the strangest, the most varied, the most erroneous opinions have been expressed with regard to the famous individual commonly known as bluebeard. none, perhaps, was less tenable than that which made of this gentleman a personification of the sun. for this is what a certain school of comparative mythology set itself to do, some forty years ago. it informed the world that the seven wives of bluebeard were the dawns, and that his two brothers-in-law were the morning and the evening twilight, identifying them with the dioscuri, who delivered helena when she was rapt away by theseus. we must remind those readers who may feel tempted to believe this that in 1817 a learned librarian of agen, jean-baptiste p??r??s, demonstrated, in a highly plausible manner, that napoleon had never existed, and that the story of this supposed great captain was nothing but a solar myth. despite the most ingenious diversions of the wits, we cannot possibly doubt that bluebeard and napoleon did both actually exist.

an hypothesis no better founded is that which consists in identifying bluebeard with the marshal de rais, who was strangled by the arm of the law above the bridges of nantes on 26th of october, 1440. without inquiring, with m. salomon reinach, whether the marshal committed the crimes for which he was condemned, or whether his wealth, coveted by a greedy prince, did not in some degree contribute to his undoing, there is nothing in his life that resembles what we find in bluebeard's; this alone is enough to prevent our confusing them or merging the two individuals into one.

charles perrault, who, about 1660, had the merit of composing the first biography of this seigneur, justly remarkable for having married seven wives, made him an accomplished villain, and the most perfect model of cruelty that ever trod the earth. but it is permissible to doubt, if not his sincerity, at least the correctness of his information. he may, perhaps, have been prejudiced against his hero. he would not have been the first example of a poet or historian who liked to darken the colours of his pictures. if we have what seems a flattering portrait of titus, it would seem, on the other hand, that tacitus has painted tiberius much blacker than the reality. macbeth, whom legend and shakespeare accuse of crimes, was in reality a just and a wise king. he never treacherously murdered the old king, duncan. duncan, while yet young, was defeated in a great battle, and was found dead on the morrow at a spot called the armourer's shop. he had slain several of the kinsfolk of gruchno, the wife of macbeth. the latter made scotland prosperous; he encouraged trade, and was regarded as the defender of the middle classes, the true king of the townsmen. the nobles of the clans never forgave him for defeating duncan, nor for protecting the artisans. they destroyed him, and dishonoured his memory. once he was dead the good king macbeth was known only by the statements of his enemies. the genius of shakespeare imposed these lies upon the human consciousness. i had long suspected that bluebeard was the victim of a similar fatality. all the circumstances of his life, as i found them related, were far from satisfying my mind, and from gratifying that craving for logic and lucidity by which i am incessantly consumed. on reflection, i perceived that they involved insurmountable difficulties. there was so great a desire to make me believe in the man's cruelty that it could not fail to make me doubt it.

these presentiments did not mislead me. my intuitions, which had their origin in a certain knowledge of human nature, were soon to be changed into certainty, based upon irrefutable proofs.

in the house of a stone-cutter in st. jean-des-bois, i found several papers relating to bluebeard; amongst others his defence, and an anonymous complaint against his murderers, which was not proceeded with, for what reasons i know not. these papers confirmed me in the belief that he was good and unfortunate, and that his memory has been overwhelmed by unworthy slanders. from that time forth, i regarded it as my duty to write his true history, without permitting myself any illusion as to the success of such an undertaking. i am well aware that this attempt at rehabilitation is destined to fall into silence and oblivion. how can the cold, naked truth fight against the glittering enchantments of falsehood?