Mrs. Hugh Fraser

The DefrÊne Case, a Drama of Crime and of Justice—The Marquis DefrÊne—Marie-Elizabeth du Tillay—Elopement—Bogus Marriage—Flight to England—Marriage Made Legal—The Marquis Tires of the Marriage State—Evil Plans—Marie-Elizabeth Forewarned—Adventures of Her Flight—The “Penitent” DefrÊne—Compromising Letters—The Vindication of Marie-Elizabeth—A Judicial Separation.

The name of that same Duchess-Regent of Savoy, Maria Baptista of Nemours, the cause of Mattioli’s downfall in 1679, had figured in connection with another and now long forgotten “cause cÉlÈbre” some few years earlier, in 1672—the drama of crime and of justice known to legal annalists as the “DefrÊne Case.”

Towards the year 1670 there was living in Paris a young man of the name of Pierre Hennequin, Marquis DefrÊne. Of his antecedents I have no knowledge, but, by all accounts, he was related to many noble and influential families; a personable young man of considerable address, and entirely given over to the fashionable life of his day as he found it—that life of license, bridled only by the fear of a death upon the scaffold; that orgy of dissipation and debt by the encouragement of which Louis XIV, as history tells us, was bent upon sapping the resources of his powerful nobles in order that he might cut their claws and impair their ability ever again to dispute the absolute authority of the throne.

As many another young man of that period, so was the Marquis DefrÊne. Resolutely reckless in the gratification of every passing inclination, and the slave of his pleasures, he was nearly at the end of his resources when, as Fate would have it, he was thrown in the path of a young and lovely girl, Marie-Elizabeth Girard du Tillay, the daughter of the President of the Chamber of Accounts. M. du Tillay, having, as a careful father, satisfied himself as to the complete undesirability of the Marquis in the character of a son-in-law, sternly repelled every attempt of the young man to gain possession of Marie-Elizabeth’s affections. All M. du Tillay’s efforts notwithstanding, however, DefrÊne succeeded in establishing the tenderest of relations with the girl and, ultimately, in persuading her to elope with him.

But it was necessary for the Marquis to make sure of his prey as quickly as possible, lest Marie-Elizabeth’s scruples and her love for the father upon whom and whose house she was now turning her back, at his invitation, should gain the upper hand of her and so make her return to her home in order to obtain the parental blessing and consent to her union with him. No priest, as DefrÊne well knew, would join them in marriage without the consent of the girl’s father. Marie-Elizabeth, however, was in ignorance of this fact; so that she was in no way surprised when her swain informed her that he had a priest in readiness to make them man and wife.

This priest, indeed, was no other than DefrÊne’s body-servant, who was to assume the sacerdotal character for the occasion; and thus between the two scoundrels, master and man, Marie-Elizabeth was deceived into going through a bogus ceremony of marriage with the blessing of the rascally valet. Having carried out this piece of villainy to the complete deception of Marie-Elizabeth, who now believed herself a marchioness for better or for worse, DefrÊne hastened to put himself beyond the reach of French law by crossing the channel into England, together with his victim, since, in those days, the protection of foreign criminals—poisoners and coiners only excepted—was considered an especial attribute of the majesty of every Sovereign.

Ere long, however, M. du Tillay contrived to trace the fugitive pair to their hiding-place. It is more than likely that he learned of it through the valet, although upon this point I cannot come at any certainty—for, at the same time, he appears to have learned the atrocious particulars of the sham marriage and to have done all in his power to bring the Marquis to justice for it. In this M. du Tillay had the powerful aid of his brother-in-law, M. Baillieu, a “PrÉsident À Mortier.” But their labours were opposed by those of DefrÊne’s relatives, who were in terror lest the King should be persuaded, by the two eminent officials, to ask his Brother of England to make him a present of the Marquis, that he might inflict condign punishment upon him for his villainy. It ended in the issuing of a royal decree designed to satisfy both parties; by this decree the marriage was recognised as legal and binding upon both parties—in deference to the sincerity of Mademoiselle du Tillay’s participation in it, its fraudulent character notwithstanding—on condition of the marriage contract’s being duly signed and exchanged between the families of the bride and bridegroom. To this compromise the kindly Du Tillay gave his adhesion, and thus the evil deed of the Marquis DefrÊne was righted for the time being.

But not for long; soon DefrÊne, now accepted as his lawful son-in-law by Du Tillay, began to weary of the bonds of matrimony, and, disappointed in the amount of cash he had hoped to extort from his father-in-law, he decided to try his luck afresh in some more lucrative quarter; to this end he made up his mind to get rid of poor Marie-Elizabeth, that he might be free to take another partner.

It should not have been difficult for him, one would think, in the Paris of the later Seventeenth Century, to carry out his iniquitous design, without overmuch caution or expense; there were to be found there means notoriously at the disposal of gentlemen in DefrÊne’s predicament, provided only they were able to pay the price of a “succession powder” or of a philtre indistinguishable from the purest water save in its deadly results. And yet DefrÊne could not screw up his courage, all at once, to murdering his wife out of hand or of procuring her assassination. Truth to tell, he was deterred from such a course by the salutary severity of the sentence pronounced a few years earlier, in 1667, upon the murderers of the unfortunate Marquise de Gange, who had been poisoned by her brothers-in-law with the tacit approval of her unworthy husband, the latter having been condemned to perpetual banishment with the loss of his estates and to be degraded from the nobility; while the actual assassins were sentenced to be broken alive on the wheel.

This wholesome fear, then, so acted upon the mind of the Marquis DefrÊne as to compel him to devise a more subtle method of doing away with Marie-Elizabeth; a method as diabolical as any in all the dark records of criminal achievement.

His plan was, apparently, simplicity itself; he would voyage abroad with Marie-Elizabeth to Constantinople and would there sell her into slavery or the harem of some wealthy Turk; her beauty would command a substantial price that would reimburse her betrayer for the expenses of his undertaking, and besides he could return in safety to give out that she was dead, and to claim her entire property as her disconsolate widower, her father having recently died.

Having arrived at this decision, he informed his wife that she was to accompany him on a journey that he was obliged to make to some far-distant baths for the sake of his health; and Marie-Elizabeth, ever trustful of his designs, and of his surpassing love for her, consented at once, albeit her husband did not enlighten her as to their actual destination.

From Paris they travelled to Lyons and thence to Beauvoisin. From the latter place they went over into Savoy, which they crossed in the direction of Genoa, Marie-Elizabeth being compelled to traverse the Alps, as the archives tell us, “on a vicious mule with an old pack-saddle.” But from the moment of their departure from Paris a change had come over the spirit of the doomed woman; ever since then, when DefrÊne had forbidden her to bid farewell to her beloved mother and her relatives, Marie-Elizabeth had been weighed down with forebodings of evil. And on reaching the seaport of Genoa these forebodings seemed to acquire the most sinister confirmation in a hint of danger conveyed to her by a good and compassionate man, Pierre Pilette, a wagoner who had acted as their guide over the passes into Italy.

This man told Marie-Elizabeth that, having gone with the Marquis (to interpret for him, presumably) to visit certain merchants of Genoa, DefrÊne had made anxious inquiries for some vessel that should take him to Constantinople; further, that DefrÊne had tried to obtain from them letters of credit on some merchant in that city, but that it had not been possible for them to accommodate him, although they had cashed all such letters upon themselves as he had brought with him from France.

This information, imparted to her by Pilette, was the first Marie-Elizabeth had heard of any intention of her husband’s to go to Constantinople; and, at the news, her suspicions of his conduct turned to terror that was all the more agonising by reason of the need for dissembling it in DefrÊne’s presence. From Genoa he now set out, with his unhappy wife and the half-dozen or so of his retainers whom he brought with him—Pilette still accompanying them to look after the horses—for Savona, where, as he had been led to expect, he might find a vessel sailing for Constantinople. Be it noted, by the way, that never since leaving Paris had any reference to the “baths,” of which he had declared his health to be in need, passed DefrÊne’s lips; and never—save on the occasion of her interview with Pilette—had any one not a member of the Marquis’ household been allowed to exchange a single word in private with his wife.

On the journey, however, to Savona, Marie-Elizabeth contrived to whisper her fears to Pilette (who, I take it, was leading her mule by the bridle along the then dangerous coast-road), imploring him to save her from her husband and to bring her into a place of safety, whence she might communicate with her relatives; and Pilette, moved by her tears and entreaties, promised that he would do his best at all costs to deliver her from her enemies. He had friends, he told her, at Savona, an inn-keeper and his wife, to whose hostel he would bring her, who would take care of her. And from their hands Pilette promised, moreover, that he would take her, afterwards, to Turin, there to place her under the protection of the Duchess of Savoy.

Arrived at Savona, DefrÊne lodged himself and his party in this inn, to which Pilette had led them; here he found a ship preparing to sail for Constantinople and so made his arrangements with her owner for the transport of himself and his wife to the Turkish capital. The day before that appointed for sailing, however, he had to go down to the wharf in order to pay over their passage money, leaving Marie-Elizabeth locked up in her bedroom. This was Pilette’s opportunity; no sooner had the Marquis left the premises than he went up to Marie-Elizabeth’s room, armed with a key furnished him by his friend the host, unlocked the door, and released the prisoner for whose flight he had everything in readiness.

Going down to the street with her deliverer, Marie-Elizabeth found a closed sedan-chair waiting for her, into which she stepped, and was then quickly borne away out of town into the hills, followed by the faithful Pilette. For nearly thirty miles they pursued their way northwards until, on striking the village of Cortemiglia, Pilette left his charge in the inn of the place, whilst he himself went to seek out Count Scarampo, the lord of that district, and to entrust Marie-Elizabeth to that gentleman’s safekeeping.

But, just as he was leaving the inn for that purpose, what was Pilette’s consternation on beholding a party of men come tearing up the road, headed by none other than DefrÊne in person, to an accompaniment of shouts and the waving of swords and firearms! Taking to his heels, the defenceless Pilette fled incontinently down the village street pursued by the Marquis and his gang with musket-shots and imprecations. Fortunately, he continued to elude them and to make his way to the castle of Count Scarampo, to whom he gave warning of what was going forward in the village. The Count, nothing loath, at once called out his own men and rushed down to the village to do battle for the lady with her husband and his retainers; in this he was joined by the local magistrate, and so the two with their supporters reached the little inn, whence a piteous din of shrieks and blows came out into the roadway.

Having abandoned the pursuit of Pilette, DefrÊne had returned hot-foot to the inn, which he had invaded in search of his wife; in spite of the host’s protests, he had forced his way to where Marie-Elizabeth was cowering in a back room and had set upon her with a cudgel as well as with his fists and feet; had it not been for the timely arrival of Scarampo and the judge, moreover, there can be small doubt but that the tiger-hearted Marquis would have made an end, then and there, of the miserable woman. Providentially, though, their coming prevented this, when, seeing that resistance was useless, DefrÊne submitted to their arrest of him.

For the time being, Marie-Elizabeth was safe from her husband’s cruelty. Taken by Count Scarampo to his castle, she was there received by the Countess, as the chronicle relates, “with much compassion and with a distinguished politeness.” Here she was rejoined by Pilette, under whose escort she set out before dawn of the next day on the road to Turin.

Such was her condition, however, as the result of the ill-treatment she had suffered, that, by evening, she had gone no further than Alba, a town on the Tanaro, where she sought out the governor and threw herself upon his protection against any further attempts on the part of her detestable husband. The official kindly took her into his own house; but scarcely had he done so than her pursuer, having escaped from his gaolers at Cortemiglia, turned up, on foot and alone, at Alba, in his latest character—that of a penitent and broken-hearted suppliant for his wife’s forgiveness. In this new rÔle he presented himself before the governor, begging for an interview with Marie-Elizabeth, that he might soften her heart with the sight and the sighs of him.

To these entreaties the governor demurred for a time, but at last suffered himself to be persuaded to consent to an interview between the husband and wife on the stipulation that it should take place under his own eyes; he even went to the length of inducing Marie-Elizabeth to see DefrÊne, although she herself was strongly opposed to such a concession.

When DefrÊne found himself once more in her presence, he cast himself grovelling at his wife’s feet, refusing to rise, with a thousand protestations, a thousand vows, of his undying love for her. He had not, he swore, the least ill-design against her in the journey he had undertaken; handing her his sword, he begged that she would either pardon him or else put him out of his sufferings. By all that was holy, he promised he would take her back to France without fail if she would but have faith in him—in short, he would be her slave in all things.

After several repetitions of this comedy, “que Baron[27] n’aurait si bien jouÉe que lui”—again I quote from the accounts of the time—the Marquis succeeded in winning over the governor to his side, and got him, in spite of Marie-Elizabeth’s protests, to write to the Duke of Savoy for permission to deliver her into DefrÊne’s keeping, on condition of his taking her back to France without doing her any further injury, and of his solemnly pledging himself to answer for his good behaviour to the Duke and to the King of France.

At the same time Marie-Elizabeth wrote to the Duke and Duchess of Savoy, telling them the whole story of her husband’s ill-treatment of her, and imploring their protection; this letter was intercepted by the Marquis and destroyed. Soon an answer was returned to the governor’s communication, giving him the requisite permission to deliver Marie-Elizabeth into her husband’s keeping on the conditions already stated, of his answering to his own Sovereign and the Duke of Savoy for his conduct towards her on the journey home. Thus the luckless woman was once more delivered into the hands of her crafty and relentless foe.

For a space all went well with her, so long as they were accompanied by an officer of the Duke of Savoy charged with seeing that DefrÊne behaved himself; but no sooner were they once more by themselves than his evil designs came again to light. Having reached the village of Lanslebourg at the northern foot of the Mont Cenis, where the Savoyard officer took his leave of them, DefrÊne placed his wife under lock and key in a room in the village inn and applied himself to the problem confronting him—that of how to accomplish the destruction of his wife without rendering himself liable to the law.

And at this point it occurred to him to fall back on a stratagem of which he had already, months earlier, made a beginning, but had abandoned it through impatience and failure.

This stratagem consisted in accusing Marie-Elizabeth of attempting to murder him by means of poison—a crime punishable with death. As he now saw clearly, the main thing needful to the success of such a method was that he should be able to produce some incontrovertible evidence, and that so atrocious, of Marie-Elizabeth’s depravity as to bring her within distance of the scaffold; failing which, it must be at least such as to serve him as an excuse for his attempt to sell her into slavery.

With this amiable purpose DefrÊne applied all his talents to the composing of a series of no less than twenty-four letters purporting to be written by his wife to her various lovers and couched in the most abandoned of terms. Having done this, he came with them to Marie-Elizabeth, and ordered her to copy out the vile effusions so that he might have them in her own handwriting as an irrefutable proof of her guilt against him.

For long she refused to obey his commands; until, at length, DefrÊne drew a knife and threatened her with it; but even this made no impression upon her resolve to defend her honour.

“Kill me if you will—I would prefer to die rather than to write those horrible letters,” she said. “All I ask is that you will let me have a priest to whom I may first confess myself—let me, at least, die like a Christian!”

To this request, it need hardly be said, DefrÊne turned a deaf ear.

“Write as I tell you—or die as you are, in your sins!” he cried. “Come, be quick about it——”

At the prospect of going into eternity in that fashion, so frightful to one of her upbringing, Marie-Elizabeth’s courage broke down. Taking the pen that DefrÊne held out to her, she began to copy the abominations set before her, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her heart sick and appalled at the thing she was doing.

As she finished copying each letter, DefrÊne took his own original draft of it and burned it in the fire—so that all hope seemed gone for Marie-Elizabeth of ever being able to prove her innocence of them. And, all the while, she never ceased from praying Heaven to come to her aid.

Suddenly there was a knock on the locked door of the room in which they were sitting; rising hastily, DefrÊne went to the door and let himself out into the corridor, taking care to close and lock the door again behind him. Instantly Marie-Elizabeth saw her chance and took it.

It so happened that, at the moment of DefrÊne’s being called away, she had all but come to an end of copying one of the letters; finishing quickly she seized the draft of it in DefrÊne’s handwriting and slipped it between the lining of her bodice, that chanced to be torn, and the bodice itself. Then, snatching up a needle and thread, she sewed up the rent over the letter and, resuming her pen, wrote on again for dear life. Providentially, her husband was kept in conversation a considerable time. When he returned to her, she had written out yet another of the unspeakable letters, and DefrÊne had lost count of the originals; so that he did not miss the one she had secreted on her person.

Finally, having completed her task, she threw down the pen and covered her face in her hands—as DefrÊne triumphantly imagined in consternation at the weapon of which he was now in possession against her; in reality, for fear lest he might see the relief in her expression. For now, indeed, thanks to the letter concealed in her clothing, he was taken in his own snare!

And so it proved when, a few weeks later, the Marquis went the rounds of his acquaintance armed with Marie-Elizabeth’s pretended letters to her lovers; to which she, now safe once more in her mother’s house, replied by making known the circumstances under which they had been written, and by showing to all the world DefrÊne’s draft in his own handwriting that she had so fortunately been enabled to secrete in her dress.

The matter ended in her obtaining a judicial separation from the Marquis, who soon became involved in another and even darker iniquity—the case of Madame de Brinvilliers—through his intimacy with the truly diabolical Sainte-Croix; an intimacy that all but obtained him the public services of the executioner.