in which she had employed him.—The marquis de St. Maixant, the original contriver of this ini­quitous plan, had now again involved himself in affairs, for which he was confined in the Conciergerie at Paris; so little to be depended on is the success of the abandoned and profli­gate, whatever abilities they possess. Madame de Bouillé, though her husband had been some time dead, had relinquished all thoughts of marrying her paramour—and, by several circumstances which appeared in the evidence, he seems to have connected himself with others, and to have given himself up to a course of debauchery; which probably shewed the marchioness, that the point she had ha­zarded so much to obtain, was likely to em­bitter her life with all the miseries of guilt, without even its transitory pleasures, St. Maix­ant being now a close prisoner, was attended by a page, named Prudent Berger, in whom he had confidence. In the many hours of melancholy and [Page 152] despondency, which he passed in his confine­ment, he related to this young man many of the transaction? of his past life, and at length told him of the suppression of the child born to the count and countess de St. Geran, who was, he said, still alive. The page very na­turally said to him—‘I wonder, sir, since you have so many things on your mind, which distrub you, that you do not discharge your conscience of all uneasiness, relative to this child, by restoring him to his parents.’—To which St. Maixant answered—‘That I intend to do—A capuchin friar, to whom I owned in confession that I had taken away the heir of a great house, the grand­son of a marshal of France, from the midst of his family, has told me, that he cannot give me absolution till. I restore him.’—St. Maixant soon afterwards obtained, by the kind­ness of the goaler, a greater degree of liberty, and was permitted to go out [...]ttended by one of the keepers. He took this page with him to the lodgings of La Pigoreau, where the little Henry, then about seven years old, was sometimes suffered to go on a visit to his pretended mother. There St. Maixant shewed him to the page, and said to him, ‘Observe well this child, that if you should be here­after called upon, you may identify him:’ and he owned afterwards to the page, that the child he had seen, remarkable for his beauty, and particularly so for his fine light hair and [Page 153] blue eyes, was the little boy whom he had taken from his parents, the count and countess de St. Geran. Very soon after this, the mar­quis de St. Maixant was seized with his last illness; when his situation became desperate, a priest attended him to administer the sacra­ments. To this priest he said with difficulty, that he could not receive them till he had re­vealed a secret relative to the count and coun­tess de St. Geran; but hardly had he proceeded so far in his confession before the agonies of death seized him; and he left the world with­out making the only reparation now in his power for atrocious crime—so dangerous is it to defer till to-morrow, what conscience requires us do to-day.

By the death of St. Maixant and madame de Bouillé, the two principal actors were withdrawn from the scene. But the duchess de Ventadour and the countese de Lude now became the adverse parties, whose rank and affluence made them infinitely more for­midable. The first of these ladies was the surviving daughter of the marshal de St. Geran, by madame de Longuenay, his second wife and was consequently sister to the count by the father, and to the countest by the mother—and thus heiress to them both. The countess de Lude was the daughter to the marchioness de Bouill [...], and claimed her share of the in­heritance of the marshal de St. Geran, in right of her mother.

[Page 154] Enabled, by their fortune and thir power, to contract whatever measures were taken by the count and countess de St. Geran, to estab­lish the proof of the birth of their son, they undertook to support La Pigoreau, who was now to substantiate her right to the little Henry, whom she undertook to prove was actually her son. She had not, however, voluntarily become a party, but was first comprehended in the accusation by the pro­ceedings of justice. Alarmed at the attack, which threatened the worst consequences, and flattering herself that through the protection of the duchess de Ventadour, and the coun­tess de Lude, she might not only escape pu­nishment, but obtain a provision, as a reward for the good offices she could do them, she readily enlisted herself in their service, and, instead of shrinking from the enquiry, as a criminal, who shared the guilt of the original perpetrators, she prepared boldly to appear as the injured person, and to insist on her ma­ternal rights being restored to her.

The adverse party thus strengthened, the cause went on with new vigour. The count de St. Geran had obtained a sentence of pu­nishment against Louisa Goillard, the midwife. The infliction of it was stopped by an arret obtained by the duchess de Ventadour and madame de Lude; though the name of La Pigoreau only appeared, and these ladies af­fected to have no connection with her.

[Page 155] While preparations were making for a new trial, the midwife died, without having con­fessed her guilt, Her son, however, being now no longer apprehensive of seeing his mo­ther brought to the scaffold, voluntarily de­clared that he would reveal the truths her dan­ger had before obliged him to smother. He said that his mother had repeatedly told him, that she had delivered the countess de St. Geran of a son, who had been carried away by Beaulieu, through the contrivance of St. Maxiant and madame de Bouillé; and the little boy who now lived at the hotel de St. Geran, under the name of Henry Beaulieu, was the child so secreted. He added, that since the death of the marchioness de Bouillé, his mother had been supported by money with which the duchess de Ventadour and ma­dame de Lude had supplied her, and that they had paid the lawyers who undertook her defence.

In this state were [...] proofs, w [...] the trial came to a hearing. [...] The coun [...] [...] la Pi­goreau endeavoured [...]ply by [...]uence, the de [...] of their [...] They [...] it was highly improbab [...]e a woman situated like La Pigoreau, who had not where withal to supply herself and her eldest son with the necessaries of life, should thus claim another child, to share her poverty and distress, if she did not feel her maternal affection more for­cible than even her indigence, and desire to [Page 156] have her son restored to her, though she had no prospect for him and herself but poverty and obscurity. They pleaded, that the coun­tess de St. Geran, attracted by the beauty of the boy, and extremely desirous of having an heir, had dressed up a detail, for which there was no foundation originally, but her chime­rical ideas, and at length raised an idol, to whom she wished to sacrifice the interests of the true heirs of the family. They insisted on the doubtful proof of her having borne a child. The equivocation of the midwife made her evidence of no avail; and it was remarkable, that when the countess de St. Geran was in labour of an infant, whose birth was of such consequence to an illustrious and ancient fa­mily, that nobody should be present, who would swear to the fact of the birth; and above all, that the marshaless, who was so particularly interested in the event, and who [...]rom her age and experience, as well as her affection, ought to have attended, was not only out of the room at the time, but after all ap­pearance of pregnancy had ceased, was con­tent to let the enquiry drop, and to allow that the whole was a visionary hope originating in the a [...]ent wishes of the countess. A cir­cumstance that could hardly have happened, had the marshaless been thoroughly persuaded that the countess was really pregnant; for in that case she would have undoubtedly insisted on a close enquiry than ever appears to have [Page 157] been made.—This is the most forcible part of the pleadings of one of the counsel—Another said, that it might perhaps be thought unna­tural, that a mother, in circumstances so hum­ble as those of La Pigoreau, should wish to deprive her son of the brilliant fortune offered him, as supposed heir to a great and powerful nobleman, and compel him to return to a par­ticipation of that misery and indigence to which he was born; but that her maternal love was so strong that she could not resolve to lose her son, even to see him count de St. Geran; and were it weaker, her conscience would prevent her suffering him to usurp honours and riches to which he had no right. As to the resem­blance which the boy was allowed to bear to the count de St. Geran, this he said was no proof, since two persons frequently are very like each other, who yet are not related.

Thus went the pleadings on behalf of the maternity of La Pigoreau; but the ladies de Ventadour and de Lude, whether they were ashamed of appearing publicly as the supporters of a woman of such a character as la Pigoreau, or whether they thought that by varying the plea, they should distract the attention of the judges, and throw yet deeper obscurity on the truth, determined to make their advances in a new ground; and, while they with one hand privately supported la Pigoreau, with the other they held up a false light to mislead and con­found the enquiries of that justice they affected [Page 158] to demand.—When first La Pigoreau took the young count, she was afraid of having him baptized, left it should occasion enquiries into his birth; but after some time, she con­trived to have him privately christened at St. John's en Greue; and the register was in these words:—‘On the 7th of March, 1642, was baptized Bernard —, the son of — and of — the godfather being Maur Marmion, sweeper and servant in the church; and the godmother, Jane Chevalier, the widow of Peter Thibou.’

When the counsel for the count and coun­tess de St. Geran had proved that this register was made of the baptism of the infant brought to the church by La Pigoreau, it appeared that it could not relate to her youngest son, Henry, who was born three years before. It must therefore belong to some other child.

Whereupon the counsel for the ladies de Ventadour and de Lude endeavoured to prove, that it was the baptismal register of one Ber­nard, the illegitimate son of a dancing-master at Paris, whose subsequent life they pretended to trace.

The death of Henry Beaulieu, the youngest son of La Pigoreau, which they apprehended would be proved, and the certainty that proof could be brought of his being born three years before the child in question, were probably the reasons, that induced them to have recourse to a new subterfuge. And in the course of [Page 159] the evidence it appeared, that though the re­gister of the interment of Henry Beaulieu could not be found, yet that Pigoreau had said to many people (previous to her producing the little count as her own) that her youngest son was dead. But afterwards, when she de­termined to call this child hers, she destroyed every memorial of the age as well as the death of the son, whose place she assigned to the stolen child.

After various appeals, and all the chicane of the French law had been exerted to create delays, which carried on the suit till the year 1657, a hearing was again had, which lasted seven days. An arret was given by the judge, monsieur de Mesmes, which ordered that the ladies de Ventadour and de Lude should with­draw from being parties in the cause, because, during the lives of the count and countess de St. Geran, their claim was dormant, and they had no right to dispute a succession which was not yet open—and La Pigoreau was ordered not to leave Paris, on pain of being declared guilty. This arret still left the matter as un­decided as before. And the ladies de Ven­tadour and de Lude, now acting only through La Pigoreau, directed her to renew the suit, by a requisition to the court, that all the per­sons who were present at the pretended deli­very of the countess should be examined. This the court granted; but at the same time or­dered, that in three days La Pigoreau should [Page 160] surrender herself a prisoner at the Concier­gerie. This order appeared so alarming to La Pigoreau, that after considering some time, whether it were better to wait the event of the suit, which if she gained would make her fortue, but which, if she lost it, would hazard her life, she determined on the safest method, and, leaving her patronesses to carry it on as well as they could, she fled into Holland, and was no more heard of.

Her flight was a cruel blow to the interests of the duchess de Ventadour and the countess de Lude; but irritated rather than discou­raged, they continued to sustain the suit and the count went into the Bourbonnois, to col­lect and bring to Paris all the witnesses who were thought likely to throw new light on the affair. La Pigoreau was declared contuma­cious, and there was now every probability of an immediate termination in [...]vour of the legitimacy of the young count. While the count de St. Geran was occupied in procuring such testimonies as might contribute to this desirable end, the king, and the queen mo­ther, in their progress from Lyons to Paris, stopped at his castle. The care of paying properly his duty to them, wholly possessed him during their stay, in which interval he had the satisfaction of presenting his son to his sovereign, under the title of the count de la Palice, and of seeing him received as heir to his titles and estate. But this was the last [Page 161] pleasure this unfortunate father enjoyed. The fatigue of the entertainments made for the king, and probably anxiety about his cause, which was unavoidably delayed by his ab­sence from the seat of justice, affected the count's health. A fever seized him, which, after an illness of eight days, put an end to his life. He carried with him to the grave, the unhappy reflection of not having been able to establish his son in his inheritance: but in a will made during his illness, he solemnly adjured the countess to persevere in the process; and named monsieur de la Bar­riere, intendant of the Bourbonnois, and the sieur Vialet, treasurer of France, his execu­tors, to whom he gave the like charge. He died on the 31st of January, 1659, giving with his last breath his blessing to his son, and begging of Heaven to restore him to the right of his ancestors.

The countess had no sooner paid the last duties to his remains, and dried the tears of unavailing regret, than she prepared to fulfil his injunctions, with all the anxious zeal in­spired by her tenderness for her son, added to her ardent desire of obeying the dying di­rections of her husband.

The duchess de Ventadour and the coun­tess de Lude, were now, by the death of the count de St. Geran, put in situations to claim their inheritence, and again to become par­ties; the proceedings therefore recommenced, [Page 162] on both sides, with infinitely more ardour than before.

The two ladies left nothing untried, to prove that the supposed birth of a child to the countess de St. Geran, was a fallacy; their counsel particularly insisted on the impro­bability of her having been delivered without knowing it, and the little likelihood there was that a child of such consequence could be sto­len from the house of his parents in the instant of his birth. But the countess de St. Geran had so successfully exerted herself, and had collected such a body of presumptive evidence, the substance of whose depositions has been already related, that the duchess de Ventadour and madame de Lude found, that neither their address or their riches could support them, against the force of truth; and though they contrived to lengthen the suit for three years longer, final judgment was at last given against them, to this effect:

"That, notwithstanding the letters of in­heritance which had been granted to Mary de la Guiche, duchess dowager of Ventadour, sister by the half blood of Claude de la Guiche, count de St. Geran; and to Eleonore da Bouillé, niece of the said count de St. Geran—they should now desist from any farther claim to his estate and effects; and they were forbidden to molest or disturb in his possessions Bernard de la Guiche, the son of the said count, by Susanna de Longuenay, his wife; [Page 163] who was declared his sole heir, and ordered to assume the arms and honours of count de St. Geran.—Mary la Pigoreau, as accomplice in the concealment of the heir, was con­demned to be hanged, if she could be found; if not, to be hung in effigy, and all her goods confiscated."

Thus, after a process of many years, and an immense expense, the young count saw himself rescued from obscurity, and restored to his mother, as well as to his fortune and his rank.

He married Claudia Frances Magdalane de Varignies, the only daughter of Francis de Montevilla; but had no male heir; this branch therefore of the house of De la Guiche became extinct at his death, which happened in his fifty-fifth year.

MADEMOISEILLE AN GELLICA NICOLA CAR­LIER was the daughter of a bookseller of Metz; who left her, at the age of fifteen, to the care of an aunt. The fortune he po­sessed amounted to more than a million of livres, which were to be equally divided be­tween his daughter and a son, who was a few years younger. With this sum, which in that country, and at that period, secured affluence to its possessor, mademoiselle Car­lier would probably have had many lovers; but as, added to this advantage, her person was uncommonly beautiful, her admirers were innumerable. To the charms of a very lovely face were joined a figure above the middling height, extremely well formed, and receiving peculiar [...]ustre from that air of dignity, which commands respect, while it inspires admiration. Nor had nature been lavish only in adorning her person; her un­derstanding was extremely quick, and of masculine [...]ness: a good heart only re­mained, [Page 165] to constitute a perfect character; but her's was, unhappily so much otherwise, that it converted her other qualifications into misfortunes, and was the cause of her wretched catastrophe.

Those who observed her nearly, even during her earliest years, saw evident symp­toms of that malignant and violent spirit, that unbounded appetite for pleasure, and that re­vengeful and undaunted disposition, which being never checked in her infancy, soon ac­quired a fatal ascendancy, and at length sti­fled all sentiments of reason and humanity. Young, rich, and beautiful as mademoiselle Carlier was, offers of marriage multiplied around her: among the most assiduous of her lovers, was monsieur Tiquet, a counsellor of parliament; but as he had nothing in his person or address likely to prejudices young woman, in his favour, he was for some time coldly received. Despairing of being able to make an impression on the niece by his per­sonal merit, he determined to secure the good offic [...]s of the aunt; and, going at once to the [...], he presented [...]er with a purse of four thousand livres; after which she became [...] devoted to him; and he soon saw that his liberality would answer all his hopes.

The aunt [...]ailed not to point out to her [...] the advantage she would gain by mar­rying the [...] Tiquet, who could give her degree of rank, to which, from her birth, sh [...] [Page 166] had no claim. She dwelt on the riches and generosity of this persevering lover: whose con­tinual presents seemed to confirm all she ad­vanced in his praise. But mademoiselle Carlier still hesitated between him and others of her lovers, whose persons and ages were preferable in her eyes, till a diamond bouquet, presented by Tiquet, determined the event in his favour: from the magni­ficence of the present judging of his riches; and from her aunt's report, of his good qua­lities, she, without farther attention either to his real character or fortune, became his wife.

The two first years of this marriage pro­duced a son and a daughter; and madame Tiquet, if not extremely attached to her hus­band, lived at least without shewing any marked dislike to him: but she was immersed in dissipation; and her expenses were at length so excessive, that Tiquet found it ab­solutely necessary to open to her the real state of his fortune; when, to her inexpressible mortification, she [...]ound that she had married a man with very little property, and [...] was embarrassed with debts, which he, had no means of paying, but with her money. Disgust and rage took possession of her at this unwelcome discovery; and, to add to the an­tipathy she began to conceive against her hu [...] ­band, she commenced acquaintance, about the same time, with the [...] Mo [...]ge [...]g [...], [Page 167] a captain in the guards, whose person and manners were such as formed the most de­cided contrast to those of the sieur Tiquet. The uncommon attractions of madame Ti­quet made an immediate and deep impression on this young officer; and when the atten­tions of the lover were added to his fine figure and seducing manners, he became an object before whom the unsubstantial virtue of madame Tiquet gave way. She was not only sensible of a violent passion for Mon­george, but hated her husband for resembling him so little. And when the barrier was once broken down, she scrupled not to give a loose to the most debasing and shameful intrigues. Mongeorge, however, was the object of her real attachment; and she contrived to save ap­pearances in regard to others, with so much art, that she continued to be admitted into the best companies. As a connexion, such as subsisted between madame Tiquet and Mongeorge, has long found too much indul­gence in the dissolute manners of the French, nobody seemed to be much offended at their mutual partiality, but the husband. The jea­lousy of monsieur Tiquet, which did not much sweeten a temper originally very bad, proved so troublesome to his wife, that she could no longer keep terms of decency with him; her hatred was imbittered still farther on a closer insight into the condition of his fortune, which he was now reluctantly ob­liged [Page 168] to give her; for his creditors, whose number had greatly increased by the expen­sive presents he had made during his court­ship, grew so clamorous, that he could not continue to conceal the urgency or extent of their demands. As she was very much alarmed by this derangement, so contrary to the expectations with which she had married, she applied to the proper court for a separation of their effects which was granted her, but though she had thus secured her fortune from farther depredation, her hatred to her hus­band augmented every day.

Since she had known Mongeorge, with whom she fancied she ought to have been united, she detested her husband, for having on false pretences betrayed her into a marriage, for which she had no inclination, and which had put an eternal barrier between her and the man she loved. Embittered by this mor­tifying idea, the jealousy and ill-humour of her husband grew insupportable; and, by continually irritating a temper naturally vio­lent, proud, and malignant, at length pro­duced the dreadful resolution of relieving her­self by procuring his death. When she had once formed this, d [...]sign, it appeared every hour more easy to execute; and she thought it better to hazard the guilt, and the infamy that must attend detection, than to continue to live with a man who made her existence miserable. It was not long before she found [Page 169] wretches willing to undertake the execution of her design. A man, named Cattelain, one of the lowest of the people; and another, who was her porter, agreed to assassinate Tiquet, on his return home through the streets. To these ruffians she gave a large sum of money; and they engaged in the plot others, who laid in wait for the unfortunate Tiquet, as he passed near his own door; but though several shots were fired at him he escaped unhurt. This disappointment, and perhaps some re­mains of remorse, put by the intended assassi­nation for that time. Madame Tiquet gave each of her horrid agents other sums of mo­ney, as the price of their secrecy, telling them that she would now think no more of gratify­ing her vengeance; and assuring them, that the least breach of her confidence would cost them their lives. Tiquet had probably suspi­cions of his wife's evil intentions, and saw with mistrust and indignation her familiarity with the porter; whom he also suspected of letting in Mongeorge of a night: he therefore dis­charged this favoured servant, and took the keys himself. Of an evening nobody could enter or quit the house, but by applying to him; and when he went out, as he usually did at night, to sup with his friends, where he often continued very late, he took the key with him; and on his return to go to bed, he placed it under his bolster. As madame Tiquet had a separate apartment they never met but [Page 170] at [...]able, where both observed a melancholy silence. Many months p [...]ssed, after the first attempt, before madame Tiquet determined on another; but at length she resolved to try poi­son: for this purpose she contrived to mingle some very noxious ingredient in a bason of broth, which was prepared for her husband; but this being given to his valet-de-chambre to carry to his master, the man, either from some­thing he had seen, or from the smell of the broth, was convinced it was poisoned; he therefore affected to make a false step, and threw down the bason. Being afraid of remaining in a house where such scenes were passing, he de­sired to be dismissed, and when he was so, repeated every where what had happened.

Having again failed of her purpose, ma­dame Tiquet was obliged to continue to con­ceal in her own breast the rage and hatred which consumed her; and it was near three years after her first attempt before she resolved on, or at least found means to execute, the third. But, no longer able to command her inveterate inclination to evil, she had recourse once more to the discarded porter, whom she exhorted to p [...]re more determined and skilful assistants [...] he had hired before. The night was fixed, and madame Tiquet thought only of composing her [...], and concealing [...] [...]tation of her mind. She went out is [...], and in the [...] in at the [...] Aunoy's, where large and [...] [Page 171] company were assembled; something singular appeared in her behaviour, and one of the party asked her whence she came, and what was the cause of the emotion which was evi­dent in her manner?—"I have been," said she, "for two hours in company with the de­vil." "How!" exclaimed madame d'Aunoy, "with the devil! you have been engaged then in a very discreditable conversation." "When I say with the devil," replied madame Tiquet, "I mean only with a female astrologer, who I believe deals with him, for she knows every thing, and can predict future events." "And what has she told you?" enquired madame d'Aunoy. "Nothing but what is very plea­sant," returned madame Tiquet; "she has assured me, that in two months I shall be out of the power of my enemies, and perfectly happy; but you may judge from thence, madam, that her science is not in [...]allible, for, as I shall certainly never be happy during the life of monsieur Tiquet, and he is in too good a state of health for me to expect so speedy a deliverance from him, I am afraid the fortune­teller is mistaken."—Whether madame Tiquet had been with such a person, or whether she spoke thus from the impossibility of being wholly silent while such an event impended cannot now be known: she soon re-assumed her usual composure, staid some time with the company at madame d'Aunoy's, and then went [...]ome, where madame de Senonville, one [Page 172] of her most intimate friends, waited her return. Though the hour now approached which was to consummate her guilt, and deprive her hus­band of life, she had so far conquered her feel­ings as to appear to madame de Senonville quite unembarrassed and chearful. They con­tinued in conversation till it was very late; for madame de Senonville, willing to pique and incommode Tiquet, intended to stay till he should be come home, and gone to bed, that she might oblige him to get up again to let her out at the street-door, which he would suffer nobody but himself to unlock. Tiquet supped that night with madame de Villemur, whose house was near his own: he staid there, as was his custom, very late, when about the usual hour of his return home, his servants, who were waiting for him, to come in and go to bed, heard several reports of fire-arms in the street; they ran out, and found their master wounded and bleeding on the ground; they took him up with an intention of carry­ing him into his house, but he had strength enough to refuse going thither, and directed them to take him to the house of madame de Villemur, which he had just left. As soon as madame Tiquet knew where he was, she went thither; but he ordered the people about him to prevent her entering the room he was in, and to oblige her to return home. Surgeons were sent for to examine his wounds; they found he had received three; but none [Page 173] of them were mortal, though one was very near the heart, so near, that the surgeons as­serted it must inevitably have been struck, if the fear which had seized him on the first fire had not caused his heart to contract itself;—how far this is founded on possibility, the skilful in the formation of the human body only can judge.

As soon as the news of this assassination reached the police, the commissary of that quarter of the town attended monsieur Tiquet, to collect information: he enquired of him whom he thought likely to have thus attempted his life?—who were his enemies? "I have no enemies," answered Tiquet, "but my wife." Though madame Tiquet was apprized of this answer, and of the suspicions that were universally entertained of her guilt, she had by this time acquired so perfect a command over herself, that she appeared with all the serenity that conscious innocence could have given her. As Tiquet was in no danger, she did not affect to confine herself to her house on his account, but went out as usual; and the very next evening waited again on the coun­tess d'Aunoy. The conversation of the com­pany who were there turned naturally on the event of the preceding evening.—Madame d'Aunoy asked, "if mr. Tiquet could not possibly guess at those who had attempted his life?"—"Ah! madame," answered ma­dame Tiquet, "if he could, he would not [Page 174] name them. You cannot be ignorant that he throws the odium on me, and wishes it to be believed!—It is I, who am in my turn assas­sinated" This she uttered with the utmost composure, though she could not but read in the look of the company, that they all be­lieved her husband was right; and madame d'Aunoy said to her, that the porter ought to he secured. The opinion of her guilt now so universally prevailed, that it was determined to arrest her; on her return home, notice was given her that she would be committed to prison, and, she was advised to save herself by slight; but, relying on the steadiness of her agents, whom yet she thought, were not known, and believing her resolute and calm behaviour would convince the world of her innocence, she refused to listen to this advice. The same notice and the same remonstrance was re­peated by several persons who were attached to her, for seven or eight days, but she continued still to believe herself in no danger. On the eighth day a theatin monk came hastily into her room, and protested to her, that she would be lost irrecoverably, if she did not instantly disguise herself, and fly: He brought her a woollen robe like his own, and besought her to put it on, and go down into the court, where the sedan chair which had conveyed him waited, and the men had orders to carry the chair to a particular place, where she would find a chaise and past-horses, with persons who might be depended upon, to conduct her [Page 175] to Calais; from whence she might get an im­mediate passage to England. The infatuated woman still refused: she told the theatin, that, it was for the guilty to fly, and not for her, Who was conscious of her own innocence; that she knew her husband was the author of the infamous calumny which accused her of the attempt against him; and that he was even pleased with an, event, by which he hoped to frighten her away, in order to seize on her fortune; but she was determined, to disappoint him, by not leaving her house, be the consequence as it might. She thanked and dismissed the theatin, and resolutely awaited the arrival of the officers of justice, trusting to the measures she had taken to pre­vent the discovery of the second attempt; and having long since lost all apprehensions of the consequences of the first.

The next day after her refusal of the thea­tin's assistance, madame de Senonville, her friend, came to see her, and when she was about to take her leave, madams Tiquet said to her, "I beg you will stay a little longer with me; I expect to be arrested and carried to prison every moment, and I wish not be alone when it happens." She had hardly finished the sentence when the officers of the police arrive [...] the sieur Deffita, lieutenant criminal, [...] at their head, who entered the apartment of madame Tiquet, and told her she was his prisoner: she answered, with­out [Page 176] any symptoms of terror or surprize, "You need not, sir, have come so nume­rously attended; I have no intention to resist or escape." She then desired him to affix his seal to her cabinets, drawers, and doors, to secure her effects; and seeing her son, a child of eight years old, whom she loved pas­sionately, extremely terrified at what had happened, she reassured him, by telling him that she should soon come back to him—gave him money that he might amuse himself, and by the tranquility of her manner persuaded him to be composed; she then bid adieu to madame de Senonville, and got into the coach with the lieutenant criminal, with as much coolness and unconcern as if she had been going to pay visits: in going along she, ob­served the same [...]anquil behaviour, and did not seem at all terrified at the guards who surrounded her, or at being carried through the streets like a criminal; she even bowed to persons of her acquaintance who passed the coach. On seeing the walls of the Châ [...]elet, she changed colour, but soon recovered her­self, and seemed determined to brave the hor­rors that were preparing for her. There were, however, no proofs of madame Tiquet's delinquency, in regard to the last attempt on her husband's life; and she [...] perhaps have escaped, if Cattelain, the man she had employed the first time, in conjunction with the porter, had not voluntarily surrendered [Page 177] himself, and declared that, three years be­fore, she had hired him, by means of the porter, to destroy Tiquet; the porter was thereupon taken into custody; and on, the examination of these two men, the guilt of madame Tiquet, in the first of these attempts, appeared so clear, that she was tried, and condemned to be beheaded; the porter was or­dered to be hanged; and Cattelain sent to the gallies for life. As soon as sentence was passed, Tiquet, who was r [...]overed of his wounds, went to Versailles with his two chil­dren, and threw himself at the feet of the king,—"Sire," said he, "I implore your clemency for my wife, these innocent chil­dren implore it for their mother; be not more severe than Heaven, who is willing to pardon the repentant sinner; and which, hav­ing prevented her consummating the crime, will readily forgive the intention. Your majesty is less offended than I am, and surely will listen to mercy!—The crime, however great, is expiated by the repentance of ma­dame Tiquet, and by the dread of an ignomi­nious punishment. Pardon her then, s [...]re, and do not overwhelm these unfortunate chil­dren with the shame and disgrace which must be their portion, if their mother dies on the scaffold." The king appeared inexorable; and Tiquet, finding his application for her life not likely to avail, then asked his majesty to grant to him the fortune which was confis­cated; [Page 178] this he obtained; but the king ob­served, that the second request of Tiquet's had entirely destroyed the merit of the first.

The brother of madame Tiquet, who was an officer in the guards, and the chevalier Mongeorge, made every possible attempt to save her: the brother applied to persons of high rank, and engaged them to intercede for his sister; Mongeorge was equally earnest with his friends, and they solicited his majesty so warmly, that his resolution seemed to give way; and he would perhaps have granted the life of madame Tiquet, under certain condi­tions, had not the archbishop of Paris inter­fered: he represented to the king, that the ears of the grand penitentiary of Paris were continually shocked with the confessions, of women, who acknowledged their having at­tempted the lives of their husbands; and that, to put a stop to such enormities, which had lately encreased to an astonishing degree, it was absolutely necessary to make an example of madame Tiquet. In consequence of this remonstrance, she was ordered for execution. [...] [...]he mean time she had no notice given her [...]f her sentence. The curate of St. Sulpice, however, had attended her, and endeavoured to inspire her with a sense of her condition, and to awaken those sentiments of religion and repentance it seemed to make so necessary; but he did not greatly succeed in his pious missio [...].

[Page 179] On the day fixed for her execution, the lieutenant criminal sent guards to fetch her to the chamber, where she was to undergo the question; she was even then ignorant of what was decided, and as she went, asked if her business was never to be concluded? Being brought, however, into the presence of the lieutenant criminal, he read the [...]arret to her: while it was reading, the eyes of all present were fixed on her, to observe what effect this terrible certainty would have on her. No symptoms of fear or concern ap­peared, not even the slighted change of com­plexion. The lieutenant criminal then at­tempted to awaken her sensibility, by repre­senting, in the darkest colours, the horrors of that abyss of infamy and disgrace into which she was fallen. Madame Tiquet an­swered, that the most humiliating circum­stance that had yet happened to her, was, seeing herself debased and degraded before him, whom she had been used to behold at her feet, the humblest of her slaves (the lieu­tenant criminal, Deffita, had been one of her lovers). "As to the rest, sir," said she "th [...] day that terminates my life, will also terminate my misery: I do not fear death, at least I shall meet it with resolution: you have seen me hear my sentence without any marks of fear; and you will see me with equal courage go to the scaffold." The lieutenant criminal exhorted her to own her guilt, and to [...] [Page 180] her accomplices, that she might spare herself the agonies of torture, which she must other­wise undergo. She declared that she had no confession to make: but after the first pot of water,^* she began to consider that her obsti­nacy would avail nothing, but would expose her to great personal sufferings, she therefore recanted, and owned all she had done to put an end to her husband's life. She was asked whether the chevalier de Mongeorge was accessary to, or acquainted with her in­tentions? She answered, "Ah, no! I took care never to give him the slightest intimation of it, knowings that had he thought me capa­ble of such an attempt, I should have lost his affection forever."

The curate of St. Sulpice now attended, to prepare her for the last dreadful scene▪ she opposed some of his reasoning with her usual acuteness, and then, either to shorten the scene, or because she had long since hardened herself against all belief, and thought nothing that related to religion worth contending about, she seemed to be convinced by his arguments, and to be ready to die like a Christian. She besought the curate to inter­cede with her husband for his forgiveness, and to assure him that she died under a return of those sentiments of regard, which she had known for him during the first years of their [Page 181] marriage. The moment now arrived when she was put into a cart, together with the porter, her accomplice, and a confessor, to be carried to the Gr [...]ve. So great a concourse of people was hardly ever seen in the streets of Paris, as was now assembled to behold t [...] is extraordinary woman go to die: many perished by being tramp [...]d or crushed to death in the crowd. She appeared dressed in white, her beauty undiminished, though she was now in her forty-second year: the graceful [...]ignity of her figure was conspicuous even in this dreadful situation; and for some time she [...]ontinued undauntedly surveying the multitude; but at length the idea of being thus a public spectacle seemed to strike a shock to her; she pulled her hood over her face to conceal the emotions of her soul; but, on the confessor's representing to her, that she should suffer this shame and mortification, as helping to expiate her crime, she again uncovered her face, and exposed it to the view of the spectators, with a firm and calm confidence. As the cart went on, she addressed herself to the porter, and desired his forgiveness, for having been the means of bringing him to an ignominious death: the man, in his turn, besought her to pardon him, for having by his confession contributed to her condemnation: they ex­changed forgiveness, and mutually besought [...] other to die a Christian death. When s [...]e arrived at the place of execution, a violent [Page 182] storm occasioned considerable delay; while she was obliged to wait, she saw before her eyes, the dreadful apparatus of death, and the mourning coach which was to carry away her body; but she still preserved her firmness. As soon as the storm abated, the porter was led to execution: his fate she bitterly deplored, but seemed quite regardless of her own. Be­ing now to mount the scaffold herself, she gave her hand to the executioner, that he might assist her; and before she did so, she kissed it, as a mark of civility. When she was on the scaffold the kissed the block, put her hair and head-dress in order, and placed herself the attitude for decapitation, with the ease of an actres [...] who had long studied a part on the stage, and with as little concern as if she had been [...]cting it only. This calmness, and the air of grandeur which so eminently distinguished the su [...]r, terrified the execu­tioner; he struck her twice without severing the head from the body, which he completed only at the third stroke; when it fell, a loud and universal groan was heard from the sur­rounding multitude; those who were about the scaffold, being almost every body of the court and town, who could procure a place. The head was l [...]ft some time on the scaffold, as a melancholy spectacle, and a fearful ex­ample; and those who saw it closely, said, that even the ho [...]ors of a violent death had not robbed it of its beauty.

[Page 183] While this tragical scene was passing at Paris, Mongeorge was at Versailles, where he hid himself in the park, filled with sorrow for the death of a woman whom he at once detested and loved. When he attended the king at night, as his duty obliged him to do, his majesty told him he was very glad to hear madame Tiquet had so entirely acquitted him of all participation of her guilt, "though I," said the king, "never a moment suspected you." Mongeorge thanked his majesty for his goodness, and took that opportunity of soliciting leave of absence for eight months, which he obtained; and employed the time in travelling to other countries, in hopes of dis­sipating that uneasiness and regret, which he found he should be unable to conquer, while he remained in those scenes which had wit­nessed his long attachment to madame Tiquet.

THE count of Montgomery rented part of an hotel in the Rüe Royale, at Paris. The ground floor and first floor were occupied by him; the second and third by the sieur d'Anglade. The count and countess de Mont­gomery had an establishment suitable to their rank; they kept an almoner, and several male and female servants, and their horses and equipage were numerous in proportion." Mon­sieurd' Anglade (who was a gentleman, though of inferior rank to the count) and his wife lived with less splendor, but yet with elegance and decency suitable to their situation in life. They had a carriage, and were admitted into the best companies, where probably d'An­glade increased his income by play; but, on the strictest enquiry, it did not appear that any dishonourable actions could be imputed to him. The count and countess de Montgo­mery lived on a footing of neighbourly ci­vility with monsieur and madame d'Anglade; and, without being very intimate, were al­ways [Page 185] ways on friendly terms. Some time in Sep­tember, 1687, the count and countess pro­posed passing a few days at Villebousin, one of their country houses: they informed mon­sieur and madame d'Anglade of their design, and invited them to be of the party. They accepted it; but the evening before they were to go, they for some reason or other (probably because madame d'Anglade was not very well begged leave to decline the ho­nour, and the count and countess set out with­out them; leaving in their lodgings one of the countess's women, four girls whom she employed to work for her in embroidery, and a boy who was kept to help the footman. They took with them the priest, Francis Gag­nard, who was their almoner, and all their other servants.

The count pretended that a strange presen­timent of i [...]pending evil hung over him, and determined him to return to Paris a day sooner than he intended. Certain it is, that in­stead of staying till Thursday, as they proposed, they came back on Wednesday evening. On their coming to their hotel a few moments before their servants (who followed them on horseback), they observed that the door of a room on the ground floor, where their men-servants slep [...], was a-jar, though the almoner, [...] always kept the key, had double locked it when he went away. Monsieur d'Anglade, who was out when they came home, returned [Page 186] to his lodging about eleven o'clock; bring­ing with him two friends, with whom he had supped at the president Roberts's. On enter­ing, he was told that the count and countess were returned, at which, it is said, he ap­peared much surprised. However, he went into the apartment where they were, to pay his compliments. They desired him to sit down, and sent to beg madame, d'Anglade would join them; she did so, and they passed some time in conversation, after which they parted. The next morning the count de Mont­gomery discovered that the lock of his strong box had been opened by a false key, from whence had been taken thirteen small sacks, each containing a thousand livres in silver; eleven thousand five hundred livres in gold, being double pistoles; and an hundred louis d'ors of a new coinage, called au [...] [...]don, together with a pearl necklace [...] four thousand livres.

The count, as soon as he made this [...] ­very, went to the police and preferred his complaint, describing the sums taken from him, and species in which those sums were. The lieutenant of the police went di­rectly to the hotel; where, from circum­stances, it clearly appeared, that the rob­bery must have been committed by some one who belonged to [...]he house. Mon­sieur and madame d'Anglade earnestly de­sired to have their apartments and their [Page 187] servants examined; and, from some ob­servations he then made, or some prejudice he had before entertained against monsieur and madame d'Anglade, the lieutenant of the police seems to have conceived the most disadvan­tageous opinion of them, and to have been so far prepossessed with an idea of their guilt, that he did not sufficiently investigate the looks and the conduct of others. In pursuance, however, of their desire to have their rooms searched, he followed them thither, and looked nar­rowly into their drawers, closets, and boxes; unmade the beds, and searched the matrasses and the paillasses.^* On the floor they them­selves inhabited, nothing was found: he then proposed ascending to the attic story, to which monsieur d'Anglade readily consented. Ma­dame d'Anglade excused herself from attend­ing, saying that she was ill and weak. How­ever her husband went up with the officer of justice, and all was readily submitted to his in­spection. In looking into an old trunk, filled with clothes, remnants and parchments, he found a rouleau of seventy louis d'ors au cordon, wrapt in a printed paper, which printed paper was a genealogical table, which the count said was his.

This seems to have been the circumstance which so far confirmed the before groundless and slight suspicions of the lieutenant of the [Page 188] police, that it occasioned the ruin of these un­fortunate people.

As soon as these seventy louis were brought to light, the count de Montgomery insisted upon it that they were his; though, as they were in common circulation, it was as impos­sible for him to swear to them as to any other coin. He declared, however, that he had no doubt but that monsieur and madame d'Anglade had robbed him; and said that he would an­swer for the honesty of all his own people; and that on this occasion he could not but re­collect that the sieur Grimaudet, who had before occupied this hotel, which monsieur d'Anglade had inhabited at the same time, had lost a valuable, piece of plate. It was, there­fore, the count said, very probable that d'An­glade had been guilty of both the robberies, which had happened in the same place while he inhabited it.

On this rouseau of seventy louis d'ors, the lieutenant of the police seized. He bid mon­sieur d'Anglade count them; he did to, but, terrified at the imputation of guilt, and of the said consequence which in France often fol­lowed the imputation only, his hand trembled as he did it; he was sensible of it, and said "I tremble." This emotion, so natural even to innocence, appeared in the eyes of the [...] and the lieutenant, a co [...]oboration of a [...] guilt. After this examination they de­ [...] to the ground floor, where the almoner, [Page 189] the page, and the valer de chambre were ac­customed to sleep together, in a small room. Madame d'Anglade desired the officer of the police to remark, that the door of this apart­ment had been left open, and that the valet de chambre, probably knew why; of whom therefore enquiry should be made. Nothing was more natural than this observation, yet to minds already prepossessed with an opinion of the guilt of Anglade and his wife, this remark seemed to confirm it; when in a cor­ner of this room, where the wall formed a little recess, five of the sacke were discovered, which the count had lost; in each of which was a thousand livres; and a sixth, from which upwards of two hundred had been taken. After this, no farther enquiry was made, nor any of the servants examined, The guilt of monsieur and madame d'Anglade was ascertained, in the opinion of the lieute­nant of the police and the court, do Montgo­mery: and on no stronger grounds than the circumstance of finding the seventy louis [...] the emotion shewn by d'Anglade while he counted them and the remark made by his wife, were these unfortunate people committed to prison▪ Their effects were seized. Mon­sieur d'Anglade was thrown into a [...]geon in the Châtelat; and his wife, who was with child, and her little girl, about four years old were sent to fort I' E [...]que▪ while the [...] orders were given that no person whatever [Page 190] should be admitted to speak to them. The prosecution now commenced, and the lieute­nant of the police, who had committed the unhappy man, was to be his judge. D'An­glade appealed, and attempted to institute a suit against him, and make him a party, in order to prevent his being competent to give judgment; but this attempt failed, and served only to add personal animosity to the prejudice this officer had before taken up against An­glade. Witnesses were examined; but, far from their being heard with impartiality, their evidence was twisted to the purposes of those, who desired to prove guilty the man they were determined to believe so. The al­moner, Francis Gagnard, who was the really guilty person, was among those whose evi­dence was now, admitted against Anglade; and this wretch had effrontery enough to conceal the emotions of his soul, and to perform a mass, which the count ordered to be said at St. Esprit, for the discovery of the culprits.

The lieutenant of the police, elate with his triumph over the miserable prisoner, pushed on the prosecution with all the avidity which malice and revenge could inspire, in a vindic­tive spirit. In spite, however, of all he could do, the proofs against d'Anglade were still in­sufficient, therefore he determined to have him put to the torture, in hopes of bringing him to confess the crime. Anglade appealed, but [Page 191] the parliament confirmed the order, and the poor man underwent the question ordinary and extraordinary; when notwithstanding his acute sufferings, he continued firmly to pro­test his innocence; till covered with wounds, his limbs dislocated, and his mind enduring yet more than his body, he was carried back to his dungeon. Disgrace and ruin overwhelmed him; his fortune and effects were sold for less than a tenth of their value, as is always the case where law presses with its iron hand; his cha­racter was blasted, his health was ruined. Not naturally robust, and always accustomed not only to the comforts, but the elegancies of life, a long confinement in a noisome and unwholesome dungeon had reduced him to the lowest state of weakness. In such a situation he was dragged forth to torture, and then plunged again into the damp and dark cavern from whence he came—without food, medi­cine, or assistance of any kind; though it is usual for those who suffer the torture to have medicinal help and refreshment after it. This excess of severity could be imputed only to the malignant influence of the officer of justice, in whose power he now was.

From the same influence it happened, that though the sieur Anglade, amidst the most dreadful pains, had steadily protested his in­nocence—and though the evidence against him was extremely defective—sentence was given to this effect:—That Anglade should be [Page 192] condemned to serve in the gallies for nine years; that his wife should, for the like term, be banished from Paris, and its jurisdiction; that they should pay three thousand livres, re­paration to the count d'Montgomery as da­mages, and make restitution of twenty-five thou­sand six hundred and seventy-three livres, and either return the pearl necklace or pay four thousand livres more. From this sum the five thousand seven hundred and eighty livres, found in the sacks in the servants' room, were to be deducted, together with the seventy louis d'ors found in the box, of which the of­ficer of justice had taken possession, and also a double Spanish pistole, and seventeen louis d'ors, found on the person of Anglade, which was his own money.

Severe as this sentence was, and founded on such slight presumption, it was put imme­diately into execution. Anglade whose con­stitution was already sinking under the heavy pressure of his misfortunes, whose l [...]mbs were contracted by the dampness of his prison, and who had undergone the most excruciating tor­tures, was sent to the tower of Montgomery, there to remain, without assistance or consola­tion, till the convicts condemned to the gallies were ready to go. He was then chained with them; a situation how dreadful! for a gentle­man, whose sensibility of mind was extreme, and who had never suffered the least hardship or difficulty till then; when her was plunged [Page 193] at once into the lowest a [...]ss of misery, chained among felons, and condemned to the most hopeless confinement and the severest labour, without any support, but what he could pro­cure from the pity of those who saw him; for of his own he had now nothing! Yet, dreadful as these evils were, he supported them with that patient firmness which nothing but con­scious innocence could have produced. Re­duced to the extreme of human wretchedness, he felt not for himself; but when he reflected on the situation of his wife, and his infant daughter, his fortitude forsook him. A fever had, from his first confinement, preyed on his frame; its progress grew more rapid, and he felt his death inevitable; when the galley-slaves were collected to depart, he besought leave to see his wife, and to give his last blessing to his child—but it was denied him!—He submitted, and prepared to go; but being too weak to stand, he was put into a waggon, whence he was lifted of a night, when they stopped, and laid on straw, in a barn or out-house, and the next morning car­ried again between two men to the waggon to continue his journey. In this manner, and believing every hour would be his last, the unhappy man arrived at Marseiles. It was asserted, but for the honour of human nature should not be believed, that the count de Montgomery pressed his departure, notwith­standing the deplorable condition he was in, [Page 194] and even waited on the road to see him pass, and enjoy the horrid spectacle of his sufferings. The unhappy wife of this injured man had not been treated with more humanity. She had been dragged to prison, separate from that of her husband, and confined in a dungeon. She was with child, and the terror she had undergone occasioned her to miscarry. Long fainting fits succeeded; and she had no help but that of her little girl, who, young as she was, endeavoured to recal her dying mother by bathing her temples; and by making her smell to bread dipt in wine. But as she be­lieved every fainting fit would be her last, she implored the jailor to allow her a confessor: after much delay he sent one; and by his means the poor woman received succour and sustenance: but while she slowly gathered strength, her little girl grew ill. The noisome damps, the want of proper food, and of fresh air, overcame, the tender name of the poor child; and then it was that the distraction and des­pair of the mother was at its height. In the middle of a rigorous winter they were in a cavern, where no air could enter, and where the damps only lined the wall; a little char­coal in an earthen pot, was all the fire they had; and the smoke was so offensive and dan­gerous, that it increased rather than dimi­nished their sufferings. In this dismal place the mother saw her child sinking under a disease, for which she had no remedies. [Page 195] Cold sweats accompanied it, and she had nei­ther clean linen for her, or fire to warm her; and, as even their food depended on charity, and they were not allowed to see any body, they had no relief but what the priest from time to time procured them. At length; and as a great favour, they were removed to a place less damp, to which there was a little window; but the window was stopped, and the fumes in the charcoal were as noxious here as in the ca­vern they had left. Here they remained, how­ever (providence having prolonged their lives) for four or five months.—Monsieur d'Anglade, not being in a condition to be chained to the oar, was sent to the hospital of the convicts of Marseilles; his disease still preyed on the poor remains of a ruined constitution, but his suf­ferings were lengthened out beyond what his weakness seemed to promise. It was [...]ear four months after his arrival at Marseilles that, being totally exhausted, he felt his last mo­ments approach, and desired to receive the sacraments: before they were administered to him, he solemnly declared, at he hoped to be received into the presence of the searcher of hearts, that [...] was innocent of the crime laid to his cha [...] that he forgave his inexorable prosecutor and his partial judge, and felt no other regret in quitting the world, than that of leaving his wife and his child exposed to the miseries of poverty, and the disgrace of his imputed crime: but he trusted his vindication [Page 196] to God, who had, he said, lent him fortitude to endure the sufferings he had not deserved: and then, after having received the eucharist with piety and composure, he expired; a martyr to unjust suspicion, and hasty or ma­licious judgment.

He had been dead only a few weeks, when several persons, who had known him, received anonymous letters: the letters signified, that the person who wrote them, was on the point of hiding himself in a convent for the rest of his life; but before he did so, his conscience obliged him to inform whom it might concern, that the sieur Anglade was innocent of the robbery committed in the apartments of the count de Montgomery; that the perpetrators were one [...]cent Belestre, the son of a tanner of Mans, and a priest named Gagnard, a na­tive also of Mans, who had been the count's almoner. The [...] added, that a woman of the name of de la Comble could give light into the whole affair. One of these letters was sent to the countess de Montgomery, who however had not generosity enough to shew it; but the sieur Loysillon, and some others who had received at the same time the same the guilt on those who were really culpable, kind of letters, determined to enquire into the affair: while the friends of the count de Montgomery, who began to ap­prehend that he would be disagreeably si­tuated, if his prosecution of d'Anglade shouldt [...] found unjust, preten [...]ed to discover th [...] [Page 197] th [...]se letters were dictated by madame d'An­glade; who hoped by this artifice to deliver her husband's memory from the odium which rested on it, and herself and her child from the dungeon in which they were still confined.—An enquiry was set on Foot after Belestre and Gagnard, who had some time before quitted the count's service. It was found that Belestre was a consummate villain, who had in the early part of his life been engaged in an assassination, for which he was obliged to fly from his native place; that he had been a soldier, had killed his serjeant in a quarrel, and deserted; then returning to his own coun­try, had been a wandering vagabond, going by different names, and practising every spe­cies of roguery; that he had sometimes been a beggar, and sometimes a bully, about the streets of Paris, but always much acquainted and connected with Gagnard, his countryman: and that suddenly, from the lowest indigence, he had appeared to be in affluence; had bought himself rich clothes, had shewn various sums of money, and had purchased an estate near Mans, for which he had paid between nine and ten thousand livres.

Gagnard, who was the son of the goaler of Mans, had come to Paris without either clothes or money, and had subsisted on charity, or by saying masses at St. Esprit, by which he hardly gained enough to keep him alive; when the count de Montgomery took him. It was im­possible [Page 198] what he got in his service, as wages, could enrich him: yet, immediately after quitting it, he was seen clothed neatly in his clerical habit; his expenses for his entertain­ments were excessive; he had plenty of money in his pocket; and had taken a woman out of the street, whom he had established in hand­some lodgings, and clothed with gre [...] profusion of finery. These observations alone had they been made in time, were sufficient [...] have opened the way to a discovery, which might have saved the life, and redeemed the honour of the unfortunate d'Anglade. Late as it was, justice was now ready to overtake them, and the hand of Providence itself seemed to asisst. Gagnard being in a tavern, in the street St. André des Ares, was present at a quarrel wherein a man was killed; he was sent to prison, with the rest of the people in the house; and about the same time, a man who had been robbed and cheated by Belestre near three years before, met him, watched him to his lodgings, and put him into the hands of the marechaussee. These two wretches being thus in the hands of justice, for other crimes, underwent an examination relative to the robbery of the count de Mont­gomery: they betrayed themselves by incon­sistent answers. Their accomplices were ap­prehended: and the whole affair now appeared so clear, that it was only astonishing how the criminals could ever have been mistaken.— [Page 199] The guardians of Constantia Guillemot [...] the daughter of d'Anglade, now desired to of admitted parties in the suit, on behalf of their ward; that the guilt of Belestre and Gagnard might be proved, and the memory of monsieur d'Anglade, and the character of his widow, justified; as well as that she might, by fixing the guilt on those who were really culpable, obtain restitution of her father's effects, and [...]meds from the count de Montgomery. She became through her guardians, prosecutrix of [...] two villains the principal witness against whom was a man called the abbé de Fontpierre who had belonged to the also association thieves of which Belestre was a members. This man [...]id, that he had written the anonymous let­ [...]s which led to the discovery for that, after [...] death of d'Anglade, his conscience re­proched him with being privy to so eno [...] ­ [...] a crime. He swore that Belestre had [...]tained from Gagnard the impressions of the count's keys in wax, by which means he had [...] made that opened the locks. He said, [...] soon after the condemnation of d'Auglade to the gallies, he was in a room adjoining to [...] where Belestre and Gagnard were drinking [...]; that he heard the former say to [...], "Come, my friend, let us drink and [...] ourselves, while this fine fellow, this [...] d'Anglade, is at the gallies." To [...] replied, with a sigh, "Poor [...] cannot help being sorry for him; he [Page 200] was a good kind of a man, and was always very civil and obliging to me." Belestre then exclaimed with a laugh, "Sorry! what sorry for a man who has secured us from suspicion, and made our fortune!" Much other dis­course of the same kind he repeated.—And de la Comble deposed, that Belestre had shewn her great sums of money, and a beau­tiful pearl necklace; and when she asked him where he got all this? he answered, that he won it at play. These and many other cir­cumstances related by this woman, confirmed his guilt beyond a doubt. In his pocket were found a gazette of Holland, in which he had (it was supposed) caused it to be inserted, that the men who had been guilty of the robbery for which the sieur d'Anglade had been con­demed, were executed for some other crime at Orleans—hoping by this means to stop any farther enquiry. A letter was also found on him from Gagnard, which advised him of the rumours which were spread from the anony­mous letters; and desiring him to find some means to quiet or get rid of the abbé Fontpierr [...].

The proof of the criminality of these two men being fully established, they were con­demned to death; and, being previously made to undergo the question ordinary and extra­ordinary, they confessed, Gignard upon the rack, and Belestre at the place of [...] they had committed the [...] declared that if the [...] pressed him with [...] [Page 201] glade and his wife were taken up, he was in such confusion, he should have confessed all.

These infamous men having suffered the punishment of their crime, Constantia Guil­lemot d'Anglade continued to prosecute the suit against the count de Montgomery, for the unjust accusation he had made; who en­deavoured by the chicane which his fortune gave him the power to command, to evade the restitution: at length, after a very long pro­cess, the court decided—that the count de Montgomery should restore to the widow and daughter of d'Anglade, the sum which their effects, and all the property that was seized, had produced—and that he should further pay them a certain sum, as amends for the da­mages and injuries they had sustained—and that their condemnation should be erased, and their honours restored; which, though it was all the reparation that could now be made them, could not bind up the incurable wounds they had suffered in this unjust and [...]r [...]el prosecution.

Mademoiselle d'Anglade, whose destiny excited universal commiseration was taken into the protection of some generous persons about the court, who raised for her a subscrip­ [...] which [...]lenght am [...]ted to an hun­dred thousand livers; which, together with [...] res [...]tution of her father's effects, made [...] and some provision for her; and she was [...]iaged to monsieur des Essarts, a coun­ [...] parliament.

NOTHING is more astonishing than the infinite variety of the human face, in which there is such a prodigious difference of complexion and features; and where a differ­ence of expression is almost always observed, even in those whose features and complexion are very much alike. Lopez de Vega some­where says, that nature, sometimes weary of varying her works, copies herself and pro­duces two persons perfectly resembling each other. Such must have been the similitude between the two men who are the subjects of the following detail. History mentions se­veral celebrated impostors, who, taking ad­vantage of a likeness to some other person, have usurped their stations or their fortunes: but there is perhaps no instance of an im­posture so long and so successfully carried on, as that which is here related.

Martin Guerre was born in Biscaye, of parents who were somewhat above the rank of peasants, and who appear to have [Page 203] supported themselves by the cultivation of their own land. It is probable, that in that part of Europe very early marriages are usual among all ranks of people; since this man, then only eleven years old, was (in 1539) married to Bertrande de Rols, nearly of the same age as himself. For nine or ten years they were without children; at length about the end of that period, they had a son born, who was called Sunsei; and soon after, Mar­tin Guerre having given some offence to his father, absented himself from home to avoid his displeasure. And whether he found un­expected pleasure in the variety afforded by the wandering life he embraced, or whether he had conceived any disgust at some part of his wife's conduct, or was satiated with her society; from whatever cause it was, he continued the travel from place to place, and for some years his family knew not what was become of him.

Though is has often happened that a wife (especially if young and handsome, as was Bertrande de Rols at that time) has thought that such neglect and desertion on the part of her husband, has justified her forming other attachments; it does not appear that any charge of that nature was made against Bertrande de Rols: nor, for some years after her husband left her, did the smallest suspicion of infidelity, or even indiscretion, arise against her. At length a man appeared personating [Page 204] her absent husband, and in face, and figure so nearly resembling him, that the four sisters of Martin Guerre immediately acknowledged him to be their brother; Pierre Guerre, the uncle of Martin, as his nephew; and, in ge­neral, the relations on both sides believed that it was himself. Besides the very strong re­semblance, he made himself known to Ber­trande de Rols by the relation of particulars known only to her and Martin Guerre her husband; and even enquired for certain ar­ticles of clothes, which he said he had on his departure deposited in places where they were found: circumstances thaf probably dissipated any doubt which might have arisen in the mind of Bertrande de Rols. Be that however as it might, she received him as her husbands, and as such he continued to [...]ve [...]id her near three years, during which time she had two children by him, one of which died soon after its birth. He also in this period sold, as Martim Guerre, several parcels of land belong­ing to him. No mention being made of the parents of Martin Guerre, after he less his home, it is probable they died while he was absent. Though the impostor had thoroughly studied his part it seems almost incredible that Bertrande de Rols should have been deceived.

Those who thought ill of her, affirmed, that she was too much attached to the impostor to wish the deception detected; and that she willingly shut her eyes against conviction. [Page 205] But as she seems to have been of a timid tem­per, and perhaps of a weak understanding it is, not impossible that she might at first have been imposed upon by the strong resemblance [...]he impostor bore to her husband, and by the knowledge he had of the most secret transac­tions of the life of Martin Guerre, and that afterwards, when doubts arose in her mind, she might fear to enquire into the truth, till forced to do so by the relations of her real husband. These relations, particularly his uncle Pierre Guerre, pretended, after above two years, to discover, that the man who had been re­ceived by them as Martin Guerre, was an impostor, and they insisted on Bertrande de Rols joining in a prosecution of him with whom she now lived as her husband. That timidity of spirit, which had probably pre­vented her own suspicions of his identity from appearing, made her now give way, with equal facility, to the impetuous resentment of the family. She therefore agreed to appoint Pierre Guerre to act in her behalf, and to lay before the seat of justice her complaint against the man who had usurped the name, rights, and effects of Martin Guerre, her husband.

This man, brought before the judges of Rieux, lamented the unequalled hardship of his destiny. He said, that the suit com­menced against him, by which it was intended to rob him of his property and his life, was [Page 206] set on foot at the instigation and by the in­trigues of Pierre Guerre his uncle, and two of his sons-in-law, who, in hopes of continu­ing to manage his patrimony, which amounted to seven or eight thousand livres, had pre­vailed on his wife to engage in the wicked scheme of making him believed to be an im­postor. He then entered into a detail of what had happened to him since he absented him­self. He said he had carried arms some years for the king of France, his sovereign; after which he went into the Spanish army; till eagerly wishing to see his wife, his child, and his friends, he had determined to come home; where, on his arrival, he was immediately acknowledged by the very man, Pierre Guerre, who was now so forward in prosecuting him, through he must necessarily have been much [...] since he went away, an almost beard­less youth; having been exposed to much hardship and change of climate, which, to­gether with the effect of time, must have made a considerable difference in his face and person. [...] alleged that Pierre Guerre had for some time pursued him with the cruelest ani­mosity, for no other reason but because he had insisted on his (Pierre Guerre) delivering a fair account of the administration of his farm and effect during his absence, which he was [...] unable or unwilling to do. That, as a [...] of his malignity, he could bring wit­nesses, who saw him (Piere Guerre) not [Page 207] long before, strike his nephew, Martin Guerre, to the ground with an iron bar; with which he would have repeated his blow, and probably have killed him, if his wife, by throwing herself between them, had not shielded him from his fury.—He demanded to be confronted with his wife, who would, he said, be found incapable of stifling the truth, in the absence of those who had influ­enced her weak mind to join in the prose­cution. He desired that his uncle, Pierre Guerre, and his other accusers, should be prevented from having access to her, that she might not have her understanding perverted, by the arts of those, who had so evident an interest in his destruction.

He then underwent an examination, in which, to all the questions put to him, on the life and connections of Martin Guerre, he answered most exactly. The time and place of his birth; the most particular events, re­lative to his father, mother, brothers, sister and all others of his family; the year and day on which he was married to Bertrande de Rols, whose relations he described with equal pre­cision. He named the persons who were pre­sent at his marriage, and the clothes they wore, the priest who married them, and an infinite number of trifling circumstances, all of which were found to be true. He spoke also of the birth and baptism of Sanxi Guerre, the son of Mar [...]n Guerre; why he quitted [Page 208] his habitation, who he met on the way, and the discourse he held with several persons whom he named. He gave an account of the cities through which he had passed, in France and Spain, and the persons with whom he had resided and conversed in both kingdoms. And, to remove every doubt of his veracity, he named persons, to whom reference might be had, who would confirm all he had asserted; and, when these people were applied to, they actually did confirm all he had advanced.

Bertrande de Rols was next examined. Her answers agreed perfectly with those of her supposed husband, in all the circumstances wherein they were mutually concerned; and of an hundred and fifty witnenesses, who were afterwards questioned, near sorty swore, that the man now imprisoned on supposition of having usurped the name and station of Martin Guerre, was actually Martin Guerre himself, and that they knew him to be the same with whom they had been acquainted from their infancy, not only by the general similitude of his person now, to what it was th [...]n, but also by certain scars and marks which he had ac­quired when a child, and which time had not effaced.

Other witnesses being called, on behalf of the prosecutors, swore as positively, that the man whom they now saw, and who had so long passed for Martin Guerre, was one Ar­naud du Tilk, commonly called Pansette, na­tive [Page 209] of Sagias, whom they had known from his cradle.

Sixty other witnesses, on being shewn the prisoner, declared that they dated not decide, whether he was Martin Guerre or no, so very strong was the resemblance.

The accused obtained an order from the court, that Bertrande de Rols should be kept a part from Pierre Guerre and his associates. But at the same time the judges named a commission to go to Artiques, the place of Martin Guerre's residence, and to Sagias, the place from whence Arnaud du Tilk was said to come; that all particulars might be col­lected relative to them both, which might throw light on so mysterious an affair.

They directed also, that the accused should be compared with Sa [...]xi Guerre, the son; and with the four sisters of Martin Guerre. The result was, that Sanxi did not at all re­semble him; but the likeness between him and the four women was striking and indspu­table. This appeared a strong circumstance in his favour;—a child as often resembles his mother as his father; and at that early period of life, the features are sometimes so little formed, as [...]o give no decided likeness to any part of a family: whereas the resem­blance between the prisoner and the four sisters of Martin Guerre, who were women nearly of the same age, and supposed to be [Page 210] born of the same parents, seemed a convincing proof of his identity.

But after examining many other witnesses, and investigating numberless proofs, the judges decided, that the prisoner was not Martin Guerre, but Arnaud du Tilk of Sagias; and he was accordingly condemned.

He appealed against this sentence to the par­liament of Toulouse; and that court thought it necessary more fully to investigate an affair so full of difficulty and obscurity. The party calling himself Martin Guerre was summoned to appear, with Bertrande de Rols, and his other accusers. The man maintained so steady a countenance, and answered in a manner so unembarrassed and ingenuous, that the judges began to believe he was the real Martin Guerre; and the more so, as they saw in the deportment of Pierre Guerre the uncle, and Bertrande de Rols, a confusion and hesitation, which they imputed to the consciousness of their guilt.

Directions were given for a new com­mission, to renew all the enquiries, and to hear the witnesses again.

But this renewed investigation, instead of unveiling the mystery, served only to wrap it in ten-fold obscurity. Of thirty witnesses who were now heard for the second time, nine or ten declared that the prisoner was Martin Guerre, whom they had long known; eight as positively declared he was Arnaud [Page 211] du Tilk; and the rest, after having long de­liberated, protested, that they could not charge their consciences with an oath, in a matter wherein, from the extreme resem­blance between Martin Guerre and Arnaud du Tilk, they were unable to pronounce po­sitively to their satisfaction.

On collecting the whole evidence brought by the accusers, against the prisoner, it ap­peared, that, in the whole, the deposition of forty-five witnesses went to prove that he was Arnaud du Tilk, and among them some had deservedly great weight. The first was Car­bon Ba [...]reau, uncle by the mother's side to Arnaud du Tilk, who acknowledged him to be his nephew, and seeing him a prisoner, wept bitterly, and deplored the unhappy des­tiny of a person so nearly allied to him.—The shoemaker who made shoes for Martin Guerre, swore that the measure of his foot was of twelve inches, and that of the prisoner was only nine. Another person deposed that Martin Guerre understood the science of defence, of which the prisoner was ignorant,—Almost all the witnesses who affirmed that the prisoner was an impostor, agreed in describing the true Martin Guerre to be taller, and of a darker complexion; his body and legs thinner; that be stooped, carried his head low, and had a round back; that his nose was large and somewhat flat, his chin sharp and turned up in the m [...]ddle, and that [Page 212] his under lip [...]ung down. Arnaud du Tilk, which they said was the true name of the man before them, was shorter and s [...]outer; not so flat-nosed, or round-backed: but they owned, that the scars and marks he had upon him, were exactly the same as those they re­membered on Martin Guerre.—Jean Espagnol, who kept a public-house at—, deposed positively, that the prisoner discovered himself to him, and desired he would not mention the secret he trusted him with, which was, that Martin Guerre had given him all his pro­perty.—Valentine—deposed, that he met Arnaud du Tilk, the prisoner, who finding himself known, desired the deponent not to betray him; and gave him, at the same time, two handkerchiefs to be delivered to his bro­ther John du Tilk.—Two other witnesses said, that a soldier of Rochefort passing through Artiques, was surprized to find the prisoner then living there as Martin Guerre, and loudly asserted, that he knew Martin Guerre well, who was actually in Flanders, where he had been obliged to replace with a wooden leg, the leg he had lost at the battle of St. Laurent, before St. Quintin. It was also remarked, that Martin Guerre, being a native of Biscaye, spoke the Basque, which differs very materially from the French and Gasco [...] languages; whereas the prisoner knew only a few words of it, which he often unncees­sarily introduced into his discourse to conceal [Page 213] his general ignorance of what he would be thought to understand.—Several witnesses de­posed, that Arnaud du Tilk, had, from his earliest years, been abandoned to every kind of vice; that he was an atheist, a blasphemer, and guilty of fraud and theft; whence it fol­lowed, that he was capable of committing the crime he was now charged with.

The strength, however, of this body of evi­dence seemed very much diminished by what followed, in favour of his being the person whose name he assumed.

Upwards of thirty persons, who had known Martin Guerre from his infancy, declared that the prisoner was the man. Among these witnesses, those whose depositions seemed the most convincing, were the four sisters of Mar­tin Guerre; and the husbands of the two who were married corroborated their evidence. Other persons, who had been present at the marriage ceremony between Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rols, deposed, that this was the same person who was then married. As proofs of his identity, they swore to several marks about his person, which on examination, were all found on the person of the prisoner.

It seemed to be generally acknowledged, that when the prisoner arrived at Artiques, he spoke to every one he met, who knew Mar­tin Guerre, calling them by their names. That some of these, not immediately recol­lecting him, he told them he was their old ac­quaintance, [Page 214] Martin Guerre, and reminded them of conversations and events that had formerly happened, and of places where they had been, and parties made in his company, twelve, fourteen, or twenry years back. And to Bertrande de Rols he mentioned several circumstances, which could be known only to her and Martin Guerre her husband.

Other depositions went to prove, that Pierre Guerre, the uncle, had declared hi [...] resolution to ruin the prisoner at all events; and had endeavoured to make his whole fa­mily enter into a combination to gratify his revenge. To procure money to carry on the suit, he had applied to one Jean Loze of Pal­ [...]os, who had refused to advance it, saying, he would not contribute to the ruin of his relation. They added, that it was generally believed at Artiques, that Bertrande de Rols was terrified into joining in this prosecution, by the threats of Pierre Guerre, and of her mother, who was now the wife of Pierre Guerre; and that she did not willingly carry it on; believing that the prisoner was really her husband. The depositions of the four sisters of Martin Guerre, and their great resemblance to the prisoner, was a strong circumstance in his favour. Those who saw them together affirmed, that a more striking likeness was impossible; they had the same features, complexion, and cast of countenance.

When, in the course of the examinations, [Page 215] the prisoner was confronted with Bertrande de Rols, he conjured her, by all that was sacred, to a knowledge the truth; he told her that his fate [...]epended upon her, and that he was content it should do so; since if she with a safe conscienc [...] could swear, that he was not Martin Guerre her husband, he would consent to undergo the most cruel punishment. To this she answered, that she neither would swear or believe that he was not Martin Guerre. It was acknowledged, that before she was in­cluced, by the threats of Pierre Guerre, and her mother, to institute a suit against the pri­soner, she had lived with him above three years without ever appearing to doubt of his being really Martin Guerre, her husband; and, when doubts arose with others, she ex­pressed herself with great asperity against those who mentioned those doubts before her, say­ing, that surely she must know her husband, better than any one else could; that she would punish those who dared to propagate so scan­dalous a falsehood.

It also appeared, that she had often com­plained of the tyranny of Pierre Guerre and her mother, who had, she said, forced her, against her inclinations, to enter into the pro­cess against the prisoner, and had threatened, if she did not, to turn her out of the house [...] lived in, and otherwise to pr [...]secute [...]. It was proved, that, at the [...] of Pierre Guerre, one Jean d'Escorneb [...]u [...] had before [Page 216] accused the prisoner of a crime, for which he had been imprisoned; and, while he was so, that Pierre Guerre and his wife (the mother of Bertrande de Rols) incessantly besieged her to consent to prosecute him for pretending to be Martin Guerre, which she then refused; and when, after some time, he was released from prison, on the charge, which Jean d'Ef­cornebeuf had brought against him, being found false, Bertrande de Rols received him with every demonstration of affection; not­withstanding which, immediately afterwards, Pierre Guerre obliged her to become a party in the suit against him.

Thus stood the evidence on both sides of this remarkable question, and it seems that the judges were on the point of deciding in favour of the prisoner; when the real Martin Guerre suddenly appeared. He came from Spain, and had a wooden leg, as the soldier had asserted. Immediately on his arrival, he presented a memorial to the court, desiring leave to plead his cause, and to bring proofs of his identity.

An order was accordingly made for his ex­amination, and that he should be confronted with Bertrande de Rols, and with the four sisters, whose evidence had been the strongest in favour of the prisoner. He was then ex­amined, in the same manner as the prisoner had been before, and on the same particulars; and his answers were not found so clear and exact as those of his representative.

[Page 217] They were then confronted. The man accused of being an impostor treated Martin Guerre as a rogue and a cheat, dressed up by the artifices of Pierre Guerre, the uncle; and declared that he would content to be hanged, if he did not prove, to the satisfac­tion of the court, that the man, who now pretended to be Martin Guerre, was a more machine, taught to act his part by his enemies. He then questioned his adversary on several circumstances, which, if he was Martin Guerre, he ought to have known. His an­swers were confused and unsatisfactory.

The commissioners then taking the last man apart interrogated him on several new points, to which neither of them had before answered; his answers were found to correspond with the truth. Then taking apart the first pre­tender, they put the same questions to him; and, to ten or twelve of those questions, he answered as exactly as his opponent.

The four sisters, and the husbands of the two who were married, were then ordered to ap­pear, together with Pierre Guerre, the bro­thers of Arnaud du Tilk, and as many as could be [...]ound of the former witnesses.

They appeared accordingly, except the brothers of Arnaud du Tilk, who escaped, that they might not be obliged to give their [...] against him.

[...] of Martin Guerre was [...] before the commissioners, and [Page 218] shewn he two persons, who both asserted that they were her brother. After a moment's consideration, she burst into tears, and em­braced the real Martin Guerre; and, ad­dressing herself to the commissioners, said, ‘This is indeed my brother; I acknowledge that that wicked impostor has deceived me.’ Martin Guerre embraced her, and wept also. The three other sisters, in their turns, ac­knowledged him with tears, and besought his forgiveness of their error.

The husbands of the married sisters did the same; and those witnesses, who had sworn most positively that the first of these men was Martin Guerre, now, on seeing him with the real Martin Guerre, owned they had been in an error.

Bertrande de Rols, the wife, was then or­dered to approach; who no sooner beheld her husband, than, wild with confusion and ter­ror, trembling, and in tears, she [...]an to him, embraced him, and implored his pardon for the fault she had committed, in receiving as her husband an infamous impostor. She said, that she had been drawn into so great an error, by the prepossession of her sister-in-law; and that the great desire she had to find her husband, had assisted to deceive her; while the knowledge the impostor possessed, of the most secret transactions of her li [...]e (circumstances which she th [...]ught could be known only to herself, and Martin [...] [Page 219] had for some time completed the deception; but that, when at length suspicions arose in her mind, she made every effort to assure herself of the truth; and, as soon as she was fully aware of the deceit, had appealed to justice, to deliver her from the impostor, who had so cruelly betrayed her into a crime she must forever lament—a crime, which had inspired her with so much horror, that she had inc [...]ssantly wished for death to put an end to her torments; and that religion only had with-held her from finishing with her own Lands, a life that was become insuppor­table.

Her beauty (for she is described as being very handsome) and her tears affected every body, except her husband; who, though he appeared so moved with the tenderness and affection of his sisters, was insensible of the penitence and humility of his wife, whom he repulsed with rage and indignation, pushed [...] rudely from him, and bid her not play the hypocrite. He added, that she could not have been so long deceived, but pretended to be so, because she preferred the deceiver to her duty and honour; and fiercely told her, that all his [...]fortunes were owing to her, who [...]ould never have mistaken Arnaud du [...] husband with whom she had [...] and that though [...] others, [...]othing [...] attachment to [...] traitor, could have [Page 220] reconciled her to the treason. The court inter­fered, to persuade Martin Guerre to pardon his wife; but it was a length of time only that abated his severity towards her.

The imposture being now clearly proved, sentence was given against Arnaud du Tilk; that he should be hanged, and his body re­duced to ashes. The daughter, however, that he had by Bertrande de Rols, was not to be declared illegitimate, but was, on account of the good faith of the mother, who was igno­rant of the imposture, to possess whatever had really belonged to Arnaud du Tilk.

The court deliberated, whether Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rols were not liable to some punishment; the latter for adultery, and the former, for having, by his desertion and neglect of his wife, occasioned it, and for having served in the Spanish army. But, as the crime committed by the woman was through ignorance, and as the man did not designedly betray her into it, they were not deemed objects of public justice. In regard to the charge against Martin Guerre, that he had served against his king, it appeared that he had not voluntarily done so; but that hav­ing been reduced to servitude, he had been hired by the cardinal de—, and af­terwards by the cardinal's brother, whom he had followed into Flanders, and [...] waited on him at the battle of St. Laurent, where, being obliged to [...]ight by the side of his [...] ­ter, [Page 221] he had lost a leg; a loss that seemed a sufficient punishment of his crime.

Arnaud du Tilk, being now under con­demnation, made a full confession of his crimes. He said, that being a soldier, and returning from the camp in Picardy, he was met by some of Martin Guerre's intimate friends, by whom he was mistaken for him, and who were not without difficulty unde­ceived; that he thence conceived the idea of taking advantage of the resemblance; and that afterwards, making an acquaintance with Martin Guerre himself, he got from him those partic [...]rs, that knowledge of the most secret [...] of his life, which had served so [...] to impose on Bertrande de Rols, [...] the family of Martin Guerre.

[...] brought to the place of execution, [...] of the man he had injured, [...] his confessions, and died [...] the mercy of God, and [...] of Martin Guerre, his wife, and [...] whom he had offended.

THE sieur d'Antail had by his first wife two daughters, Louisa, and Henrietta. As he was possessed of an affluent fortune, and fond of his children, he spared no expense in their education. The youngest had nothing remarkable in her person; but Louisa, the eldest, was extremely beautiful; and the charms of her figure were equalled by the elegant acquirements, which the care of her father, and an understanding naturally quick, had given her the means of obtaining. Beauty, which has too often been fatal to its possessor, proved the source of the most de­plorable misfortunes to Louisa. She lost her mother when she was about thirteen or four­teen; and her father soon after married again. His wife, madame de Valmor [...] had a son about eighteen, of whom she was extrava­gantly fond. The young man could not live under the same roof with Louisa, without feeling the effect of her [...], he became madly in love with her; but the formidable [Page 223] rivals, who surrounded his mistress, made him despair of availing himself of the opportunities which his near connections gave him; he particularly apprehended the success of the sieur Pradelle, a lieutenant in the guards, who he fancied was more favoured by Louisa than any of her lovers. The sieur Pradelle saw, with equal uneasiness, the constant ac­cess that young de Valmorin enjoyed, by liv­ing in the house of monsieur d'Antail, and he dreaded that the facility of conversing, and even the authority of her father and her mo­ther-in-law, might throw Louisa into his arms. She did not express any partiality to de Val­morin; but she was not without coquetry, and could not resist the pleasure of hearing herself flattered by several admirers at the same time; yet Pradelle seemed to have the preference. Pradelle, however, thought he had so much to fear from the advantages of constant intercourse which his rival possessed, that he determined to carry her off, before de Valmorin should have made too deep an impression on her heart. He took his mea­sures accordingly; but not so secretly as to escape the observation of de Valmorin, who found means to render his project abortive. Rage and resentment took possession of the heart of Pradelle, when he found that his rival had counteracted him: he affronted him publicly, and gave a challenge, which de Valmorin accepted. The father of Louisa [Page 224] and his wife, the mother of de Valmorin, be­ing informed of what had passed, and of the impending duel between the rivals, took the necessary precautions to prevent their encoun­ter. But the mother continued under the cruelest alarms for the safety of her son: she foresaw, that though she had for that time saved him from the hazard into which he would have thrown himself, she could not always secure him from the vengeance of a rival, who declared that nothing should pre­vent his attacking any man, who pretended to Louisa. She had already represented to her son, that even if his affairs permitted him to marry the object of his affection, he could not hope for happiness with a woman, whose singular beauty would be a perpetual source of jealousy and uneasiness, and whose gaiety of temper seemed too likely to encourage those whom her charms might attract. De Valmorin, who was of a warm and deter­mined temper, would hear nothing his mo­ther could say to dissuade him from his attach­ment to Louisa. His passion grew daily more violent, and his mother more unhappy. At length the resolved, as the only way to se­cure her son from the pernicious effects of those charms [...]e every day saw with new ad­ [...]ration, to endeavour to get her daughter- [...]-law sent into a convent. But on the first [...]tion of such a project, she found it re­ceived with so much resentment by Louisa, [Page 225] that she saw all her influence with her hus­band must be exerted to conquer the repug­nance of his daughter: she therefore repre­sented to him, that the repose and honour of his family required the seclusion of Louisa, whose beauty, though by no means in its meridian had already occasioned him so much trouble and uneasiness; uneasiness, from which he could never be exempt, even if his daughter was married, since there was but too much reason to believe, that jealousy, on the part of the husband of a person so uncom­monly lovely, would make her life uneasy to herself and fatal to others; and that if any sinister event was the consequence, he could never forgive himself, for not having placed her where the influence of her charms could no longer effect the tranquility of his days, or the reputation of his family. It is probable that mademoiselle Louisa, whose temper seems to have been warm, and who was, per­haps, conscious of the power of beauty, had given some offence to her mother-in-law, which, added to her fear for her son, deter­mined her to carry her point, however cruel and unjust. Her husband, whom she entirely governed, had forgotten, in this second mar­riage, the attachment he once had to the chil­dren of the first; and he had no longer any will but that of his wife; or any eyes to see, but as she directed. She failed not to prejudice him so much against his eldest daughter, that [Page 226] when he found her aversion to going into a convent could not be conquered by persuasion, he told her, in a manner that sh [...]wed how much he was in earnest, that by a certain day she must resolve either to enter as a novice, with an intention to take the vows, or he would force her into the house of the Magda­lenettes,^* among the unhappy women who are destined to pass their days in tears and peni­tence, for their past errors. This menace was terrible; and Louisa saw but too evidently, that her fate was determined; and that she must resolve on taking the veil, if she would escape a more deplorable destiny; she there­fore consented to enter into the convent of St. Claire, in the Fauxbourg Marceau. A woman, named madame du Fresne, was em­ployed to negociate this matter between her and her parents, Father Caussin, a priest, who was witness to the aversion Louisa had to the lot she was driven to accept, said to this madame du Fresne, "You will be the occasion of eternal perdition to that poor girl, by forcing her to embrace the life of a nun, to which you see she has a decided antipathy." To this remonstrance du Fresne replied, "It is better that she should hazard perdition in a convent, than, by remaining in the world, become the cause of the perdition of many others, whom her beauty would involve in the [Page 227] most fatal crimes." It was evident that the unfortunate Louisa was to be the victim of her step-mother's apprehensions, and of her hatred, occasioned by those extraordinary perfections of form, which are too apt to excite envy and ill-humour in women, even after they have ceased to value themselves on outward advan­tages. Not content with the success of her project hitherto, madame d'Antail did not even seek to soften the horrors of perpetual confinement, by allowing her daughter-in-law the alleviations of affluence: they would give her no more than six hundred livres on her entrance; the nuns refused to receive her un­less she had more. On this occasion the un­fortunate victim wrote thus to madame du Fresne, who was again employed between her and her parents: "I know, madam, that six hundred livres are enough for those who can execute the duties of the life into which they enter; but as it is impossible for me ever to do so, and as the community are already sen­sible that I never can perform what is expected of the generality, and must have many exemp­tions, they refuse to receive me, unless I bring a greater sum: I beseech you therefore, madam, intercede with my father to have some consi­deration for his child; and to pay for me what is required." After long solicitation this was granted: the father paid the sum which the community insisted on; and Louisa, who saw no remedy, took the veil, and after [Page 228] her noviciate was passed, as the disposition of her persecutors remained unchanged at the end of that time, she took the vow, with a courage inspired by her high spirit, but with an heart still attached to a world, of which she was designed to be one of the brightest orna­ments. But whatever outward resolution she had shewn, and whatever pains were taken by the mother-in-law and her party to make this step appear voluntary, Louisa had found means to declare her aversion in a legal form. Before she took the vows, she had a protest drawn up against it, which she delivered to father Favier, a cordelier, confessor and supe­rior of the community; and immediately after the ceremony she repeated the protest in form a second time, and gave it to the same person. For three or four years Louisa dragged on a melan [...]oly and reluctant life in the monastery, without attempting to free herself from the engagements into which she had been forced. In the mean time her sister, Henrietta d'Antail, was married to the sieur Nicholas le Vacher; and in the marriage contract her father had named her his sole heiress. Avarice was the most predominant feature in the sieur le Vacher's cha­racter; and he saw with jealousy and mistrust the increasing power that his father-in-law suf­fered his wife to have over him. She had a son of her own, for whom le Vacher believed she was robbing her husband of his property, and sending away and secreting his effects among [Page 229] her friends, to secure them for her own and her son's use, to the prejudice of his daughter Henrietta. On examining more narrowly into the truth of his conjectures, he discovered that three articles of plate, amounting toge­ther to the sum of twenty-eight thousand livres, had certainly disappeared. He thought it there­fore time to put an end to proceedings so in­jurious to his interest; and for that purpose he presented to the proper law-office, a requi­sition, in which he sat forth, that his wife's father had lost his sight, and that his under­standing war, so much impaired, that he was no longer in a condition to manage [...] affairs, which were consequently in a [...] that could end only in his total [...] administration of them was not put [...] hands. He obtained an order [...] he de­sired; of which he had not been [...] before the sieur d'Antail got it revoked. [...] Vacher, who found his father-in-law [...] extremely at the measure he had taken, [...] not oppose the revocation; but though the [...] man was again master of this own [...], the attempt Le Vacher had made was not to be forgiven: he solem [...] [...] never would pardon it▪ [...] his rage, and discord and [...] ha­tred were sown between [...]. While this scene was passing, [...] [...]ound the con­vent every day mo [...] [...] dreadful: her temper became [...] hopelessness of [Page 230] her situation; she could not command herself enough to feel any relief in the society of the nuns; and the duties of religion she was un­able to perform: the only consolation she found, was in the company of the sieur Cous­turier, a counsellor, who, visiting a relation in the convent, had seen Louisa, and, struck with the wonderful beauty which the reli­gious habit could not conceal, had cultivated an acquaintance with her. He frequently visited her at the grate, where she told him the cruel persecutions she had undergone from the hatred of her step-mother; the reluctance with which she continued in the monastery, and the precaution she had taken to protest against the vows she had been constrained to make. Cousturier consoled her, by affording her hopes that the protest would give her the means of recovering her liberty: he advised her to continue to express the same coldness for the duties of her profession, and the same aversion to the company of the nuns; to com­mit no act that might serve as a ratification of her extorted engagement; and he told her, that, if she waited patiently, under these pre­cautions, he flattered himself the time might come when her chains would be broken.

Some months after the commencement of her acquaintance with Cousturier, the hospital at Lagny was to be put under the government of the cordeliers: "Louisa d'Antail obtained the appointment of superior to this branch of [Page 231] the community, and removed thither with great satsfaction, not only because her high spirit made the rigorous subordination to which she was subject in the convent very dis­agreeable to her, but because she could enjoy, together with more power, more liberty in her new abode. The nuns, in whom her disincli­nation to the service of the cloister, and the coldness of her manner towards them, had occasioned a great dislike, saw her departure with pleasure. Before she took possession of her new establishment, she had the precaution to renew the protest against her original vows, by an act, wherein she declared that she not only considered them as extorted and nugatory but that she did not mean to confirm them by her present removal, or by any subsequent act, and that she always reserved a right to avail herself of her first protest whenever she should see occasion.

The new community at Lagny were desir­ous of being considered as subject only to the authority of the cordeliers, who are the supe­rior branch of the claires; and to be wholly exempt from the jurisdiction of the archbi­shop of Paris: the prelate defended his right, and a law-suit was likely to be the consequence. The sieur le Vachor, whose avarice made him attentive to the most minute circumstances, knew enough of his sister-in-law's disposition, to apprehend, that she would avail herself of the protest she had made, to renounce [Page 232] her vows, if ever it should be in her power. Her conversations with Cousturier gave him sensible uneasiness. A young man could hardly see her without being sensible of her attractions, and Cousturier was amiable, hand­some, and possessed a fortune equal to what Louisa might have a claim to, if she was dis­engaged from her cloister.—To add to his apprehensions in regard to this acquaintance, he was aware that Cousturier had studied, and was versed in the laws which relate to monastic vows, and knew in what cases they could be dissolved. To compleat his unea­siness, he learned that Louisa was to be re­moved to Lagny; where, being no longer under the direction of the abbess, nor res­trained by the observations of the numerous members of the community, she would no longer be obliged to give an account of her actions; but might entertain Cousturier as long and as often as she pleased, in the parlour of the hospital, having no other interruption than the duties of her office.

Notwithstanding this degree of liberty, Louisa knew that great care was necessary, to prevent the imputation of an improper con­nection between her and Cousturier; on the least surmise of which, she foresaw that she should no longer be suffered to see him at all, but should be forced back to the monastery, and so closely confined, that she should have no chance of ever seeing those who [Page 233] might contribute to the recovery of her liberty.—For this reason she failed not to be cautious; and, as Cousturier was now obliged to travel six leagues for the pleasure of seeing her, their interviews were less frequent, and were ma­naged with the utmost attention to propriety; but Le Vacher, whose interest it was to put an end to them entirely, employed emissaries to propagate reports injurious to the charac­ter of the order; and he so effectually disse­minated his scandalous stories, that the prin­cipals of the order at length heard them; and in addition to these falsities, he alleged that the dispute between the archbishop and the cordeliers, relative to the jurisdiction of the hospital of Lagny, originated in the p [...]de and independent spirit of mademoiselle d'Antail; who thought that under the government of the cordeliers, who are not very strict, she should be more at liberty to indulge her in­clinations, than under that of the archbishop. Havi [...]g given these malicious stories time to make their way, and being sure they had all the effect he expected, he solicited, and soon obtained, an order to remove Louisa d'Antail from the superiorship of Lagny, and to con­fine her, with great strictness, in the convent where she had taken the veil. All this passed immediately after La Vacher had ob [...]ined an interdiction against his father-in-law, which had taken the management of his estate out of his hands.

[Page 234] The fair nun, who found that monsieur d'Antail, her father, was enraged at the con­duct of Le Vacher, thought it a proper op­portunity to attempt shaking off the yoke, [...]nder which she had now suffered seven years. She hoped that monsieur d'Antail and his wife, irritated against Henrietta's husband, [...]ould again restore her to that share of their affection, which she had never deserved to lose; and that, in order to put her in a situa­tion to recover her part of that fortune, which they now saw would be unworthily bestowed on the avaricious Le Vacher, they would ac­knowledge, before a court of justice, the means they had taken to force her into en­gagements so contrary to her inclinations. In this hope she was not disappointed. On her applying to them, and declaring that she should make an attempt to break through those engagements, which she never could ful­fil, they promised to give her all the assistance they could towards dissolving her vows, and enabling her to marry the sieur Cousturier; who was in every respect a suitable match for her; and to whom she was now tenderly attached. The pity he had sh [...]wn for her misfortunes had first engaged her gratitude; his merit and perseverance had now created a warmer sentiment. He had long been her only consolation, and to pass the rest of her life with him would, she thought, give new value to the emancipation she hoped to procure.

[Page 235] Monsieur d'Antail and his wife, Adriana de Valmorin, joined in the representation she made to the court of Rome, of the force un­der which she was obliged to take the vows. While they waited an answer, she left the convent, and they received her into their house. The pope's answer was to the follow­ing effect:—‘That the petitioner should re­turn into the convent, to wait the event of a summons, made to all the parties who were interested in the abolition of her vows; and, if no cause was shewn by those par­ties, sufficient to make the proper court at Paris confirm her religious engagements, they were to be dissolved, and she would be permitted to marry.’—The persons in­terested were, her relations and the com­munity of nuns to which she had belonged. The community, by the [...] [...]bbess, declared th [...]ir willingness to release from her engage­ments a person who had never performed the functions which those engagements required, and who had always shewn the utmost distaste and aversion to their society. They therefore declared, that they wished to be relieved from a member, who lived so uneasily among them. Monsieur d'Antail protesed in form, that his [...], through the apprehension she had enter­t [...]d for her son's safety, had persuaded him to [...]rce his daughter into a convent. He ow [...]d he had threatened her with in [...]amy, impri [...]onment, and even death if she refused. [Page 236] But at his age he could no longer think of persisting in the cruel restraint that had been put upon her inclinations, and he desired she might be released. His wife joined in this act. And, after a full hearing, it was de­termined, that all the parties interested hav­ing agreed in desiring the dissolution of the vows made by Louisa dAntail, against which she had entered a protest, both before and after she was constrained to take them, that they should now be dissolved, and that she be per­mitted to marry. Le Vacher however demanded an hearing and to become a party; but monsieur d'Antail protested against it; and Le Vacher's motives seemed so ungenerous, that his efforts were over-ruled. The decree which permitted Louisa d'Antail to marry was affirmed by a new sentence, which, notwithstanding the appeal of Le Vacher, restored her to her for­tune and her freedom. In consequence of which, the banns of marriage between Fran­cis Cousturier and Louisa d'Antail were im­mediately published in the church of St Op­portune, her parish, and a contract of mar­curate of St. Opportune, as he had the con­sent of the father, declared that he should proceed notwithstanding, and gave his permis­riage was drawn up, wherein the sieur d'An­tail gave her the share of his fortune and ef­fects, to which she was entitled. The sieur le Vacher, however, determining, if possible, [...] prevent the marriage, forb [...]de the banns. The [Page 237] [...] to another curate to celebrate the mar­riage. Le Vacher, disappointed in this hope, had now recourse to the grand vicar; who took not the least notice of his application. He appealed also to the court [...] archbi­shop; but, as the opposition of [...] hus­band did not seem to have weight enough to counteract the consent and wishes of the fa­ther, the marriage was celebrated in due form; and, within twelve months afterwards, Louisa became mother of a son. But she had the mortification to find that the prosecutions of Le Vacher were not at an end. He re­commenced a suit, in which he endeavoured to make it appear that the dissolution of Lou­isa's vows had been illegally obtained; and this he hoped to prove, since there is a law, which says, that monastic vows, if made above five years, cannot in any case, or on any pretence whatsoever, be annulled; and it was near seven years from the time of Lou­isa's taking the veil, before she applied to the court of Rome. On this ground the cause was brought before the parliament of Paris. Where, notwithstanding the eloquence of monsieur Gualtier, an eminent pleader, and [...]everal cases in point being produced, the par­liament, apprehensive that if some tmie were not certainly fixed, after which religious vows [...]ould become irrevocable, the fortunes of families could never be ascertained; and that [...] would occasion perpetual attempts of nuns [Page 238] and priests to return into the world, to the annihilation of good order, both in monas­teries and families; adjudged, that Louisa d'Antail had been released from her en­gagements contrary to law. Her marriage was declared illegal, and her child illegiti­mate, and she was ordered to return imme­diately to her convent. The distress and an­guish occasioned by this inhuman decree can be better imagined than described. Deter­mined, however, to make one struggle, be­fore she was torn away from connections so dear to her, and buried forever in a situa­tion infinitely worse than death, Louisa and her husband appealed from this sentence to the privy council. The council referred an in­vestigation of the whole to the parliament of Metz; where, after a long contest, the final de­cision was such, as every friend to the rights of humanity must hear with pleasure. The vows taken by Louisa were declared null; her marriege was confirmed, and her children restored to their rights. Thus, after part of her life had been passed under the most unjust and distressing persecution, she was at liberty to enjoy the rest of it wi [...]h an husband and children deservedly and fondly beloved. While Le Vacher was justly punished for his unseeing avarice.

IT is unnecessary here to enter into the history of the family of the duke of Guise, the parti [...]ular [...] of which are so well known. Charles de Lorraine, the eldest son of Henry the celebrated duke of Guise, who was assas­sinated in the cas [...] of Blois, by the order of Henry the third of France, was made pri­soner on the same day, and confined in the castle of Tours; from whence he escaped in August 1591, and rejoined the faction, called the league, whose violence had so long deso­lated France; and who, after the death of Henry the third, opposed that excellent mo­narch and amiable man Henry the fourth. When this league was broken, by his having become "the conqueror of his own," he ge­nerously forgave, and even took into his favour the duke of Maine, who had been its [...]eader; whose nephew, the young duke of Guise, was received at court at the same time, and e [...] ­trusted with the government of Provence. After the assassination of Henry the great, [Page 240] the duke of Guise still held some places of trust under his son Louis the thirteenth; but the house of Guise was so much the object of envy and suspicion, on account of its former power, and the illustrious men it had produced, that great care was taken not to raise it again too high by honours and emoluments: and at length, cardinal Richelieu grew so dissatisfied with the duke of Guise, that he oblig [...]d him to quit France. He retired to Florence, and died in the Sienois in 1640, leaving several children by his wife Henrietta Catharine de Joyeuse, only daughter of Henry de Joyeuse, marechal of France, and widow of Henry de Bourbon, duke de Montpensier. His son, Henry de Lorraine, born in 1514, became (by the death of his eldest brother) duke of Guise. He seemed to inherit the spirit, as well as the personal perfections of his grandfather, the celebrated duke of Guise. His figure and his exploits, which were those of an hero of ro­mance, made him very acceptable to the ladie [...]; while his inconstancy and pe [...]idy pu [...]ished many of them for their pa [...]tiality. He had been originally designed for the church, and possessed, by a [...]ort of ecclesiastical succession peculiar to the house of Guise, the archbishopric of Rheims, and some of the riche [...] [...]bbies in the kingdom; though he had never taken any degree or vow, to [...] himself for those [...]. [...]is first [...], who was his [...], and who [Page 241] was afterwards married to the palatine of the Rhine. Cardinal de Richelieu, who foresaw that a marriage between this lady and the duke of Guise would be prejudicial to the interests of France, divided them, by putting her into a convent, from whence, however, she escaped, and when the duke of Guise joined the party of the count de So [...]ssons (which party, under pretence of delivering the kingdom from the administration of the cardinal, covered more da [...]gerous projects) she found means to follow him, in man's ap­parel and overtook him at Colo [...]. But the duke, either really apprehensive for her safety, or perhaps cured of his love by the rash fond­ness of his mistress, refused to let her continue with him, and insisted on her returning to Paris; under pretence that his te [...]derness would not allow him to let her hazard her person, among the dangers and inconve­niences to which the service he was upon ex­posed him.

The duke now entered with his usual im­petuosity into the conspiracy, which took, a very alarming form, and was sanctioned by the specious name of "The league formed to preserve the peace of Christendom." As archbishop of Rheims he was the first spiritual peer, and as duke of Guise, the most [...] emporal peer of France; but these [...] he broke through, and was declared general of the armies of the league.

[Page 242] The king prosecuted him for rebellion; and by an arret he was declared guilty of treason, sentenced to be beheaded, and his effects con­ [...]iscated; which sentence was executed on him in eff [...]gy a few days afterwards, and all his property seized by the crown.

The duke went to Brussels, where he took upon him the command of the troops, which were sent thither by the emperor and the king of Spain. There he found his aunt, the duchess of Chevreuse, who had been obliged to quit France for her intrigues against car­ [...] Richelieu; and at her house he became acquainted with the countess de Bossu, a young and beautiful widow, whose vivacity and personal attractions were more than suf­ficient to inflame a heart so susceptible of the power of beauty as was that of the duke of [...]ise.

The anecdotes of that time give an account of their acquaintance and its consequence; which is perhaps somewhat heightened by the lively imagination of the writers, who, to bring truth nearer to romance, have embel­lished it with their own colouring. However, as there are no other accounts of the com­mencement of this connection, it must be related in their manner.

The duke of Guise having often seen the countess of Bossu at the house of the duchess of Chevreuse, was equally charmed by her beauty, and [...] with her vivacity. The [Page 243] lady, on her part, thought such a conquest as that of the handsomest and most accomplish­ed man in Europe, deserved all her attention, and that she might forgive herself even some unusual advances to secure it. These, how­ever, she conducted with so much art, that the duke grew every day more in love; and when madame de Bossu thought he was enough so to refuse her nothing, she spoke to him of marriage; to which the duke answered that he desired nothing so much as to unite his destiny with hers: but if madame de Bossu had known more of his real character, she might have perceived, that he would not thus readily have entered into engagements, had he thought them binding; and that he only wished to amuse himself during his exile. She knew enough to doubt the performance of his promise; but, flattered by the hope of seeing in her fetters him for whom so many vainly sighed, she pretended to be the dupe of his ready profession, while she in fact meditated how to make him hers. With this view, as it was now the finest part of the year, she made a party to go to a beautiful seat she had, a league from Brussels, where she contrived to amuse the duke for some days, with every thing she thought agreeable to him. The duke, flattered by her atten­tion, spoke to her more passionately than he had yet done; to which the countess an­swered, that if he was sincere in his profes­sions, [Page 244] if his love was as great as he pretended, he would hasten the completion of their marriage. The duke protested there was nothing he so ardently desired as to be united for ever with so amiable a person. Madame de Bossu, who was in hopes she should bring him to that declaration, then told him, he might immediately convince her of his ve­racity, and secure the happiness he seemed so much to desire, for that she had a priest and a notary ready, who would instantly perform the ceremonies. The duke, who certainly did not believe the marriage under such circum­stances would be binding to him, consented with as much apparent satisfaction as if he had been sincere. Manselle, the almoner of the army, was called in, who gave them a dispensation, for want of the proper banns, and then the nuptial benediction. The next day the duke re [...]urned to Brussels, leaving the countess de Bossu extremely happy, at being, as she imagined, duchess of Guise, and wife to the most charming man of the age.

Whatever care had been taken to keep this transaction secret, it became in a few weeks the conversation of Brussels; the duke d' [...]euf, and the duchess de Chevreuse, both spoke to the duke upon it in a stile of severity he was by no means disposed to bear. His respect for his aunt, madame d'Chevreuse, made him listen to her re­proaches with some appearance of patience; [Page 245] but his firey temper could ill brook the re­monstrance of the duke d'Elbeuf, whom he answered in terms so full of rage and indig­nation, that a challenge passed between them; and they were prevented fighting, only by the interposition of the archduke.

Extremely irritated to think that any one should dare to pry into and blame his actions, he determined to shew how little he considered their disapprobation, by bringing madame de Bossu home to his house, and owning her as his wife; which at first he meant not to do, and had even prevailed on her to conceal their marriage, by representing to her that it would be necessary for him to try to recon­cile his family to the match before he ac­knowledged it. The author of the life of Sylvia de Moliere, [...]tes the means by which the marriage [...]st became publicly known; but there seems to be much of fic­tion in the account, and it was probably fa­bricated by the romance-writers of the day. It asserts, that the duke of Guise and the countess of Bossu felt towards each other that kind of sympathy, which informed each of the presence or approach of the other, when they had no other means of knowing it; and that this singular presentiment betrayed their con­nexion, on the following occasion. The count de * * * * * had long been in love with madame de Bossu, and pursued her wherever she went, with an ardour which her [Page 246] coldness and even rudeness to him could not diminish. The duke of Guise, whose supe­rior merit did not preserve him from jealousy, saw these assiduiti [...]s continued towards his wife with uneasiness, and he determined to know whether his absence would [...]ke any change in the behaviour of madame de Bossu towards her im [...]nate admirer. Great re­joicings were about this time made at Brussels, for the birth of a prince of Spain; and, among other entertainments, the [...] was to be a grand ball at the countess of S [...]acroix's: several noblemen purposed to go thither masked, and dressed in fantastic habits; but the duke of Guise, affecting great concern that he could not be of the party, took leave of his friends, and of madame de Bossu, and went out of town, saying, he had affairs which would de­tain him three or four days, As soon, h [...] ­ever, as night came he returned, and, having with great secrecy provided himself with an Indian habit, he mingled, without being re­marked, with the party in masks, and entered the ball-room; he there beheld madame de Bossu, with the count sitting by her, as usual; but [...] he had no tune to make any remarks on her [...]ehaviour, for he had not been many mi­nute near her, before madame de Bossu felt the motion she always experienced on the ap­proach of her husband, and, trusting rather to a sensation that had never deceived her, than to all he had told her of his journey, she arose [Page 247] to seek him among the disguised noblemen, and immedia [...]ly knew him, though he had taken the utmost pains to after his appearance; the transports they mutually discovered, and which they found it impossible to stifle, di­vulged the secret of their marriage.—"I have seen,"says the author of this narration, " [...] original letter of the duke of Guise, upon this extraordinary instance of the sympathy between him and his wife; it was one of the most charming and interesting letters I ever read: he even complained of the excess of his happiness," foreseeing, perhaps, that it was too great to last. In fact, a very few months afterwars he made his peace with the king, and returned to France; and though he for some time continued to write to ma­dame de Bossu, he engaged in other attach­ments; and at length thought of her no more, unless it was to contrive means to break the ties which bound them to each other.

At first, the unfortunate madame de Bossu flattered herself, from the frequency and tenor of the letters she received from the duke, that she should share with him his prosperity, as she had done his adversity; during which she had advanced many sums of money for him, and extremely distressed herself. The duchess dowager of Guise, who had other views for her son, used ever artifice to prevent her being received in France. But madame [Page 248] de Bossu, fearless of the danger she incurred, determined at all events to see her husband, trusting that all his former tenderness would return when he beheld her: she was particu­larly induced to hope this from a letter she had received, in which he protested to her, that he was incapable of infidelity; that his honour and his conscience, as well as his in­clination, attached him to her; and he only lamented, that the contagion of his misfortunes had reached her, whom he loved more than life; but she might assure herself death only should separate them. Her courage was strengthened by a letter so flattering to her hopes: she determined to disguise herself, and set out for France; and, traveling with equal expedition and secrecy, she threw herself into his [...]rms, before, he knew she was on her journey. He received her with kindness; but his mother was no sooner apprized of her arrival, than she went to the queen, from whom she obtained an order for madame de Bossu to quit the dominions of France instantly. This order was signified to her, and enforced by the remonstrance of the duke of Guise; who told her, that all his endeavours and en­treati [...]s would be ineffectual to preserve her from insult, and even from personal danger, if she did not comply with it. Under such cir­cumstances, the unfortunate countess was ob­liged to submit, and returned broken-hearted to her mother. The duke, giving himself up to [Page 249] intrigue, and to the warmth of his ungovern­able temper, soon after got into a quarrel with the count de Coligni: they fought in the midst of the court, and the duke of Guise dangerously wounded and disarmed his antagonist. His mother was perpetually apprehensive for his safety, which he continually hazarded; she dreaded lest the old animosity should be re­newed between him and the house of Condé, with whom the house of Guise had long been at variance; a renewal of which, she foresaw, would be attended with the most fatal events: she was, therefore, very desirous that the duke should marry mademoiselle de Longueville, niece to the great Condé. But the duke had fallen in love with mademoiselle de Pons; and as this new attachment was, if possible, more violent than any he had yet felt, he po­sitively refused to listen to any overtures in regard to mademoiselle de Longueville. As he determined to marry mademoiselle de Pons, it became necessary for him to enquire how far his marriage with the countess de Bossu might prevent the completion of his wishes; and he found that it would raise such impedi­ments to his designs, as he should find it ex­tremely difficult to obviate; this consideration, and the trouble he received from the attor­ney-general (who prosecuted him for his of­fence against law and order, by fighting pub­licly with the count de Coligni), determined him to go himself to Rome; where he hoped [Page 250] to obtain the dissolution of his engagements with madame de Bossu. At this time the civil war of Naples, occasioned by the heavy im­posts laid [...]n the people, broke out; Maz­zienello, who was the leader of the tumult, being destroyed, the rebels had recourse to the duke of Guise, who, by his descent, had a sort of claim to the kingdom of Naples. The duke no sooner received the proposal of becoming their general, than with his usual impetuosity he accepted it; and, making his way through the fleet commanded by Don John of Austria, he arrived at Naples, and became generalissmo of the rebel army. It i [...] unnecessary here to relate the various events that occured while he continued in this com­mand. The charms of mademoiselle de Pons, which had induced him to go to Rome, in hopes of being allowed to marry her, were now forgotten, amid the attractions of the Neapolitan beauties: but his general gallan­tries among the lowest of the people, and his attachment to the daughter of a tailor in par­ticular, disgusted those who at first had beheld him with admiration and respect; and at length his usual rashness made him commit an indiscretion, which put the town into the hands of the Spaniards. He had then re­course to flight; but was pursued, taken, and sent prisoner to Spain.

While this was passing, the unfortunate countess of Bossu was sued by the duke's cre­ditors; [Page 251] and her effects, as well as the dower she possessed from her first husband, seized to satisfy their demands. Notwithstanding which, and all his neglect and cruelty, she no sooner heard of his imprisonment, than she quitted the house of her mother, with whom she was obliged to reside, and went into France, meaning to pass from thence into Spain, to solicit his release, or share his confinement. Her friends, however, represented to her, that her journey would be absolutely fruitless; and prevailed upon her to return into Flanders. By the interposition of the great Condé, who then served the king of Spain against his na­tive country, the duke was soon after released: the Spanish court, indeed, gave him his liberty the more willingly, as they hoped that his turbulent and restless spiait would create new troubles in France. He was no sooner at li­berty, than he disclaimed all obligations to the prince of Conde, and complained loudly of the treatment he received at Madrid. The rashness of his character seemed to have gained strength by his confinement; his politics and his love assumed a more violent cast; the pas­sion he had felt for mademoiselle de Pons, seemed to return with [...] ardour than ever; and he determined to [...]ake her his, at what­ever price. But when he learned, too cer­tainly, that during his absence she had re­ceived as a favourite lover monsieur de Ma­licorne, a private gentleman, rage and indig­nation [Page 252] stifled all the emotions of tenderness he had felt for her; he treated her with rude­ness and insult, and insisted on her returning a pair of ear-rings, valued at a thousand crowns, which he had given her: he even sued her to oblige her to restore them; but had the mor­tification of losing his suit; which circum­stance depriving him of all patience and tem­per, he threatened personal vengeance against the object of his former attachment; who, to avoid it, was driven to quit the kingdom.

Being then without any pursuit, and his capricious and violent temper making it im­possible for him to remain long quiet, he failed on another expedition to Naples, which did not answer his expectation; and, on his return, a new passion, more violent than any he had yet felt, attached him to mademoiselle de Gorce.

In 1664 he died, leaving no posterity. All his brothers died before him; as did his sisters afterwards, unmarried. Thus ended the illustrious house of Guise; the enterpriz­ing ambition of which had so long disturbed the tranquility of France.

Madame de Bossu, ruined by the vey means which she hoped would have made her the happiest woman in Europe, endeavoured to recover from the heirs of the duke of Guise, [...] jointure as his wife. The process lasted many years, and she died before its termination, leaving her nearest relation, the prince of [Page 253] Berghes, her heir; who endeavoured to re­cover, from the successors of the duke of Guise, some part of the money that had been paid for the duke. At the court of Rome, the department called the rote,^* allowed the validity of her marrige; but the courts of law in France, through all which the cause was carried, decided, that, as the marriage was celebrated without the usual forms, it was absolutely null and of no effect.

THIS is perhaps one of the most romantic histories that the various occurrences of human life ever produced. Though several fictions have been founded on events similar to what is here related, fiction itself has hardly been able to produce a more extraordi­nary collection of circumstances, and per­haps the truth never having been perfectly known, adds to the interest of the story. A notary at Paris, whose name was Charles Henry Donc, who was in a reputable situation, left, at his decease, his three children, a son and two daughters, to the care of his wife, Mary Clement. He had not been long dead, when his relations found the conduct of this woman so improper, and her profusion so great, that they apprehended she would dis­sipate the money left as a provision for the children; and that even the goods and effects in the house would be seized by her creditors, and the children be defrauded of every thing: since it is well known, in every country, that [Page 255] if the subalterns of the law once seize on pro­pe [...]y, it is never recovered without infinite loss, although it may have been unjustly taken. Under these apprehensions for the minors, the kindred of Charles Henry Donc petitioned to have a guardian appointed, to whom the mother might be obliged to account. The si [...]ur de Joigny was named their guardian; and, as madame Donc, could not herself make up the accounts necessary to be produced on this occasion, she employed a man named Robert, clerk to a notary, to adjust her books: for which purpose he was obliged to be very frequently at the house. Marga [...]t Charlotte Donc, the eldest of the children, then about fourteen, was uncommonly beautiful; Robert became violently in love with her, and soli­cited her mother's consent to marry her. The mother, who appears to have been an unprinci­pled and worthless woman, and who perhaps wished to relieve herself from the care of her children as soon as she could, gladly consented, and Robert had leave to make his addresses; which however were not likely to succeed, for Charlotte had conceived an antipathy to him from their first acquaintance, and absolutely re­ [...]used [...]o receive him as a l [...]er. Her [...]dian, who tho [...]ght that the lovel [...] person of [...], to [...] with the fortune [...]e hoped to [...] from the wreck of her father's [...] might [...] not [...] of sacrificing her [...] [Page 256] man she disliked, and who was only clerk to a notary. He sent her to board at the convent of the sisters of St. Gervais, from whence she refused to return for some time to her mother; dreading le [...]t the importunity of her disa­greeable lover, aided by the authority of a parent she had always obeyed, might force her into a marriage she detested. Her fears on this head were but too well founded. Robert, finding she did not as usual visit at home, determined to force her from her asylum in the convent; and her mother consented to the expedient. He took his measures so well, that seizing her as she came from mass with some other pensioners, he carried her no one knew whither. The guardian complained to the police, but without effect; and nine or ten days afterwards Robert married her, in presence of her mother, and four other wit­nesses.

As there was now no remedy, the relations of the unfortunate girl thought it most pru­dent to drop the suit they had commenced against Robert, and she was obliged to submit to her destiny. But before the expiration of a month, she found that destiny so insupport­able, that, after several alarming scenes of contention, which arose from the brutal tem­per of Robert, she determined to bear no longer the dreadful yoke which had been forced upon her; she therefore quitted the house of Robert, and took refuge among her [Page 257] relations. Her father's kindred consulted together on the means of rescuing the unhappy young creature from the hands of a wretch so unworthy of her; and they determined, that her guardian should appeal against the validity of a marriage, which was a mere abuse of the ceremony, and a violation both of law and religion. This measure was im­mediately put into execution; and a sentence was obtained, which directed, that Charlotte Donc should retire to the convent of La Ro­quette, till the cause could be heard and de­cided. Thither therefore she went; but found even there no respite from the persecu­tion of Robert; who incessantly besieged the door of the convent, and even endeavoured to [...] her from thence by force; which twice obliged the nuns to lay complaints against him. But as these attempts failed, he had recourse [...] other means; and commenced a suit aga [...]nst the sieur Mars de Joigny, for detaining and secreting his wife. After long delays, the [...] was heard before monsieur Chau­velin, advocate-general; who said, that as the marriage was celebrated with the consent of the mother, and as the relations had suffered the parties to live together for some time without en­deavourin [...] to dissolve it, it was good, and could not be [...]. It was consequently con­firmed, and Charlotte Donc, was directed to re­turn, within six months, to her husband. The fair, unfortunate Charlotte, and her relations, [Page 258] had attended in court to hear the decision: when it was over they went into the hall^*, where Robert, approaching his wife, and af­fecting the greatest tenderness and affection, besought her, since all farther resistance was vain, to return with him to his house—she pushed him from her, and exclaiming, as she did it, "There, wretch, take my last adieu!" she instantly disappeared, among the crowd in the hall; nor could the utmost di­ligence on the part of Robert, discover any trace of her. After some days of fruitless search, he summoned the sieur Mars de Joigny to produce his wife, or to inform him where she was. The sieur Joigny, in his defence, declared, that he knew not the place of her retreat; and alleged, that as no sentence had put her into his care, he was not answer­able for her appearance. With this answer Robert was obliged to withdraw his com­plaint; and to apply all his industry to dis­cover his fugitive wife. But every effort he made was fruitless: he could neither find her, or hear whether she was yet among she living. After some years, in which he incessantly sought her, had elapsed, the passion falsely called love, and the thirst of vengeance, both of which had probably concurred in produc­ing his ardent desire to find her, began to [Page 259] abate, and his enquiries were relaxed; and at length, after fifteen years, he co [...]cluded she was dead, and thought only of marrying again. Being, however, desirous of ascer­taining his situation, he again laid his com­plaint before the police, on the escape of his wife. But this last effort was as fruitless as the former; and now, being almost certain that, if she was not dead, she would never appear to claim him as her husband, he de­termined to remove to another quarter of the town, disengage himself from the acquaint­ance of all who remembered his marriage with Charlotte, and pass for a bachelor. In this character, after he had quitted all his former connections, he introduced himself to Magda­len Ponsignard, the widow of the sieur Masson d'Angluse, a lawyer, who consented to marry him. She was near sixty years old; but she had money, which attracted Robert; though she had the precaution to have the marriage contract so drawn up, that each party were to remain possessed of their separate property. This second alliance formed by Robert, was not happier than the first. Madame d An­gluse complained, very soon afterwards, that the most affronting outrages were exercised upon her: that he perpetually reproached her with her age; and, not contented with ill-language only, that he even proceeded to the most cruel personal insults: and as she was not of atemper to suffer such treatment pa­tiently, [Page 260] they soon came to extremities, and agreed only in one thing, which was to part, and that each should remain in unmolested possession of their own eftects. In pursuance of this convention, the wife retired to a con­vent; where she had not been long resident, before Robert, who seems to have been pos­sessed of one of those unhappy tempers which want somebody to torment, pursued her, and insisted on her returning to live with him. But she had found the life she had led with him so entirely insupportable, that neither threats nor intreaties could prevail upon her to encounter it again. She peremptorily and steadily refused; and having, in the course of the contest, learned more of her husband's former life, than had till then come to her knowledge, and discovered his marriage with Charlotte Donc; she resolved to try, whether she could not annul her own unhappy connec­tion, by pleading, that [...] Robert's former wife was never proved to be dead, he had been guilty of bigamy in marrying again. She therefore commenced a process against him [...]or bigamy; and demanded to have her mar­riage with him dissolved, as being made while his former wife was living. The information collected by the counsel whom his second wife employed, completely proved the mar­riage of Robert with Margaret Charlotte Donc. He was summoned to appear and to be examined. He had nothing to offer, but [Page 261] his prosecution of the persons who were supposed to have concealed his first wife; which he now renewed, in hopes of certify­ing her death; and, to shew that he had him­self no doubt of it, he produced the deed, by which he had restored to her brother all the money he had received as the portion of Charlotte Donc. His suit was commenced against the sieur Mars de Joigny; against madame Royer, who was his friend and con­fident; and against the sieur d'Imonville and his wife, at whose house madame Royal lived, the sieur d'Imonville being her uncle: and to these persons he joined mademoiselle du Clos, the celebrated actress; who, he pretended, had been the principal agent in concealing his wife, Charlotte Donc; who, he alleged, had been dead seven years: and he produced as evidence of the fact, the following register, from the parish of St. Sulpice:—‘This 10th of November, 1723, was interred, Maxi­milian de Morsan, aged twenty-two years, or thereabouts; the son of Maximilian de Morsan, gentleman, and of Emily de Constance, his wife, who died yesterday in the street Mazarine, at the house of monsieur Poissan; sieur d'Imonville, Jean de Lajarh, &c. &c. friends of the deceased, be­ing present.’Though this register appears to have no relation whatever to the unfortunate fugitive, Charlotte Donc, Robert affected that it was she only who was interred; and [Page 262] that she died of the small-pox: to substantiate an assertion so extraordinary, he related the follow­ing particulars. He said, that when his wife, after hearing the decision against her, had es­caped from him through the crowd that at­tended in the hall of the court of justice, she found refuge in the house of the sieur d'Imon­ville; where, as soon as she arrived, madame Royer had dressed her in the habit of an offi­cer, with a scarlet coat, a laced hat, a sword, and other accoutrements; and she assumed the title of the chevalier du Coudray; but the habit she had taken could not cure or conceal the terrors of a woman, who, in perpetual fear of being known, and carried back to her husband, was for some months never seen to look at a stranger, or even to hear an un­known voice without the greatest agony; and who, when any one she did not know came into the house, would frequently hide herself under the beds, or in the closets, from the pursuit of those emissaries of her husband, who she fancied were perpetually following her. D'Imonville, his wife and niece, left nothing untried to re-assure her: they carried her from their own house to one in the rüe de Mazarine, fauxbóurgh St. Germain, which was inhabited by mademoiselle du Clos, where the name of the chevalier du Coudrey was ex­changed for that of the chevalier des Marets, Robert farther asserted, that his wife, now a pupil of the school of La du Clos, by de­grees [Page 263] forgot her terrors, and became initiated In the gallantries which passed at the house of the actress, with whom she was a great fa­vourite. D'Imonville had a villa at Combe-de-la-Ville, where frequent parties of pleasure were made, at which mademoiselle du Clos presided, and which were enlivened by the talents and spirit of the chevalier des Marets. Hunting, balls, and pleasures of the table, where liberty and gaity only were consulted, failed not to attract to this villa the young and licentious among the rich and great. To those who were not in the secret, the chevalier seemed the most amiable of men: but to those who were admitted to greater intimacy, he appeared more captivating, as a young wo­man of beauty and spirit, whose adventures and diguise gave greater eclat to the charms of which nature had been so lavish. She now appeared under the name of the chevalier de Morsan; and the sieur Mars de Joigny often went to this house, at Combe-de-la-Ville. It happened that he arrived there one day, when a large company was assembled, and entering hastily the room where they were, he so far forgot himself, as to say to the chevalier de Morsan, "Well, Charlotte, how are you to-day?" This occasioned a loud laugh among those who were acquainted with the meta­morphosis, and excited the wonder of those who were not: these la [...] endeavouring to gain more intelligence [...]m the sieur de Joigny, he [Page 264] hastily put an end to the conversation.—This circumstance, the frequent change of name, and the mysterious stories that were told of the birth of the chevalier de Morsan, raised great curiosity in the minds of many, who had seen him with La du Clos or the sieur d'Imon­ville. Sometimes he was said to be a fo­reigner, travelling for improvement; some­times the son of a prince, who was for reasons of state obliged to be concealed. The curate of Combe-de-la-Ville, who once saw him in the bed usually occupied by madame d'Imon­ville, expressed his suspicions of his sex; the chevalier turned him into ridicule, and re­fused to answer his enquiries. But the servants of the house, and several other persons, had no doubt but that the pretended young man was a woman. After Charlotte Donc had for some time worn the masculine habit, she seemed to have acquired masculine courage: she had a quarrel with some young man in the neigh­bourhood of Combe-de-la-Ville, accepted his challenge and was actually wounded. The surgeon, however, who dressed the wound, was never called upon in the trial. It was not long afterwards that she came to Paris, to a house La du Clos had taken in the rüe Mazarine; there she was seized with the small pox, attended with the worst symptoms: and, in the danger of losing her life, all the transactions of that [...] seized on her disor­dered imagination: [...] incessantly implored [Page 265] the attendants to save her from her husband; and fancied she saw herself surrounded by sol­diers, who were come to drag her to him. As the disease approached the crisis, it wore the most threatening aspect: spiritual conso­lation was thought necessary; and father Con­stant, a monk of the Augustines, was sent for to administer the sacraments, and hear the dying confession of the chevalier de Morsan. The monk addressed him as such; but the hour was now come in which dissimulation was impossible. The pretended chevalier said to the monk, in a melancholy tone, ‘Alas! I am not what you suppose: I am a woman.’ The monk, astonished at what he heard, exclaimed—"How! are you a wo­man?" On which the patient repeated a second time, "Yes; I am a woman." The monk then asked her if she would have him reveal this secret to mademoiselle du Clos? To which she answered, ‘Yes, tell her if you wlll.’—Either the priest was not aware of the immediate danger, or for some other rea­son, he delayed the last sacrament and confes­sion till the next morning: in the interim the chevalier expired.—The deception, however, did not terminate with life: Michelle de la Neau, and her daughter, the former who had attended as a nurse during the illness, the latter who was servant to mademoiselle du Clos, were employed to put the corpse into the coffin. They saw that it was the corpse of [Page 266] a woman: they expressed to La du Clos their surprize; who coldly answered, that since it was so, the world, who had accused her of entertaining the chevalier as a lover, had wronged her, and had been deceived. The coffin, set on a bier, was placed at the door of La du Clos; and, to perpetuate the deceit, the sword of the deceased, and its scabbard, were laid on the coffin, as is usual when a military man is buried. The spectators be­lieved it was the funeral of an officer; and Charlotte Donc was buried as a chevalier, after having passed as such for seven years. The sieur d'Imonville, who Robert pretended was the principal contriver of the concealment, attended the funeral.—When the entry was made in the register of this funeral, a note was added, thus, "You are not to suffer an extract of this to be taken."

If this relation, given by Robert, was true, his wife was among the dead seven years be­fore he was apprised of it; and she had been lost near fifteen, when by some means or other (but by what does not appear) he gained in­telligence of the disguise in which she had lived. Seizing eagerly on a clue which promised to lead him to the discovery he had so long attempted in vain, he pursued his enquiries at Combe-de-la-Ville, and at Paris, among every rank of people with whom D'Imonville and du Clos were connected, till he had collected the cir­cumstances from which he formed this nar­rative: [Page 267] and in this research he had been as­sisted by Anthony Donc, the brother of Char­lotte; who being, in case of her death, heir to whatever his father had left, was equally interested in penetrating the mystery. Their united enquiries produced fact, which, they affirmed, made a positive discovery of the death and interment of Charlotte Donc,—Having a collection of proofs, which they thought suf­ficient to establish the facts, they no longer hesitated to lay it before a court of justice. Thirteen witnesses were examined, whose evidence amounted to what has been before related—That an individual, who was believed to be a woman, had lived with La du Clos for some years; who was at first called the che­valier du Coudray, afterwards des Marets; but latterly had been known by the name of the chevalier de Morsan; and who was sup­posed to be Charlotte Donc, the fugitive wife of Robert. The nurse, who had attended her in her last illness, swore to the circumstance of her apprehending that soldiers surrounded her bed to force her to her husband; and that, on laying her out, she was found to be a wo­man. The servants who had lived with La du Clos, the Augustine monk, and some other witnesses, gave testimony of those facts which have been before recapitulated: but none swore positively, that the person passing under the name of the chevalier de Morsan, was Charlotte Donc. But Robert pretended, that [Page 268] the time when his wife disappeared, an­swered exactly to that when the stranger first was seen in the society of de Joigny, the guardian, du Clos, D'Imonville, and others with whom de Joigny was connected; which, added to the testimonies of so many witnesses, and to circumstances so unusual, must con­vince the court, that the chevalier de Morsan was no other than the wife of Robert.—The counsel for Robert, in pleading on this ground, against those who had concealed his wife, re­presented the enormity of the offence they had committed, against all law and order, as well as against religion and justice. They said, that not content with having stolen the wife from her husband, to whom she was di­rected to return, and having led her into an irregular and scandalous course of life; with having imposed on the world, and violated the laws of society, by the disguise under which she had lived, and under which she had been buried; they dared to enter a falsity into a book kept for the security of that so­ciety: in which if frauds were thus allowed, no man's property could be safe from the at­tacks of pretenders; no man could venture to bestow his daughter or his sister in mar­riage, or to marry himself: and, in short, it was a fraud that struck at the very root of social compact and good order. But so con­scious were they of the probability of detec­tion from this quarter, that they tried to pre­vent [Page 269] an extract from being taken from a book, which, in fact, belonged to the whole com­munity, by inserting in the margin a note, more likely however to excite curiosity, than to prevent its being gratified; since, if it was really the body of the chevalier de Morsan which was interred, why should it be con­cealed? In falsifying the name and sex of the person buried, they were guilty of a capital crime; the punishment for which is a confiscation of all the effects of the contending parties.

Monsieur Brisson, counsel for D'Joigny, D'Imonville, and du Clos, undertook, in op­position to these assertions, to prove, that the person who had lived so long with La du Clos, was not Charlotte Donc, but the chevalier de Morsan, a foreigner; whose existence ad­mitted of no doubt, and whose history he could without difficulty trace. He said, that the abbé Chamillard, a Jesuit, had been ac­quainted with this young man in Bavaria, of which country he was a native; that, in 1715, he came to Paris, and told the abbé Chamil­lard, to whom he immediately addressed him­self, that affairs of the utmost consequence had obliged him to quit his country, and come into France. The abbé, affected by his mis­fortunes, undertook to find for him a proper situation, and to do him all the service in his power. In consequence he introduced him to madame Royer, with whom he was much [Page 270] acquainted, and desired her to look out for an asylum for this young stranger; who, thereupon, engaged her uncle D'Imonville to receive him into his house, assuring him that the abbé Chamillard knew the time would come, when it would be in his power to repay his kindness with interest. The sieur D'Im­onville, who from this understood he was a stranger of illustrious birth, willingly offered him his house and his purse; and he conti­nued with him for some time. At first, he told his protector, that he was the son of Maximilian de Morsan and Emily de Con­stance; and that an affair, which he could not reveal without great prejudice to himself, had obliged him to leave Munich. By this means he evaded for some time the questions which were put to him: but at length, sen­sible of the kindness with which he was treated in the house of D'Imonville, and the repeated acts of friendship he had experienced from him and his family, he told them he would no longer conceal his real history from them, especially as he had hopes of being very soon in a situation to shew his gratitude for their attention to him. "You have," continued he, "proved your attachment to me beyond a doubt, and are worthy of all my confidence; I will not therefore conceal from you, that I am the natural son of the elector of Bavaria; who my mother was, I have never been so happy as to learn." The si [...]ur D'Imonville, [Page 271] charmed with this confidence, and to find that he had been of use to the son of a sove­reign prince, redoubled his attentions: he thought it no breach of confidence to reveal to the abbé Chamillard what he had heard; who answered, "What you now tell me, I have long known: I assured you, when I first introduced this young man to your ac­quaintance, that he was of high birth, and I did not deceive you. I am happy in having been the means of your forming a connection, which cannot fail to enrich you. His affairs at present are in a train, that affords him a prospect of very soon acquitting himself to­wards you." D'Imonville, his wife, and niece, concluded that the affair which was in agita­tion was a design of the elector of Bavaria to legitimate his son. Some months passed away, during which the family removed to another house, the first floor of which was inhabited by mademoiselle du Clos, the celebrated co­median, with whom they became acquainted. In 1719, the chevalier de Morsan told monsieur D'Imonville, that his affairs were now nearly set­tled; that they were likely to succeed beyond his hope [...], but that it was necessary for him to shew himself at Munich: [...] be sought [...] the last favour he [...] which would [...] repay all the rest: [...] that this was a [...] journey. D'Imon­ville [Page 272] could not himself raise the sum required; but he borrowed of a notary two thousand three hundred livres. He purchased for the chevalier proper clothes to appears in at Munich, and a post-chaise; and, after having made these preparations, expected that he should depart: but the young man, when he saw every thing ready, could not resolve to go; he had a love engagement, which he had not resolution to break through; and he contrived every day some new excuse to delay his journey. D'Imonville, who had formed sanguine expectations of the future power and wealth of the chevalier, was extremely cha­grined at this negligence, after all the exer­tions he had made for him; and he resolved to remonstrate seriously with him on the folly of his conduct. The chevalier, on being pressed by D'Imonville to name an early day for his journey, had no longer any pretence to delay it; but he flew into a passion, and words grew high between them. La du Clos who was in the apartment beneath, herd the noise, and came up to enquire what was the matter. The sieur d'Imonville explained the subject of their contest; and said, he had now made his last effort on the chevalier whereupon La du Clos, addressing the young man, said to him, "My dear child, since monsieur d'Imonville can do no more for you, you shall come and live with me, and I will take care of you." The chevalier, transported [Page 273] at having found so charming a protectress, accepted the offer La du Clos made him; who gave him an apartment on the floor she inhabited, and from that time supported him entirely, and even lent him money to repay the advance made by D'Imonville; whose re­monstrance he soon ceased to resent, and they continued to live in friendship, as before this little disagreement. In 1722 he was de­sirous of entering into the army, and served for some time as a cadet, in the company of the chevalier de Malherbe. But his friends representing to him, that the duty of a soldier was incompatible with the atten­tion his private affairs required, he soon afterwards, resigned. Till 1723, he lived very much in company, and was well received in the most brilliant parties in the neighbour­hood of St. Germain. Ile frequently saw the abbé Chamillard; and was on an equal soot­ing of intimacy with father Richard, an Au­gustine. But in the month of November of that year he was seized with the small-pox, which soon appeared to be of the worst sort. The fever attending it deprived him of his sen­ses, many days before his death; and in that situation he was visited by father Constant, who found it too late to administer the sa­crement▪ and on the tenth of November the si [...]ur d'Imonville paid him the [...]ast tribut of friendship, by attending his remains to the grave.

[Page 274] Such was the history related by monsieur Brisson, for his clients; whose purpose it was to prove, that the individual passing under the name of the chevalier de Morsan, was not a woman; and certainly not Charlotte Donc, the wife of Robert.

The second wife of Robert, whose hope was, that, if the death of Charlotte Donc could not be proved, Robert would be deemed guilty of bigamy, and that she should by that means be released from her engagement with him, had collected every circumstance that could strengthen the belief of the chevalier de Morsan being really the person he represented. In opposition to the witnesses brought by the other party, she produced persons who gave their testimony to many particulars of the life of the chevalier de Morsan. He was fond of violent exercise; understood fencing, the back-sword, hunting, and shooting; and was a judge of horses. He was known to have passed whole days in field sports; a degree of fatigue which no woman could have under­gone: and he frequently played matches at tennis, which kept him in extreme exercise for many hours. The husbands and fathers where De Morsan visited, were so f [...]r from supposing him to be a woman, that many of them had reason to complain of his [...] for his person was extremely handsome, and he was universally admired. Nor did his [...] at all correspond with the [...] given of [Page 275] Charlotte Donc, who was of middling size; for he was very tall and muscular: but it is certain, that a woman of middling height, if she dresses in men's clothes, appears short. Many other particulars were brought, to prove that there was no analogy between Charlotte Donc and the chevalier de Morsan.

The court, after hearing many arguments on both sides, could not find any positive proof that the sieurs de Joigny and D'Imon­ville, with madame Royer and du Clos, had secreted Charlotte Donc, and buried her un­der a false name.—On the other hand, as the second wife of Robert could produce no proof of her being alive, either when Robert mar­ried a second time, or at the time she sued him, they would not condemn Robert for bigamy; whose second marriage, therefore, remained good in law: and the truth of this extraordinary affair continued unknown. The fate of the unfortunate Charlotte Donc was at all events deplorable. Whatever errors the peculiarity of her situation might have driven her into, were solely imputable to the cruelty and misconduct of her mother.—Dreadful is the lot of a woman, driven into an indissoluble union with a wicked or worth­less man, at an age when keen sensibilities make her fe [...]l all the misery of such a union; while resignation and patience, which time only can give, have not enabled her to subdue the violent emotions which such a prospect [Page 276] must excite. Indeed, who can, at any period of life, help shrinking from the view of wretchedness for which there is no remedy, from sufferings which can only terminate [...] the grave?

IN a former part of this volume is related the story of the unfortunate D'Anglade, who pe­rished in misery and ignominy, through the pre­judice of an unjust judge, and the malice of an inveterate prosecutor. The following narra­tive is another instance of the fallibility of hu­man judgment; and, though the unfortunate sufferer was in an inferior rank of life, his fate was, if possible, more to be deplored than that of D'Anglade.

Madame Mazel was a woman who had passed the meridian of life: she was a widow, possessed of an affluent fortune; and had three sons, all well established. René, the eldest, was a counsellor of parliament; George, the second, treasurer of France, for the district of Paris; and Michael, the youngest, major of the regiment of Piedmont.

But though her family were prosperous, they were not happy. Madame Mazel had taken an aversion to the wife of her eldest son; and had caused her to be confined in a convent, by an order from the king: and this she had interest enough to affect, though her [Page 278] son himself by no means lent her any assist­ance. The lady had contrived often to escape from her confinement, and had as often been forced back by the machinations of her mo­ther-in-law; whom, of course, she hated most inveterately. The conduct of madame Mazel herself, was such as seemed but little to au­thorise the power she assumed to punish that of another: she had gaming-tables constantly in her house, and a man called the abbé Pou­lard lived with her on a footing, of intimacy, which did no honour to her reputation.

This lady's servants, in her hotel at Paris, were, two footmen, both lads between six­teen and eighteen years old; an old female cook; a coachman; two young women who waited on her person; and James le Brun, who had lived with her twenty-nine years, and who was now her butler, intendant, and maître d'hôtel: he possessed all her confidence, and deserved it by his attachment to her in­terest, and his general integrity, which had re­commended him to the esteem of all who fre­quented the house. His mistress left to him all her receipts and payments; and never, in all the sums that passed through his hands, was there the least deficiency or mistake. The tradesmen, whom he paid regularly, and every other person connected with the affairs of ma­dame Mazel, spoke highly of his honesty and [...]nterested conduct; and, among other in­sta [...]ces of unblemished integrity, it was [Page 279] related of him, that one evening, after very deep play had been held it his mistress's house, he, on clearing the apartments, found a sum of money, the owner of which (who did not know the sum she had lost, or what she had done with it) he took pains to discover, and returned her the whole. Le Brun had a wife and five children, and was the best of husbands and of fathers. His two eldest daughters were of that business which is in France termed co [...]ffeuses; which rather an­swers to our idea of the tire-women of th [...] last century, than to any attendant we have at present. In this employment they acquired reputation, not only for their skill, but their decent and regular manners: and their father, who had brought them up soberly and religi­ously, was so desirous of their morals being preserved, that though his mistress, whose hotel was much larger than she had occasion for, offered him an apartment in it for his whole family, he rather chose to hire an ha­bitation for them, than to have his daughters in a house where gamesters, and other dissolute and idle people, were perpetually visiting.—Such was the character of this unfortunate man, James le Brun.

That of the abbé Poulard, the intimate of madame Mazel, was far from being equally respectable. This man, who had taken his vows in the order of jacobins, had lived among them for some years; and then, by a bu [...] [Page 280] from the pope surreptitiously obtained, he quit­ted that society, to enter into the order of Cluny: but, instead of doing so, he became the compa­nion and confidential friend of madame Mazel.

Admitted to a table where luxury and pro­fusion reigned, the abbé forgot the rules of his profession, and was so far from keeping any maigre days, that he criticised, some­times with the asperity of a gluttonous master of the house, on such dishes as were not pre­pared to his taste. His bed-chamber was on [...] third floor, sumptuously furnished with a bed of blue velvet, lined with crimson silk, and every other article proportionably rich. In such a situation, it is not surprizing that the abbé Poulard chose rather to be excom­municated than to quit it: and he suffered, with great indifference, the excommunication to pass against him by the grand prior of the order of Cluny. Nor was he much more affected by an order given by the advocate-general to the jacobins, to seize and confine him. However, after an abode of six years in the house of madame Mazel, he thought it convenient, for some reason or other, pro­bably to avoid farther scandal, to take a lodg­ing in the neighbourhood, though he still re­tained his apartment in her hotel, and frequently slept there: and, that he migh [...] all hours have access to it he had a master-key, which opened every chamber in the house as well as the street-door.

[Page 281] By means of this man, George, the second son of madame Mazel, who was known by the name of the sieigneur de Lignieres, became acquainted with his sister, the widow of a counsellor of Mans, whose beauty had made a deep impression on the heart of the sieur de Lignie [...]es, insomuch that he had promised to marry her: a match the most fortunate for her, and therefore greatly wished for by her, and her brother the abbé, but opposed by madame Mazel. All these circumstances are related with the most minute and tedi [...] particularity in the French original; as i [...] make the reader remark, that the assassination of madame Mazel was more likely to be im­puted to the revenge of her eldest son's wife, or those who were interested in the marriage of the second, than to him on whom, unfor­tunately, the suspicion fell.

Her manner of life, however, was such as made her liable to the designs of many others. Every Monday and Friday she kept an open table, where gamesters by pro [...]ession, of both sexes, as well as persons who were unhappily addicted to that ruinous amusement, assembled to dine. After which the house, which was very large, was filled with parties of hazard and other games of chance, at which they continued the next day, and often till the next night. Madame Mazel herself always retired about eleven o'clock, having first gone round to the various tables, to accommodate the losers [Page 282] with money, who happened to be without, which she often did to a large amount—a cir­cumstance which, of course, gave reason to suppose she had always considerable sums by her. Many of those who frequented her house, heard her, on various occasions, repeat, that she never had a less sum by her than two thou­sand pistoles.

She was known to have made a will, in which she had charged her eldest son, who was her principal legatee, with the mainte­ [...]ce and lodging of the abbé Poulard, dur­ [...]g his life. She had given six thousand livres to Le Brun; and divided, between him and her own woman, her linen and clothes. This will was known to many, and was deposited in the hands of a notary; but she had repeatedly said it was her intention to make another.

The house she inhabited was in rüe Maçon, near the Sorbonne; and as a minute descrip­tion of it seemed necessary to the French re­lator, it must be repeated here.—The house had four floors: to the first, the access; was by the great staircase; and the first apartment was a kind of hall, which served as place for the servants^*; in which was a cupboard^†, where the silver plate was kept, of which one [Page 283] of the female servants had the key: on the other side, a little room had been added, where Le Brun lay, when he did not pass the night with his family: the other room of this floor was that in which madame Mazel was accustomed to receive company. A continua­tion of the same staircase led to the second floor; the first apartment of which was an antichamber, opening into another room, looking into the court of the house; next to which was the room where madame Mazel slept. The first of these rooms was open [...] all times. When their mistress wa [...] [...] rest, the servant who attended her to undress her, was accustomed to put the key of the chamber upon a seat near the door,^* which she shut after her: they then locked the second door, and left the key on the chimney-piece of the third room, which remained open. Thus, in this large suite of rooms (for they were very spacious) madame Mazel was left entirely alone.

But in her bed-chamber were two other doors, one of which opened immediately from the alcove, ^* in which the bed stood, to a little priva [...] staircase; the other to a closet, which opened also to the staircase. In the closet [Page 284] was a press, the key of which was always put under the bolster of the bed; and in the press was deposited the key of the strong box.

The third floor was empty, save only that the abbé Poulard sometimes occupied the apartment fitted up for him in it, which, by the narrow stair-case before mentioned, had a secret communication with the bed-chamber of madame Mazel.

The fourth story had only two rooms oc­cupied; one by the two footmen, who were brothers, and the other by the two waiting-women, who were sisters. The attic story consisted of a garret running the whole length of the house; where wood, coal, straw, and oats were sometimes deposited. A window in the roof opened to the ridge of the house, between which ran a gutter, that continued for four or five houses adjoining, most of which were lodging houses. On the ground floor was the kitchen and a little wood room. The cook was accustomed to sleep in the kit­chen; but, about eight days before the fatal catastrophe, she took it into her head to re­move her bed into the wood room, which looked towards the street with a low window. The coachman lay in the stable, and the care of the court-yard was left to him; the key of which always hung on a nail in the kitchen, whence the servants took it as they wanted it.

Some time before the death of madame Mazel, she had taken a master-key from Le [Page 285] Brun, which opened all the doors, ill order to accommodate with it the abbé Poulard; Le Brun had another, which he continued to use. To give an account of the house, and its in­habitants, seems necessary to the understanding the subsequent facts. Such minutiae as appear not material are omitted.

On the 27th November, 1698, being the first Sunday in advent, the two daughters of Le [...]run went in the afternoon to pay their respects to madame Mazel. She received them with her usual good-humour, but de­sired they would come some other day, when they could pass longer time with her, as she was then going to vespers at the convent of Prémentré, rüe Hautefeuille—for she was ever remarkably punctilio [...] in the exercises of religion. She left her house, attended by Le Brun, on whose arm she leant, and the two footman followed her. As soon as she was in the chapel Le Brun quitted her, and went to hear vespers himself at the Jacobins, rüe St. Jacques; from thence he went to see a game at bowls, where he met a locksmith, called Laguë, who had married a servant of madame Mazel's; and they went together to a cook's shop, where they purchased some provisions, on which they intended to sup together; then Le Brun went home to his mistress's hotel, and from thence to his wife's lodging, and, at eight o'clock, he went with the coach, and the other footmen, to fetch [Page 286] his lady from the house of madame Duvau, according to the orders she had given them; and after he had attended her home, he went to his appointment with Laguë.

Madame Mazel supped, according to her usual custom, with the abbé Poulard, tête-à-tête. The servants, who waited at table, re­marked, that he repeated several times his in­tention of going that night to his lodging in the neighbourhood, though he never before had mentioned what he intended to do of an evening. At eleven o'clock, madame Mazel went to her chamber; and her two women had not quitted her, when Le Brun tapped at the back door of the room. She asked who it was? and one of the maids answered it is mr. Le Brun. Le Brun, finding the door not im­mediately opened, went down, and came round by the great stair-case to the other door. When he entered the apartment, madame Mazel said to him, "Truly, this is a fine hour to come for orders!"—meaning that he had staid out later than was his custom; she then told him what she would have provided for supper the next evening, which was the night on which she kept open table. The maid, as was her usual method, put the key on the chair; after which they all quitted the room; and Le Brun, who went last, drew the door after him and shut it. As they (the three servants) were going down together, Le Brun stopped the two young women, to tell them [Page 287] how kind his mistress had been to his daugh­ters, when they waited on her in the after­noon, and after keeping them in conversation some minutes, he wished them a good night; the whole of his behaviour testifying his usual chearfulness and serenity.

He then went into the kitchen to take the key of the outward door to lock it; he took it off the hook, but, finding himself cold, he laid it down on the table, while he warmed him­self, and being fatigued, possibly too, having drank more than he was accustomed to, he insensibly fell asleep. When he awoke he heard the clock strike one; but knew not whe­ther it was one o'clock, or the last stroke of twelve, or of any other hour. He ran up to lock the outward door (which he was surprized to find wide open), and, when he had done so, took the key with him into his room; a pre­caution he had seldom before taken. The next morning, being the 28th of November, he got up at the usual hour to buy provisions, and went to the butcher's. Going thither, he met a bookseller, a man of reputable cha­racter, who knew him, and with whom he talked some time, with the utmost ease and unconcern. To the butcher he said, that the meat must be sent directly, because it would be wanted for broth for his mistress.

He then went to make other purchases, and met two or three of his acquaintances, who walked with him home, and to whom he [Page 288] appeared remarkably chearful. As soon as they left him, he went down to give some or­ders in the kitchen, and gave the footmen wood for his mistress's apartment. It was by this time eight o'clock, and madame Mazel [...]lly arose at seven. The servants expressed to each other their wonder, that she had not rung her bell at her accustomed time. Le Brun went out a moment to see his wife; to whom he gave seven louis and some other money, which he bade her lock up. Then returning home, he enquired if madame was yet up? and being told she was not, he ex­pressed surprize and uneasiness. That of the whole family now arose to such a height, that they determined to endeavour to awaken her, and for that purpose they went to the door, rapped loudly, and called. Put all was silent. They were then persuaded, that if she were living, she must have heard them, and their t [...]uble encreased. Some said she had fallen into an apoplexy; others, that a bleeding at the nose, to which she was subject, had de­stroyed her; but Le Brun remarked, that it must be something worse,—"Something," said he, ‘is wrong; I am very uneasy, be­cause I found the street-door open last night.’

They now determined to send for her eldest son, monsieur de Savonnieres who, as soon as he came to the house, sent for a locksmith to open the door: while this was doing, he [Page 289] said to Le Brun,—"What can this mean?"—whereupon somebody again observed that it must be an apoplectic fit, and that it would he necessary to have a surgeon at hand; on which Le Brun again said,—‘Oh, no! no!—It is something yet worse. I am sure there has been mischief, when I remember that the door was wide open last night.’

The room being at length opened, the peo­ple who were assembled entered: Le Brun went hastily to his mistress's bed;—she was assassinated, and bathed in blood. He ran to the window of the closet, which he unbarred, then lifting up the strong box, he cried—"but there is nothing taken from hence—what can this mean?"—Monsieur de Savon­nieres sent for the lieutenant criminal Deffita, the same who formed the hasty judgment against the unhappy d'Anglade. He laid a complaint in his own name, and that of his two brothers; and surgeons were sent for to examine the body of the deceased.

Above fifty small wounds, made with a knife, were found on her hands, face, shoul­ders, and throat; and these last, having oc­casioned a great effusion of blood, had been the occasion of her death; for none of the wounds were of themselves mortal.

In the bed was found a piece of a lace neck­cloth, and a towel twisted up in form of a night-cap; which towel belonged to the house, and was marked with an S.

[Page 290] The cords of the bells were twisted up above the reach of the hand, and tied to the curtain rod. In the ashes was found a knife, seven or eight inches long, the handle of which had been of tortoise-shell, but was nearly burnt. The key of the chamber-door was not found on the seat, where the waiting woman affirmed she had put it; no door was broke; and the two doors, which opened to the backstairs were both shut and hooked withinside. The key of the press was found under the bolster, where it was always placed: on opening this press, the purse, in which ma­dame Mazel kept her card money, was found, containing about two hundred, and seventy-eight livres, in gold. The key of the strong box was in the same place: they tried to open the strong box with it, but could not, with­out the assistance of a locksmith, who was near a quarter of an hour before he could ac­complish it: in it were founds four sacks, each containing a thousand livres; and many other bags, containing different sums; one of which was labelled, "This is the property of the abbé Poulard." Under one of the sacks was an orange-coloured and green purse, lined with crimson satin, which was empty, and turned inside out; and a red leather writing box, on which lay half a louis, and which^* [Page 291] contained all the jewels of madame Mazel, to the value of fifteen thousand livres. In her pocket were eighteen pistoles, in gold.—From all which circumstances, it appeared as if those who had committed the cruel deed, had done it from some other motive than merely that of robbery.

The lieutenant criminal questioned the two women who attended on Madame Mazel; who related to him, succinc [...]ly, what had passed the night before. L [...] Brun was next called upon; who gave, with equal clearness, an account of every thing that had happened to himself, from the time of his going out with his mistress to vespers, to the moment of his examination. He was searched; and there was found on him the key of the hall, where his pantry was; and a master-key with very large wards, which, on [...]rial, was found to open the door of madame Mazel's chamber: upon which the lieutenant criminal ordered him into custody. On putting on the napkin, it was found too little for his head: they ex­amined his hands, but there were no signs of blood upon them, or his clothes; no [...] was there, on any part of his person, any marks of that resistance, which it was very evident the un­fortunate victim had made against the russian who had killed her; some of whose hair she had torn off, and held in her hand. After a very slight search in his pantry, nothing was found that indicated his guilt; notwithstand­ing [Page 292] which, he was sent to prison, and his wife at the same time ordered into custody. The magistrate then retired, having put his seal on the doors and left his officers in the house.

The next day the lieutenant returned again to the house of the deceased, to examine the cook, the two footmen, and the coachman; but, though he employed ten hours in these interrogations, he omitted to examine an old woman^* who lay in the kitchen.

There was found at the bottom of the back stairs, a new rope, tied to an iron hook, and knotted as if it was designed for a ladder. Le Brun was again examined in prison, and neither on his person, or in his answers, was there found the least cause to believe him the guilty person. His pantry was again searched: they found only a basket, contain­ing some old iron; among which was a hook, and a file; a towel belonging to the house marked S, and some cords. They then ex­amined the lodging of his wife, where nothing was found that tended to criminate him; how­ever, they seized on his linen, to compare it with a shirt, which was found stained with blood in the garret, hid under some straw (and which evidently belonged to the assassin) and with the lace neckcloth before mentioned.

The two women declared, that this neck­cloth never had belonged to Le Brun, but said, [Page 293] they remembered having washed it for a servant called Berry, who had been dismissed from the service of madame Mazel about four months before, because he was detected in robbing her. No similitude was found between the shirt and those belonging to Le Brun; nor in any en­quiry that was made, did the slighted circum­stance arise, that tended to fix the charge on him. The poor man was, however, in the mean time, closely confined, and not suffered to see his wife, his children, or his friends; while the abbé Poulard, who during his first examination had fainted, and appeared [...]inder the utmost agitation of spirit, went to every place, exclaiming, that Le Brun only could be guilty: and he made the same decla­ration before the judges, though he brought no proof of it. In default, however, of proof, he invented a story, which he thought would prejudice the public against the unhappy Le Brun:—he said, that "madame Mazel had, in her youth, a connection with a nobleman of high rank, by whom she had a son; which son was that very Berry, who had been some months before discharged for theft: that ma­dame Mazel had been entrusted, by her para­mour, with a very large sum of money, for the use of this son; which secret was known only to Le Brun; who, in hopes of engaging him to marry one of his daughters, had com­municated the mystery of his birth, and of this deposit of money, to Berry; and Berry, there­upon, [Page 294] with the concurrence and assistance of Le Brun, had gone to his mother, madame Mazel, to beseech a restitution, or a provision; but that the inhuman mother, instead of granting his request, had seized, and attempted to strange him; which obliged him, in his own defence, to give her the blows which occasioned her death."—Though this account, which the abbé pretended to have had from Le Brun, directly charged Berry with the murder; and though the neckcloth was found, which was known to be his, no enquiry was made after him▪ and the prosecution was still conti­nued against Le Brun.—The story of the re­lationship between the deceased and Berry, was clearly false, as his parents were known to be both living at Bourges: and, on Le Brun's being interrogated, as to the truth of this story, he was so far from throwing on the memory of his deceased mistress any part of the infamy imputed to her, that he spoke of her with the greatest respect; particularly, when he was questioned on the communi­cation between her apartment and the [...] of the abbé Poulard, he answered, that he should not answer questions which had nothing to do with the subject of his examination; and that he would say nothing that might give a pre­tence for scandal.

On the fourteenth of January, monsieur de Savonnieres presented a request to the lieute­nant criminal, in his own name, and that of [Page 295] his two brothers, demanding that Le Brun should be declared duly convicted of having assussinated madame Mazel, and of having robbed her of a quantity of gold coin that was in her strong box: and that he should, at the same time, be deprived of, and declared un­worthy of the legacy left him by the deceased.—However strange and incredible it may seem, it appears very certain, that this legacy was the real source of all the enmity of the messrs. de Savonnieres against the unfortunate Le Brun: and, to deprive him and his children of it, they prosecuted him even to death; while those, whom there was every reason to believe the real perpetrators of the crime, were not even enquired after.

When the trial came on, the principal ar­guments [...] by the counsel against Le Brun, were [...] ^* —That, as none of the doors were broken open, the person who obtained access to the apartment of madame Mazel must be a servant in the house; and that ser­vant could be only Le Brun, who alone pos­sessed a key that opened the doors;—that no­body, but a person well acquainted with the usages of madame Mazel, could know where to find, under the bolster, the key of the press in which was shut the key of the strong box, so as to be able to take it out and replace it. Such knowledge could be acquired only [Page 296] by long observation of the customs of a family; and could be certainly known to nobody so well as to Le Brun. He only could have tied up the bell ropes; because nobody else could procure admittance to the room, while ma­dame Mazel was absent, but Le Brun, by means of his master-key. To add to the strength of this remark, it was added, that once before, when madame Mazel complained that her bell-cords were tied up so high that she could not reach them; Le Brun answered, that he had tied them up, because they were in his way when he made the bed, and that he afterwards forgot them: from whence it was inferred, that what he had done once, he might have repeated. The counsel urged, that it was impossible to believe, that, in the short interval during which Le Brun declared he had been asleep in the kitchen, a stranger should be able to find his way into the house, open the [...]oors, and, though madame Mazel was but just in bed, and probably not asleep, should ass [...]ssinate her, notwithstanding the re­sistance she evidently made; force her strong box, which was so difficult to unlock; pass af­terwards close to the door of the room where the two women lay; who were but just gone to bed; and escape by the street-door, before Le [...] that a stranger should do it was impossible; but nothing was easier to Le Brun. A [...] in the house, after every one else was retired; master of a key which procured him [Page 297] admittance, and of the light which was neces­sary for his purpose; every thing conspired, the [...] declared, to fix the guilt on him only.

^* Monsieur d'Ancour, who was employed in favour of Le Brun, made an excellent, though fruitless defence. He began with shewing, how improbable it was, that a man of so excellent a character as Le Brun univer­sally bore; a man who had brought up a large family in honest and sober principles; whose conduct, as a husband and a father, was un­impeached; and who had faithfully served his mistress nine-and-twenty years; should now, without motive, without provocation, become the murderer of her, to whom he had so long shewn the sincerest attachment and respect: these circumstances made the fact extremely improbable. The next point was to shew, that it was impossible Le Brun could be guilty of if. The report of those who inspected the body of the deceased, said, that she had re­ceived above fifty wounds, and had evidently made great resistance; in consequence of which, the assassin must have borne on his per­son many [...] of that resistance. Le Brun had none; not even the smallest scratch on his hands, or spot of blood on his clothes:—the towel, twisted up like a cap, was so much less than his head, that he could not put it on: the knife was not his; had never been seen in his possession:—the neckcloth was known to [Page 298] belong to another person:—the shirt was not like any he possessed; it was unlike, not only in quality, but in size; and was made for a little man, whereas Le Brun was very tall and robust. — These facts, said M. d'Aucour, are so evident, that the accusers of my client can­not deny them; forced, therefore, to ac­knowledge that he cannot have been the actual perpetrator of the crime, they have re­course to another charge; and accuse him of being an accomplice. But this charge, con­tinued M. d'Aucour, is even more absurd than the other. If any unaccountable frenzy could have instigated Le Brun to such a deed, he would not have trusted the execution of it to another hand: if he had been prompted by avarice, he would, as he had time enough, have secured the large sum, in money and jewels, which were left behind, and not have contented himself with a small part only of what he had risqued so much to obtain. He would certainly have escaped before the next morning, instead of going, as he did, uncon­cernedly about his usual business. But if any domestic let in the russian, why must it be Le Brun? Why not one of the other footmen, or maids? Why not the coachman in whose care the court-yard was left? Why not the cook, who had also a master-key to the outward door, and in whose room was a low window, communicating with the street, through which she might give the [Page 299] master-key out? Finally, Why might it not be the abbé Poulard, whose character was such as made him be supposed a much more likely man than Le Brun to commit an infa­mous crime.—But why must it be concluded, that the assassin was let in at all? Of a house open at all times to gamesters of both sexes, and to crowds of servants who attended them, it is not difficult to know the entrance, and the passages. Might not the wretch, who medi­tated murder and robbery, conceal himself in the house during the day, when all the doors were open to all comers? Might he not have remained there one night, or even more, hid among the straw, coals, and wood, in the garret, which was rarely frequented? Might he not even have come in by means of the trap-door, which opened in the roof, and which was never shut? And was there not sufficient temptation to villany, in a house which was known to have a hoard of gold never less than two thousand pistoles, besides other monies; and which was so easy of ac­cess?—There being, therefore, every reason to believe the crime was not committed by the intervention of a servant; or, if of a servant, not of Le Brun; M. d'Aucour demanded, on behalf of his client, that he might be declared innocent, and set at liberty.

But, notwithstanding this able defence, and that his adversaries could bring no one proof against him, no one presumptive evi­dence, [Page 300] the fatal key in his possession, which opened all the doors, determined the judges to condemn him. A yet more powerful motive, perhaps, was, the wish of the messieurs de Savonnieres to have him condemned! They therefore proceeded, on the eighteenth of January, to judgment. Eleven judges were assembled: of whom two declared, they re­quired farther information before they de­cided; two voted that he might be put to the question;^* six condemned him to death, and that in the most cruel manner that could be devised.

Poor Le Brun was extremely beloved; and the murmurs and complaints of the people, who all believed him innocent, reached the ears of the judges. They said, in their de­fence, that as they knew their decision would not be final, but would be appealed against, and carried to another court, they determined to make it as severe as possible, in hopes of frightening the prisoner into a confession of the actual perpetrator of the crime, and all its circumstances. Thus, instead of justice, these men had recourse to stratagem. Le Brun appealed;^† and M. d'Aucour, on the second hearing, undertook his defence anew.

He again urged all that he had before set [Page 301] forth, in behalf of his oppressed client; and set all the improbabilities, he had before re­marked, in a yet stronger light. He repre­sented, that no one circumstance could be al­leged against him, but the possession of a key which turned half round the lock of the apartment where madame Mazel lay: and on such slight presumption they condemned to die, by the most cruel torments, a man, who for five-and-forty years (of which twenty-nine had been passed in the same service) had never been accused of the least offence against God or man! The fatal key, which is thus to bring him to the scaffold, not only was not surreptiously obtained, but had undergone no alteration to enable it to turn the lock en­tirely; a precaution Le Brun must have taken, had he meant to have used it to enter his mis­tress's room, after she was in bed; for then the door was double locked, and this key, which would only turn once, was consequently unfit for the purpose. It was objected, by the accusers of Le Brun, that he ought not to have kept this key; for that madame Mazel, after being robbed by Berry, had taken away the master-keys from all her servants who possessed them. It is true, continues M. d'Aucour, she did in a fit of vexation, very natural, yet not very reasonable, take away from the cook, and from Le Brun, their master keys. But she soon after gave back to the cook that which she had taken from her; and [Page 302] as she had given that which Le Brun used to carry to the abbé Poulard, she suffered him (Le Brun) to use that he had by him, and which had been given him many years before, by a servant who married out of the family; and Le Brun always did use it, not only with the knowledge of all the other domestics, but of his mistress herself; indeed it was absolutely necessary for him, as he bought all the provisions for the family, and was obliged to be at market in a morning long before the rest of the family were stirring.

Besides, had Le Brun lent the key to the assassin, he would not have taken it back. He would have suffered him to have kept it, or have thrown it away, under pretence that he had himself lost it. It is inconceivable that he would retain what would be brought in evidence gainst him.

But why, pursued M. d'Aucour, is not en­quiry made after Berry? Berry, who be­fore robbed madame Mazel, and was dismissed in disgrace; who was known to be an infa­mous wretch, capable of any mischief — to whom the neckcloth was known to belong; who had often applied to be admitted to his place again, but had been refused; who was seen at Paris about the time the event hap­pened; and had been seen since with money, which could not have been honestly obtained?

Why is not notice taken of the abbe Pou­lard, an equivocal character at best; a priest, who, after being in two orders, actually belongs [Page 303] to none?—who had access at all hours to the house of madame Mazel, and who was seen to go in at midnight, the evening the mur­der was committed; and who had an interest in the death of his benefactress, who was an obs [...]cle to the marriage of his sister with her second son? Why does the wife of the el­dest son, whose inveterate hatred and frequent denunciations of vengeance against her mo­ther-in-law were well known; why is she not suspected of having hired an assassin, to put an end to a life so obnoxious to her? Any one of these persons, M. d'Aucour affirmed, were much more likely to be the perpetra­tors of the homicide than Le Brun, whose in­terest it was that his mistress should live, not only because he enjoyed an excellent place, but because if she did alter her will, as she sometimes said she should, he had no reason to believe she would lessen his legacy, but rather to hope she would increase it; as she was continually bestowing additional favours on him and his family, and, as she advanced in years, felt herself more and more attached to an old servant, careful of her interest, and whose services she found every day more ne­cessary, in her domestic arrangement.

When all these reasons were added to the universal good character of the accused, the concern expressed by all ranks of people for him (for all believed him innocent), and the total want of proof against him, M. d'Au­cour [Page 304] pleaded, that so far from the sentence being confirmed, it undoubtedly ought to be annulled. He again, before he concluded, pointed out to the court the extraordinary conduct of the abbé Poulard, who, with an officiousness very unjustifiable, had labo [...]ed by falsities, and injurious allegations, to throw the guilt on the unfortunate prisoner.—But the abbé Poulard was not a second time ques­tion [...]d till it was too late.

The counsel on the other side laid the greatest stress on the circumstance of the key; on what Le Brun said, when questioned by M. de Savonnieres, ‘This is not apoplexy, but something worse;’ and on the seven louis given to his wife to lock up, which they pretended to believe was part of the money taken from madame Mazel.

On the twenty-second of February, sen­tence was again to be passed by twenty-two judges. Two only of the number demanded farther enquiry; the other twenty decided for the question ordinary and extraordinary.

The unhappy man was put to this dread­ful trial, and, amid the most cruel tortures, persisted in declaring his innocence.

As he continued steadfastly to deny the fact, a new sentence became necessary. On the 27th, the same number of judges being again assembled, two voted that he shoul'd be sent to the gallies for life; all the rest voted for a farther enquiry of twelve months against Le [Page 305] Brun and his wife, during which he was to remain in prison, and his wife to be at li­berty. A right was retained to sentence his loss of the legacy, or afterwads to decide upon it as occasion might require.

[...] consequence of this last judgment, Le Brun, who had till now been kept in a dun­geon, without being suffered to speak to or see any human being, but the jailer, was al­lowed to have his wife, his children, and his friends admitted. But this alleviation of his misery came too late. The violence of the torments he had undergone was such, that he was reduced to extremity, though a very ath­letic and healthy man of forty-five, and his wretched wife had only time to procure him the administration of the sacraments. As he received them, he again most solemnly pro­tested his innocence, and expired, amidst the despair of his wife and children, and the re­gret of all who had ever known him. Such was the grief universally expressed by all ranks of people, and such the concourse who at­tended his corpse to the grave, that it seemed to become a public cause, even before the real culprit was discovered. What then must have been the feelings of his prosecutors and his judges (if indeed they had any feeling) when the monster, who had really committed the crime, for which this innocent worthy man suffered, was dragged forth!

Information was (by what means is not [Page 306] said) given to the lieutenant of the marechaus­see of Sens, that a man named Gerlat, other­wise Berry,^* had established himself there as a dealer in ho [...]ses, and without any visible means by which he could acquire money to support such a traffic.

In consequence of which, in March 1690, he was arrested. He offered the men, who were sent to take him, a purse sull of louis d'ors to let him escape—and upon him was a watch, which was known immediately to have belonged to madame Mazel.

A process was instantly set on foot against him, and witnesses examined. Some swore they had seen him at Paris at the time of the assassination; which he absolutely denied. A woman swore she saw him come out of the house after midnight, on the night it was committed: a barber deposed, that he had shaved him the next day, and, having observed scratches and wounds on his hands, Berry had told him, that they were made by a cat, which he had attempted to kill. The shirt and the neckloth were proved to be his, by comparing them with what he had found upon him.

The process went on with great celerity; [Page 307] and among other arrets, one issued, directing the prisoner to be confronted with the abbe Poulard—which was done; but what passed, or what afterwards became of the abbé, monsieur Richer says, he was never able to, learn. Probably he was ordered into per­petual confinement, in one of the religious houses from which he had deserted: certain it is, that all traces are lost of this apostate priest. Berry was put to the question; when he said, that, by orders of madame de Sa­vonnieres, wife to the eldest son of madame de Mazel, Le Brun and himself had destroyed her, by agreement with each other. He hoped by this falsehood to associate madame de Savonnieres in his guilt, and by that means gain time; but when he found this falsehood useless, he confessed, that he concealed himself in the garret of the house (having found all the doors open) from the Friday to the Sunday, [...] on bread and apples, he had put into his pocket:—that at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, knowing it was the hour madame Mazel went to mass, he went down into her [...], which he found open: — that he tried to hide himself under the bed; but could not [...] under with his coat on, which obliged him to [...] again to the garret, where he [...] and waistcoat, and came back in [...], when he [...] under the bed, [...] some time:—that after din­ [...], [...] Mazel being gone to ves­pers, [Page 308] he got from under the bed, warmed himself at the fire, and, finding his hat roublesome, made himself a night-cap of tatowel he found behind the glass; that he tied up the bell-cords, and staid at the fire till he heard the coach enter the court-yard; then getting again under the bed, remained there till madame Mazel had been in bed near an hour; then he shewed himself, and asked her for her money, when on her screaming out, he told her, if she cried out he would kill her; and upon her still continuing to do so, and to attempt ringing the bells, he struck her with a knife; that she tried to defend herself for some little time, but her strength failing, he continued to strike her till she died: — that he then lighted a candle, and took from the bolster the key of the press, from whence he took that of the strong box, which he opened, without any difficulty, and took all the gold there was, which amounted to about six thou­sand livres, which he put into a canvas bag that he found in the box:—that he placed the key where it was before, and, it being then moon-light, he took his hat, and leaving the towel and his neckcloth he knew not where, he ascended to the garr [...]t, where he took off his shirt, and putting on his coat and waistcoat, went down to the street-door, but that he drew the door of madame Mazel's room after him with the key, as gently as he could, and, when he got into the [...] by [Page] being so lucky as to find the street-door un­locked, he threw the key of the chamber away: —that he had taken a rope-ladder with him, by which he meant to have escaped from the, windows of the first story, if he had found the door locked; which ladder he left at the foot of the stairs.

The confession of this wretch, entirely clears up those circumstances that appeared extraordinary, and wholly exculpates the me­mory of the unfortunate Le Brun; whose wife and children appear to have received no compensation for the cruel injury done them, and the entire ruin that overwhelmed them. Berry died on the wheel; and the memory of Le Brun was declared free from any stain:—but the evil of having given up an inno­cent man to torture and death, could not be repaired.

AUGUSTUS de Choiseul, fourth son of Cesar due de Choiseul, became by the death of his elder brothers (and of a son which one of them had left), due de Choiseul. He married Louisa Gabrielle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliére, whose elder brother, Charles Francis, was due de la Valliére; the youngest, Maximilian Henry, chevalier de la Vall [...]ere; and her sister, Maria Jolanda de la Valliére, who was first married to the mar­quis de Brossay, and afterwards to the count of Tournon. The celebrated madame de la Valliere, mistress of Louis the fourteenth, was the aunt of this family; and consequently they were cousins [...] that monarch, [...] princess of Conti [...] [...]

The duke and [...] not divorced, lived [...] seldom saw each [...] treating of peace with [...] duke de Choiseul was [...] the hostages for its rat [...] thither took place in [...] he returned to Paris in [...]

[Page 311] The issue of his first marriage were sup­posed to be, a daughter, born in 1683 (whose education was entrusted to her aunt, the ab­bess de Sauvoir); a son, born in 1688, who died at two years old; and a second daughter born in 1692, who was also put under the care of her aunt, the abbess.

The dachess de Choiseul died of a rapid de­cline, in 1698, at the age of thirty-three; the duke married a second wife, by whom he [...] children; and died in 1704, at the age of sixty-eight.

He appears to have been a negligent and improvident father, having taken very little notice of his children while he lived, and dis­sipated great part of the property they ought to have possessed at his death.—When that event happened, his family and that of his first wife met, to consider of the affairs of the two young ladies, his daughters, as two only were then believed to exist. Their estates and persons were put under the guardianship of their maternal uncle, the duke de la Val­liére; and in every proceeding which the en­tangled state of their father's affairs made ne­cessary, no men [...]on was made of more than two daughters. To them also was bequeathed a part of the fortune of their grandmother, the marchioness [...] without any notice being taken of a third sister.

In 1708, the eldest of the [...] de Choiseul became of [...] the acts [Page 312] passed on that occasion there was mention of only one sister: two years after which she fell into a decline, and died, leaving a will, in which she named her sister, Maria-Louisa-Theresa de Choiseul, her sole legatee; who consequently became, as was then imagined, sole heiress to the house of de Choiseul. The king, who, at the [...]ntreaty of his daughter, the princess of Conti, had granted a pension to the two young ladies jointly, to make them some amends for the dissipation of their father, now gave the whole to the survivor: and in the course of a few years she received payment of many legacies, and took possession of seve­ral inheritances, as only daughter of the duke de Choiseul; these her guardians possessed in her behalf till she came of age, which hap­pened in 1720; in the course of which year she also grew consumptive, and died: the duke de la Valliére, and the chevalier de la Val­liére, her uncles, were her heirs; they pos­sessed themselves of her estates and properties, of which they retained the possession till 1723.

Then it was that the lieutenant criminal received a complaint from a young person, calling herself de Choiseul, who said that she was the daughter and now sole heiress of Augustus duke de Choiseul, and Louisa Ga­briella de la [...] le Blanc de [...] Valliére, his wife. This young lady had been brought up by the marchioness d'Hautefort, and had been always known by the name of [...] [Page 313] de St. Cyr, from one of the estates belonging to madame d'Hautefort.

In this complaint she set forth, that she was the daughter of the duchess of Choiseul, born the 8th October 1697;—that the duke her father knew of the pregnancy and delivery of the duchess; and that, at the request of both her parents, madame de Hautefort had received her into her care; to which the duchess de Choiseul had, on her death-bed, again most earnestly recommended her, see­ing, too evidently, that the duke totally ne­glected his children, and fearing for the fate of her youngest daughter, then in her earliest infancy; — that she had always been acknow­ledged and openly treated as their daughter by both her parents:—she therefore demanded to be restored to her rights, as heiress to the duke of Choiseul.—On this plea she was al­lowed to commen [...]e a suit; and witnesses be­ing heard, there appeared sufficient reason to believe that the plaintiff was really born of the duchess de Choiseul. To institute however a regular suit two things were necessary—an extract of the register of baptism, and an ad­verse party.

The first of these was found by means of causing herself to be baptised by the name of Augustina-Frances de Choiseul; and, as the duke her father had been remarkably neglect­ful in regard to the baptism of his other daugh­ters (who were not baptised till one was ele­ven, [Page 314] and the other two years old), it was not improbable that the same inattention had prevailed in regard to his youngest daughter.

After some measures had been taken, pecu­liar to the French law, mademoiselle de Choi­seul (as she was now called) summoned the duke de la Valliéere to give her an inventory of the fortune and effects of madame de la Val­liére, her maternal grandmother, and to make restitution of the effects they possessed as heirs to her mother, the duchess de Choiseul.

The duke de la Valliére, in his defence, said, that the person calling herself Augus­tina-Frances de Choiseul must establish by au­thentic proofs her claim to that name, and to her title of heiress of the duke de Choiseul.

As the duke de la Valliére could be sued only as a peer of France, the cause was to be heard before the chamber of peers.

Before that tribunal then was brought the cause; when counsel on behalf of mademoi­selle de Choiseul pleaded,^* ‘That the duke de la Valliére had been a witness to the birth of their client; that he had promised his sister, the duchess de Choiseul, to take care of her infant through every circum­stance of her life: but when he found that, by suppressing what he knew of her birth, he should divide considerable property as heir to that sister, he scrupled not to vio­late [Page 315] every promise he had given her, not only on the birth of her child but again when she was dying; and now, when her daughter claimed her own property, desired to have authentic proof of what he knew better than any one—proofs, which it was the more difficult for her to bring, as all the family papers were in the hands of the very person who demanded them, and whose interest it was to conceal every me­morial of the contested fact.’ If, said they, the duke de la Villiére has done this, he is certainly liable to the prosecution of mademoi­selle de Choiseul; if he has not done it, she is guilty of a false and injurious accusation, and must submit to the punishment that fol­lows such an offence.

The duke de la Valliére, in his defence, said,^* ‘That he was not guilty of suppress­ing the claim of his opponent;—for how could he suppress what never existed? In all the papers relative to transactions in the family, before the death of the duke de Choiseul, who survived his wife seven years, there was no mention of a third daughter; and what proofs of another na­ture could he have concealed, when none were ever pretended to have been known?—neither baptismal register, or any other evidence of her ever having been acknow­ledged the daughter of the duke and du­chess [Page 316] de Choiseul.’ "But," continued the counsel for the duke de la Valliére, ‘who will say that the duke suppressed the claims of a daughter, who was never owned by her father? While he lived, the duke de la Valliére had nothing to do with the fortune of the Choiseul family; and when he died, how is it possible that the duke de la Valliére could foresee that the two daughters he left would both die unmarried, one at the age of twenty-seven, and the other at twenty-eight? Unless he had foreseen that by these improbable events he should possess his niece's property, it could not be worth his while, by unjustifiable and dishonourable means, to throw into obscurity the birth of a third daughter of his sister. The marchi­oness de Hautefort pretended, that the du­chess de Choiseul, when in her last sickness, conjured her by their long friendship, to take care of her infant daughter, whom her death would leave to the mercy of a father who shewed the most cruel indifference to all his children. If this was the case, why did the marchioness de Hautefort give her another name? Why did she suffer so many acts to be passed in which the name of her ward was en­tirely omitted? Why did she not present her to her grandmother, her relations, her father? Why not baptise her as a daughter of the duke de Choiseul? Why not appeal to public justice to ascertain her birth, i [...] [Page 317] there appeared any backwardness in her fa­mily to acknowledge her, or if any circum­stances attended it which might make her legitimacy liable to be disputed?’—These seem to be the strongest points urged in de­fence of the duke de la Valliére.—The facts asserted on behalf of mademoiselle de Choiseul, and of which facts she desired leave to bring proof, were the following,^* ‘That the duchess de Choiseul, whose pregnancy was known to all her husband's family and her own, was, on the 8th of October, 1697, delivered of a daughter, in a house belong­ing to her and the duke, rüe de Verneuil, fauxbourgh St. Germain, and while she lay-in received the complimentary visits of all the family;—that as soon as the infant was born, the accoucheur, apprehending it was likely to die, had sprinkled it, in the usual form appointed in such cases;—that soon afterwards madame de Choiseul fell into a declining state of health, and feeling her­self in danger, recommended her third daughter most earnestly to the care and pro­tection of her friend, madame d'Hautefort, and to that of her brother, the duke de la Valliére; and that she gave to the former two pictures of herself, and some other effects, which she besought her to give to her young­est daughter, that she might have some [Page 318] memorial of her mother; and that when the duchess was dead, madame d' Haute­fort took the child from the village of Meu­don, where she was at nurse, and put her, together with her nurse, into lodgings, rüe St. Antoine, where the duke de la Valliére often visited her; from thence she was re­moved to the house of one Lasalle, rüe Prin­cesse, that she might be more immediately under the eye of madame d'Hautefort, where the duke continued to see her, and whither he sometimes came, accompanied by madame d'Hautefort and La Comme, a woman who had for many years been a faithful and favoured servant of the du­chess de Choiseul; and the duke de la Val­liére frequently made little presents to the nurse, to encourage her to take care of the infant.’

‘That at the age of two years and a half, madame d'Hautefort brought the little de Choiseul home to her own house, where she lived till the commencement of the suit, and where the duke de la Valliére, her uncle, continued to see and to acknowledge her as his niece; and though she was usually known by the name of mademoiselle St. Cyr, yet [...]he was allowed to have a claim to that of de Choiseul.’

The counsel related the names and abodes of the various nurses under whose care the infant was at different times placed; and of [Page 319] her governess, who was particularly charged with her education, under the direction of madame d'Hautefort; and lastly offered to prove, that the duke de la Valliére had ac­knowledged repeatedly, that the little girl, of whom madame d'Hautefort had the care, was the daughter of his sister, the duchess de Choiseul.

To add strength to this allegation, a letter was produced, written by the marchioness de Tournon to the marchioness d'Hautefort, which contained these words: ‘I am very sorry, madame, that the ill health of ma­demoiselle de St. Cyr prevents my seeing you, as I have nothing more at heart than to assure you of my gratitude. I wish no­thing more ardently than to see the affair you know of brought to a conclusion; it is certainly that which affects the health of our amiable songstress.—My friend, of whom I have an high opinion (whom you saw with me on Sunday, and who left me on your entrance, believing we had business), told me yesterday that he wished very much to see you here, to give you his opinion of the business, in which he sees no difficulty; but in the management of which, able persons are absolutely necessary, and such he will name to you. Consider, therefore, whether, to-morrow, Saturday, or Sunday, you cannot give me an hour of your time after dinner, as he will meet you [Page 320] here on receiving notice; and, as I have re­ceived the visits of all my relations, we shall not be interrupted.’

‘I hope the child will be well; if not, she must come sick. I shall be charmed with this opportunity of conversing with you, and of assuring you of my tender attachment. Suf­fer me to conclude without either compli­ment or signature.’

By this letter it clearly appears, that the amiable songstress, the child, and mademoi­selle St. Cyr, spoken of in it, are the same person; and that madame de Tournon then acknowledged her to be her sister's child, and even intended to assist in restoring her to the rank to which she had a right.

Mademoiselle de Choiseul having now col­lected, by her lawyers, a body of evidence which appeared very strong, was advised to proceed against the duke de la Valliére, the chevalier, and madame de Tournon, together; otherwise she might, after having succeeded against one, be liable to the same difficulties with the other two. They were summoned to appear, and to be examined. The duke was first questioned; his answers were evasive, and it seemed that he suffered a struggle between the truth he kn [...]w, and the falsehood it was his interest to maintain. The countess de Tournon absolutely denied every thing; but when the letter above recited was read to her, she appeared hurt and confused; yet persisted [Page 321] in affirming, that the letter did not relate to mademoiselle St. Cyr.

The chevalier de la Valliére, on the con­trary, honestly told all he knew; and from his account, mademoiselle de Choiseul gained an advantage, that all the efforts of the duke could not counteract.

Thus provided, this young person, hitherto appearing as a private gentlewoman, depend­ing on the bounty of madame d'Hautefort, prepared to bring that suit to an issue, which was to rise her to an exalted rank, and to re­store to her the possessions of one of the most illustrious houses in France.

But before she had proceeded far, an unex­pected discovery threw new light on the ob­scurity of her birth; she was told that one Le [...]c had in his possession a register, which had for a great length of time been kept by his father (who had been dead ten years); and that as he (the elder) had attended the duchess of Choiseul, it was probable that whatever re­lated to the birth of her youngest daughter would be found entered in this book.

Her lawyers therefore summoned Leduc, who the next morning appeared before Jour­dain, a notary employed in the affair: he produced the book, in which his father had carefully minuted the times of his various at­tendance, the money he received, and every other circumstance that occurred in his prac­tice. There was found a detail of his first [Page 322] visit to madame de Choiseul, of his having afterwards bled her; and at length, that on the 7th of October, 1697, he was sent for to her at six o'clock in the evening, when he found her in labour, and who, between the hours of two and three the next morning, was delivered of a fine girl; which infant was entrusted to him to be put out to nurse; and which, on the 11th of October following, he carried to Meudon, having first made a slight rasure of the skin under the right ham, and again a little lower on the leg, which he rubbed with gunpowder: a method which makes a mark that never can be effaced.—These marks, mademoiselle de Choiseul bore.—Leduc then mentioned in his book, ‘that he had carried the infant to St. Etienne du Mont to be baptised, where she had re­ceived the name of Julia;’ but without speaking of her parents, godfather or godmo­ther. His journal also contained an account of money received and expended; among other articles, that he paid four livers ten sons for the coach that carried him with the child to Meudon;—that he received various sums, at times, for the maintenance of the child; and, among others, was a memorandum, that he was paid thirty new louis for his attendance, by the marshaless de Choiseul; a name which occasioned the adverse party to assert, that the whole transaction did not allude to the du­chess de Choiseul, but to some other woman of [Page 323] fashion bearing the name of de Choiseul. (There were then five or six marchionesses and countesses de Choiseul in France.)

The marshaless de Choiseul it certainly could not mean, as she was eighty years old; and it is improbable, as she was not on good terms with the duchess, that she should have undertaken, through friendship, to settle with Leduc on her account.

All the articles however of Leduc's register, which related to the contested point, were extracted, and inserted in the instruments preparing by the lawyers on behalf of made­moiselle de Choiseul; who also desired to have this book deposited in safe hands, that re­course might be had to the original when re­quisite. To this Leduc, the son, consented. But, as there were memorandums in it rela­tive to an infinite number of persons, he re­quired to have the liberty to seal up himself every leaf in which there was nothing that related to mademoiselle de Choiseul. This was proper and reasonable; and in that form the book remained to be inspected by the court.

The duke de la Valliére used every effort to prevent the journal of Leduc being received as evidence. When he found that he could not accomplish it by other means of opposition, he insisted upon having the whole book in­spected; possibly supposing, that the contents of such a journal being publicly known, might [Page 324] be attended with such inconvenience, and oc­casion so much confusion, that the court it­self would interfere to stifle the whole. In this also he failed. The six judges who were to decide upon the cause, took the book them­selves, and having examined it, found only fourteen articles which related to the cause in question; one of their number took a copy of those articles, and the book was carefully locked up.

The duke then made another effort to sup­press the evidence of the book entirely, but his attempt again failed. He was now therefore obliged to submit to have the cause tried in the very court, against the decisions of which he had, in the course of the controversy, twice appealed. The lawyers employed by made­moiselle de Choiseul failed not to urge, with great ability, all the facts herein stated, to substantiate the claim of their client.

From the answers given by the duke de la Valliére himself, the celebrated Le Normand, counsel for the plaintiff, drew an inference favourable to her cause. The duke never de­clared that he did not believe mademoiselle de Choiseul was born of his sister; but only, that he did not know or believe that she was the daughter of the duke and duchess of Choiseul; by which he tacitly allowed she might be the offspring of the duchess; and while he could not deny the maternity, threw indirectly a reflection on the honour of his sister.

[Page 325] The letter written by madame de Tournon was a strong presumptive evidence, notwith­standing all her attempts to explain away its meaning; but the evidence given by the che­valier de la Valliére was yet more conclusive. He acknowledged, that he knew his sister, the duchess de, Choiseul, had four children, a son and three daughters;—that his mother, and all the family, were apprised of her pregnancy in 1697;—that he knew the daughter of which she had been delivered was brought up by madame d'Hautefort, under the name of St. Cyr;— and that, when his sister was dying, she told him she had recommended her youngest daughter to the protection, not only of madame d'Hautefort, but to that of her brother, the duke de la Valliére; and that they had both promised to watch over her welfare. To these forcible evidences, was added the journal of Leduc; and the whole seemed to form a body rather of positive facts than presumptive proof.

The duke de la Valliére's defence consisted chiefly in reprobating the whole conduct of the defenders of mademoiselle de Choiseul; par­ticularly their availing themselves of the jour­nal of Leduc, in which circumstances were mentioned, which threw an odium on the conduct of the duchess de Choiseul, had they been true; though it is observable, that the duke de la Vaillére's frequent repetition of his assertion, that he did not believe the plaintiff [Page 326] to be the daughter of the duke and duchess of Choiseul, threw the same kind of reflection on the memory of his sister. —The fact certainly was, that the plaintiff was born eight months and some days after the arrival of the duke de Choiseul from being an hostage at the court of the duke of Savoy; and for four years preceding that period he did not reside in the house with the duchess, though he sometimes saw her.

When he was at Paris, he resided at the temple, while the duchess inhabited a house in rüe Verneuil; circumstances that, together with the mysterious manner in which the child was brought up, certainly had the ap­pearance of improper conduct in the duchess. On this, however, the duke de la Valliére laid no stress, but to exclaim against the con­duct of mademoiselle de Choiseul, who, in order to force herself into a family and pro­perty to which he protested she had no right, scrupled not to stigmatise as an adultress, a wo­man of the most unimpeached and respectable character; and to disturb, with an odious ca­lumny, the ashes of her from whom she pre­tended to derive her being.

But it was necessary, that, instead of idle declamation, the duke de la Valliére should bring proof that his sister, the duchess de Choiseul, did not bring forth a child at the time this daughter was supposed to be born; or that, if she did, this was not the person. [Page 327] Totally failing in those proofs, an arret passed in the great chamber, by a majority of twenty-two voices against nine, permitting made­moiselle de Choiseul to prove to the court all the points her counsel had alleged. The whole power and interest of the duke de La Valliére and his friends were exerted to pre­vent this arret from being carried into exe­cution.

They tried to prevail on the king to anni­hilate the whole proceeding, by an act of arbitrary power; but the affair being laid be­fore the council of state, the arret was con­firmed.—In consequence of all the proofs being examined, sentence was given, in June 1726, whereby Augustina-Frances de Choiseul was fully established and maintained in her claim; and was declared to be the daughter of Augustus de Choiseul, duke and peer of France, and of his wife, Louisa Gabriella de la Beaume le Blanc de la Valliére; and all par­ties were forbidden, either by a renewal of the suit, or in any way whatever to trouble her.

Mademoiselle de Choiseul, whose health had always been extremely delicate, had suf­fered such agitation of spirits during this long and expensive contest, as greatly to impair it. When the suit, at some period of its progress, took a turn which made her friends tremble for her success, she fainted, and was carried out of court totally insensible. And to the anxiety of her mind it may be imputed, that [Page 328] she enjoyed her good fortune only a very short time. She had hardly been possessed of her rank eighteen months, when she fell into a decline, and died, as both her sisters had done, unmarried, and under thirty.

The influence of avarice appears very strong in this history. The duke de la Valliére undoubtedly knew that mademoiselle de Choi­seul was his niece; yet he could not deter­mine to acknowledge her, when a restitution of her fortune was in question the same cruel self-interest prevailed with madame de Tournon. It must however be allowed, that the circumstances of the birth, and mysterious manner in which the marchioness d'Haut [...]rt, the friend of the duchess de Choiseul, [...] ­cated her daughter, had a very unfavourable appearance; yet as so little is known of the character of the duke her husband, and that little does, not place it in a very advantageous light, it was perhaps owing to his capricious or suspicious temper, that they were con­strained to adopt measures injurious to the reputation of the duchess, and fatal to the in­terest of her daughter.

The cause is related at great length by Guyot de Pitaval; but this abridgment is taken from the edition of Les Causes Célébres, by Richer, in which it occupies two hundred and twenty pages, containing many circum­stances unnecessary or improper to be here related.

A YOUNG man, native of Séez in Nor­mandy, of noble parents, studied the law at Angers. He there saw Renée Cor­beau, the daughter of a tradesman of the town, and under a promise of marriage se­duced her. Her situation was soon such as made it necessary to acquaint her parents with her engagement; who sought for means to oblige her lover to perform those promises which had induced Renée to listen to him.

Doubting that he would, if possible, evade them, the parents thought it might be necessary to employ artifice. They therefore pretended to take a journey; and, as soon as they believed the lovers were together, returned suddenly upon them, and, reproaching the young man with having seduced their daughter, insisted on his instantly making the only reparation in his power, by signing a contract of marriage, with which a notary was prepared, who was ready in the house. The young man signed the deed; but, feeling himself unworthily treated, in being thus surprized into an en­gagement which he had never refused to per­form, [Page 330] he went immediately to his father, to whom he related all that had happened. The father, yet more enraged than the son, per­suaded him to take priest's orders, as the only way to avoid completing a marriage so dis­honourable and so contrary to his interest; and this advice he hastily embraced. The unfortunate girl, thus abandoned by her faithless lover, commenced, together with her parents, a suit against him for seduction. He was in consequence arrested, and the affair was brought before the parliament of Paris.

The sentence, after long pleading on both sides, was, that the young man, should either marry Renée Corbeau, or be beheaded: as his being a priest made the former impossible, he was to suffer death.

He was delivered to the executioner; the fatal moment was at hand, and the priest at­tended to perform the last duties—when Renée Corbeau flew to the place where his judges were yet sitting, and, making her way through the crowd, besought permission to speak; and a moment's suspension of the dreadful punishment about to be inflicted on her lover.

The judges, struck with her beauty and distress, consented to hear her and with the simple and affecting eloquence of nature she plead [...] for his life. She represent that they undoubtedly thought her more unhappy than [Page 331] guilty, since they punished with death him who was supposed to have betrayed her; but that such a sentence, far from repair­ing her misfortune, would render it irre­parable, by taking from her the only per­son who could restore her honour; and, in­stead of doing her justice, would condemn her to tears and remorse for the rest of her life; and would leave her to endless regret, when she reflected, that her fatal love had been the occasion of his death, for whom only she wished to live.

She besought those among her judges, who had ever been sensible of the force of love, to put themselves for a moment in her situation, and to reflect what they would themselves suffer, were they to be deprived of the object of their affection, by a cruel death, and to know themselves the occasion of it;—‘for it is’ said she, ‘I who have armed the iron hand of law against him—'tis I who am his executioner—and 'tis I who, infinitely more unhappy then he is, am condemned to exist under infamy, and to carry with me to the grave the dreadful reflection of having murdered him by the excess of my attachment.’

Though the holy orders, into which he had entered, prevented his marrying her, she re­presented that they had been compulsive, and made only through fear of a violent and im­perious father: but that a dispensation might [Page 332] be obtained to dissolve them. She therefore implored the judges to suspend the execution of the sentence for a time, that her lover might take measures to annul his religious vows, and become her husband.

The court, affected by her tears and despair, were induced to grant a respite, for six months; and, as a legate from the pope was then expected in France, she flattered herself she should obtain from him, permission for her lover to renounce the ecclesiastical habit and marry her.

But the cardinal de Medicis, who was the legate that soon after arrived, was so irritated against the young man, for having sacrilegi­ously embraced holy orders, only to evade an engagement which his honour and his con­science, as well as every human law, urged him to fulfil, that he absolutely refused to grant the dispensation; and the unhappy Renée Corbeau was again driven to despair.—Henry the fourth, that excellent monarch, was then on the throne; his ears were ever open to the complaints of his subjects, and when youth and beauty pleaded, there was little doubt of redress from his compassion, though his justice was silent. Renée Corbeau threw herself at the king's feet, and the king, interested by her figure and situation, very soon suffered himself to be prevailed upon. He ordered that a dispensation might be granted; it was immediately expedited, and [Page 333] the lover thus snatched from impending des­truction, was married to his mistress. They lived together many years in the most perfect union: the husband always remembering, with the tenderest gratitude, that he owed his life, and the honour of his family, to the af­fection and attachment of his wife.