The History and Romance of Crime 27

The History and Romance of Crime 27

A criminal drama which horrified all Paris in 1857 and had its

suitable dénouement on the Place de la Roquette, was the murder of the

Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, a dignified ecclesiastic,

who was universally loved and esteemed in his diocese. The Archbishop

was on his way to put on his vestments for the mass in the church of

St. Etienne du Mont. The procession was on the point of entering the

sacristy when a man, dressed in black, rushed in behind the Archbishop,

who was carrying aloft the Episcopal Cross, and with his left hand

caught hold of him and twisted him sharply round, while with his right

he struck him in the ribs with a knife. The wound was mortal, and the

Archbishop almost immediately fell dead, while his murderer was seized

and roughly handled by the indignant crowd. The police proceeded at

once to interrogate him and soon learned who he was. In appearance

short and thin, with a not unpleasing countenance, carefully dressed

in black, he proved to be one Louis Verger, an unfrocked priest. He

confessed that the murder was premeditated, and that he had come to

the church with the set intention of committing it. He had no animus

against the Archbishop, but desired to aim a blow at the dogma of the

Immaculate Conception. Thence his outcry when he struck the fatal blow,

“No more goddesses!” “Down with the goddesses!” He was quite calm and

self-possessed afterward, and the suggestion that he was insane quite

fell to the ground. When he was received at Mazas his mental condition

was inquired into, but there was no symptom of derangement. His first

demand was for food, for he had eaten nothing that morning, fearing

to interfere with the steadiness of his nerves. When questioned as to

the motives of his crime, his answers were clear and logical, except

that he was fanatically hostile to certain doctrines, and especially to

that of the celibacy of the clergy. In his parish he was constantly at

difference with his parishioners, with whom he had many quarrels, and

he was at length removed to another parish. He went to London to work

under Cardinal Wiseman, the new Archbishop of Westminster, and on his

return to Paris obtained fresh preferment at Saint Germain L’Auxerrois.

He was still turbulent and constantly a thorn in the side of the

Archbishop. His state of mind was held to be doubtful, but the doctors

declared him more dangerous than mad. He preached the most violent

diatribes against ecclesiastical authority, and richly deserved the

sentence of suspension that was decreed against him within a week of

his murderous attack upon the Archbishop.

 

No doubt excessive vanity and the desire to pose as a public character

were strong temptations to the crime he committed. He was always

greatly pleased when people came to see him and he gloried in his crime

as a new _cause célèbre_ which long would be the talk of the town. He

maintained this attitude all through his trial, and at times behaved

scandalously by insulting the judge and ridiculing the procedure. The

audience was furiously incensed with him, and more than once it was

necessary to suspend the proceedings. Public feeling was entirely on

the side of the murdered Archbishop. At the same time there can be very

little doubt that he was an irresponsible being, a maniac suffering

from exaltation, eager always to “show off;” and it would have been a

bitter disappointment to him if he had been put away in an asylum.

 

His conviction came as a matter of course, but he did not accept

it without protest, exclaiming contemptuously, “What justice! What

justice!” He cried out that he would appeal to the Emperor (Napoleon

III), and he assured his father, when the old man visited him, that

he would not abide by the sentence. Nevertheless he was removed from

the Conciergerie to La Roquette, and here in his last abode he tried

to play the hero, and with much satisfaction frequently repeated the

details of his crime. He denied that he felt any remorse for having

struck down “_ce pauvre Monseigneur_,” but was not glad that he had

done it. “My work was over,” he would say, “and I dropped my arms to

my side like the workman who has finished his task.” The appeal made

for reprieve was very ably maintained by his advocate, but was quite

fruitless. There could be no doubt as to his guilt, and no pity for the

criminal in the Emperor. Again and again the condemned man prayed to

be permitted to write to the head of the state, and was very indignant

when the privilege was denied him. Still he had access to friends

outside, and hoped for some reversal of sentence through their good

offices. He could hardly believe his ears when they came to him on the

morning of execution to make the last dread announcement, which was

conveyed by the Abbé Hugon, who was acting as _aumonier_, and who was

accompanied as usual by the Chief of the Police, the director of the

prison and other officials. “It is useless,” he repeated, “I know you

all; you are not speaking the truth and have only come to see what

effect the bad news would have on me. I do not, I cannot believe it. I

know the Emperor, and feel sure he will not abandon me.”

 

At last the dread reality forced itself on him, and his demeanor

completely changed. His air of nonchalant bravado suddenly disappeared,

and a fierce passion for self-preservation seized him. He grew livid

with fury, and with a wild gesture of repulsion he waved them away.

“Be off, I want no priests, no relics, no cross,” he cried. “Do not

think that I will go quietly to the scaffold. I’ll have no scaffold.

You will have to carry me there in pieces,” and he set himself to

resist vigorously, clinging to his bed, rolling himself in his

blankets, struggling with the warders, shouting, roaring, swearing

and blaspheming. Then the director of La Petite Roquette thought

of calling in the executioner, although by law he is not permitted

to enter the condemned cell. M. Heinderich came when summoned, an

embodiment of superior force, a perfect Colossus, six feet in height,

with broad shoulders, clear-eyed and full of resolution, the picture of

a self-reliant veteran. “Come, Verger,” he said quietly, “you will not

come of your own accord? we must take you then by force!” The prisoner

was conquered, and without more ado allowed himself to be secured.

Then he was led like a lamb to the outer office where his “toilette of

death” was quickly performed. At length he broke down, and cried with

bitter tears, “How terrible it is to die without relations or friends.”

He listened with gratitude to the consoling words of the priest,

confessed, received absolution, and almost immediately was a dead man.

 

A notability of the guillotine was Avinain, executed in 1867 for a

series of murders, all having similar features. Several corpses were

picked up, all of which had been very carefully dismembered by some

hand practised in dissection. In all, the head and limbs had been

skilfully removed from the trunk; but death had first been inflicted

by strangulation or many terrible wounds. The remains had generally

been found in the neighborhood of the Seine, and suspicion at length

attached to a certain Jean Charles, otherwise Charles Alfonse, who

had lived in four different houses on the riverside. The police now

discovered that there were stables and sheds forming part of these

several dwellings. In one building they picked up a saw, a hammer and

an axe, which evidently had been used for the purpose of dismembering

the bodies. These, according to French custom, had been exhibited at

the Morgue, and one of the articles was recognised by a young man

as having belonged to his father, who had recently disappeared. The

deceased was a forage merchant. He had come to Paris to sell a cartload

of hay, and had met Charles, with whom he agreed on a price. The

purchaser very civilly offered him the accommodation of his stables

for the night and a bed at his house, so that the purchase might be

completed next morning. It appeared in the trial that before this

another person had sold forage and had accepted hospitality for the

night, but when the host came, insisting that the light should be

extinguished for fear of setting fire to the barn, he carried in his

hand a hammer; and the guest, a little suspicious, declared that he

always slept with a light burning, and in a very significant fashion

took out his knife as though to use it in self-defence. There was

little doubt that this man with the hammer was the same Charles already

indicated, and the police proceeded to inquire into his identity. He

proved to be one Charles Avinain, a butcher by trade, who had recently

been a convict in Cayenne. Since his return from transportation he had

frequently been in trouble, and was now easily traced and arrested by

means of clues furnished by his wife and daughter. He still lived at

the riverside, and nearly made his escape from the police by means of

a trap door in the floor of the basement which opened on to a passage.

Several murders were brought home to him, committed either with hammer

or knife. His victims were mostly forage merchants, and he had dealt

with the bodies in the same barbarous fashion. It is recorded of him

that he never exhibited the slightest remorse, until the very last

moment, and then it was under the influence of overwhelming terror as

he trod the steps of the scaffold. He had always repulsed the chaplain,

but in the end accepted his ministrations, confessed, and received

absolution.

 

Moreux, who had murdered a girl to rob her and give a present to his

beloved, put down his pipe quietly, when he received the news, saying,

“I did not think it would be before next Wednesday,” ascended the

scaffold quickly, and remarked to the chief warder in bidding him

good-bye, “You see what comes of evil behavior.” Toly, who tried to

kill a warder when first locked up, took his sentence very calmly, and

faced death with great self-possession. He spent his last night at

cards, but received the chaplain with great emotion and deep sentiments

of repentance. Coutalier had murdered his wife with one blow of a

hatchet, and bore up well until he saw the guillotine, when he threw

himself back violently, but soon regained his impassiveness. Many were

at great pains to proclaim their innocence. It was so with Boudas,

an ex-priest, whose consuming desire was to become rich. He poisoned

two wives in succession, so as to secure their inheritances. It was

clearly proved against him, but he reiterated as he knelt and laid his

head on the block: “Let every one know that I am not guilty.” Gervais

sacrificed an aged companion, a well-to-do dealer in antiques, because

he wanted means to marry. His awakening on the last morning was a

frightful scene. “I can’t, I won’t believe it. It is impossible. The

law is about to commit a terrible crime.” He fought the executioner so

hard that he had to be led twice to the block. But he died smiling with

that curious, artificial grin that relaxes the muscles of the face at

moments of great nervous derangement, and has no connection with real

laughter. Billoir hated his wife for her extravagance and slovenliness,

murdered her, and threw the body into the Seine. He was an old soldier

of good character and distinguished service, but Marshal MacMahon, the

President, positively refused to pardon him. He was quite overwhelmed

with the shock when told the fatal news, but speedily recovered

himself, and, crossing his hands on his breast, respectfully saluted

the chaplain.

 

Welker, one of the worst and most inhuman of his class, who had

murdered a pretty child of eight, showed the most abject cowardice. It

was necessary to carry him bodily to the scaffold, and place him in

position under the knife. A corpse was really guillotined, for he was

already dead with fright, and had pardon come at the eleventh hour it

could not have benefitted him. Menesclon has left a name more execrable

than Welker, for his victim was an infant of four, whom he was believed

to hold in strong affection, lavishing gifts upon her constantly. One

day she went into his room, and the child was never seen again. After

many denials that he knew anything about her, a neighbor was drawn to

his room by the nauseating smell of burning flesh, and on forcing his

door he was found stirring up a blazing fire in his stove. Menesclon

was barely saved from the fury of the people when the story became

known. He was interrogated, and gave his own account of the affair. He

had invited the child into his room to give her some flowers. But she

irritated him by crying, and, being unable to quiet her, he suddenly

seized her by the throat and choked her. When she was dead he thrust

the body between his two mattresses, and slept the whole night through.

Early next morning he set himself to get rid of the horrible evidence

of his crime in the manner already described. This miserable creature

was one of the lowest type of his class. He had been graduated in the

lowest schools of vice, beginning as a child at La Petite Roquette, to

which he had been committed at the instance of his parents as perfectly

unmanageable at home. He passed thence into the navy, after having

been the despair of many workshops in which he had been employed, at

last having assaulted and robbed his father. He had developed into an

undersized weak creature with a hideous, pimpled face, low forehead,

furtive manner and foxy eyes. He was quite indifferent at his trial,

showed no remorse for his crime, and rarely answered the questions put

to him, which threw into strong relief the enormity of his conduct.

Service in Senegal had left him with an incurable deafness, which

heightened his stupidity. He gazed without flinching at the _pièces de

conviction_ lying on the table before him. Close by was a copy-book

filled with verses, for he had poetical aspirations and was a bit of

an artist. His cold-blooded unconcern culminated in his last answer

to the question why he had committed the crime. “I can’t tell you,”

he replied, “but you are at liberty to do the same to me.” Menesclon

exhibited the same impassibility at the last hour. He heard his fate

with his hand to his ear, the better to catch the words, and merely

said, “_Ah, bon!_” when he understood; and then walked quietly to the scaffold.