Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

No more revealing love letters have ever appeared in print than these between prof. Chantrelle and his lovely pupil, Miss Dyer

R. L. Stevenson was still in the city of Edinburgh, still divided between the profession of advocate and writer, when the trial of Eugene Marie Chantrelle for the murder of his wife, Elizabeth, was held in the Court of Justiciary. It did not occur to him, however, to seize upon its harrowing features and convert them into literature as “A Scottish Tragedy.”

Yet here was material ready to his hand, though not a tale of mystery unless it were the mystery of human depravity, not a tale of treasure unless it were the treasure of a woman’s love.

But master romancer in embryo as Stevenson was, he did not discern the romance of this case.

To him, no doubt, as to his bewigged brothers at the bar it was no more, no less than a sordid tragedy of domestic infelicity, a greedy murder for gain, a husband in pecuniary difficulties slaying his wife for her insurance money.

Lost upon him was that dramatic scene in court, which no melodramatic playwright so far as I know has ever dared to lift from the realms of real life onto the stage, of the child of these unhappy parents bearing witness against his father.

There was no appeal to him as a novelist in the revelation of the wild, untamed passion of a conventionally brought up girl, of her surrender to the fascinations of a man and a foreigner many years older than herself.

He did not see pathos in the girl wife clinging to the respectability of a marriage so soon to be loveless, for the sake of her children and to avoid against affronting that dour and stem Scots convention which she had once challenged.

To divorce in those days there was attached almost as much of a stigma as love without wedlock. It was not for honest women. It was almost out of the question for a married woman like Elizabeth Chantrelle.

The case would have delighted Balzac, great historian of that civil warfare between good and evil which rages within the human breast.

Teacher and Pupil

And to us, writer and reader, who are interested in all that concerns humanity, the depths to which it may descend, the heights of divine sacrifice to which it may rise, the case of the Chantrelles is full of drama.

Teachers of foreign languages in young ladies’ academies were then as a rule elderly and broken down foreigners eking out a miserable and tormented existence in a strange land. But the new teacher of French at Newington Academy was a surprise to the young ladies.

He was young, only thirty-two. He was handsome with his dark hair and fetching sideburns, his straight nose, flashing teeth, dancing eyes and vivacious gestures and speech. He had a delightful name, Eugene Marie Chantrelle.

He had the bearing of a soldier. Concealed beneath his sleeve was the scar of a saber cut received while fighting at the barricades as a Communist in Paris in 1851. He had left his country because a Napoleon sat on the throne.

And as he stood at his desk and surveyed the class one young girl drew a long breath and closed her eyes dreamily. Here was the hero of her dreams, the Prince Charming, the Young Chevalier.

Traitorous utterance as it may seem to my birthplace, Scotland though renowned for its gallant men is not renowned for the beauty or feminine charm of its women, stanch and true as they are.

You may spend a week in Edinburgh without seeing a single beauty to equal the many you may see within an hour in any American city. But when an Edinburgh beauty is encountered the man who is free of other loves is ready to swear her fair beyond compare.

And such a beauty was Elizabeth Cullen Dyer. Slender, of medium height, with hair of a golden red, expressive eyes, a complexion clear and painted by nature alone. She was only fourteen, budding into womanhood, when Chantrelle saw her first in his class.

At first he did not notice her, she was only a schoolgirl stumbling over her French verbs, annoying him with her faulty accent, but gradually his eyes rested on her more often than on any other. He found excuses to speak to her after class was over, to meet her in secret, before he met her family.

How that meeting came about he told eleven or so years later with a careless indifference.

The First Meeting

“I became acquainted with the family, eighteen months or two years after I became acquainted with herself. The way in which I first came to visit at her parents’ house was this.

“I gave some of my pupils, but not Miss Dyer, tickets to a phrenological lecture, and shortly afterward one of these pupils gave me a ticket to another lecture, at which I saw them, and also Miss Dyer with her brother John.

“On leaving the lecture I accompanied home the Misses Stuart who were intimate friends of mine. Miss Dyer and her brother came along, with a Miss Smith.

“The Stuarts and I thought at the time that was forward on their part. After leaving them, John Dyer and Miss Smith walked on and I followed with my late wife. Dyer and Miss Smith disappeared and I had to take Miss Dyer home.

“I did not then go into the house, but a day or two afterward she asked me why I did not come to see her at home. She said her papa and mamma would be glad to see me, and an evening was fixed, when I called.

“I afterward learned from her mother that while she was happy to see me, her daughter had not asked leave for me to call.”

Chantrelle was a native of Nantes, that city in which close to five thousand victims of the French revolution perished by drowning, being imprisoned in barges which were sunk in the river.

His father was a shipowner who gave him an excellent education followed by a course of study at Nantes Medical School continued at Strassburg and Paris.

Of Two Minds

After his communistic escapade he went to America, but what he did there is not recorded. He came across the Atlantic again to England, and taught languages in several cities before coming to Edinburgh.

He was an excellent linguist, a man of culture, and had a good address, and it was not long before he was teaching classes in several of the leading educational establishments of the city.

He even compiled several books on the French language which were adopted as text books. He added to his income by giving tuition in French, German, Latin and Greek.

It was little wonder that a schoolgirl was fascinated by this traveled, polished man of the world. Little wonder that she should have given herself to him.

We have several of her letters written in this period, with one or two of his, and reading them, we can see the respective characters of Elizabeth Chantrelle and Eugene. There is no sacrilege in giving this poor girl’s letters to the public. None can point a finger of scorn or contempt. They were written from the heart and can evoke nothing but sympathy.

“My darling Eugene,” she writes in one, “how could you for one moment suppose I would cease loving you? Dear Eugene, I really love you, I am sure as much as you love me. Did you get the note I put into your coat pocket? I am very sorry I have not been able to get beside you.

“I have not been out; you have no idea how well I am watched. But you know, dear, it is a great comfort to think you are so near me. I think you had better not walk so much in the square as people will be wondering what handsome gentleman it is, walking so often.

“I am in an awful hurry in case of mamma. I have only written because I could not get beside you, but will try. If your windows are to the front, sit at them and I will pass on the other side. Believe me, my own darling Eugene, ever your truly loving Lizzie. Burn this.”

And what sort of a letter was Chantrelle writing, a cold brief note such as this:

“I cannot answer your note just now. I will as soon as I can. In the meantime, don’t come over now. I wish you not to do so and moreover command you not to come. To-morrow I will see what can be done.”

He has betrayed this girl, and his first thought is of letting her go upon her lonely path, but in spite of himself, her loveliness holds him to her. He is in half a mind to marry her, and tells her so, and she is jubilant, and then almost afraid she may not be worthy of him. He is still uncertain.

“Kisses Without Number”

“My darling Eugene,” she tells him. “How very miserable you left me last night. I am sure when you spoke of giving me up you did not mean it. Really I could not live. The idea of your saying that I would soon forget you.

“Oh, Eugene, you do not know how I love you. I could never bear any one else to kiss or pet me. If it was broken off I would die. You think, perhaps, I do not mean it, but, really, I could not live without your love.

“I do so wish it was all settled. I think, dear, you think I do not love you, but the day seems to be twice as long when you are not coming.

“I heard Maggie say that surely I must be ill because I am so quiet. Will you settle it with papa and tell him to say yes or no. If no, we must be married without his consent as I could not live without you.

“I feel my love increasing daily as I am never content but with you. My darling Eugene, you do not know how intensely I love you, far more than I did. How different it will be when we are married, we shall have no one to bother us.

“I do wish we were married. I shall be so very, very faithful to you, my darling. I wish I had you here, but as it is impossible at present, I send you kisses without number. Ever yours, Lizzie.”

Letters such as these roused a responsive spark in Chantrelle, for we find him writing:

She Does Not Complain

“My dear Lizzie, I could not remain so long without seeing you. I’ll call this evening. If you are not in, I’ll conclude that you don’t very much care for me. Why do you want to die, you foolish little puss, there are many happy days in store for you yet? Now mind, if you are not in, I shall be very unhappy and cross. Ever yours, Eugene.”

Such doubts as were in his mind were very apparent to this girl who was only fifteen years old, and she is ready to sacrifice herself if it will make the man she adores happy. She writes to him:

“My darling Eugene, I have been thinking over everything and have come to the conclusion that if you do not wish to I shall never ask you to marry me. But should we be married I will be very true and obedient. You will do with me just as you please.

“That day I spent with you, I thought that if I was constantly confined to the house by illness I should be quite happy if I was only with you. All I want on earth is to be always with you.

“I would be as happy as the day is long, which I am not now. Will you excuse this scribble as I am writing outside of the dining room window. I tell you again, dear Eugene, that no one else ever had me — never. Can you believe it?

“But if you will not marry me, I will never do anything against your wish. With fondest love and many, many kisses, ever your loving Lizzie.”

She suggests that perhaps it will be better for them both if she frees him from his engagements, and he answers sharply:

“Lizzie, I do not believe a single word you say. I am ready to fulfill all my engagements with you when the time comes even though it should bring me to shame and misery. My house is always open to you when you choose to come, but I never will enter yours again. Eugene.”

Elizabeth’s parents were much opposed to Chantrelle’s affair with their daughter. They had no idea to what lengths it had gone, and that Chantrelle and Elizabeth had given each other written acknowledgments that they took each other as wife and husband respectively. But there was now a cogent reason for marriage.

Chantrelle had failed to come and see Elizabeth and she writes to him:

“The only thing I can do is to go away, as it is evident I cannot stay and have a baby at home. But, dear, I will try and remain till your classes are done so that if they annoy you, you can go, too. I will just do anything. The shorter my life is the better.

“I feel as if I would go mad. It is quite true what mamma says — that when you give yourself to a man he loses all respect for you. But I do not say so of you, Eugene. I do not complain. What is the use?

Chantrelle’s Answer

“The thing is done and I am ruined for life. The only thing for me to do is to go to the streets and shorten my life as much as possible. I never thought — but it is useless speaking.

“Well, my darling, do not annoy yourself about anything pertaining to me, as it is all over now. If you do not intend coming again let me know. It will be the last time I will ever trouble you. Ever your very loving Lizzie.”

And what does Chantrelle say to this generous release? Does he answer it as a lover should? No, he sits down to a callous review of what injury is done to his health and pocket by being annoyed and worried.

“My dear Lizzie, you want me to answer your letter. I am sure I don’t know what to say. You say you love me, but I am at a loss to know whether you do or not. I dare say you think you do, but you seem so cool and possessed at times when I am unhappy, that I sometimes fancy you are deceiving yourself.

“I would not for the life of me cause you the slightest grief, and I think all I can do for you is to sacrifice my feelings altogether and let you have your own way in everything. I cannot marry you at present for many reasons.

“I scarcely know whether I shall be able to take you in July. I am quite willing to trust you, but I would not expose you to any temptation. I could not keep D” — Driggs, a young man who lodged with him — “with me if you were my wife.

When Love Is Gone

“I have no doubt you would be as true as most women, but you have told me so many stories that I cannot always believe what you say. If I loved you less I would take you more readily, because I would not be so jealous. You are so young, I must think for you, or we might both rush into endless misery.

“However, I suppose I must let you have your own way in the matter. You ask when you may see me. I really don’t know, for I don’t intend to come over to your house in a hurry.

“What is the use of making you and myself miserable? You have no idea when I get annoyed in that way, what it costs me in the loss of health and money.

“I don’t care for it myself, but how are we to get married if I don’t get on and if my health fails me. I really believe if we don’t get on better, we had better give up. It would be the greatest relief I could get under the circumstances, for then I would have no anxiety for the future.

“If I had a fortune I should not care what you did. If you deceived me it would break my heart, but you would have something to live on. If you made me unhappy I could not get on and we should starve.

“Why do you not come over yourself? Come over this afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you. Do come, darling, if you can. Ever your loving Eugene.”

This ill-fated pair were married in August of 1868, and two months later their eldest child, Eugene, was born.

Even in that short space of time Chantrelle had shown that whatever love he held toward his wife was gone. Henceforth he was to abuse her, to make her the butt of his blasphemy, to lay violent hands on her, to terrify her with threats of poisoning and shooting her.

One time she writes to her mother from Portobello, a seaside resort near Edinburgh where they spent a month each year, that she had gone to bed and had been sleeping for an hour or so, when—

“I was awakened by several severe blows. I got one on the side of the head which knocked me stupid. When I came to myself I could not move my face, and this morning I found my jaw out of place, my mouth inside skinned and my face all swollen.

“The servants who sleep in the next room heard it all, also the woman to whom the house belongs. They heard him say he would make mince-meat of me, and terrible language.

“I am ashamed to see any of them. The only thing for me to do is to leave him and go to some quiet place with the children — Eugene and Louis — for he talks of smashing them, too.

Refuge in Tears

“If I had money I should be away. Should I consult a lawyer? I am sorry to trouble you, but if he murders me, you might have been sorry not to have heard from me.”

And again about the same time Chantrelle struck her as she was nursing baby Louis and struck the baby. The servants heard him say twice he would murder her and the children, and they went for the police. Elizabeth heard them coming and ran downstairs and begged them to go away.

She consulted a lawyer once about obtaining a divorce, but gave up the idea when she realized the publicity it would entail.

From the united evidence of her servants throughout this trying period it was clearly demonstrated that not a harsh word escaped from this sorely wronged wife’s lips.

She took refuge in silence, in tears or left the room. She was a “nice gentle lady” at all times, and devoted to her children and her home. Sometimes when things became too unendurable she went to her mother’s, but always returned to Chantrelle for the sake of her children and her fear of public exposure.

Chantrelle at first was prosperous, but he was spending his money lavishly not on his family, but his own pleasures. He was a heavy drinker and a constant visitor to certain houses in the town where mercenary love was dispensed.

On Christmas Day

A drunken, unfaithful husband, his habits began to injure his professional work. He paid small attention to it. His classes grew smaller, and fewer pupils came to him for private tuition. He was in difficulties and owing money.

In October of 1877 he insured Elizabeth’s life for one thousand pounds in case of death by accident. He made sure by inquiry of tire agent as to what constituted “accidental death.”

Elizabeth, who lived in constant dread of her husband now, had objected to this insurance and been silenced. A few days before her death she visited her mother.

“My life is insured now, and, mamma,” she said, “you will see that my life will go soon after the insurance.”

“You are talking nonsense,” her mother replied. “You should not be afraid of that. There’s no fears of that.”

“I cannot help thinking it. Something within me tells me it will be so,” said Elizabeth somberly.

But a year before Chantrelle had assaulted her and neighbors had summoned the police who had arrested Chantrelle. He had cursed and sworn as he was being removed, “I’ll do for her yet.” He had been convicted of breach of the peace and bound over to keep the peace.

Lately he had betrayed a conciliatory attitude which under the circumstances was more terrifying to Elizabeth than open brutality, yet even then she was eager to do anything to create a harmonious atmosphere for her children.

There was a new baby, too. She never quite lost hope that Chantrelle would reform. She did not know that only a short while before he had tried to take liberties with a young servant, who had come in to help her faithful Mary Byrne, a devoted Irish servant.

Christmas Day came and to all appearances the family was united. Chantrelle opened a bottle of champagne for dinner, and sent his wife and the two boys to the theater. He gave them money to take a cab home.

On New Year’s Day Mrs. Chantrelle gave Mary Byrne a holiday, and Mary was out until about ten o’clock. When she came back she found her mistress in bed with the baby, and complaining of feeling ill.

She had always had good health, and the servant was surprised. Elizabeth asked Mary to give her some lemonade from a glass standing by the bed, and a piece of orange, and the servant did as she was asked and left her mistress. The gas was burning halfway up as usual. It was kept so all night.

A Smell of Gas

The servant heard nothing more during the night except the hushing of the baby by Master Eugene, which showed that Chantrelle had removed the baby from his wife’s room and taken it to his own which he shared with the two boys. The servant’s bedroom was next to that occupied by Chantrelle.

Between six and seven Mary Byrne rose, and as she was going downstairs to light the kitchen fire heard a strange sound from her mistress’s bedroom.

The door was open and she looked in, and then went to the bed, and found Elizabeth unconscious and gasping. The gas was out, turned off, for there was no smell of gas in the room or elsewhere.

She ran into Chantrelle’s bedroom and roused him. He took some time to come and she stood by her mistress’s bed till he did come. She had told him his wife could not speak. Chantrelle bent over the bed. “Lizzie, what is wrong? Can’t you speak?” It was the first time Mary had heard Chantrelle call his wife by name. He usually addressed her as madame.

He stood there, and then sent the servant to his own room saying he thought he heard the baby cry and she had better go and see what was the matter. She found the baby asleep and came back to the bedroom, just in time to see Chantrelle moving away from the window.

In a few minutes he asked her if she did not feel a smell of gas. She said she felt no smell, but soon afterward there was a strong smell of gas and she ran down and turned the gas off at the meter.

Indicted for Murder

Chantrelle who was a doctor in all but the possession of a degree, and prescribed for a number of private patients, mostly French people, dressed hastily and went out for a registered doctor. This was Dr. Carmichael who accepted Chantrelle’s statement that his wife was suffering from gas poisoning. Carmichael set two assistants to giving artificial respiration, and called in Dr. Littlejohn, medical officer of the city, and Elizabeth was removed to Edinburgh Infirmary.

There Professor Maclagan, a poisons expert, came to the conclusion that the symptoms indicated not gas, but narcotic poisoning.

Elizabeth Chantrelle died that afternoon without regaining consciousness, leaving three children motherless. That which she had suffered and endured for, the bringing up and safeguarding of her children had been cut short by the hand of the man who should have shared that burden of love.

Maclagan had declared on first examination that he did not think it was a case of gas poisoning, but one of a narcotic poison, such as opium or morphia.

The post-mortem failed to show the presence of any narcotic poison, nor was there any signs of gas poison, no taint in the breath when alive, or taint in the body when opened after death.

Still the speedy absorption of narcotic poison might have obliterated all trace of it within some hours after administration. Chemical analysis yielded negative results.

This was rather a setback, but Mary Byrne directed attention to the night dress and the sheets used by her mistress. On them were stains of matter which had escaped from Mrs. Chantrelle’s mouth.

These articles were submitte to Maclagan, Littlejohn and two other experts, who found unmistakable traces of opium. Chantrelle had a whole drug store in a closet, including extract of opium. He had bought a drachm of extract of opium on November 29.

Opium mixed rapidly with lemonade. The bitter taste was slight and covered by the taste of the lemonade. Opium could easily be conveyed in a lift of orange.

On the day on which Elizabeth Chantrelle was laid to rest, a funeral at which Chantrelle showed himself with tear-stained face, two men stepped up to him, and told him he was under arrest, and he was conveyed to Calton jail.

The indictment read that he had murdered his wife within his dwelling house in George Street, Edinburgh, by tire administration of opium in lemonade and orange.

“She Was Funny!”

Three days later he made a declaration.

He was forty-three years old. He denied that he had administered poison of any sort to his wife. She was very seldom ill, and never had any serious ailment. When she was sick he prescribed for her and always put her right. Upon the whole they lived happily.

He then made statements damaging to Elizabeth, no longer there to defend herself.

“My wife had her peculiarities. I do not know whether she thought I was not sufficiently attentive to her. I was as attentive as I could be. I had a great deal to do. I was not at all jealous of her.

“We had a young man named Driggs, who had lived with me three years before our marriage, and continued to do so for one year after. There was a great deal of affection between my late wife and myself, but she was sometimes funny.

“For instance, when I was going out to teach at Leith High School, she would tell me she was going to drown herself. This happened several times and I would say: ‘Nonsense, my dear. What would you do that for?’

“One Saturday, when she played the same game, I was so annoyed I said to her: ‘Go and do it.’ That would be five, not nine years ago.

“She was in the habit of washing herself in a tub in her bedroom before going to bed. On several occasions on my going up to her room after an hour afterward expecting to find her in bed, I found her stooping in a sitting posture, her head bent forward, her nose on the edge of the tub as if to put her face into the water.

“I frequently raised her up, and she appeared to be in a swoon, so that I had to lay her on the bed and rub her to bring her round. I soon came to think she was only feigning unconsciousness and told her so. She stopped it.

Jealousy Incarnate!

“She had not done anything of the kind I have described for about six years. I never thought that she seriously meant to make away with herself, but merely that reading penny trashy novels she had thought foolishly to reproduce the scenes she had read in them. My wife was the last person I could imagine trying to put an end to her life.

“If there was any bad feeling, we always made it up together. She was extremely jealous of me. On one occasion I was smoking and sipping my coffee after dinner when she came into the room and looked daggers at me. She asked me afterward what I meant by looking at ‘that woman.’ I assume she meant a woman whom I saw at a lodging house window opposite.

“With jealousy she kicked out of my house the Driggs family, Driggs, his mother and sister, who were worth two hundred and fifty pounds a year to me. She never got on with Mrs. Driggs, who had been a patient of mine three years previously.

“Sometimes when my wife was in the room, Mrs. Driggs would be lying on the sofa, and I sitting beside her in a low chair. She would be whispering to me about her illness, and when my wife saw this she would turn up her nose and walk out of the room.

“The way in which they came to be kicked out was this. My wife would never bring to me, when smoking after dinner, the glass ashtray, and out of politeness Miss Driggs would rise and do so. My wife said she did not like this, and there were some words between us.

“At this time I was told by young Driggs that my black servant had told his family that my wife had made some unpleasant remarks about them. I spoke to my wife about this. Next day she went to her mother, and when I came home I found her mother and sister sitting with Mrs. Driggs in my house.

“Mrs. Dyer refused to shake hands with me, which annoyed me on account of Mrs. Driggs’s presence. I walked downstairs, and Mrs. Dyer and her daughter followed and even collared me to prevent me, going out.

“I told them to leave my house, and when they would not, directed my black servant to go for the police, which he did not do. I afterward walked out disgusted and returned at ten o’clock, when I found a cab at the door and the Driggses going away.

To Enhance Hit Reputation

“Mrs. Dyer, her daughter and her son John being all in the house, I said: ‘Now you see what you have done.’ They all left with my wife, who returned next day and said she would come back if I behaved myself.

“I said I always did this and that she had better stay away altogether. She went back to her mother’s, but returned in a couple of days as I knew she would. She could not be long at her mother’s without a big fight.

“A complete rupture came about ultimately between me and my wife’s family, and we got on much more smoothly. During the last two years we got on very smoothly.”

Such were the trivial recollections of his dead wife which first occurred to this man under accusation of her murder. And then as he began to realize his position, he saw that to enhance his own reputation he must blacken hers. He did not hesitate to assail her.

“There were some things that occurred greatly to her disadvantage,” he continued, “and as her friends are not likely to spare me, and are likely to say that I was harsh and unkind to her, whereas I am one of the kindest husbands that could be, kind to a degree, I am compelled to quote facts in support of my statement. When I say I was kind, I mean by that, forbearing and not resenting malice.”

Let us see wherein his kindness consisted.

Chantrelle Snoops

“About three years ago, when we were on the very best of terms, I discovered my wife was carrying on an intrigue with a young man living in the same house. I made a noise about it.”

He discovered what he called an intrigue in this way, as he tells. His wife accused him of kissing a servant, and though he called in the servant and got her to say it was untrue, his wife eventually dismissed the servant.

“She came back next day with an aunt and they were asking me at the door why she had been put away, when my wife, who had been listening, came up and made some remark.

“The servant said: ‘You take men into the house when your husband is out? I do not remember what my wife said, but I said to the servant girl: ‘Who is it?’ She replied: ‘Mr. So and So,’ naming a person downstairs.

“I went there and rang the bell, and fetched the party. I asked him in the presence of all if he had ever been in my house. He said he had, and made some excuse about bringing up the letters.

“I asked him if he was the postman — he said he was not. He said he had been in once or twice. I then said that will do, and he walked downstairs. The aunt and the servant then left. I then called on a lawyer, and he said if there was nothing serious I should be satisfied with an apology.

“I wrote to the young man for this, and got it. I did not entirely believe that there had been anything improper” — he had found out that his wife had spoken to the young man at the door about a dozen times — “between the young man and my wife, but I strongly suspected it because he avoided speaking to me or making my acquaintance.”

Once upon the scent of something which he may hold as a weapon over his wife’s head he keeps up the hunt. Listen to this man who assuredly was no admirer of the motto — Noblesse oblige.

“Suspecting there might be something more, I made an appointment with the said servant girl, and asked her if she knew anything more. She replied my wife had mentioned a young man whom she used to walk with before and meet at her mother’s. He had given my wife a beautiful scent bottle and she had given him a cigar case, bought at a Miss Cooper’s shop.”

Such evidence might be suspect, coming from a servant girl who has been dismissed, but Chantrelle, his nose to the ground, follows the trail to Miss Cooper’s shop.

“ ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘my wife gave me a very pretty cigar case last Christmas.’ The shopwoman said — she knew me: ‘Yes, I sold it to your wife myself?’ ”

The Judas Kiss

Chantrelle bought a duplicate of this cigar case and went home. He asked his wife if she had anything to tell him before going to her mother’s. She declared she had nothing to tell him, and they both went to Mrs. Dyer’s.

There Chantrelle asked Elizabeth, in her mother’s presence, if she had anything more to declare, and she said she had not. He told her the dismissed servant said she had given a cigar case to a young man and she denied this.

“I then asked her if she would swear on a Bible before God that she had never done so and she said she would. I then kissed her and we were all rejoicing together when I took the duplicate cigar case out of my pocket and showing it to them, asked my wife if she had never bought one like it.

“She denied having done so even after I had told her where I had bought it. She still denied it. She behaved like a panther and abused me by calling me a villain, a sneak, thief and scoundrel. Her mother then behaved like a thorough going liar. I asked her to go with me to the shop, but she would not, and said she did not believe me.

“I then walked home and shortly afterward my wife came home and abused me, and said she would go to London if I would only give the fare. I then said I would behave to her like a father if she would tell me all that happened and see if I could again forgive her.”

Chantrelle who blandly confesses to having given his wife a Judas kiss of reconciliation just before he springs the cigar case upon her, now goes to lower depths.

The Trial Comes Up

He has learned that his wife and this young man, youthful friends of old standing, have apparently exchanged gifts. That is all he has to go upon in the matter, and. even his wife denies that. Now he would have us believe that his wife confesses to adultery without one iota of evidence against her.

“She took a deal of persuasion and at length confessed to repeated adulterous intercourse with a certain young man, being the young man to whom she had given the cigar case, which she admitted having done. On her confession I forgave her and made it all up.”

The young man had assailed his honor, the honor of a husband who himself was a frequenter of brothels, and he must be made to pay. He is a bank clerk.

Chantrelle goes to him and says he will charge him with an offense which will destroy his character, he will do so openly in front of the manager and directors. The young man defies him to do his worst, he has nothing to be ashamed of, but overnight reflection makes him change his mind.

Like the other victims of blackmail he knows that whether innocent or not an accusation is going to make trouble for him, and weakly he pays Chantrelle fifty pounds and writes him an apology.

This money Chantrelle says he sent to an aunt in Nantes to present to the Nantes Hospital.

In a second statement he modifies what he has said about his wife’s health and state of mind. He states she was subject to fits of depression and threatened to take her life.

He had given her chloral hydrate, in the form of syrup of chloral, once or twice a month, to make her sleep at night, or as a stimulant during the day.

He was positive his wife had died from gas poisoning. He had discovered a broken gas pipe behind the shutter at the window, he had no idea there was such a pipe there.

The case came up for trial on May 7, 1878, before Lord Chief Justice Moncrieff.

The prisoner came into court, or was brought rather, dressed in mourning, wearing the white wrist bands then the masculine vogue for mourners. He was pale, but perfectly composed, and pleaded not guilty.

It was the endeavor of the prosecution to prove the cause of Elizabeth Chantrelle’s death, and the part if any, taken by her husband in causing it.

It was plainly not suicide as the victim had been cheerful on the day preceding death, and had told a friend she would write to her in a day or two.

Threats of Poisoning

It was proved that Chantrelle was acquainted with the use of poisons, that he had opium in his possession, and that he had tried to mislead all persons concerned as to the cause of death.

He had protested innocence before being accused. He had been the first to mention poisoning in connection with himself.

Mary Byrne testified that two nights after the death there were policemen in the house, and Chantrelle said to her: “I wonder what brings them about the place. Do they want to make out that I poisoned my wife?”

The gas pipe behind the shutter in Mrs. Chantrelle’s bedroom from which Chantrelle claimed came the escape of gas, was found to have been broken in such a way that it could not have been accidental, and Mary Byrne distinctly saw her master move away from the shutter.

Not until then was the slightest smell of gas escaping. It was only a few moments after the servant had noticed the smell that she ran down and turned the gas off at the meter. The gas was not on long enough to hurt any one.

As to Chantrelle’s statement that he did not know there was a gas pipe there, plumbers gave evidence that he had stood by and watched them repair that very same pipe about a year earlier.

Chantrelle was the last person with deceased, and had given her orange and lemonade during the night. Their married relationship was bad, and witnesses had heard him threaten to poison Elizabeth in such a way as to defy detection.

The Boy Testifies

A most damaging item was the matter of insurance in relation to his dislike of his wife, his desire to be rid of her, and his pecuniary difficulties. The man was desperate for money to indulge his vices. He was at this time drinking a bottle of whisky a day, no watered stuff, but real Scotch. His creditors were pressing him.

Almost the first witness called by the prosecution was Eugene, the oldest child. He stood upon a stool in the witness box, and the Lord Advocate softened his gruff tones as he questioned the boy.

“I am the eldest of the family. Last New Year’s day I had breakfast in the parlor with mamma and papa. Mamma had bacon, toast and tea to breakfast.

“Mamma sent me to look for a toy and when I returned, she was in the parlor. Mary was out, and I think Louis opened the door. I asked mamma if she was going out with baby, but I think she said ‘No.’ She was ill, though she did not say what was the matter with her. Papa came downstairs a little while afterward.

“He came into the parlor where we were and I think mamma said to him she was a little ill. Papa went out after that, taking Louis with him. They were out a good long while. After they went out mamma lay down on the sofa while I took baby.

“Mamma went into the dining room and I remained in the parlor with baby. I next saw mamma in the kitchen. I went up to the bedroom and when I came down again, she was in the parlor where I read her a story.

“When she was sitting at the parlor fire she vomited. It was like water. I was beside her and I held her head. She did not ask me to do it, but I did it because she did it to mine sometimes. I told papa when he came back. I think papa asked mamma if she were better and she said, ‘No.’

“It was near dinner time and he asked mamma if she had been having champagne. She said she had not and he asked if she would like lemonade. She said she would and I was sent for three or four bottles.

“Papa also sent me and Louis for some grapes. We dined about five o’clock, but mamma did not eat anything. She lay down on the sofa. After dinner she put baby to bed and lay down beside him.

“That would be about six o’clock. I took her some lemonade and grapes and laid them at her bedside.

“Two of the bottles of lemonade which I took in had been drawn before that. Papa lay down on the sofa after dinner and afterward went out for a few minutes to the tobacconist’s.

Evidence for the Defense

“Louis and I went to bed about half past nine. I went and said good night to mamma before going to the nursery. She was awake in her room and baby was with her. Her gas was a little lighted. She kissed me and said good night.

“I did not think there was any difference in her. She looked as usual. I did not notice whether she had taken the lemonade or the grapes. I asked her if she felt better.

“Papa brought baby to my bedroom. He remained for about ten minutes and then went away. I was awake when he came to bed, I don’t know how long after he brought baby.

“I heard Mary come in the morning and tell papa that mamma was ill. I recollect papa going for the doctor. He told Mary not to let me into mamma’s room, but Louis and I went in.

“I recollect the doctor coming. I smelled gas that morning when we were in the room. It was after the doctor came. I went in after Louis the first time and I did not feel it then.

“We used to sleep in mamma’s bedroom, but we gave up doing that before the New Year. When we went into the room after papa went for the doctor, there were small bits of orange on the stool. I did not notice any marks on the bed. I noticed after mamma was removed that there were stains on the bolster. I also saw a yellowish mark on the sheet.

“My papa and mamma got on well sometimes. I don’t know any reason why they did not get on well. He called her bad names. I have heard him swear at her. Mamma never used bad names to him.

“Mamma left the room when he used bad words and sometimes she cried. I also cried sometimes when he did so. I have seen him strike her. He struck her with his hand on the side of the head.

“That was a long time before New Year’s Day. I did not see him strike her after we were at Portobello — in August.”

The defense now examined this poor boy, and naturally put leading questions to him so as to shed a favorable light on Chantrelle.

“My father has always been kind to me. He gave me everything I asked from him. He gave me pennies to buy toys, took me for walks and was kind to me in every way.

“He was kind to mamma, too. It was a long time before mamma died that the bad words and swearing took place. I can’t say how long it is since he struck her on the head.

“I saw nothing to cry for a good while before mamma died. We all dined together on Christmas Day. We had a bottle of champagne, and papa and mamma were kind to each other on that day.”

But the defense could elicit nothing more favorable to the prisoner. It tried to point out that Chantrelle, being a Frenchman, had customs of his own and he should not be held a murderer because he went out for breakfast, was rarely at home, and was unfaithful to his wife. It tried to point out that the symptoms noted in the case of the victim were more indicative of gas poisoning than narcotic.

When Chantrelle’s counsel sat down, his client gasped: “Is that all the evidence for the defense?” He was taken aback by the brevity of his counsel.

The jury were out a few minutes over an hour and on their return found Chantrelle guilty of murder, and he was sentenced to death by hanging. His appearance outside the court was greeted with hisses, groans and yells.

Chantrelle’s comment was:

“Would that I could but place a fuse in the center of this earth, that I could blow it to pieces, and with it the whole of humanity. I hate them.”

He maintained in prison that the traces of opium found on the bolster and sheet had been rubbed in by some one with the object of incriminating him.

An almost unforgivable item came to light, that he had forbidden Elizabeth’s brother, her twin, to visit her. And the reason, the vile reason he pretended was that he suspected them of incest.

We can almost see Chantrelle in his two roles as husband and as the carefree man about town. No doubt there were many, men and women both, to swear that Chantrelle was a charming fellow, a gentleman, a model of courtesy and politeness, but if so none of them came forward to say so.

On the last day of May, Chantrelle went to his death, leaving behind him three little boys whom he had robbed of a devoted and loving mother.

Perhaps they found a foster mother, and little Louis and the baby had no memories of their own, but Eugene — he must have remembered that New Year’s day, his day in court, too, when he dared not look at his father’s staring eyes and fidgeting fingers.

Time rubs out the writing, and passes a merciful eraser over our childish troubles and terrors, and so, no doubt, it was with him. We pray so.