Stirring Tales of Mystery and High Adventure.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19035, 2 April 1930, Page 4

Stirring Tales of Mystery and High Adventure.

Cartouche Pays His Debt.

( By H. ASHTON-WOLFE.)

Here is the true history of Cartouche, whose flaming passion and violent love drove him to commit such wild excesses that, as leader of two thousand reckless bandits, he became, for a time, master of Paris. The story is compiled from official documents in the Paris police archives, to which Mr Ashton-XVolfe has hac £ access by the courtesy of the Prefect of Police.

At last, with last-beating heart he saw the turrets of the grim old castle looming through the trees. Yet, now that the desired moment had come, he felt afraid. After a scanty meal at an inn he crept to the massive gates of the park and knocked. The lodgekeeper gave him a queer look when he inquired if a girl who had disappeared some time before had returned, but vouchsafed no direct reply; instead he opened the gates and requested Cartouch e to enter and wait in his lodge, while he informed mademoiselle of his arrival.

Cartouche complied eagerly and watched the man hobble towards the house. An hour passed before he returned and beckoned him to follow. The vast hall they entered was empty, but his guide ushered Cartouche into a square, dimlv-lit room, evidently a library, and curtlv bade him wait.

Seized with sudden suspicion. Cartouche sprang to the door as it closed, and tried to turn the handle; but it was too late—the fellow had locked it. The window, too, was high and heavily barred, and there was nothing in the room with which he could effect an escape. Like a fool, he had walked into a trap and was now' a prisoner. He drew his sword, and with his back against the wall prepared to fight for his freedom. Almost immediately a key grated in the lock, a kick flung the door wide, and a tall figure stood framed in the opening, pistol in hand. Surprise held Cartouche spellbound; despite the pointed beard and moustache, he recognised the man who had appeared so abruptly.

“D’Ormessan,” he cried shrilly, and sprang forward with uplifted blade.

“You—my enemy—here. Where is my wife ?” D’Ormessan gazed at Cartouche with an evil smile. “I knew we would meet again, mon cher, and you are now entirely at my mercy. Your wife, indeed! You are mad! You and your Bohemian friends actually dared to abduct the Marquise Ivonne de Kergolese, daughter of my uncle the Duke, and niece of his Excellency Don Alvarez de Leon, and for that they shall be hanged. As for you —a slow, painful death shall square our accounts, but you shall live long enough to see me marry the Marquise. She has told me that you held her a prisoner and that she feigned to allow you to woo her in order to escape. Fortunately, the Duke's men arrived in time.” “You lie, you beast! The girl who married me of her own free will was only a servant of the Duchess.” “Golden-haired, was she not? Yes, I thought so. The Marquise loved to masquerade as a commoner; but as for marrying you—pah! ” and d’OrmeSsan spat at Cartouche. Like a raging tiggr the youth leapt with vibrating blade straight at his sneering enemy, but d’Ormesson had foreseen the onslaught and dropped to one knee, causing Cartouche to stumble and fall. Before he could regain his feet a dozen men had thrown themselves on him—he was bound hand and foot and carried to a chamber, below the castle, which was hewn from the living rock. A chain was fastened round his neck and locked to a ring in the wall in such fashion that he would strangle at the least struggle. There he lay for days—despairing,

hopeless, convinced that he would die. The air in the vault was so foul that soon his brain became numb. Only a tiny ray of light came through a loophole high up in the outer wall, which served but to reveal the horrors of his prison. Rats scampered over his body and gnawed the scanty food a man threw at his feet once a day, and all the crawling horrors such a place begets tortured him without respite. With diabolical cruelty salt was added to his tiny ration of water, causing his throat to burn with a thirst that nothing could assuage, and at night the bitter cold twisted his limbs in agony.

llow long he remained there praying for death to end the torture he never knew, for his wandering senses could take no count of time. It seemed to him that ages had passed, when one day a voice hailed him from the slit in the wall and something bright came tumbling at his feet. It was a long, keen knife, and tied to the hilt was a file. As he twisted forward, risking the tightening chain, and grasped the unexpected gift, the voice came again in a sibilant whisper: “When you are free from your bonds, wait until your food is brought—then act! Do not fail, or you are lost! My mistress is closely guarded in Paris. She prays night and day you will come.”

More than the hope of freedom, these words caused his stagnant blood to leap and drum in his veins, and his heart began to pound wildly. Holding the knife between his knees, he was soon free of the ropes on his wrists and legs, and at once set to work with the file to cut the chain from his neck. Night had almost come before this was accomplished, but at last he stood upright, rid of all his bonds.

It was evident that his movements had been observed by the unknown friend, for again the welcome voice called softly, and a rope to which a bundle was fastened was slowly lowered until he could grasp it. He found that it contained meat, water and wine, and a bag filled with money. He ate and drank sparingly, walking to and fro for hours to give his cramped limbs time to regain some measure of strength. At last, when the grey crept along the wall, he prepared for his desperate venture. The straw on which he had lain he tumbled over his cloak and boots to make it seem as though he were beneath; the chain he fastened to his jerkin and the severed ropes he threw into a corner. Then he took up

his post beside the door, knife in hand. | And now the creeping hours were | truly torture, but at last he caught \ the jingle of keys and knew that the | moment for action had come. With resounding clang the bolts were drawn and the door flung wide. The breath whistled through his teeth as the turnkey stooped to pour water into his overturned jug. With a horrible thud the knife sank to the hilt between the man's shoulders, and as he dropped, Cartouche pressed his face violently into the mound of straw. Only a muffled groan followed; the body quivered in one long, agonised contortion and he felt that life had fled. Cartouche crouched beside the door and listened anxiously, but not a sound came from the passage, and without further delay he dressed, wrapped his cloak around him, locked the door, and crept cautiously up the stairs, carrying a sheaf of the straw on which he had lain so many weary days. To his relief no one appeared to be about, and When he reached the stairs which led to the house he dropped the straw, and with the flint and tinder taken from the turnkey he quickly fanned it into flame.

So soon as it was well alight he crept to the hall and pulled tapestries and curtains from the w’alls to increase the blazing pile, and finally added chairs and benches. Then he ran to the door and, keeping well in the shadows, reached the gates, where he waited until he saw dense clouds of smoke and darting flames issue from the windows of the castle, and heard the yells of terror of frightened servants. Well satisfied that for a time no one would trouble about him, he scaled the wall at a spot where the stones had crumbled and ran without a backward glance until he gained the wood where once the gipsies had camped. His one thought now was to reach Paris. Thanks to the money he had received he was able to hire horses, and a week later he entered the town by the St Denis gate. Thus—after such extremes of joy and pain that in a few months his soul had leapt from youth to old age, and his heart was filled with cold and bitter hatred while visions of vengeance distorted his every thought—he stood once more in the city of wealth and pleasure. Put now he was no longer a passionate reckless, boy. Every man was to him a potential foe; a barrier to his one desire—lvonne. But to find her he needed both wealth and allies, and in

this extremity he bethought himself of his talent at sleight of hand, and without further ado, thrust himself into the crowds thronging the Pont au Change, bent on robbery and violence. Watches, purses and trinkets he deftly extracted from their owners’ clothes until his pockets bulged. lie remembered a tavern Jacques the Wrestler had mentioned, where thieves, were wont to sell their goods. It was an evil den near the Rue aux Loups, in a narrow alley known as La Grande Pinte. Already, although it was only noon, several oily Jews were haggling in a corner with their ruffianly clients. Cartouche approached and threw his loot on the table. “How much? Hurry now!” he growled, his throat thick with disgust. The men looked up without replying and at the same instant a heavy hand , spun him round. He saw a powerful, red-faced man, armed with a pistol, who grinned at him like a snarling dog. “Get out! ” this fellow cried. “No strangers here. And leave that gold!” Cartouche drew his knife and with a clever feint set its point at the fellow’s throat, disdainful of the pistol. At that the man laughed hoarsely. “ Well done, coxcomb—you’ll suit my band. You’re a fool to work alone, for if caught you are helpless. I’m Red Michelet. Ah, you’ve heard of me, eh? ” as Cartouche started back at the notorious name. “ Well—what say you, will you join?” Cartouche closed his eyes and thought a moment. Alone he could never reach Ivonne, and that was all he lived for, whereas with the help of this bandit and his cronies he could at least defy the police. “ Yes, I’ll join. But if I’m worth my salt you must help me in a private matter.”

try house, he and Michelet had remained behind. As they climbed into the boat which was to take them across the Seine, Michelet, who was far sober, pointed to the water and said to Cartouche:

So it was settled, and for a time Cartouche curbed his impatience and obeyed orders. The band Michelet commanded was composed of roughly-'two hundred men. All had their work assigned to them by the leader. Cartouche, because of his well-bred manners, was given fine clothes and money, and sent to gamble in the countless clubs and “ tripots.” His skill at cheating brought him much money, but in time a current of suspicion inevitably closed all doors and he was branded a grec.

“See, we are alone —if I were to drown you would be chief.” Cartouche looked in amazement at the drunken ruffian. Then with blazing eyes, he cried: “ What an idea you’ve given me, you fool! ” and on the words his sword flashed and Michelet sank like a stone, and only a crimson foam marked the spot where he had vanished. Wiping his blade on some leaves. Cartouche calmly rejoined his companions, and remarked in icy toxies: “ Michelet is dead; he fell in the river. Henceforth, I’m your leader. _ At once he began to organise the band which was soon to terrorise France. His undoubted genius for leadership might, in other circumstances, have won him the foremost rank as a soldier. It served him well as an outlaw. In a few months over two thousand men, sworn by the most fearful oaths to obey him, and holding positions in every walk of life, were at his beck and call. Even four famous surgeons, who by day received the elite of Paris as patients, accompanied him on his nocturnal raids and succoured the wounded. Half the archers of the watch were in his pay, postillions, warders and high court officials —and even the governor of Chatelet prison—accepted Cartouche as their chief. The police were powerless against this army of robbers. Every window in Paris was at once protected by spikes and iron bars, and a regiment of the Roj'al guard was constantly under arms in the city; but all these precautions were vain. By day his men worked in bands of fifty, taking all that came their way. The jewelled swordhilts of the time especially attracted Cartouche, and time and again the Regent himself found his scabbard empty. It was then that for the first time wrought-steel hilts were ordered from England, in order to give the courtiers a chance to retain their swords.

Soon popular legend endowed Cartouche with magical powers. The Regent gave the military authorities unlimited powers to break up this gang, and a huge reward was offered for the leader’s capture. But every day twenty of his men, dressed and made up to resemble him, were seen in twenty different parts of the town, until it became a hopeless task to search for the

Thereafter it was he who planned the thefts to be carried out, and left the work to others, while he searched Paris from end to end for his wife. One day, when preparing to attack a coun-

Embarks On Amazing Career Of Crime .

real Cartouche. And then at last spies brought him word that the girl he sought was truly the Marquise de Kergolese and that she was held captive in the palace of the Spanish Ambassador. At once Cartouche laid his plans. While five hundred of his men made a feigned attack on the buildings of the Royal Mint, he led the assault on the palace, which stood quite alone in spacious grounds near the Versailles gate. The servants and the handful of soldiers were helpless to stem the swirling tide of ruthless bandits. Soon the doors were battered down and the windows smashed and, at the head of a chosen twenty, Cartouche rushed from room to room, searching for the girl he loved, and putting all he met to the sword. But he failed to discover her. At last, when about to set fire ts> the palace, and the order to withdraw had already been given, a secret panel suddenly opened, and Ivonne, her beautiful hair draping her like a fiery mantle, rushed forward with outstretched arms.

“ My love, my love—l did not know until I heard your voice that it was you! ” Sweeping her into his arms he fled, leaving his men to loot and burn the building. But this outrage was his undoing. Every available regiment was ordered to besiege the bandit’s lair. For many days a desperate battle was waged; but his presence was needed to hearten his men—and Cartouche lay in the arms of his love indifferent to the future. At last his chief lieutenant, Poil de Feu, came bursting into his room. “ Dominique, the troops are rushing our last defences; come, if you do not wish to be taken.” But already it was too late; they were surrounded. Just before dusk the watching sentries saw, to their amazement, the well-known figure of the bandit chief climb over a wall and run swiftly towards the river. So audacious was this move that he nearly escaped. But when almost out of range there came a rattle of musketry and he fell. At once, a second figure, the exact counterpart of the first, followed, regardless of flying bullets, and flung itself on the body; and when the won-

dering soldiers approached, they found Cartouche, wild-eyed, haggard, and speechless, kneeling on the ground and holding the mangled form of a beautiful girl in his arms. She was dressed in clothes that were Tike his own, and had hoped by this ruse to give her lover a chance to escape. Cartouche allowed himself to b« bound and led away without a struggle, begging only the boon of a lock of hair from the head of the girl he had loved more than life. His trial lasted a month, but through it all he refused to utter a word. He was sentenced to die on the rack, after undergoing fearful torture, in the hope that he would reveal the names of all his men. The tortures were in vain, and at last the bandit was taken and tied to the wheel which was to tear him limb from limb. Pale as death, with clenched teeth, he gazed at the silent crowds, seeking a sign of that rescue on which he had counted. \\ hen at last he realised that his men had abandoned him to his fate, he cried in a ringing voice: " Untie me—l will reveal the names of every one of the craven dogs.” Scribes sat by him, a day and a night, and as name after name was utered, archers ran to arrest these men and brought them to stand beside their chief. Five hundred of his followers were thus captured. When no more could be found, Cartouche turned to those who stood beside him and cried: “ You dogs, you could have saved me and yourselves! A desperate rush and these canaille would have scattered like chaff. Now, we will die together!’* They were his last words: the executioner whipped his horses, the dreadful wheel turned, and Cartouche, ardent lover and master outlaw, was nothing but mangled flesh. Yet some of his men must have loved his memory, for a week later d'Ormessan was found dead on the steps of Notre Dame, on the dagger which had pierced his heart was tied a scrap of paper with the words: “ Cartouche pays his debt.** (Continued in Next Saturday's issue.)