It was at Madrid, in the month of April, 1880, that I first made the acquaintance of the extraordinary man, who, under the pseudonym of “Prado” met his fate beneath the Paris guillotine. I had just driven back into town from witnessing the execution by the “garrote” of the regicide Francisco Otero, and was in the act of stepping from my brougham, when suddenly the crowd assembled on the Puerto del Sol parted as if by magic to give place to a runaway carriage. I had barely time to note the frantic efforts of the coachman to stop the onward course of the frightened horses, when there was a terrible crash, and the victoria was shattered to splinters against one of the heavy posts on the square. The coachman, still clutching hold of the reins, was torn from the box, and dragged some hundred yards farther along the ground, before the horses were stopped and he could be induced to release his hold of the ribbons. To the surprise of all the spectators, he escaped with a few bruises. His master, however—the only other occupant of the carriage—was less fortunate. Hurled by the shock with considerable violence to the pavement, almost at my very feet, he remained unconscious for some minutes. When at length he recovered his senses, and attempted to rise with my assistance, it was found that he had broken his ankle, and was unable to stand upright. Placing him in my trap, I drove him to the address which he gave me—a house in the Calle del Barquillo—and on our arrival there, assisted the door porter and some of the other servants to carry him up stairs to a very handsome suite of apartments on the second floor. On taking my departure, he overwhelmed me with thanks for what he was pleased to call my kindness, and entreated me to do him the favor of calling, handing me at the same time a card bearing the name of Comte Linska de Castillon.

A couple of days later, happening to be in the neighborhood of the Calle del Barquillo, I dropped in to see how he was getting on. He received me with the greatest cordiality, and so interesting was his conversation that it was quite dark before I left the house. It turned out that he, too, had been present at the execution of the wretched Otero, and that he was on his way home when his horses became frightened and bolted. After discussing all the horrible details of the death of the regicide, the conversation took the direction of capital punishment in foreign countries—a theme about which he displayed the most wonderful knowledge.

From the graphic manner in which he described the strange tortures and cruel methods of punishment practiced at the courts of the native princes in India and China, it was evident that he was speaking of scenes which he had witnessed, and not from mere hearsay. He seemed equally well acquainted with the terrors of lynch law in the frontier territories of the United States, and with the military executions of spies and deserters in warfare. In short, it became clear to me that he was a great traveler, and that he was as well acquainted with America and Asia as he was with the ins and outs of almost every capital in Europe. His French, his Spanish, his German, and his English, were all equally without a trace of foreign accent. His manners were perfect, and displayed unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. Although not above the ordinary stature, he was a man of very compact and muscular build. Dressed in the most perfect and quiet taste, his appearance, without being foppish, was one of great chic and elegance. No trace of jewelry was to be seen about his person. His hands and feet were small and well shaped; his mustache was black, as were also his large and luminous eyes. His hair, slightly gray toward the temples, showed traces of age, or, perhaps, of a hard life. But the most remarkable thing about him was his smile, which seemed to light up his whole face, and which was singularly winning and frank. I confess I took a great fancy to the man, who at the time was exceedingly popular in Madrid society. He was to be seen in many of the most exclusive salons, was present at nearly all the ministerial and diplomatic receptions, and apparently enjoyed universal consideration. Our intimacy continued for about a couple of years, during the course of which I had the opportunity of rendering him one or two more slight services. Toward the end of 1882, I was obliged to leave Madrid rather suddenly, being summoned to Torquay by the dangerous illness of my mother, who is an English woman, and I did not return to Spain until several years later, when I found that Comte Linska de Castillon had meanwhile gone under—in a financial sense—and had disappeared from the surface.

It is unnecessary to describe here the horror and consternation with which I learned that “Prado,” the man charged with numerous robberies and with the murder of the demi-mondaine, Marie Aguetant, was no other than my former friend, Comte Linska de Castillon. Of course, I made a point of attending the trial. I confess, however, that I had some difficulty in recognizing in the rather unprepossessing individual in the prisoner's dock the once elegant viveur whom I had known at Madrid. His features had become somewhat bloated and coarse, as if by hard living, his dress was careless and untidy, his hair gray and his eyes heavy. It was only on the rare occasions when he smiled that his face resumed traces of its former appearance. Day after day I sat in court and listened to the evidence against him. The impression which the latter left on my mind was that, however guilty he undoubtedly had been of other crimes—possibly even of murder—he was, nevertheless, innocent of the death of Marie Aguetant, the charge on which he was executed. The crime was too brutal and too coarse in its method to have been perpetrated by his hand. Moreover, the evidence against him in the matter was not direct, but only circumstantial. Neither the jewelry nor the bonds which he was alleged to have stolen from the murdered woman have ever been discovered. Neither has the weapon with which the deed was committed been found, and the only evidence against him was that of two women, both of loose morals, and both of whom considered themselves to have been betrayed by him. The one, Eugenie Forrestier, a well-known femme galante, saw in the trial a means of advertising her charms, which she has succeeded in doing in a most profitable manner. The other, Mauricette Courouneau, the mother of his child, had fallen in love with a young German and was under promise to marry him as soon as ever the trial was completed, and “Prado's head had rolled into the basket of Monsieur de Paris.”

Shortly after the sentence had been pronounced upon the man whom I had known as “Comte Linska de Castillon” I visited him in his prison, and subsequently at his request called several times again to see him. He seemed very calm and collected. Death apparently had no terrors for him, and on one occasion he recalled the curious coincidence that our first meeting had been on our way home from the execution of the regicide Otero. The only thing which he seemed to dread was that his aged father—his one and solitary affection in the world—should learn of his disgrace. In answer to my repeated inquiries as to who his father was he invariably put me off with a smile, exclaiming, “Demain, demain!” (to-morrow). He appeared, however, to be filled with the most intense bitterness against the other members of his family, step-mother, half-brothers and sisters, who, he declared, had been the first cause of his estrangement from his father and of his own ruin.

Although condemned criminals are never informed of the date of their execution until a couple of hours before they are actually led to the scaffold, yet “Prado,” or “Castillon” appeared to have an intuition of the imminence of his death. For two days before it took place, when I was about to take leave, after paying him one of my customary visits, he suddenly exclaimed:

“I may not see you again. It is possible that this may be our last interview. You are the only one of my former friends who has shown me the slightest kindness or sympathy in my trouble. It would be useless to thank you. I am perfectly aware that my whole record must appear repulsive to you, and that your conduct toward me has been prompted by pity more than by any other sentiment. Were you, however, to know my true story you would pity me even more. The statements which I made to M. Guillo, the Judge d'Instruction who examined me, were merely invented on the spur of the moment, for the purpose of showing him that my powers of imagination were, at any rate, as brilliant as his own. No one, not even my lawyer, knows my real name or history. You will find both in this sealed packet. It contains some notes which I have jotted down while in prison, concerning my past career.”

As he said this he placed a bulky parcel in my hand.

“I want you, however,” he continued, “to promise me two things. The first is that you will not open the outer covering thereof until after my execution; the second, that you will make no mention or reference to the name inscribed on the inner envelope until you see the death of its possessor announced in the newspapers. It is the name of my poor old father. He is in failing health and can scarcely live much longer. When he passes away you are at liberty to break the seals and to use the information contained therein in any form you may think proper. The only object I have in now concealing my identity is to spare the old gentleman any unnecessary sorrow and disgrace.”

He uttered these last words rather sadly and paused for a few minutes before proceeding.

“With regard to the remainder of my family,” said he at last, “I am totally indifferent about their feelings in the matter.”

“One word more, my dear Berard,” he continued. “I am anxious that these papers should some day or other be made known to the world. They will convince the public that at any rate I am innocent of the brutal murder for which I am about to suffer death. My crimes have been numerous; they have been committed in many different lands, and I have never hesitated to put people out of the way when I found them to be dangerous to my interests. But whatever I may have done has been accomplished with skill and delicacy. My misdeeds have been those of a man of birth, education, and breeding, whereas the slayer of Marie Aguetant was, as you will find out one of these days, but a mere vulgar criminal of low and coarse instincts, the scum indeed of a Levantine gutter.

“And now good-by my dear Berard. I rely on you to respect the wishes of a man who is about to disappear into Nirwana. You see,” he added with a smile, “I am something of a Buddhist.”

Almost involuntarily I grasped both his hands firmly in mine. I was deeply moved. All the powers of attraction which he had formerly exercised on me at Madrid came again to the surface, and it was he who gently pushed me out of the cell in order to cut short a painful scene.

Two days later one of the most remarkable criminals of the age expiated his numerous crimes on the scaffold in the square in front of the Prison de la Grande Roquette.

Late last night, when alone in my library, I broke the seals of the outer envelope of the parcel which he had confided to me. When I saw the name inscribed on the inner covering I started from my chair. It was a name of worldwide fame, one of the most brilliant in the “Almanac de Gotha,” and familiar in every court in Europe. However, mindful of my promise to the dead, I locked the package away in my safe. My curiosity, however, was not put to a very severe test, for about a week later the papers of every country in Europe announced the death of the statesman and soldier whose name figured on the cover of the parcel of documents.

Without further delay I broke the seals of the inner wrapper. The whole night through and far on into the next day, I sat poring over the sheets of closely written manuscript—the confessions of the man who had been guillotined under the assumed name of “Prado.” They revealed an astounding career of crime and adventure in almost every corner of the globe, and thoroughly impressed me with the conviction that, however innocent he may have been of the murder of Marie Aguetant, yet he fully deserved the penalty which was finally meted out to him. Of scruples or of any notions of morality he had none, and so cold-blooded and repulsive is the cynicism which this servant of Satan at times displays in the notes concerning his life which he placed at my disposal, I have been forced to use considerable discretion in editing them. While careful to reproduce all the facts contained in the manuscript, I have toned down a certain Zola-like realism of expression impossible to render in print, and have shaped the disjointed memoranda and jottings into a consecutive narrative.

One word more before finally introducing the real Prado to the world. However great my desire to accede to the last wish of my former friend, I cannot bring myself to disclose to the general public the real name of the unfortunate family to which he belonged. There are too many innocent members thereof who would be irretrievably injured by its disclosure.

But the pseudonym which I have employed is so transparent, and the history of the great house in question so well known, that all who have any acquaintance of the inner ring of European society will have no difficulty in recognizing its identity.

Louis Berard.