CHAPTER XXIV.

THE COUNT DE COUCY--DUMAS--A THREATENED SUICIDE.

It is probable that these pages will be perused by some who recollect a recent attempt to substitute a child procured in an English workhouse for the veritable heir to an Irish earldom. It is extremely improbable, that, in any part of the world, they may be read by any person unacquainted with the main circumstances of the lengthened investigations, which terminated in the conviction of a spurious aspirant to an English baronetcy. I shall now offer my second selection from the French memoirs. It relates to a claim to a title of nobility, and, looking to the source from which the statements have been derived, I think they may fairly be designated a true account of a falsehood.

The Marquis de Coucy sent his son to be nursed at Gonesse, where he was left during three years, as was usual at that period (the reign of Louis XIV.) The young Count was then brought back to his paternal home, and became the idolized darling of his parents, who had no other child. When the proper time arrived to commence his education, the first masters were engaged. His progress was most rapid, and at sixteen, having completed his preliminary studies, he was entered at the Military Academy.

One day, whilst he was amusing himself along with some of the Rohans, the Tremouilles, a Duguesclin or two, and several of the young Rochefoucaults, a decrepit female, hideously ugly, excessively dirty, although not badly clad, proposed to this party of high-born lads to tell their fortunes. Some haughtily rejected the old impostor, others eagerly embraced her offer, and amongst them the young Coucy. She took the hands of four or five in succession, told them her idle stories, and pocketed their money.

All, through a motive of amusement, even those who were not desirous of making a personal experience of her imaginative power, surrounded the fortune-teller. When it came to the turn of the young Count de Coucy to extend his palm, he offered it. The old hag examined his hand for a much longer time than she had devoted to the inspection of the preceding ones, and suddenly rejecting it with every indication of disdain, she exclaimed--"Back, fellow! Begone, clown! I am here to speak only to gentle-folk, and not to tell the future destiny of a peasant's son."

At these words there was a universal laugh: some ridiculing the old woman on her divining power, others venting a good-humoured raillery upon their companion. He knew not whether to be jocular or angry. They informed the old woman of the name and title of the illustrious youth whom she had designated the son of a peasant, but she continued to swear by all the saints that the young Coucy was nothing else. The uproar occasioned by this denunciation continued to such a pitch, that the captain of cavalry, the commandant of the academy, interfered, and calling a groom, directed him to turn out that woman.

"That a woman!" exclaimed the groom; "I would wager that it is a man."

Another groom declared that he had seen an individual, in the habit of a peasant, enter a neighbouring tavern, from whence, in about a quarter of an hour, he had issued disguised as a female; and he averred that the fortune-teller whom they had just expelled was the same person. The young Count de Coucy heard these statements with indifference; but as they referred to a creature who had seemed to take pleasure in insulting him, they did not entirely lapse from his recollection.

Six months passed. One morning the Marquis de Coucy, being in his room, was discussing with the Marchioness a project of marriage for the young Count; they were anxious to marry him to a princess of the house of Lorraine. In the midst of their deliberations, a valet-de-chambre appeared. He was the brother of the young Count's foster-father, and the servant to whom the Marquis manifested the greatest liking and confidence. He apologised for disturbing their conversation, and stated that a young man, of a most elegant demeanor and prepossessing manner, and whose appearance seemed almost familiar to him, requested to be admitted.

"Let him come in," said the Marquis. The stranger is introduced. He is youthful, and appears not to have passed his seventeenth year; his figure slight and symmetrical; his aspect expressive and bland; his carriage is good, he has a sweet smile, and his salute is agreeable. Still his deportment does not suggest that noble blood is coursing through his veins. He has not the aristocratic air which a courtly life imparts, or the polished manner derived from elevated society.

The young man appears under the influence of some strong emotions; he produces a letter, and presents it to the Marquis. It is received, and the youthful stranger sinks upon his knees, and covers his face with his hands, as if about to implore pardon for some great transgression. Here is the letter:--

"MONSEIGNEUR,--Sixteen years have this day elapsed since, yielding to the pernicious suggestions of my wife, I committed a horrible crime, of which I now accuse myself, and for which I must endeavor to make all possible reparation, by a full acknowledgment of my offence. This luckless day saw your legitimate heir taken from his cradle, and my poor son substituted for the noble child. The imposture still continues, and it is the son of Maurice Lesourd and Madeleine Ledaille that, in your princely mansion, occupies the position due to your legitimate offspring, whose youth has been condemned to the weary labours of a rustic life. Whilst my wife lived, I reluctantly concealed this scandalous transaction, but her death, this very day, terminates my guilty silence; and as I do not involve her in the punishment due to my offence, I feel the less repugnance in submitting to the justice of the violated laws. I send you, monseigneur, your son; he will deliver this letter, and it is for you to place him in his rightful position. I shall receive, in return, the unfortunate creature from whom a brilliant career of life is thus withdrawn. Can my utmost tenderness ever repay him for the loss incident to this disclosure?

"I am ready to maintain, before any tribunal, the integrity of this statement; and I cherish the hope, that I may still enjoy some portion of your distinguished protection. I have the honor to be, Monseigneur, your most humble, most respectful servant,--

"MAURICE LESOURD."

The Marquis could not believe his eyes. The Marchioness fell lifeless at the reading of this startling communication; but presently, yielding to a natural impulse, raising the young man from his humble posture, they pressed him to their hearts, and mingled their tears whilst recognising his title to their affections.

One thing surprised the Marquis, the style of the letter. The young man declared that it was written by the brother-in-law of Lesourd, the chief clerk of a Parisian notary. "He it was," added the youth, "that stimulated Lesourd to this act of justice; he is an excellent man, worthy of the patronage of Monseigneur ----"

"Say your father's patronage," replied the Marquis; "but his noble conduct shall not lack acknowledgment and recompense; from this day he shall be my confidential agent. My present agent wishes to retire, being aged and infirm."

Meanwhile, the Marchioness, recovering from her excitement, recollecting the virtues and high endowments of him whom she was no longer to term her son, began to consider that to deprive him of the rights with which he had been so long vested, would require something more than the mere will, or even the conclusive determination, of the Marquis. Her husband found himself meshed in the most embarrassing manner; and the new aspirant, who is already invested with the title of Count de Coucy, perceives that he has to encounter an obstacle of which he had not calculated the strength and magnitude, namely, the adverse possession by his rival for upwards of fourteen years of the position in which he now sought to supersede him! How was he to deprive him of title, rank, fortune! How was he to banish him from a family of which he had so long been a cherished member? There was nothing in his deportment denoting the inferiority of his birth. He bore no resemblance, indeed, to either the Marquis or Marchioness de Coucy, but his likeness to the father of the latter had frequently been remarked.

He now enters the apartment. His air is noble, and with respectful affection he embraces the parents of his love. Their fondness for him of whom they had been so proud, and by whom their anxieties and hopes had been engrossed, is irrepressible. They are plunged into heartbreaking perplexity. They cannot allow the awful storm suddenly to burst upon him. Neither the Marquis nor his lady could summon courage for an explanation, which, nevertheless, it was impossible long to defer. The new claimant is withdrawn for the time, a large sum is given for his use, and both of the parents, to whom he has so lately presented himself as their offspring, assure him that a speedy and rigid investigation shall be instituted.

Persons of the highest discretion and of the greatest sagacity are put in requisition. Experienced magistrates, profound lawyers, are consulted. They mostly declare that the confession of the foster-father is insufficient; but some incline to a different opinion. The matter could not be concealed; in a few days it becomes publicly known. The partisans of the new claimant make loud comments on the insulting and disdainful manner, with which a fortune-teller at the academy had repelled the Count, telling him that he was a plebeian. The gentlemen who were present attested this fact, to which immense importance was attached.

The unfortunate Count trembled with rage at these attacks. He tenderly loved his parents, and was deeply shocked at the bare possibility of losing their affections. M. de la Rochefoucault, his most intimate friend, announced to him the damaging effect of the scene with the gipsy. For a long time the Count had forgotten this event; but when it was mentioned by his friend, all the circumstances recurred to his mind, and amongst them the expressions of the two grooms. They are sent for. One repeats that he believed the person referred to was a man disguised as a female; the other declared that he had seen a peasant enter the tavern known as _de la Bonne-Foi, rue du Petit-Lion-Saint-Sauveur_, and that the same person soon after issued forth in female attire.

The Count and his advisers betook themselves to this tavern. They did not find it easy to enlighten the proprietor, or bring him to appreciate the importance of their inquiries; but when he had sufficiently collected his ideas, he declared that a peasant of Gonesse, with whom he was personally acquainted, one Lesourd, had asked to be accommodated with a room in which he could disguise himself, and, he added, that Lesourd stated his motive for the trick to be, that he was employed by the parents of a young man to watch his conduct at the academy, and that the disguise thus adopted afforded him the best means of making his observations.

This was an important discovery. Lesourd encountered it by declaring that the better to punish himself for his substitution of the false heir, and to prepare a triumph for the cause of truth, he had made this preliminary denunciation of his son. This reason appeared unsatisfactory; such conduct was not straightforward or candid. Truth abhors disguises. Still the mystery was undiscovered, and all remained involved in doubt. The most conflicting opinions continued to be entertained, and the best society in Paris sought no other topic for conversation than the merits of the respective claimants to the honors of the illustrious house of Coucy.

We have to recollect that, on the recommendation of the new candidate, the brother-in-law of Lesourd had been appointed agent to the Marquis de Coucy. He had quitted the notarial office in which he had been previously employed, and for several weeks had discharged the duties of his new and important function. He had laboured with great zeal to establish the claims of the recent comer, and omitted no opportunity of furthering his cause. This man, Romain Ladaille, possessed a spaniel, an extremely sagacious and gentle animal. The Marchioness became fond of the dog, and allowed it into the apartments of the mansion, where it became a complete pet. One morning Romain was engaged with the Marquis on some business of importance. A manuscript was wanting. After a slight delay the agent found it, and laying it before the Marquis, he casually observed, "If I had not found the paper, Fidele would have relieved us of the difficulty; he is so intelligent a dog, he finds anything that is lost." Upon this he paces round the chamber, conceals his portfolio beneath the cushions of a sofa, and then returning to his seat, calls the dog, pretends to lament the loss of something valuable, and makes a gesture to Fidele to search for the missing article. The animal at once betakes himself to the task, as if he fully comprehended a glance of his master; he smells about the apartment, and presently drags the portfolio from its place of concealment.

The Marquis was highly amused; he called the dog, and disengaging the portfolio from his teeth, a letter drops from it. The superscription is in his own name. He opens it, and as he reads an indescribable agitation pervades his frame; his hand trembles, the blood forsakes his cheeks, and his strength scarcely suffices to ring the bell. A servant appears, and receives an order. In a few moments an exempt of the Police enters, and respectfully requires to know for what purpose he has been summoned.

"To arrest this villain," cries the Marquis, pointing to his agent; "and to affix your signature to the margin of this letter, which I have just received from his portfolio, and which I must request you to peruse."

The Marchioness having been apprised of some extraordinary discovery having been made, hastens to her husband. "Ah, beloved wife," he says to her, "God has had pity on our misery; the imposture is unveiled. Listen, it is Heaven itself that succours us." And he reads--

"MONSEIGNEUR,

"I am on my death-bed, and at this awful moment, truth is a duty which I owe to you. You have been my benefactor; I have been reared in your household; you were bountiful to me on my marriage, and by you I was chosen to nurse your only child. Three years have passed since my husband, induced by some pernicious temptation, besought me to pass our son Pierrot as yours, but I have always refused to commit this crime. Nevertheless, I fear that after my death this guilty design will be persevered in. I therefore apprise you of the sure means of its detection. In his childhood Pierrot fell into the fire, and the accident has left visible marks on his legs and left arm. These scars will serve to show which is your son and which the impostor, in case they should attempt to deceive you on the subject. Your son has not the slightest mark of a burn on any part of his frame. All our neighbours are aware of the accident having occurred to my child. I confide this letter to Romain, my brother, and have enjoined him to deliver it to you. On receiving it, send for my husband, read it to him, and he will renounce his evil project. But for the love of God, and in the requital of the service I now render, pardon my unfortunate husband, and do not abandon my poor Pierrot, my own wretched son.

"I have the honor to be, &c., &c.

"MADELEINE LADAILLE _femme_ LESOURD."

Gonesse, May 22nd, 1712.

Beyond this letter there was nothing required to prove the fraud of Lesourd and his brother-in-law. The latter fell on his knees before the Marquis, beseeching mercy, and throwing on his brother-in-law all the odium of the infamous design in which, he said, the threats of Lesourd had compelled him to participate. Lesourd, when brought forward, wished to exculpate himself by attributing to Romain the entire plan and subsequent furtherance of the iniquitous affair. Thus, these two scoundrels aggravated still more their detestable guilt. They finished by declaring that the youthful Pierrot was their willing accomplice.

The police, by some inquiries, succeeded in demonstrating that the two brothers-in-law were equally willing to promote their nefarious scheme. Justice had some vindication. Lesourd and Romain were sent to the galleys, but the Marchioness interceded for Pierrot. Some money was given to him, and he went to America. There, this detestable fellow continued to call himself the Count de Coucy.

The spaniel Fidele became the cherished pet of the true count; Romain never could account how the letter of his sister, which he treasured carefully as the means of domineering over his nephew in case his attempt on the title of de Coucy should prove successful, had been taken from a casket in which he had placed it, as a most important possession; how it was transferred to the portfolio he could never conjecture. But the police received, in the course of their investigations, some statements from which they were led to believe that Romain was occasionally a somnambulist.

DUMAS.

Dumas, in the construction of the plots of some of his novels, seems to have availed himself of facts derived from the Police Memoirs, over which, however, he spreads a very ample drapery of fiction. In "The Three Musketeers" he ascribed to a Gascon gentleman, d'Artagnan, a clearness of perception, a promptitude of action, and a personal intrepidity which were really exhibited by one who was born much nearer to the Shannon than to the Garonne, and who was a confidential attendant in the household of the Duke of Buckingham, and is mentioned by Bois-Robert, one of Richelieu's spies, in the following terms:--

"I shall first state to his Eminence, that chance having enabled me again to meet an Irishman whom I had known in Paris, when he was pursuing his studies; I then rendered him some service, and he, from that moment, manifested to me the most ardent gratitude. On leaving Paris, he proceeded to England, where, very luckily, he became the valet-de-chambre of his grace the Duke of Buckingham. Although the emoluments of that situation must be considerable, Patrick O'Reilly (which is the name of this Irishman) is always without a halfpenny. In this respect he imitates his noble master. I have received him kindly whenever he came to see me; and such is my zeal in the service of Monseigneur, that I have submitted to associate with this valet, hoping to obtain some useful information respecting his master. It was also for this purpose that I advanced him some money."

Dumas does not entirely ignore the name of Patrick O'Reilly, but he gives it to a jeweller, whom he mentions as the wealthiest and most skilful of all then following that trade in London. In his novel of the Count of Monte Cristo, he introduces the hero as the chief officer of a fine merchant ship. It would have been more true, though perhaps rather vulgar, to have presented to his readers, a shoemaker, of the description called chamber masters, whose name was François Picaud, and who, through motives of jealousy or envy, was represented to Savary, duc de Rovigo, as an agent or spy for the English and the royalists of La Vendee. He was imprisoned, his intended marriage having been prevented by his arrest, and continued incarcerated at Fenestrelle from 1807 to 1814. In the prison he was appropriated as a personal attendant to a Milanese ecclesiastic, of high rank, who died in January, 1814, having confided to Picaud full information as to his immense property, and the places where the documents necessary to it were to be found. He also gave him a brief testamentary grant of all he possessed or was entitled to. There was a very great value accruing to the legatee in diamonds and hidden coin, but that treasure was in the vicinity of Milan, and the statements respecting the Chateau d'If, and the island of Monte Cristo, were complete fictions.

As to the last novel to which I have adverted, I am tempted into finding very great fault with one of its incidents, which appears most unnatural, and therefore most improbable. I refer to the scene between the ruined merchant and his son, in which a father acknowledges his intention to commit suicide, and ultimately persuades his son to acquiesce in such a crime; nay, even to use to his parent, with the pistols lying before him prepared for the catastrophe, the expression, "Die in peace, my father, I will live." This is, I repeat, unnatural and improbable. The English are said to be a suicidal people, amongst whom a November day produces throat-cutting, pistoling, and poisoning; but in England was there ever an instance of suicide being the subject of consultation between parent and child? Oh! never; nor do we believe that such could appear to our continental neighbours more consistent with the state and feelings of society amongst them than it is amongst ourselves.

A THREATENED SUICIDE.

I may mention, in reference to suicidal attempts, that I witnessed what I at first considered a dreadful attempt on the part of a Frenchman to terminate his existence before some hundreds of spectators, and in the immediate presence of a handsome young woman whose frigid indifference to his ardent passion for her he loudly declared had rendered his life insupportable. It was during my visit to Paris in 1853, and occurred on a Sunday, in the grounds adjoining the palace of St. Cloud, where there were numerous tables occupied fully by parties enjoying the viands and wine, beer, or coffee, procured from two restaurants, which were also well supplied with the choicest confections. The demented lover, who was very well-looking, and seemed to be about five and twenty years of age, declared, unless Mademoiselle would agree to marry him in the ensuing week, he was determined to die there, and shed his blood at her feet. She appeared worse than indifferent to his entreaties and to the fatal intentions which he expressed, for she laughed most heartlessly at his expressions of hopeless despair. Leaving the table, he threw an overcoat across his arm, and hurried to one of the restaurants, from which he very quickly returned, and made a final demand that Mademoiselle should decide his fate. She continued inexorable, and I felt great surprise that none of those who heard him interfered either by expostulation or actual restraint. With frantic gesticulations he drew a pocket-pistol from under the folds of his overcoat, and thrust it into his mouth. It produced, however, no explosion. The pistol gave way between his closing teeth, and the barrel was soon lodged in his stomach. The apparently deadly weapon was made of chocolate, of which the obdurate damsel, still laughing, insisted on getting a portion.