In the middle of the summer of 1847 it was arranged that the whole family should go to the seaside, and they came up to Paris to pass one night in the Faubourg Saint-Honore at the Hotel Sebastiani.  Like most French establishments, the Hotel Sebastiani was divided between the marshal and his daughter, the old marshal occupying one floor during the winter, the duke and duchess, with their family, the one above it, while the servants of both establishments had their sleeping-rooms under the roof.  The house was of gray stone, standing back in a yard; the French call such a situation entre cour et jardin.  The duke had been in Paris several times during the previous week, and had occupied his own rooms, where the concierge and his wife—­the only servants left in the house—­had remarked that he seemed very busy.

It was afterwards reported in the neighborhood, but I do not think the circumstance was ever officially brought out, that the police found subsequently that all the screws but one that held up the heavy tester over the bed of the duchess, had been removed, and the holes filled with wax; it is certain that the duke partly unscrewed the bolt that fastened the door of her dressing-room.

On the evening of the family’s arrival in Paris, the father and children went in a carriage to see Mademoiselle de Luzy.  She told the duke that she could get a good situation, provided the duchess would give her a certificate of good conduct; and the duke at parting promised to obtain it for her.

The whole family went to bed early, that they might be ready to start for the seaside betimes upon the morrow.  The children’s rooms were in a wing of the building, at some distance from the chambers of their father and mother.  The concierge and his wife slept in their lodge.  Towards one o’clock in the morning they were awakened by screams; but they lay still, imagining that the noise came from the Champs Elysees.  Then they heard the loud ringing of a bell, and starting from their bed, rushed into the main building.  The noise had proceeded from the duchess’s chamber.  They knocked at the door, but there was no answer, only low moans.  They consulted together, and then roused the maid and valet, who were sleeping in the attic chambers.  Again they knocked, and there was no answer.  The valet then went to the duke’s room, which looked upon the garden and communicated with the dressing-room of the duchess by a balcony and window as well as by the door.  The duke opened the door of his chamber.  He was in his dressing-gown.  When he heard what was the matter, he went at once through the window into the duchess’s chamber.  There a scene of carnage unparalleled, I think, in the history of murder met their eyes.  The duchess was lying across her bed, not yet quite dead, but beyond the power of speech.  There were more than forty wounds on her body.  She must have struggled desperately.  The walls were bloody, the bell-rope was bloody, and the floor was bloody.  The nightdress of the duchess was saturated with blood.  Her hands were cut almost to pieces, as if she had grasped the blade of the knife that killed her.  The furniture was overturned in all parts of the room.[1]