Emanuel BarthÉlemy was a villain of the melodramatic type. Throughout his stormy and adventurous life he appeared to be fully conscious of the fact that he was acting a part. He was theatrical in everything he did; yet the touch of realism was seldom lacking, and he lived and died without fear. He was tall, strongly-built, with a large head, thick hair, an expressive cast of countenance; dark, flashing eyes, and a mouth that was eloquent of the villain's vile, savage temper. BarthÉlemy was a revolutionary by profession, utterly unprincipled; killing because he loved it as a sport, and the times in which he lived provided him with numerous opportunities to gratify his propensity for murder. His luck was extraordinary until he ran counter to the English law, and, although he escaped the death penalty once in England, on the second occasion he stood his trial for murder he was sentenced and executed.

BarthÉlemy was a Frenchman, and in the early part of the nineteenth century he took part in many revolutions in France. Louis XVIII, who had been restored to his kingdom by the victory of Waterloo, was finding it difficult to maintain his dynasty, and BarthÉlemy was one of those who objected to his reign. His objection took the extreme form of shooting dead an unfortunate gendarme in cold blood. This was BarthÉlemy's first big venture, and he was sentenced to the galleys for life as a punishment, being lucky to escape with his life. But the murderer did not serve his sentence. In 1830 the political party he favoured succeeded in gaining the upper-hand, and BarthÉlemy's callous crime was duly considered to be a "political offence," and accordingly he was released, along with thousands of genuine victims of the ruthlessness of the Bourbons.

This was, indeed, a matter for much satisfaction and enjoyment, and BarthÉlemy, nothing daunted, threw himself into the fray again. He became a sort of unofficial police spy, and for years haunted the cafÉs where out-at-elbow politicians talked treason and other things.

When a new Chief of Police was appointed the spy lost his situation, and was compelled to join an active organization which was opposed to the ambitions of Louis Napoleon, but in 1848 there was again a revolution, and Louis Napoleon became Napoleon III. The new emperor treated his defeated opponents with ferocious cruelty, and with hundreds of other refugees BarthÉlemy fled to England to live in exile for the remainder of his life.

From the moment of his arrival in London he took a leading part in the counsels of the French colony. The refugees never abandoned their hope that Napoleon III would be driven from the throne of France. Day after day in poverty they fed on hope and ambition, and BarthÉlemy was ever the loudest and most swashbuckling of the optimists. It was observed that he was never without funds, although he came of a poor and humble family, but he was so outspoken against the new order of things in his native country that those who whispered that he was a paid spy in Napoleon's service were laughed to scorn.

In the course of time some of the refugees formed a small colony near Englefield Green, Egham, Middlesex, where they established a sort of country-house for the more respectable of the French exiles—men who really desired to serve their country, and who believed that Napoleon III was ruining it.

By some means BarthÉlemy found his way into the house at Egham, though his aggressive manner and somewhat uncouth ways were abhorrent to the majority, who were for the most part ex-officers of the French Army and Navy. However, his whole-souled hatred of the Emperor of the French was a passport to their society, and they tolerated him until he became intolerable.

BarthÉlemy was by nature and instinct a bully, and his favourite "argument" when anyone had the temerity to persist in contradicting him was a blow from his heavy fist. He had a powerful voice, too, and few persons could talk louder and longer than he, but, like all bullies, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to lose his temper.

His readiness to murder on sight, however, made him a hero in the eyes of the riff-raff amongst the refugees, but the better class regarded him with distrust, and only put up with his "eccentricities" because the movement was short of men.

Amongst the colony at Egham there was an ex-naval officer of the name of Cournet. He had served his country well without enriching himself, and in character and disposition he was the reverse of BarthÉlemy, though Cournet, when provoked, was fierce and short-tempered. Still, he was, as a rule, polite and courteous, and he never originated a quarrel. The numerous revolutions in France had involved him as principal in no fewer than fourteen duels, and on every occasion he had hit his man. He was, therefore, a duellist of renown, and his reputation amongst the exiles was second to none. BarthÉlemy did not like this, and he resolved to depose Cournet from his leadership. To do this he had to force a duel upon the ex-officer, and one night at Egham, when Cournet was in his mildest humour, BarthÉlemy sprang to his feet and swore that the older man had grossly insulted him. In the circumstances he considered that Cournet ought to give him the "usual satisfaction one gentleman owes to another," and that meant a duel. But BarthÉlemy had forgotten one thing. He had challenged Cournet, who, accordingly, had the right to name the weapons. Now, Cournet was an expert with the pistol, and BarthÉlemy considered himself equally expert with the sword. As the challenged party, however, Cournet selected pistols, and BarthÉlemy had to abide by his choice.

The duel was fixed for the following day, and BarthÉlemy passed a night of terror. He saw himself an easy target for the ex-officer's pistol. In fact, he was perfectly certain that he was going to his death, and he did not want to die.

His partisans meanwhile published abroad amongst the French colony in London the news of the quarrel. It divided them into two camps, each clamorous for its champion's superiority. Bets were made as to the result, and at about the time the duel was to take place a crowd of refugees assembled in Leicester Square to hear the result, just as in the past the race for the Derby has caused crowds to assemble outside the offices of sporting papers to await the name of the winner.

The duel was to determine who was the unofficial leader of the Frenchmen driven into exile by Napoleon III. Cournet's friends, however, were never uneasy as to the result. They knew that their man would and must win, but, unfortunately for their principal, they forgot to take measures to prevent his opponent fighting unfairly. BarthÉlemy and his intimates actually tampered with his pistol, the weapon which had won for him fourteen similar contests. To lessen the chances of discovery they arranged that Cournet's pistol should go off the moment the trigger was touched, but not in the direction intended by its owner, and then when BarthÉlemy presented his weapon at his opponent it would misfire, proving that his pistol was defective too. The misfiring, however, would not forfeit his turn to shoot, and at the second attempt BarthÉlemy would have no difficulty in making the pistol do his bidding. These were the final arrangements, and they were carried out without a single flaw.

The duellists assembled on Englefield Green, and Cournet won the right to the first shot. To his astonishment and anger the charge in his pistol exploded, and the bullet went harmlessly into the air. The ex-officer was not, however, afraid. He stood rigid whilst BarthÉlemy levelled his weapon. It misfired, and BarthÉlemy had to devote a little time to setting it right. Then he remembered that the episode provided him with a chance for a theatrical display. In the best manner of the stage hero he offered to forego his shot if Cournet would consent to continue the duel with swords. The ex-officer instantly rejected the offer, pointing out that if BarthÉlemy missed he would be entitled to another shot, and then, he grimly added, he would not miss again. BarthÉlemy knew quite well that his opponent spoke only the barest truth, and without another moment's delay he levelled his pistol and shot Cournet dead.

It was murder, and murder of the most brutal and disgraceful type, but none of the seconds realized that. From first to last they had treated the English law against duelling with the utmost contempt, although they knew that according to the law of the land they were all murderers.

But they regarded themselves as a French colony owning the laws of France only, and, leaving poor Cournet lying stark and stiff, the seconds and BarthÉlemy went off to London with the intention of celebrating the victory in the Soho CafÉs frequented by their fellow-countrymen. However, they were not at liberty for long, for at Waterloo Station they were met by detectives who took them into custody.

That was in 1852, not many years after the abolition of duelling in England, and, in the circumstances, it was considered wiser by the authorities to place BarthÉlemy only on trial for the murder of Cournet.

When the case came on at Kingston-on-Thames all the facts mentioned above were cited by the prosecution. It was clearly proved that the contest had not been a duel at all, but a cold-blooded murder on the part of the prisoner and his accomplices. The tampered pistols were produced, and the whole of BarthÉlemy's villainy laid bare; indeed, Counsel for the prosecution had the easiest of tasks. When the jury retired there was considerable surprise in Court, for no sensible person having heard the evidence should have wished for time to consider his verdict.

The Surrey jury, however, were evidently of opinion that the case "wasn't so simple as it looked," and they spent some time in their private room, eventually returning to astound a packed Court by declaring their verdict to be one of manslaughter. Of course, there was no help for it, and instead of the scaffold BarthÉlemy received a nominal sentence, and was free again shortly afterwards.

The verdict of the jury—which in plain language meant that, in their opinion, the duel had been fairly fought—greatly enhanced BarthÉlemy's reputation amongst his countrymen. The better-disposed, however, avoided him, but in the purlieus of Soho it was considered an honour to stand the "hero" of Englefield Green a drink, or, when funds permitted, to offer him dinner. BarthÉlemy was undisputed king of the bullies now, and he thoroughly enjoyed his triumph. For some months he was lionized, and he did considerable entertaining in return, providing plenty of food and wine, particularly the latter. It was said that his object was to make certain men speak freely and without thinking, and it was remarkable how well informed the Paris secret police were of the movements and doings of the principal members of the French colony in London about this time. But if BarthÉlemy was suspected of being their agent there was no proof against him, and the majority of those who knew him unreservedly accepted him as a pure-minded and high-souled patriot.

But gradually BarthÉlemy's funds ran out, and his borrowing powers showed signs of appreciable decline. The aggressive theatricalism of his manner remained, and he began to be something of a lady-killer. But most of the time he was vulgarly hard-up, and he detested poverty.

Some time in the year 1854 he came into the life of a tall, handsome girl who spoke French with an English accent. Who this girl was has never been discovered. She came on to the stage, as it were, with BarthÉlemy to take part in a tragedy that was to cost the villain his life, and when the drama was over she was never seen again, although the police of half a dozen countries devoted weeks to searching for her.

The girl was undoubtedly pretty, and she fell in love with BarthÉlemy, and, according to him, she told him a moving and pathetic story of neglect and ill-treatment by her own father. Her father, she declared, was Mr. George Moore, a well-to-do mineral water manufacturer, who lived at 73, Warren Street, Fitzroy Square, in the dull and dreary neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road. She said he had promised to make her a comfortable allowance, but had failed to keep his word, and she implored BarthÉlemy to see that justice was done her.

Whether the murderer's statement was an invention or not we have no means of knowing, but he did call on Mr. Moore, and he took the girl with him, and the visit culminated in a terrible tragedy. When the servant opened the door to the visitors she noticed that the lady wore a thick mantle and was heavily veiled. They passed upstairs to Mr. Moore's private room and were cordially received, for afterwards three siphons of lemonade were found on a table with three glasses. It may be mentioned that in addition to Mr. Moore and his female servant the only other resident in the house was a young grandchild of the tenant's.

For a few minutes Mr. Moore and his visitors chatted amicably—it was never known what passed between them—BarthÉlemy gave his version, but he was, amongst other things, a professional liar, and his word cannot be accepted. Mr. Moore undoubtedly received them in the friendliest manner, and he must have had a good reason for doing so. Who was the mysterious girl heavily veiled? What part did she take in the conversation that led up to the double murder?

BarthÉlemy's version was that he politely requested Mr. Moore to deal fairly by his own daughter, whom he intended to make his wife. Of course, as is the custom in France, the Frenchman pointed out that the bride must have a dowry. It was essential to the success of the matrimonial adventure that the wife should be in a position to support her husband. In this case the husband-to-be was the type that does not like work.

Perhaps BarthÉlemy's statement was true except in one particular. The mysterious lady may not have been the daughter of the manufacturer, but it is credible that BarthÉlemy may have planned the whole affair in order to blackmail Mr. Moore. No doubt he induced the girl to pose as the injured daughter, and it is conceivable that he coached her into acting the part of the grief-stricken woman whose mother was betrayed and deserted.

Mr. Moore listened to the demand for a settlement on the girl who said she was his daughter and then curtly declined to pay a penny. BarthÉlemy threatened him with loss of reputation and its twin, respectability. What would his friends think of him? The older man laughed contemptuously. He was not going to yield to a pair of blackmailers, and he told them to clear out of his house as quickly as possible.

All three by now would be on their feet, BarthÉlemy and Mr. Moore face to face, the former's eyes flashing, his pose theatrical; and the girl in the background watching, her face hidden by the heavy folds of her veil. The two men would be exchanging angry words, their tempers rising every moment until it would seem that they must be overheard by anybody in the street. But the blackmailer did not wish matters to go as far as that, and he suddenly ended the altercation by smashing Mr. Moore's head in with a blow from a loaded stick.

The unfortunate merchant collapsed in a heap on the floor, but he was by no means unconscious, and he shouted for help until his servant realized that her master was in danger. Throwing open the front door, she screamed in terror until the whole street was roused. A policeman came running towards her, and she gasped out what she knew.

It was obvious that the murderer would not attempt to leave by the front door, and as the only other means of exit was by way of the backyard and over certain walls the officer—Collard by name—who had served in the army and was a very brave man, without thinking of the risk or waiting for assistance, dashed round to the back of the house to intercept the Frenchman and his female companion. A small crowd guarded the front of the building, all of them valiantly prepared to take any risk because there were fifty of them to share it.

Meanwhile BarthÉlemy, realizing that he had killed Moore, and that the whole neighbourhood was roused, sought desperately for a way of escape. In the crisis he thought only of himself, and, without a word to the girl, he rushed from the room, darted downstairs and into the yard, climbed a wall at the back and jumped over, to find himself in the arms of the policeman.

The two men rolled and struggled in the road, the officer undismayed by BarthÉlemy's superiority in height and strength. Collard more than held his own, but BarthÉlemy, as in the case of his duel with Cournet, was not going to fight fairly. He drew his pistol the moment he was able to release one hand, and with the greatest deliberation fired twice into the body of his opponent.

There were several eye-witnesses of the crime, but no one appears to have attempted to detain the murderer, and BarthÉlemy would have got away if, just as Collard had fallen back with a groan, more police had not arrived on the scene. The Frenchman was speedily overcome by them and disarmed.

It had been a breathlessly exciting time from beginning to end, and it was not until BarthÉlemy was being taken to prison that it occurred to his captors to search for his female companion. She had not left the house by the front door, for there had been some one on guard there all the time, and now the police entered, expecting to find her hiding in one of the rooms at the top. Every possible exit was closed before the search began, but despite the protracted efforts of the officers of the law to locate her she was not found. In the room where the interview with Mr. Moore had taken place they discovered lying near the body of the murdered man a woman's mantle, the very one which she had worn when admitted by the servant, as the latter confirmed.

How had she escaped? If she had gone by the back way she could not have failed to attract the attention of the crowd which had assembled when Collard had tackled BarthÉlemy. Besides it was almost impossible for a girl to climb the wall unaided.

The authorities quickly discounted the theory of escape by the back, and in the end it was generally believed that the girl had come prepared for the tragedy, and that she had dressed herself in such a way that by discarding her outer garment she would look absolutely different from the person who had entered with BarthÉlemy. She must, therefore, have slipped off her cloak, and mingled with the crowd in the hall, unobserved in the general excitement.

It was a most extraordinary feature of the case that the girl was never seen again. Not a trace of her could be found, and the united exertions of the English and Continental police failed to furnish a clue to her identity. It was conjectured that the girl had left England within a dozen hours of BarthÉlemy's arrest. As the only person who could have told the story of Mr. Moore's murder and the reasons which led up to it, she would have been a most valuable witness, but, as she did not come forward, the tragedy remained enveloped in mystery.

Collard, the brave policeman, was in a dying condition when taken to the hospital, and as his end was approaching it was deemed advisable that he should give his version of the struggle in the presence of BarthÉlemy. The prisoner was conveyed to the hospital where Collard, barely conscious, denounced him as his assassin.

The Frenchman stood with arms folded, and steadily surveyed Collard's face. It was merely a pose, of course, but it was a carefully prepared one, for BarthÉlemy never admitted that the unlucky officer had any ground for disliking him! He described the firing of his revolver as an accident, and declared that when a man is trying to make his escape he is justified in using any weapon to further his ends.

The policeman briefly told how he had tried to arrest BarthÉlemy, and when the statement had been taken down in writing and read over to the dying man BarthÉlemy was removed. Collard died a couple of hours later, and when his death was notified the authorities decided to place BarthÉlemy on trial for the murder of the policeman, and not for the crime of having killed Mr. Moore. The reason for this was that no one except the girl who had vanished had seen the murder of Mr. Moore, whereas there were several persons who had been spectators of the second murder.

The police now began to investigate BarthÉlemy's life, and by the time the prisoner came to stand his trial at the Old Bailey were certain that the motive for the murder of Mr. Moore was robbery and nothing else. The mineral water manufacturer was in the habit of keeping a fairly large sum of money in the house, and BarthÉlemy had evidently brought his female companion with the object of using her as a bait to draw Mr. Moore's attention away from himself. If the merchant should become engrossed in the girl BarthÉlemy would be able to slip out of the room unobserved and commit the theft. This was what he intended should happen, but apparently Mr. Moore's suspicions had been unexpectedly aroused before BarthÉlemy could act, and in a vain effort to save himself, and also to obtain the plunder, BarthÉlemy had committed murder, only to find himself compelled to take a second human life. This was the official version of a tragic interview, but, as it was based entirely on conjecture, it was not universally accepted.

To say that Emanuel BarthÉlemy enjoyed his trial for murder at the Old Bailey is not an exaggeration. He revelled in the role of first villain in a piece which drew all London. As the hero of the duel at Egham and the subsequent trial at Kingston, he was already something of a celebrity. His achievements in France as a revolutionary were the subject of common gossip, and that they did not belie the character of the man was obvious from the attitude of studied bravado he maintained throughout the trial. He always referred to the double murder as "the affair," and while he politely expressed regret that "the affair" should have caused inconvenience to the policeman Collard, yet he could not in justice to himself, admit that there was anything in his conduct deserving of censure. He had only fired in self-defence, and no one ought to blame him for that.

The decision of the authorities to make the murder of Collard the only charge provided the defence with their one chance. Counsel for the prisoner ingeniously argued that at the worst BarthÉlemy had been guilty of manslaughter only. He had fired at Collard with the object of facilitating his escape. There had been no quarrel between the prisoner and his victim; they were perfect strangers, and the policeman's death was really an accident, as BarthÉlemy had only intended to injure him.

BarthÉlemy held his head high all through the trial, and there was plenty of the "flashing eye" business and gesture of contempt interludes to enliven the proceedings. He took up the attitude of one who does not fear death, and, considering that this was his third trial for murder and that he had escaped twice, he had some reason for assuming that he was not meant to die upon the scaffold.

The Old Bailey jury, however, proved somewhat more sophisticated than the Kingston jury, and, without hesitation, they rejected the subtle theories of counsel for the defence. The fact could never be obscured that Collard had been murdered by BarthÉlemy, and their immediate and unanimous verdict was that the prisoner was guilty. The usual sentence of death followed, and BarthÉlemy received it with a mocking bow. He did not care, and he was not afraid.

He knew that there was no chance of a reprieve, and while he awaited execution he conducted himself quietly, giving no trouble to the prison authorities. He declared himself an atheist and declined to receive a priest of his own nationality. When the chaplain managed to speak a few words of admonition he answered with a laugh:

"I don't want God to save my soul. If there is a God let him save my body by opening the prison doors. That's all I ask."

As the time grew shorter, however, BarthÉlemy became anxious about something, but it was not his soul. Sending for the Governor he declared that the only cause of uneasiness was a fear lest after his death his clothes should be exhibited at Madame Tussaud's! The Governor reassured him by promising him that they would not, and once more the convict's mind was at rest, and he faced eternity calmly.

Calcraft was the executioner, and BarthÉlemy made his acquaintance with a cynical smile.

"I have one thing to ask of you—do it quickly," he said, on the morning of his execution, January 22nd, 1855.

The grim-visaged executioner nodded. BarthÉlemy was undoubtedly a type of murderer not often met with even by a man with Calcraft's experience.

When the Frenchman stepped on to the scaffold he surveyed the crowd with a cool stare, slightly contemptuous of their interest and excitement. In his opinion death was not worth all this display. He was treating it with the indifference it merited.

"Now I shall know the secret," he said, as the rope was placed around his neck. A few minutes later he was dead.