Angelique - Part 4. The Doomed Man of Notre Dame Chapter 11 - Read online

DESGREZ ROSE, bowed to the court, thanked the King on the defendant’s behalf, then climbed up two steps to a small rostrum to address the court.
Seeing him so straight and grave, Angelique found it hard to imagine that this black-robed man was the same tall young fellow with a ferret’s nose who, round-backed under his threadbare jacket, would stroll through the streets of Paris, whistling to his dog.
The wizened little records clerk, Clopot, who had procured the documents for the case, went to kneel before him, according to custom. The lawyer looked at the court, then at the audience. He seemed to be looking for someone in the crowd. Was it on account of the yellow candle¬light? Angelique had the impression that he was pale as a ghost.
However, when he spoke, his voice was clear and composed.
“Gentlemen,
“After the display of so many efforts by the prosecution and the jury, in the course of which your knowledge of the law vied with the height of your classical erudition—and this, let us firmly repeat it, for the sole purpose of enlightening the King’s justice and making truth shine brightly—you have, gentlemen of the jury, already exhausted all the light of the sun and the stars to hear this trial. How can an obscure lawyer who is defending his first great cause hope to find a few slender rays of light to illuminate a truth deeply buried in the bottomless well of the most dreadful accusation? This truth appears to me, alas, so distant and so dangerous that I tremble within myself and almost wish that this poor flame would go out and leave me in the quiet obscurity in which I was before. But it is too late! My eyes have seen, and I must speak. And I must cry: Take care, gentle¬men ! Take care lest the choice you will make render you accountable to future centuries. Do not be among those men whose faults will make our children’s children cry as they look back on our century: ‘It was an era of hypocrites and ignoramuses. For there was a great and noble gentleman in those days, who was accused of witchcraft for the sole reason that he was a great scientist.* ”
The lawyer paused. Then he went on in a more subdued voice:
“Imagine, gentlemen, a scene of bygone days, of that dark period when our ancestors used but the clumsiest stone weapons. And now suppose that, among them, one man has the idea of collecting the mud of a certain soil, puts it into the fire and extracts from it a keen, hard material which had been unknown. His companions cry ‘It’s witchcraft!’ and condemn him. And yet, a few centuries later, our weapons will be made out of this unknown material—iron. I shall go further. If in our day, gentlemen, you enter the laboratory of some perfume-manufacturer, will you recoil in horror and talk of witchcraft before the display of retorts and philtres which release fumes that are not always sweet-smelling? No, you’d consider this ridiculous. And yet, what mystery is being concocted in that craftsman’s lair! He materialises in liquid form that most invisible thing of all: scent. Do not be among those to whom could be applied the terrible words of the Gospel: ‘They have eyes to see and sec not. They have ears to hear and hear not.* I do not doubt, gentlemen, that the mere charge of engaging in unusual research would not have sufficed to trouble your minds, which profound study has opened to all sorts of perspectives. But disquieting circumstances, a strange reputation, surround the defendant’s personality. Let us analyse, gentlemen, on what facts this reputation is based, and let us see if each fact by itself, divorced from all others, can reasonably support a charge of witchcraft. Joffrey de Peyrac, a Catholic child entrusted to a Huguenot nurse, is dashed out of a window into a courtyard by fanatics at the age of four. He is crippled and disfigured.
Should we accuse of witchcraft, gentlemen, all the cripples and all whose sight is fear-inspiring? However, although disfavoured by nature, the Comte possesses a marvellous voice, which he trains with Italian masters. Should we accuse of witchcraft, gentlemen, all those golden-voiced singers who make noble ladies, and even our wives, swoon with pleasure? From his voyages the Comte has brought back a thousand fascinating tales. He has studied new customs, delved into foreign philosophies. Should we sentence all travellers and philosophers? Yes, I know: all this does not make for a very simple personality. And I come to the most surprising phenomenon: this man who has acquired a profound science and grown rich thanks to his knowledge, this man who speaks and even sings superbly well, this man has managed, despite his physique, to be attractive to women. He likes women and does not hide the fact. He glorified love and has numerous liaisons. That among the women who are in love with him there are a few over-excited or shameless ones is a normal occurrence in a life of licence which the Church certainly frowns upon but which is none the less extremely widespread. If, gentlemen, we were to bum all the noble lords who love women and all those who are pursued by disappointed mistresses, I do believe, in faith, that the Place de Greve would not be vast enough to contain their stakes. . .
There was a stir of approval. Angflique marvelled at Desgrez’s skill. How tactfully he had avoided dwelling on Joffrey’s wealth, which had aroused so much envy, while on the other hand stressing as a regrettable fact, but one which sober-minded burghers were helpless to alter, the licentious life that was the privilege of noblemen.
He gradually whittled down the charges, reduced them to the pro¬portion of provincial gossip so that his listeners would soon feel surprised at having made so much ado about nothing.
“He is attractive to women!” softly repeated Desgrez, “and we, members of the strong sex, are amazed that, with his unprepossessing physique, he should inspire so much passion in southern ladies. Oh, gentlemen, let us not be overbold! Ever since the world began, who has been able to fathom the heart of women, and the why and wherefore of their passions? Let us remain respectfully on the edge of this mystery. For if we don't, we might be compelled to bum all women at the stake! . . .”
The laughter and applause were cut short by Bourie, who jumped up from his arm-chair.
“Stop the comedy!” the Judge shouted, and his face turned increasingly yellow. “You are mocking the court and the ChurcL Are you forgetting that the charge of witchcraft was originally brought by an Archbishop? Are you forgetting that the chief witness for the prosecution is a monk,
and that a regular exorcism was performed on the accused, showing him to be a henchman of Satan?”
Tm not forgetting anything, Monsieur Воипё,” Desgrez gravely retorted, “and I shall answer you. It is quite true that the Archbishop of Toulouse was the first to bring a charge of witchcraft against Monsieur de Peyrac, to whom he had been opposed by a rivalry of long standing. Did this prelate regret a gesture to which, for reasons of personal grievance, he had not given enough thought? That is what I like to think, for I have here abundant documents in which Monseigneur deFrontenac repeatedly demands that the accused be handed over to an ecclesiastical court and refuses to be a party to any decisions that may be taken by a civil court on the subject. He also refuses to support—I have his letter, gentlemen, and can read it to you—the facts and words of the man whom you call the chief witness for the prosecution, Conan Becher, a monk. As for the latter, whose frenzy might well seem suspect to any person of sound mind, I remind you that he is responsible for the single exorcism on which the prosecution seems to base its case. That exorcism took place in the prison of the Bastille on the fourth December last, in the presence of Fathers FrSlat and Jonathan, who are in the court. I do not contest the authenticity of this deposition inasmuch as it was actually drawn up by this monk and his acolytes, about whom I shall say nothing, not knowing whether they are credulous, ignorant, or whether they are accomplices. But I do contest the authenticity of the exorcism!” Desgrez cried in a thundering voice. “I do not wish to enter into the details of the incongruities of that sinister ceremony, but I shall stress just two points: the first is that the nun who, incidentally, simulated the symptoms of possession in the presence of the accused is the same woman, Carmencita de M6recourt, who, a little while ago, gave us a sample of her talent as an actress, and concerning whom a clerk of the record-office can testify that he saw her, as she left the hall, spitting out the piece of soap by means of which she simulated the froth of an epileptic fit, a trick well known to those shammers who try to rouse public pity in the streets. Second point: I revert to the faked probe, that infernal needle which you ruled out as being supported by insufficient evidence. And yet, gendemen, what if it were true, what if a madman of fiendish cruelty really did subject a man to such a torture with the aim of misleading your judgment and burdening your conscience with the death of an innocent man? . . . I have here the statement made by the physician of the Bastille a few days after that abominable experiment.”
In ajerky voice, Desgrez proceeded to read a report by Maitre Malinton, prison doctor at the Bastille, who, having been called to the bedside of a prisoner whose name he did not know, but who had scars on his face, had found the latter to have all over his body small festering wounds which appeared to have been caused by deep needle-pricks.
In the profound silence which followed this reading the lawyer went on in a slow, grave voice:
“And now, gentlemen, the time has come for you to listen to a solemn voice, whose unworthy spokesman I am, a voice which, beyond all human turpitudes, has always sought to exhort the faithful to prudence. The hour has come for me, humble clerk that I am, to make the voice of the Church heard at this trial. It says this.”
Desgrez unfolded a large piece of paper and read:
“ ‘On this night of 25th December 1660, in the prison of the Palace of Justice in Paris, a ceremony of exorcism was performed on the person of Joffrey de Pcyrac de Morens, accused of intelligence of and trafficking with Satan. Whereas, according to the ritual of the Church of Rome, genuine demoniacs must possess three extraordinary powers, to wit, one: knowledge of languages they have not learned; two: the power of divining and knowing secret matters; and three: preternatural powers of the body; we, in our capacity as the sole Exorcist lawfully empowered by the Church of Rome for the whole diocese of Paris, but nevertheless assisted in this by two other priests of our holy congregation, have subjected the prisoner Comte Joffrey de Peyrac to the exercises and examinations provided by the ritual on this night of the 25th December 1660. From which it was made evident that the exorcised had knowledge only of such languages as he had learned and in particular was unconversant with Hebrew and Chaldean, with which two of us are familiar; that this man appears to be very learned but in no way a diviner; displayed no preter¬natural strength of body, but only wounds provoked by deep, festering punctures and infirmities of long standing; therefore we declare that the examined Joffrey de Peyrac is in no wise possessed by the devil. . . .* There follow the signatures of the Reverend Father Kircher, of the Society of Jesus, Grand Exorcist of the diocese of Paris, and those of the Reverend Fathers de Marsan and de Montaignat, assisting.”
The stupefaction and uneasiness of the audience was almost tangible, and yet nobody stirred or spoke.
Desgrez looked at the court.
“What can I add to this testimony? Gentlemen of the jury, you will consider your verdict. But you will at least do so fully cognisant of one certainty: that the Church, in whose name you are asked to condenm this man, has found him innocent of the crime of witchcraft for which he has been brought here. . . . Gentlemen, I leave you face to face with your conscience.”
Desgrez composedly picked up his cap, put it on his head and walked down the steps from the rostrum.
Judge Bourie then rose and his shrill voice rang out in the silence:
“Let him come! Why doesn’t he come in person? It is for Father Kircher to testify on this secret ceremony, which is suspect on more than one count, having been held secretly and without the knowledge of the judicial authorities.”
“Father Kircher will come,” Desgrez asserted very quietly. “He should be here now. I have sent for him.”
“Well, I tell you he won’t come,” Bourie exclaimed, “for you lied, you have trumped up this whole fantastic rigmarole of a secret exorcism in order to impress the judges. You have hidden behind the names of im¬portant churchmen in order to sway the verdict. . . . Your deceit would have been discovered, but too late. . .
With his customary agility, the lawyer bounded towards Bourie.
“You insult me, Monsieur. I am not a forger, as you are. I remember the oath I took before the King’s Council of the Bar when I was invested as a lawyer.”
The audience was in an uproar. Massenau, standing up, tried to restore order. Desgrez’s voice still rose above the din:
“I demand ... I demand the adjournment of the hearing till to¬morrow. The Reverend Father Kircher will ratify his statement. I swear it.”
At this moment a door flew open. A cold draught mingled with snow¬flakes blew from one of the court entrances that gave on to the yard. Everybody turned towards this opening, in which two snow-covered archers had appeared. They stepped aside to make room for a small, stocky, swarthy man, who was smartly dressed and whose wig and cloak were almost dry.
“Monsieur le President,” he said in a gruff voice, “I learned that the court was still in session despite the late hour. I therefore felt it my duty to bring you without delay some news which I believe to be important.”
“We are listening,” answered Massenau, surprised at this intrusion by the Lieutenant of Police.
Monsieur d’Aubray turned towards the lawyer.
“Maitre Desgrez asked me to search throughout the capital for a Reverend Jesuit Father by the name of Kircher. After dispatching several constables to the various places where he might have been and where nobody had seen him, I was advised that the body of a drowned man, found amid the ice on the Seine, had been transported to the morgue of the Chatelet. I went there, accompanied by a Jesuit Father of die Temple convent. The latter formally identified his colleague, Father Kircher, whose death must have occurred in the first hours of the morning. . . .”
“So you do not even shrink from murder!” yelled Воипё, flinging his arm out towards the lawyer.
The other judges became restless, too. The crowd shouted: “Enough! Have done with it!” ... .
Angflique, more dead than alive, could not even make out whom this hooting was directed at She covered her ears with her hands.
She saw Massenau rise and make an effort to be heard.
“Gentlemen, the hearing continues. The chief witness for the defence summoned by Council at the last minute, the Reverend Father Kircher, having been found dead, and in view of the fact that the lieutenant of police in person was evidently unable to discover upon him any document which, from beyond the grave, would testify to the truth of Maitre Desgrez’s statements, having regard also to the fact that the personality of the Reverend Father alone could have lent weight to an alleged deed drawn up in secrecy, the court in its wisdom . . . declares that deed as null and void and the incident as non-existent. The court will now retire to consider its verdict.”
“Don’t do this!” cried Desgrez’s desperate voice. “Adjourn the verdict! I shall find witnesses. Father Kircher has been murdered.”
“By you!” Bourie flung at him.
“Calm yourself, Maitre,” said Massenau, “and trust the judges!”
Had the jury been out for a few minutes or several hours?
It seemed to Angelique that the judges had never moved, that they’d always been there with their square caps and their red-and-black robes, that they would stay there for all eternity. But now they were standing. President Massenau’s lips were moving. They were articulating, in a trembling voice:
“I require for the King that Joffrey de Peyrac de Morens be declared guilty and convicted of the crimes of abduction, enticement, impiety, magic, witchcraft and other abominations mentioned at this trial, and in reparation of which he shall be delivered into the hands of the executioner of high justice, taken and led to the square of Notre Dame, shall there ask pardon of God, bareheaded and barefoot, with a rope around his neck and a fifteen-pound taper in his hand. Whereupon he shall be taken to the Place de Greve, tied to a stake set up for this purpose and burned alive until his body and bones be consumed and reduced to ashes, which shall then be dispersed and scattered to the four winds. And each and all of his possessions shall be forfeited to and confiscated by the King. And, before being executed, he shall be subjected to the question ordinary and extra¬ordinary. I require that the Saxon Fritz Hauer be declared his accomplice and, in reparation, be sentenced to be hanged and strangled until death ensues, on a gallows to be set up for this purpose on the Place de Greve. I require that the Moor Kouassi-Ba be declared his accomplice and, in reparation, be sentenced to the galleys for life.”
By the bench of infamy, the tall figure, supported on crutches, was swaying. Joffrey de Peyrac raised a ghasdy face towards the court.
“I am innocent!”
His shout echoed in a deathlike silence.
He then went on in a calm, toneless voice:
“Your lordship Baron Massenau de Pouillac, I understand that it is too late for me to protest my innocence. I therefore keep silent. But, before being taken away, I wish to pay public tribute to the concern for equity which you have sought to maintain throughout this trial, whose pre¬sidency was forced upon you, as was its conclusion. Receive the assurance of a nobleman of old lineage that you are worthier to carry the blazon than those who govern you.”
The ruddy face of the Toulouse parliamentarian contracted. Suddenly he raised his hand to his eyes and shouted in that longue d'oc which Angelique and the condemned man alone could understand:
“Farewell! Farewell! Brother countryman.”