The feeling in other Protestant countries was intense, and loud protests were published. But the chief champion and vindicator of the Calas family was Voltaire, who seized eagerly at an opportunity of attacking the religious bigotry of his countrymen. He soon raised a storm through Europe, writing to all his disciples, denouncing the judges of Toulouse, who had killed an innocent man. “Everyone is up in arms. Foreign nations, who hate us and beat us, are full of indignation. Nothing since St. Bartholomew has so greatly disgraced human nature.”
Voltaire bent all the powers of his great mind to collecting evidence and making out a strong case. The Encyclopædists, with d’Alembert at their head, followed suit. All Paris, all France grew excited. The widow Calas was brought forward to make a fresh appeal to the king in council. The whole case was revived in a lengthy and tedious procedure, and in the end it was decided to reverse the conviction. “There is still justice in the world!” cried Voltaire—“still some humanity left. Mankind are not all villains and scoundrels.”
Three years after the judicial murder of Jean Calas all the accused were formally pronounced innocent, and it was solemnly declared that Jean Calas was illegally done to death. But the family were utterly ruined, and, although entitled to proceed against the judges for damages, they had no means to go to law. The Queen said the French wits had drunk their healths, but had given them nothing to drink in return.
It is satisfactory to know, however, that some retribution overtook the principal mover in this monstrous case. The fierce fanatic, David de Beaudrigue, was dismissed from all his offices, and being threatened with so many lawsuits, he went out of his mind. He was perpetually haunted with horrors, always saw the scaffold and the executioner at his grisly task, and at last, in a fit of furious madness, he threw himself out of the window. The first time he escaped death, but he made another attempt, and died murmuring the word “Calas” with his last breath.
A GROSS PERVERSION OF JUSTICE AT NUREMBERG.
On the 30th of January, 1790, at five o’clock in the morning, the Nuremberg merchant Johann Marcus Sterbenk was awakened by his maid with the unpleasant news that his house had been broken into and the counting-house robbed of its strong-box, containing the sum of 2,000 gulden. It was a heavy iron strong-box, standing on four legs, and was painted in dark green stripes and ornamented on the top surface and lock with leaves and flowers. The sum stolen meant a small fortune in those days. The counting-house had a window which looked out on to the staircase, and some ten days before, when the key of the door had been mislaid, it had been necessary to remove a pane of glass from the window in order to reach the door from within. On getting to his counting-house, the merchant found that the pane of glass had again been removed, and that the door of the room was standing open. The main front door also was open, although the maid had declared that she had bolted it securely the evening before.
The robbery had clearly been the work of someone who knew the locality well; yet, although several people swore to having seen suspicious-looking men in the neighbourhood about two o’clock in the morning, they were unable to identify or describe them, and for a time justice was at fault.
Suddenly suspicion fell on one Schönleben, Sterbenk’s messenger; and ere long all agreed that he must be the culprit. There was absolutely no evidence—nothing more than his own careless words, which were seized upon and twisted against him. It was now remembered that his previous life had not been blameless, and every little incident was seized upon to his discredit. Thus it was said that the day after the robbery his brother was seen in close converse with him at his house; after that the brother drove out of town with his cart, in which, according to general belief, the strong-box was concealed. Again, it was noted that Schönleben had been often late at business, and again, that the day after the robbery he appeared extremely lightheaded.
On the strength of these suspicions Schönleben was arrested, and with him a poor beadmaker, Beutner by name, who was suspected of being his accomplice. The only connection between the two was that Beutner had once helped Schönleben to carry a load of wood into the Sterbenks’ house; and as he was passing the window of the counting-house, it was said that he gazed spell-bound at the sight of all the money inside. For not more than this the two were lodged in gaol and subjected to criminal examination. It was hardly thought possible that they could be innocent men. A new clue was, however, soon discovered. A barber named Kirchmeier called on Sterbenk and declared that on the day of the robbery he had seen a cash-box identical in every respect with the one stolen. It was in the room of a working gilder, Mannert, who lived in the same house as Schönleben the messenger. On making a second call at the same room a few days later there was no box to be seen. Kirchmeier deposed that the box was standing under the table near the oven and behind the door; and as this witness was a respectable, well-to-do citizen, bearing the character of an upright, religious man, his testimony was deemed unimpeachable. The poor gilder, Mannert, had also always borne the best of characters, but he, too, was arrested, with his wife and sons. When examined, he denied absolutely that he had ever owned such a box, and although he admitted a slight acquaintance with Schönleben, and that he was employed by Sterbenk, he declared that he knew nothing of the messenger’s private affairs.
Then the examination of the Mannerts was renewed; but as they still persisted in repudiating all knowledge of the strong-box the Court had recourse to more drastic measures. In those days it was not absolutely required that witnesses should take the oath, which was reserved for extreme cases; it was a last step when evidence was imperfect, and the punishment for perjury was very severe. Kirchmeier signified his perfect willingness to be sworn, and eventually reiterated his charges upon oath. “That which I saw, I saw,” he averred. “The green-painted cash-box, with green wooden legs, I saw in the rooms of the man who is now kneeling imploringly before me. I cannot help it. I am quite convinced that in this case I am not mistaken. If I am, his blood be on my head.”