I WAS passing through the waiting-room of the Morning Journal on a certain evening last year when my attention was drawn to a man seated in a corner. He was dressed in black and his appearance was that of the deepest dejection. In fact upon his face I read the most melancholy despair.

He was not weeping, his eyes were dry and almost expressionless and received the impression of exterior objects like motionless ice. He had placed upon his knees a small oaken chest, ornamented with ironwork. His hands were crossed over this object and hung down, accentuating his dejected appearance.

An attendant told me that he had been awaiting my arrival there three long hours without a movement, without so much as a sigh. I went towards him, and announcing myself, I invited him to enter my office. I showed him a seat, but instead of taking it he came straight to my writing-desk and placed the little oaken chest on it. “Sir, this chest belongs to you,” said he, and his voice seemed far away and indistinct. “My friend, M. ThÉophraste Longuet, commissioned me to bring it to you. Take it, sir, and believe me, your servant.” As he spoke the man bowed and made a motion toward the door. I stopped him, however, and said: “Why, do not go, I cannot receive this box without a knowledge of its contents.” He replied: “Sir, I do not know what it contains, it is locked and its key is lost. You might have to break it open to find out the contents.” I replied: “Then at least I would like to know to whom I am indebted for bringing it to me.”

“My friend, M. ThÉophraste Longuet, called me Adolphe,” replied the man, in a voice so melancholy that it seemed to grow more faint and indistinct with each syllable.

“Well, if M. Longuet had brought me the chest himself, he would most certainly have told me what it contains; I expect that M. Longuet, himself.”

“I also, sir,” said the man, “but M. ThÉophraste Longuet is dead, and I am his sole executor.”

By this time he had edged his way to the door, and having said these words, he opened the door and departed. I was taken back by this sudden move and stood staring at the door, then at the chest. Collecting myself I hastily followed the man, but could find no trace of him... he had disappeared.

Opening the chest I found it contained a bundle of papers, which at first I regarded with indifference, but which I presently began to examine with greater interest. The deeper I penetrated the more mysterious they appeared to be and the more unexpected were the adventures revealed. In fact, so strange did they seem that I at first could not believe my intelligence, and if the proof had not been in front of me I never would have been convinced of their reality.

It was some time before I could bring myself to realize my position regarding these papers. M. ThÉophraste Longuet had made me heir to this chest and to the mysteries lying therein. In fact, the secrets of his life.

These papers were written in the form of memoirs and were voluminous. They related with the minutest detail, all the incidents of an exceptionally dramatic existence. M. ThÉophraste Longuet had by the discovery of a document two centuries old acquired the proof that Louis Dominique Cartouche, the most cunning criminal in the annals of French crime, and he, ThÉophraste, were one and the same person. This was indeed a most startling discovery and valuable, for it also put me on the track of the treasures of the famous Cartouche.

He had frequently confided in me facts about his peculiar life, but an untimely death, certain terrible events related in these documents, had prevented him from telling me all. We had been great friends. I had written for a journal he had called his “favorite organ.” He had chosen me as his companion and confidant from among many other journalists, not because of any superiority of intellect, but rather, as he used to say, “because a reliable level-headed friend is worth twenty acquaintances, and he found me reliable.” There was much significance in this word, “level-headed,” as you will learn as you read this narrative.

Having thoroughly examined the papers, I immediately took them to my manager, who was a keen business man. He did not hesitate for a moment to find the “Treasures of Cartouche” a valuable piece for his paper, and it is now a matter of common knowledge how curiously the sum of twenty-five thousand francs, divided into seven sums, were hidden in and around Paris, and how the author of these lines in the history of the chest which appeared in print in the month of October, in the year 1903, * touched lightly upon the story found therein.

* This date is very important, for it established the fact that my authentic history of Cartouche had appeared before Mr. Frank Brentano’s book, and that one two books the day after that of Mr. Maurice Bernard.

I have believed it my duty toward the public, and also to the memory of ThÉophraste Longuet, to publish in volume the authentic history of the reincarnation of Cartouche, written exclusively from the documents found in the little oaken chest, a plain narrative, unembellished by all that which I, poor journalist, had added for the chance reader of my journal.

The reader will find more than a mere treasure. The documents are of the greatest literary value, inasmuch as they contain proof of things hitherto only dreamt of. It is certain that many people imagining themselves of superior intellect will doubt and possibly scoff at many of these mysteries.

The oaken chest contained the secret of the tomb; it also contained the history of the Talpa people written by no less an authority than M. Milfroid, Commissioner of Police, who remained for three weeks with M. ThÉophraste Longuet in the subterranean home of those monsters. This last infernal comedy would most certainly have met with incredulity had not it been vented by one of the most honest and intellectual of Police Commissioners. M. Milfroid was a most noble and accomplished character, and he could place music, painting, sculptors among his accomplishments.

Now before closing this preface I must warn my readers that they will find many strange things in the narrative, weird and almost supernatural. And I would say that unless he is possessed with great level-headedness, he must not read the secrets of the Life of ThÉophraste Longuet.

THE DOUBLE LIFE