CELEBRATED FRENCH CONVICTS
Life history of some noted convicts--Collet travels through
Europe--In trouble at Montpelier, arrested and lodged in
gaol--Brought to hotel to amuse the Préfet’s guests--Escapes
as a cook’s boy--Fresh swindles--Arrested and sent to
_bagnes_--Other remarkable convicts--Salvador or Jean Ferey,
full of strange tricks and laughing at iron bars--The
Marquis de Chambreuil--Cognard, the false Comte Pontis de
Sainte Helene--Vidocq--His personal experiences at the
_bagnes_--Escape from Brest--Recapture--Other remarkable
escapes.
The quality of the criminals upon which the _bagne_ laid its hands will
be best realised by describing one or two of the most notable convicts
who passed through them.
A very remarkable person was Anselme Collet, who has had few equals in
his nefarious profession, that of swindler on the widest scale. He was
essentially the product of his age, which undoubtedly encouraged his
development and afforded him peculiar facilities for the display of his
natural gifts. Chief among these were boundless audacity, readiness
of resource, an attractive person, insinuating address, and skill to
assume many different parts.
Collet was born at Belley, in the department of the Ain, and from his
earliest days gave evidence of a desire to go wrong. He was a born
thief and an unmitigated liar, and as he was constantly in trouble his
family handed him over to a maternal uncle, a priest, on the point
of expatriating himself because he could not take the oath exacted
from all ecclesiastics. Three years later Collet returned from Italy
and entered the military school at Fontainebleau, and was presently
incorporated as a sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment. He had
seen too much of the priests to take kindly to soldiering, and when
in garrison at Brescia, he spent more time in the Capuchin monastery
than in the barracks. Soon after this his regiment went on service,
and he was seriously wounded. While in hospital at Naples he nursed a
French major, who died in his arms and gratefully bequeathed him all he
possessed, a sum of three thousand francs and some valuable jewelry.
When Collet was discharged from the hospital, he joined the monks and
was associated with a body of missioners destined for La Pouille.
Collet’s task was that of treasurer. Returning to his monastery on one
occasion, he found himself short of three thousand francs, which he had
embezzled, and he saw nothing for it but flight. He had been kindly
received by the syndic of the town, from whose office he had stolen a
number of passports signed in blank. He had no intention of staying at
the monastery, and persuaded the superior that he had an inheritance to
claim in France, to which, being a deserter, he dared not return. He
got a letter of introduction to a banker at Naples, and was entrusted
with a valuable diamond ring and commissioned to buy another like it in
that city. Collet managed to swindle the banker out of 22,000 francs,
kept the ring, bought a smart suit of clothes and, filling up a blank
passport as the Marquis de Darda, proceeded to Capua. Here he picked
up a portfolio containing the papers of Chevalier de Tolozan, which
title he now adopted with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and
passed on to Rome. Here he found a French ecclesiastic, a native of
Lyons and an intimate of the Tolozan family, who took Collet under
his wing and introduced him to Cardinal Fesch, Napoleon’s uncle and
the then Archbishop of Lyons. Collet made the most of his time, and
swindled people, right and left,--60,000 francs here and 20,000 there;
5,000 and 10,000 more borrowed under false pretences, with jewels
stolen from tradesmen, and moneys craftily secured. Rome became too
hot for him. He filled up a new passport, called himself a bishop,
changed costume and character and went to live in the city of Mondovi,
safe from the police, already in pursuit of him. Well furnished with
funds Collet threw off his guise of priest, and led a life of pleasure
with the young dandies of the place, among whom he created a desire
to perform in amateur theatricals. Subscriptions were raised, Collet
becoming _costumier_. He got together a large wardrobe made up of
priest’s robes, military uniforms and diplomatic dresses, with sham
jewelry and crosses and ribbons of many orders. He soon made off with
this valuable stock in trade, and the first disguise he assumed was
that of a general officer. He next became a Neapolitan priest, and
thus passed on to Sion, in Switzerland, where he was received with
open arms by the bishop, who appointed him to the cüre of a lucrative
parish. What followed may be told in his own words. “I stayed here five
months,” he says, “performing all the duties of a priest, confessing,
marrying, baptising, visiting the sick and burying the dead. Our church
was in a ruinous condition, and subscriptions had been raised for its
repair and restoration. There were 30,000 francs in hand, but posing
as a man of wealth I offered to make up the sum necessary for the new
works, and my generosity was soon seconded by fresh subscriptions. I
meant to lay hands on all and, starting with the money, accompanied by
my architect and others, proceeded to a neighboring town to purchase
pictures, candelabra, a chalice and so forth. None of these purchases
were paid for in cash. I sent the Mayor back to Sion, but stayed myself
another night, then started for Strasburg.” Thence Collet took the road
to Germany, and, passing the mountains of the Tyrol, reëntered Italy,
changing his costume en route continually. By passing himself off in
various characters he laid everybody under contribution. A banker
at Savona advanced him 100,000 francs, but he was nearly detected,
and he became once more a bishop, by name Dominico Pasqualini, Bishop
of Monardan, and was received most cordially by his confrère, the
Bishop of Nice. Twenty-seven seminarists were to be ordained next day,
and the Bishop of Nice besought his fellow prelate to examine them.
Collet tried to get out of it by assuring his Eminence that he saw no
necessity for doing so, as it was little likely the Bishop would desire
to ordain “incompetent asses;” but the Bishop of Nice insisted, and the
Monseigneur de Monardan put on his robes and assisted in the ordination
of thirty-three abbés. Travelling westward Collet arrived at Fréjus, en
route for Spain, now the plenipotentiary of his Majesty, King Joseph,
representing the Inspector-General, and charged with the equipment of
the army at Catalonia. From Fréjus he went on to Draguignan, preceded
by official orders to await his coming, and there commenced to form
his staff. He appointed a half-pay officer as his aide-de-camp, the
son of the sub-préfet at Toulon his private secretary, named officers
of ordnance, commissioners and pay-masters, and had a suite of twenty
persons by the time he had reached Marseilles. At Marseilles he laid
hands on 130,000 francs in the government treasury and at Nimes secured
about 300,000 more.
His star paled at Montpelier. After spending an hour on an early
parade he went to lunch with the Préfet, to whom he promised promotion
and the decorations of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. Upon
returning to his hotel he found it in the hands of the gensdarmes,
and himself under arrest. Collet’s staff shared his fate, and all
whom he had misled were held in custody for several weeks, while the
villain of the piece hourly expected to be shot. One day the Préfet
had a party, and to amuse them sent orders that Collet should be
brought from his prison under escort. He was left for a moment alone
in the serving-room, from which there was no exit save through the
dining-room. At this door two sentinels were stationed. Collet’s wits
were at work. While he waited to make a spectacle for the guests he
caught sight of the white suit of an assistant cook, which had been
left in the serving-room. Hastily putting it on and taking up a dish of
sweets he knocked at the passage door, and was suffered to go through
without recognition or interruption. He took refuge in a house close to
the Préfecture, and remained there in hiding while the alarm was given,
and search and pursuit organised.
After escaping from the town he wandered about the country devising
fresh swindles. One of the most successful of these was at the expense
of a bank at Tulle, where he cashed a forged letter of credit for
5,000 francs, and got off as far as Lorient. A clerk of the bank
followed him thither, caught him and handed him over to justice. He
was more carefully held this time, and passed on to Grenoble, where
he was sentenced to five years of _travaux forcés_, which by special
favor he expiated at Grenoble. Here he was recognised and denounced
by one of his former staff officers, with the result that he was
sent to Toulon to finish his term. When set at liberty he fixed his
residence at Poussin, in the department of Ain, where he was kept
under surveillance, but managed to evade it, and proceeded to commit
fresh crimes. At Toulouse he imposed upon the superior of a religious
house, where he was given shelter. To show his gratitude he proposed
to endow it with a gift of land. The property was chosen, the purchase
agreed upon, but Collet could not immediately produce the funds, and
his bankers, according to Collet, talked of delaying completion.
Collet meanwhile set himself to borrow from friends he had beguiled,
and managed to extract 74,000 francs in all from them. Next day he
disappeared.
He played the same trick at Rochbeaucourt in the Dordogne. Now posing
as the Comte de Gôlo he desired to purchase a chateau. Using the same
methods as at Toulouse, he again made himself scarce with the moneys
he borrowed. Then he appeared at Le Mans. He acquired property, and
was on the point of exchanging land for diamonds at a jeweller’s, when
the rumors of former fraud reached the place, and the police were set
on his track. He was arrested, tried and convicted, and was sentenced
to twenty years at the _bagne_, after exposure for an hour in the
_carcan_, or iron collar, on the platform of the guillotine. He was
sent first to Brest, but was transferred later to Rochefort, where he
died in 1840, having endured his captivity with philosophy, and not, as
has been said already, in extreme discomfort. “I have but one grief,”
he said in the hospital of the _bagne_, “and that is that I am dying a
_forçat_. My money is of no use to me;” for he undoubtedly possessed
considerable funds, although the secret of their whereabouts was never
disclosed. Collet had no small opinion of himself, and claimed to
be an interesting criminal. His head was turned by the attention he
attracted, and he actually replied in an open letter to the charges
brought against him in the numerous biographies of him published in his
lifetime. He sought to correct the severity of the criticisms passed
upon him, and protested that the standard of his morality was put too
low. “My life has had two sides,” he represented; “and, I am free to
confess, presents features I cannot defend; on the other side I can
point to many good deeds. I have given largely to the poor when I was
in funds, and my conduct in prison has always been irreproachable.”
A few very remarkable convicts contemporary with Collet may well find
mention here. One was Salvador, whose real name was Jean Ferey. His
prison history includes thirty-two escapes from gaol and nine from
the _bagne_. He was originally a respectable man, a tradesman in the
north of France, who, on returning from one of his business journeys,
found his house deserted. His wife, after pillaging the place, had run
away with a young clerk. He fell away at once into evil courses, vowed
eternal hatred to society and instantly adopted a life of crime. He was
taken in Paris and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbery
by means of false keys. He escaped and was recaptured, finished his
term and was again sentenced for a new burglary. He had had a violent
struggle with the police, in which he was mortally wounded, as it
was supposed, and was taken to the infirmary of La Force, where the
surgeon bade him prepare for death. His wounds were deep, his strength
was waning and hope abandoned. Next morning he had disappeared, and
was driving post-haste along the highroad to Switzerland, in company
with a woman, who had assisted in his escape. He had got out through
a hole in the infirmary wall, and had lowered himself into the street
by a rope made out of his blankets. Then followed a fresh offence and
a new sentence, this time of death. The night before his execution he
volunteered, with every sign of contrition, to make a full avowal of
his crimes. A judge came to attest his confession, and, seeing that
the prisoner was suffering acute pain from his chains, ordered his
leg irons to be removed. The story was prolonged far into the night.
The judge, meaning to return the next morning, left Salvador to sleep
entirely unfettered. He was still well guarded and kept under eye; yet
next day nothing was found of him but his clothes, which he had been
compelled to slip off so as to effect his passage through the usual
hole in the wall.
The woman who, in his first escape, had carried him off in a
post-chaise, became his wife and clung to him with every mark of loyal
affection. Once Salvador, when in custody, persuaded his guards to
allow her to dine with him in prison. The dishes were brought in from
outside and carefully examined as they passed the gate, but there was a
file carefully concealed in a stick of celery, with which the prisoner
sawed through his bars and gained his liberty.
Salvador had a certain pride in his nefarious profession as well as
for his fellow criminals. He could not bear the idea that any one
sentenced to exposure in the _carcan_, or collar, upon the scaffold
should appear in a shabby dress; and he was frequently known to provide
them with a suitable costume out of his own private purse. He had the
reputation of being a staunch and devoted comrade, whose loyalty to his
fellows nothing could shake, and who was never known to betray a soul.
On one occasion, in a great robbery of goods in a shop, he had gained
the assistance of one of the salesmen. Salvador was presently taken,
and it was clear that it had been a “put up” job, the slang phrase
for collusion from inside; but when the whole staff of the shop were
assembled, and Salvador was called upon to indicate his accomplice,
he obstinately declined and declared that he had never seen a single
one of them before. He ended his days on the guillotine in a _bagne_.
It was said that he had grown weary of the life of constant escapes
and repeated recapture, and to put an end to it all had attacked and
wounded a warder so as to incur the extreme penalty of the law.
The _bagne_ had its aristocracy, not of crime only, but in the actual
persons of men of rank and title, real or fictitious. There was the
Marquis de Chambreuil, who spent many years at Rochefort, and was
always distinguished by his air of good breeding and exquisite manners.
There was a mystery about him, which was never penetrated, and no one
ever knew his real name. Another pretended nobleman was the so-called
Comte d’Arnheim, who appeared at Rochefort with the badge of his rank
on his convict cap and his coat of arms embroidered in silk.
The most notable of all such pretenders was the famous Cognard,
commonly known at the _bagne_ under the name of the Comte de Pontis
de Sainte-Hélène, a man with a curious history, who passed through
many strange adventures and vicissitudes. He was endowed with many
personal gifts, was of handsome appearance with regular features, had
a firm mouth, a keen eye and a suave voice, which easily assumed a
note of command. He escaped from Toulon, when a convict sentenced to
_travaux forcés_, and found his way into Spain, where he somehow made
the acquaintance of the family of Pontis de Sainte-Hélène, the last
representative of which died suddenly, and Cognard became possessed of
his papers. He had military aspirations, and as one of the old noblesse
he easily obtained a lieutenancy in the French army, in which by varied
service he rapidly rose to the rank of major and leader of a squadron.
As such he served with the staff of Marshal Soult in the Pyrenees. When
the French army retreated he was appointed to the command of the 100th
regiment of the line. He was present at the battle of Toulouse, and
afterwards behaved well at Waterloo, where he was seriously wounded. He
went over at the Restoration and was decorated with the order of Saint
Louis, and was appointed by the Duc de Berry, lieutenant-colonel of the
legion of that nobleman and soldier.
He was playing a bold game and yet he dared to march at the head of
his regiment day after day, through the streets of Paris, constantly
crowded with old comrades, who might at any time recognise him. This
actually happened at a parade in the Place de Vendôme, when an old
friend claimed his acquaintance, demanding blackmail. This was but
grudgingly given, and the false Count and convict Lieutenant was
denounced to the police. He was soon faced with the record of his evil
antecedents and re-committed to the _bagne_ at Brest, where he died.
A strong light is thrown upon the life of the _bagne_ by one who passed
through it in the early part of the nineteenth century. Readers of
French memoirs are no doubt familiar with the autobiography of Vidocq,
who, from an active pursuit of crime in all its forms, went over to the
other side and became a famous thief catcher. His black treachery to
his class, his constant betrayal of his old confederates, may be said
to have been condoned by the services he rendered society by bringing
so many of the worst depredators to justice; but he was a contemptible
character with no redeeming points but his pertinacious courage and
his unflagging pursuit of the criminals, whom, renegade that he was,
he hunted unceasingly. The “Memoirs” he gave to the world have been
widely read, and not less widely discounted as extravagant beyond
measure and probably unveracious. But it is the fact that they never
were contradicted, although many of the people he exposed were still
living when he wrote, and would certainly have refuted the charges
he brought, had they been false. Withal, the “Memoirs” are amusing,
even fascinating to lovers of personal adventure, full of hairbreadth
escapes, thrilling exploits and great dangers incurred and surmounted.
They no doubt present a faithful picture of criminal episodes and the
prison treatment of criminals in his time.
He was confined in the _bagne_ of Brest, from which he speedily made
his escape, and his account of his life as a convict, his journey
from Paris “by the chain” will be read with interest when contrasted
with the experiences of Jean Marteilhe, the innocent Protestant
galley-slave of just a century before. Vidocq started from Bicêtre,
where the travellers, some one hundred and twenty in number, were
assembled in the forenoon in the _cour des fers_, “Court of Irons,” and
medically examined as to their fitness for the march. The commander of
the gang, Captain Thierry, and his lieutenant, M. Viez, were present,
both of long experience and much respected by all. A ring in the
centre of the chain that joined every two men seemed to take the gang
chain, and the whole twenty-five couples were as one man. The act of
fettering seems to have completed the degradation of these miserable
creatures. So far from despairing, they gave themselves up to riotous
and reckless gaiety. The most horrible and disgusting language was
heard on every side, wild shouts and indecent gestures provoked stupid,
senseless laughter. Vidocq himself comments bitterly upon the scene. It
was painfully evident that the criminal loaded with fetters was goaded
into trampling under foot all that is honored and respected by the
society which has cast him off. He feels no restraints, no obligations,
his charter is the length of his chain, his only law the stick of his
_argousin_ (guard). When night came on they began to sing. Imagine
fifty scoundrels, the greater number of them drunk, all screeching
different and timeless airs. Where the few gave way to the horrors of
their situation and wept bitter tears, their abandoned companions fell
upon them and beat them. That night three of the number charged with
the heinous offence of having betrayed the secrets of the prison house
were all but killed. One indeed, a noted informer, was only rescued by
the _argousin_, and he was so misused that he died within four days.
That first night was passed on the bare stones of a disused church.
At daybreak all were afoot, the lists were read over, the fetters
examined. Then the larger number mounted long, low cars, back to back,
legs hanging over outside. They were soon covered with frost and their
bodies were motionless from extreme cold. The balance, made up of the
most robust, were condemned to walk, which at least kept them warm;
and besides they could attack defenceless people and rob, when they
escaped supervision, which was not always exercised, for the guards
shared in the plunder. On reaching the first stage out (St. Cyr), all
were stripped of their clothes and a close search made of their person
and of every article--stockings, shoes, and shirt--for hidden files or
watch springs likely to be used in sawing through their irons. This
examination lasted for nearly an hour, while the convicts undressed and
shivered with unendurable cold.
The night resting-place was a cattle shed. The beds were made on the
impure litter, in the midst of which were set the wooden troughs,
filled with a steaming mess of bean soup, from which each man’s
porringer was filled. At the end of this disgusting meal the sergeant
blew his whistle for silence. “Listen, robbers, and answer me ‘yes’ or
‘no.’ Have you had bread?” “Yes.” “Soup?” “Yes.” “Meat?” “Yes.” “Wine?”
“Yes.” “Then go to sleep or pretend to do so.” In striking contrast to
this mockery of a feast, the guards dined at a table laid out close
by, and abundantly supplied. “It is not easy to imagine a more hideous
spectacle than this stable,” says Vidocq. “On one side were a hundred
and twenty men, herded together like foul beasts, rolling their haggard
eyes, from which fatigue and misery had banished sleep. On the other
were eight ugly ruffians, carousing and eating greedily, but never
losing sight of their carbines or their clubs. A few miserable candles
affixed to the blackened walls cast a murky glare upon the revolting
scene, and the grim silence was constantly broken by the clank of
fetters.”
The toilsome journey occupied twenty-four days and ended at a depot
outside the _bagne_, where a sort of quarantine was performed. The
prisoners were bathed two and two, put in the crimson uniform and
rested for three days. No great vigilance was shown here, and it was
easy to get out and over the outer wall. Vidocq had been meditating
escape, and prepared for it by obtaining private clothes, a shirt,
trousers, and neckerchief, which he concealed in the centre of
an enormous loaf of ration bread. Having secured a steel chisel,
negligently left within his reach, he cut a hole through the wall of
his chamber, while a friendly comrade relieved him of his irons. He
gained the yard and the boundary wall, which he surmounted with the
aid of a pole, which was too heavy to be lifted on top and used for
the descent. At last his only chance was to jump down, and in doing
this he injured his ankles seriously, and could only drag himself to an
adjoining bush, where he lay for hours, hoping the pain would abate and
he might go on. But his feet swelled prodigiously, and he was obliged
to surrender himself. Three weeks were now spent in hospital, and a
charitable Sister of Mercy who nursed him gained him forgiveness from
the commandant.
Vidocq was still bent on escape. An obstacle to his plan existed in his
chain companion, of whose discretion he was afraid. The man was still
young, but already half an idiot from misery and brutal treatment. It
was the rule to blame the remaining half of a couple, when the other
had got away, and Vidocq knew this man, to avoid punishment, would
betray the projected escape. It was necessary to be coupled afresh,
and Vidocq, feigning sickness, was laid by for a few days, and then
given another partner, who had no fears and was full of good-will. He
strongly advised the would-be fugitive to make his move at once, before
the sergeants had come to know his face. He helped Vidocq, who was in
funds, to buy a disguise, a suit of sailor’s clothing, which was put
on the morning of the third attempt, underneath his convict’s frock,
and was undetected as the gang passed out of the gate to labor at
dawn. His fetters, which he had sawn through, only hung by threads, but
these also escaped notice; and on reaching the basin where the works
were in progress, Vidocq slipped aside behind a pile of planks, where
he made a rapid change, and walked off towards the wicket gate, giving
upon the town. Altogether ignorant of the proper way, after threading
many intricate streets and turning continually right and left, he
luckily reached the main gate of the city, where a veteran guard was
posted, who had the credit of being able to tell a convict at a look,
and penetrate any disguise. A telltale hang of one leg, that to which
the chain has been fastened, is an unfailing sign, but Vidocq had not
been coupled long enough to show this. He played his part very coolly.
He was carrying a jug of buttermilk, bought on purpose, and placing
this upon the ground he halted in front of the warder, and carelessly
asked for a light for his pipe. This self-possession served him in good
stead. He passed safely through, and three-quarters of an hour elapsed
before the three guns giving the alarm were fired. He still held on
bravely, and all would have gone well, had not two gensdarmes suddenly
appeared at the turn of the road, and took him into custody, but not as
an escaped convict. With ready wit Vidocq gave himself up as a deserter
from the navy, the _Cocarde_ frigate then in the roadstead of St. Malo,
near at hand,--to which he thought to be returned and to escape from
the escort on the way.
After prolonged detention Vidocq was started for the coast, when he
escaped and passed through many exciting adventures. For a part of the
time he wandered about the country disguised as a Sister of Mercy. Then
he joined forces with a party of escaped convicts, who had recognised
him. Then he became a cattle drover, a business in which he earned
good wages, and which took him to Paris. Danger threatened in the
capital, and he worked north to Arras, in his own country, and on to
Brussels and Rotterdam, where he was pressed into the Dutch navy. He
claimed release as a Frenchman born, and was speedily identified as
the deserter from the _Cocarde_. He was carried back into France as a
prisoner, and his fate seemed so uncertain that he thought it best to
proclaim himself Vidocq, an escaped convict from Brest. He was removed
to Bicêtre on a second visit, and to be transferred for a second time
on the chain to one of the _bagnes_. His second journey, which took
him south, for Toulon was now his destination, was a repetition of
that already described,--the most interesting feature in it being
his companionship with a very noted criminal of that period, Jossas,
better known as the Marquis Sainte Armande de Faral, one of the most
celebrated robbers of Paris. There was very little of the convict about
this prosperous thief. Although fettered, he wore a smart travelling
costume, knitted pantaloons of silver gray and a waistcoat and cap
trimmed with Astrakan fur, the whole covered with a large cloak lined
with crimson velvet. He had ample funds, and fared sumptuously every
evening, when he treated several of his comrades at dinner. He spent
much time daily on his toilet, and was provided with a splendid
dressing-case filled with all necessaries. His line of business was
that of thefts by means of false keys, and he showed extraordinary
cleverness in getting impressions to enable him to open the locks of
doors and safes.
On reaching Chalons by road the gangs were transferred to large
boats, on which they dropped down the Rhône to Lyons, then on as far
as Avignon, where they landed and recommenced the march. Vidocq and
others, who had been guilty of escape, were condemned to the “double
chain” as it was called. This meant unbroken confinement in one part
of the prison, where they were chained to the guard bed, which they
never left except for a short period of exercise. The worst characters
in custody were collected here. Vidocq found himself side by side with
several celebrities, notably revolutionaries who had robbed the royal
wardrobe, a gigantic theft of Crown jewels and priceless treasures
valued in all at half a million pound sterling, among which was the
famous Regent diamond, sometimes called the “Pitt,” which had been
brought from India by Mr. Pitt, Governor of Madras. There was also a
member of the Cornu family, the head of which had long terrorised the
people of Lombardy. Disguised as a horse-dealer he frequented country
fairs and attacked merchants who were carrying large sums of money.
He was greatly assisted by his third wife, who ingratiated herself
with travellers and led them to their death. This family consisted of
three sons and two daughters, all of them habituated to crime from
their earliest childhood. The youngest girl, Florentine, showed some
repugnance to adopt the criminal profession. She was cured by being
compelled to carry in her apron, for two leagues, the decapitated head
of a murdered farmer. So rapid is the degeneration of those who once
go astray that this same Florentine, when her relatives joined a band
of _chauffeurs_, for her part was to apply the lighted candle to the
feet of their victims, when they refused to confess the hiding-place of
their valuables. The brother, who was confined at Toulon with Vidocq,
carried on the assumed business of a journeyman, and was sentenced to
the double chain when caught in the act of committing a burglary.
Vidocq gained the good-will of his guardians by inducing his companions
to pursue prison industries, and the prison of the double chain
became a busy workshop, where children’s toys and other articles
were manufactured in large quantities. The trade was profitable, and
supplied the funds needed for undertaking a fresh escape. Vidocq
collected materials for disguise--a wig and black whiskers and an
old pair of boots. For the rest he trusted to the overcoat, hat, cane
and gloves of the prison surgeon, who was in the habit of leaving
these unguarded within Vidocq’s reach. The first attempt made in this
disguise was a failure, the second was more successful. It had been
arranged with the convict, Jossas, already mentioned, who had provided
him with the plain clothes which he put on beneath his crimson frock.
The rivet in his irons had been removed, and had been replaced by a
movable screw, and one morning, when issuing forth to labor, Vidocq
slipped behind the pile of wood, quickly threw off his red shirt and,
extracting the screw, freed himself from his fetters. He ran at top
speed to the basin, where a frigate was in repair, and jumped into
a boat on the point of starting from the town. Vidocq seized an oar
and pulled manfully towards Toulon, where he landed and made for the
Italian gate. Here he was refused admittance. The production of a pass,
or green card issued by the Magistrate, was demanded, and while he was
still parleying, the three reports of the guns announcing his escape
were heard. He forthwith left the gate and, avoiding the crowd, betook
himself to the ramparts, where he was accosted by a friendly girl,
who had penetrated his disguise, but who sympathised with the convict
fugitive. She promised him a green ticket, which she would borrow from
her lover; but the lover was absent from home, and recapture seemed
imminent, when a funeral procession came past. The girl advised him
to mix amongst the mourners. This he did, and thus passed the gate.
Presently he gained the high-road which led into the open country. It
would be tedious to follow the fugitive in his wanderings, or to detail
the narrow chances he constantly ran of being captured. His story as
a refugee was that of a hundred others of his class, who had broken
prison and infested all parts of France. As a convict turned thief
catcher his story is vastly different and of vastly greater interest;
as will be seen in the following pages.