Juliette had scarcely passed her twentieth year when the Comte de Lorsange, a forty-year-old nobleman from Anjou, became so infatuated by her that he determined to give her his name – not being rich enough to keep her. He allowed her an income of twelve thousand livres and assured her of the remainder of his fortune – a further eight thousand – if he died before she did. He also presented her with a house and servants, her own livery, and built up for her the kind of social importance which, within two or three years, caused people to forget the means by which she had attained such celebrity. This was the time when the wretched Juliette, forgetting all the sentiments due to her honourable birth and her excellent education, perverted by evil theories and dangerous books, anxious to be completely independent – to have a name, yet not be chained by it – began to ponder the criminal idea of shortening her husband’s life…The odious project once conceived, she nursed it, caressed it, and finally executed it with so much secrecy that she was, unfortunately, protected against all investigation. Thus she managed to bury, together with her troublesome husband, all traces of her heinous crime.
Free once more, and still a Countess, Madame de Lorsange resumed her former habits. But, considering herself something of an important figure in society, she maintained an outward appearance of decency. She was no longer a kept woman but a rich widow who gave delightful suppers to which the townspeople and the court were only too happy to be admitted. She was, we might say, a respectable woman who would go to bed with anyone for two hundred louis, or accept a lover on receipt of five hundred a month. Until her twenty-sixth year she continued to make brilliant conquests, ruining three ambassadors, four financiers, two bishops, and three Chevaliers of the Ordres du Roi; and, as the criminal rarely stops at his first crime – especially when it has been successful – the vicious and guilty Juliette blackened herself with two more of a similar nature. The first was committed in order that she might rob one of her lovers who had entrusted her with a considerable sum of money of which his family knew absolutely nothing; the second, in order that she might more speedily come by a legacy of a hundred thousand francs, which another of her adoring lovers had included in his will in the name of a third person, who was instructed to hand it over to the said lady after his friend’s decease.
To these horrors Madame de Lorsange added two or three infanticides. The fear of spoiling her attractive figure, strengthened by the necessity of hiding a double intrigue, several times encouraged her to have abortions; and these crimes, as undiscovered as the others, in no way hindered this clever and ambitious creature from daily finding new dupes and increasing, moment by moment, both her fortune and her crimes. It will thus be seen that it is, unfortunately, only too true that prosperity often accompanies crime, and that from the very bosom of the most deliberate corruption and debauchery men may gild the thread of life with that which they call happiness.
But, in order that this cruel and fatal truth should not alarm the reader, and in order that the sensibilities of honourable and righteous people may not be disturbed by our subsequent example of misfortune and misery relentlessly pursuing virtue, let us immediately state that this prosperity of crime is only apparent, not real. Independently of the punishment certainly reserved by providence for those who have succeeded in this way, they also nourish in the depths of their hearts a worm which ceaselessly gnaws at them, and prevents them from enjoying the false glow of happiness which they would seize, leaving in its place only the rending memory of those crimes by which they attained it. With regard to the torment of virtue by misfortune, the unfortunate victim whom fate persecutes in this way has his conscience for consolation, and this, together with the secret joy he draws from his purity, soon compensates him for the injustice of men.
Such, then, was the state of the affairs of Madame de Lorsange when M. de Corville, a gentleman of fifty, and enjoying the position in society already described above, resolved to sacrifice himself entirely for this woman, attaching her life permanently with his own. Whether by his attention, his conduct, or the wisdom of Madame de Lorsange, he succeeded, and had been living with her for four years, entirely as with a legitimate wife, when they decided to spend several months during the summer on a superb estate he had lately purchased near Montargis. One evening in June, when the beauty of the weather had tempted them to wander as far as the town, they felt too tired to make their return on foot. Instead, they entered the inn where the Lyons coach makes a stop, intending to send a rider to the château to demand a carriage for their return. They were resting in a low, cool room opening on to the courtyard, when the aforesaid coach drew up before the inn. As it is natural enough to study the comings and goings of travellers – and there is no one who has not whiled away an idle moment with this form of entertainment when it has presented itself – Madame de Lorsange, followed by her lover, arose to watch the coachload of people enter the inn. The vehicle seemed to be empty, until one of the guards, in descending, received in his arms from one of his companions a young girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, wrapped in a miserable little calico cloak and bound like a criminal. A cry of horror and surprise escaped from Madame de Lorsange, at which the young girl, turning, revealed such a sweet and delicate countenance, such a slim and graceful figure, that M. de Corville and his mistress could not help being interested in the unfortunate creature. M. de Corville approached the guards and asked one of them what the unfortunate girl had done.
‘To tell the truth, Monsieur, she has been accused of three or four very serious crimes: robbery, murder and arson. But I must admit that both my companion and myself have never before felt such repugnance over the transport of a criminal – she is the most gentle creature, and seems to us unusually honest…’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed M. de Corville, ‘it seems to me that we have here another of those everyday blunders of the lower courts. And where,’ he continued, ‘was the offence committed?’
‘At a hostelry three leagues from Lyons. She was tried at Lyons and is being taken to Paris for confirmation of the sentence. She will, however, be taken back to Lyons for execution.’
Madame de Lorsange, who had drawn close and listened to this recital, whispered quietly to M. de Corville that she wished to hear the story of her misfortunes from the girl’s own lips. And M. de Corville, urged by the same desire, made himself known to the guards and asked if this would be possible.
As they were not at all opposed to the idea, it was decided that they should spend the night at Montargis, and two comfortable suites were placed at the disposal of the prisoner and her guardians. The nobleman accepting responsibility for her safety, she was untied and conducted to the apartments of the Comtesse. The guards retired to bed after an early supper, and when the unfortunate girl had been persuaded to take a little nourishment, Madame de Lorsange, unable to restrain the most intense interest, doubtless said to herself: ‘This wretched and probably innocent creature is treated as a criminal. On the other hand everything prospers around me – who, assuredly, am much more a criminal than she is!’
Madame de Lorsange, I say, as soon as she saw her young guest a little more at ease, a little consoled by the caresses and attentions lavished on her and the interest taken in her, induced her to describe in some detail the events which had brought such an honest and sensible-looking creature into such disastrous circumstances.
‘To tell you the story of my life, Madame,’ said the beautiful unfortunate, addressing the Comtesse, ‘is to offer you the most striking example of the misfortunes of innocence. It would be to accuse providence to complain of it – it would be a sort of crime, and I dare not do it…’
Tears flowed abundantly from the eyes of the poor girl. But, having given way to her emotions for a few moments, she regained control of herself and commenced her narrative in these terms.