PIQUE-VINAIGRE.
The prisoner who was placed alongside of Barbillon in the visitor's room,
was a man about forty years of age, and of slender make, and with a
cunning, intelligent, jovial, and jeering face; he had an enormous mouth,
almost entirely without teeth; when he spoke he twisted it from side to
side, according to the pretty general custom of those who address the
populace of market places; his nose was flat, his head immensely large, and
almost entirely bald; he wore an old gray waistcoat, trousers of an
indescribable color, pieced in a thousand different places; his naked feet,
red from the cold, half wrapped up in old linen, were thrust into wooden
shoes.
This man, named Fortune Gobert, nick-named Pique-Vinaigre (Sharp Vinegar,
to prevent mistakes), formerly a juggler, and a prisoner for the crime of
passing counterfeit money, was accused of breaking the terms of his
ticket-of-leave, and of burglary.
Confined but for a few days at La Force, already Pique-Vinaigre filled, to
the general satisfaction of his prison companions, the post of
story-teller. At the present day these are rare, but formerly each ward
generally had, at the expense of a light, individual contribution, its
tale-teller, who, by his improvisations, made the interminable winter
evenings appear less long, the prisoners retiring to rest at nightfall.
Pique-Vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic recital where weakness,
after a thousand crosses, finishes by triumphing over its persecutors.
Pique-Vinaigre possessed, besides, an immense fund of irony, which had
given him his nickname. He had just entered the room.
Opposite him, on the other side of the railing, was a woman of about
thirty-five, with a pale, sweet, and interesting face, poorly but neatly
clad; she wept bitterly, and kept her handkerchief to her eyes.
Pique-Vinaigre looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection.
"Come now, Jeanne," said he, "do not be a child; it is sixteen years since
we have met; if you keep your handkerchief over your eyes, we won't know
each other."
"My brother, my poor Fortune--I suffocate--I cannot speak."
"Ain't you droll! what ever is the matter with you?"
This sister--for this woman was his sister--restrained her sobs, dried her
eyes, and regarding him with stupor, answered, "What is the matter? I find
you again in prison, who had already been in fifteen years!"
"It is true; to-day six months I came out of Melun prison, without going to
see you at Paris, because the _capital_ was forbidden to me."
"Already retaken! What have you then done? Why did you leave Beaugency,
where you were sent, with orders to report yourself now and then?"
"Why? You ought to ask me why I went there?"
"You are right."
"In the first place, my poor Jeanne, since these gratings are between us
both, imagine that I have embraced you, folded you in my arms, as one ought
to do when he sees a sister after an age. Now, let us chat. A prisoner of
Melun, called the Big Cripple, told me that there was at Beaugency an old
galley-slave of his acquaintance, who employed liberated convicts in a
manufactory of white-lead. Do you know what that is?"
"No, brother."
"It is a very fine trade; those who are employed in it, at the end of a
month or two, have the painter's colic; of three attacked, about one dies.
To be just, the two others die also, but at their ease; they take their
time; take good care of themselves, and they may last a year, eighteen
months at the most. After all, the trade is not so badly paid as some
others, and there are some folks born already dressed, who hold out two or
three years; but these are the old folks, the centenaries of the
_white-leaders_. They die, it is true, but that's not fatiguing."
"And why did you choose a trade so dangerous, my poor Fortune?"
"And what would you have me do? When I entered Melun for this affair of
false money, I was a juggler. As in the prison there was no work-shop for
my trade, and as I was no stronger than a fly, they put me at making toys
for children. It was a manufacturer of Paris who found it advantageous to
have made by the prisoners his harlequins, his trumpets of wood, and his
swords of ditto. Thus, I tell you, haven't I sharpened, and cut, and carved
for fifteen years, these toys! I am sure that I supplied the pets of an
entire quarter of Paris--it was, above all, on the trumpet I excelled; and
rattles too! With these two instruments one could have put on edge the
teeth of a whole battalion! I pride myself, on it. My time out, behold me
with the degree of penny-trumpet manufacturer. They allowed me to choose
for my residence three or four places, at forty leagues from Paris; I had
for sole resource my knowledge of trumpet-making. Now, admitting that, from
old men to babies, all the inhabitants of the town should have had a
passion to play toot-too on my trumpets. I should have had, even then,
trouble enough to pay my expenses; but I could not seduce a whole village
into blowing trumpets from morning to night. They would have taken me for a
conspirator!"
"You always laugh."
"That is better than to cry. Finally, seeing that at forty leagues from
Paris my trade as a juggler would be of no more resource to me than my
trumpets, I demanded an exchange to Beaugency, wishing to engage myself in
the white-lead factory. It is a pastry which gives you an indigestion of
misery; but, until one dies from it, one has a living; it is always
something gained, and I like that trade as well as that of a robber; to
steal I am not brave or strong enough, and it was by pure chance I have
committed the act of which I shall speak directly."
"You would have been brave and strong if you had only had the _idea_
not to steal any more."
"Ah! you believe that, do you?"
"Yes, at the bottom you are not wicked; for, in this dangerous affair of
false money, you had been dragged into it in spite of yourself, almost
forced--you know it well."
"Yes, my girl--but, do you see, fifteen years in a prison, that spoils a
man like my old pipe which you see, whenever it comes in the jail white as
a new pipe; on coming out of Melun, then, I felt myself too cowardly to
steal."
"And you had the courage to follow a deadly calling. Hold, Fortune! I tell
you that you wish to make yourself worse than you are."
"Stop a moment, then; all greenhorn that I was, I had an idea, may the
devil burn me if I know why! that I would not care for the colic, that the
malady would find too little in me to feed on, and that it would go
elsewhere; in fine, that I would become one of the old white-leaders. On
leaving the prison I began by squandering my savings, augmented,
understand, by what I had gained by relating stories at night in our ward."
"As you used to tell us in old times, my brother? It used to amuse our
mother so much, do you remember?"
"Pardieu! good woman! And she never suspected before she died that I was at
Melun?"
"Never: to her last moments she thought you had gone to the islands."
"What could I do, my girl? My escapades were the fault of my father, who
brought me up to play the clown, to assist him in his juggling, to eat flax
and spit fire; that was the cause that I had not the time to associate with
the sons of peers of France, and that I made bad acquaintances. But, to
return to Beaugency: once out of Melun, I spent my money as I had a right.
After fifteen years in a cage one must have a little air, and amuse one's
self so much the more, as, without being too greedy, the white lead might
give me a last indigestion; then, what good would my pension money be to
me? I ask you. Finally, I arrived at Beaugency almost without a sou: I
asked for _Velu_, the friend of Big Cripple, the chief of the factory.
Serviteur! no more manufactory of white-lead than you could put under your
hand; eleven persons had died there in one year; the old galley-slave had
shut up shop. Here I was in this village, with my talents for making wooden
trumpets for my dinner, and my convict's passport for my sole
recommendation. I asked for employment suited to my strength, and, as I had
no strength, you can comprehend how I was received; robber here, gueux
there, jail bird! in fine, as soon as I made my appearance anywhere, every
one clapped their hands on their pockets; I could not, then, prevent myself
from starving with hunger in a hole which I was not to leave for five
years. Seeing this, I broke my 'parole' to come to Paris to use my talents.
As I had not the means to come in a carriage and four, I came begging all
along the road; avoiding the constables as a dog does a kick. I was
lucky--I arrived without difficulty at Auteuil. I was worried, I was as
hungry as the devil, I was dressed, as you see, without profuseness." And
Pique-Vinaigre cast a merry glance at his rags. "I had not a sou; I could
at any moment be arrested as a vagabond. Faith, an opportunity offered, the
devil tempted me, and, in spite of my cowardice--"
"Enough, my brother, enough," said his sister, fearing that the warder,
although at this moment some distance off, might hear the dangerous
confession.
"You are afraid that some one will listen?" answered he: "be tranquil, I do
not conceal it; I was taken in the act; there are no means to deny it; I
have confessed all; I know what I have to expect; my account is good."
"Alas!" answered the poor woman, weeping, "with what ease you speak of
this."
"If I were to speak of it with uneasiness, what should I gain? Come, be
reasonable, Jeanne; must _I_ console _you?_" Jeanne wiped away her tears,
and sighed.
"But to return to my affair," said Pique-Vinaigre; "I arrived near Auteuil
in the dusk of the evening. I could go no further; I did not wish to enter
Paris but at night; I seated myself behind a hedge to repose and reflect
upon my plans. From the intensity of my thoughts I fell asleep; a noise of
voices awoke me; it was quite dark; I listened, it was a man and a woman
talking on the road, on the other side of my hedge; the man said to the
woman, 'Who do you think would rob us? have we not left the house alone a
hundred times?' 'Yes,' answered the woman, 'but then we did not leave a
hundred francs in our chest.' 'Who knows it, fool?' said the husband. 'You
are right,' replied the woman, and they passed on. The chance appeared too
favorable for me to lose--there was no danger.
"I waited until they had got a little distance to come out from behind my
hedge; I looked around: at twenty steps off I saw a small cottage; that
must be the house with the hundred francs; there was no other hovel on the
road but this one; Auteuil was five hundred yards off. I said to myself,
'Courage, my old boy, there is no one there, it is night, if there is no
dog (you know I always was afraid of dogs), the affair is done.' Luckily
there was no dog. To be still more sure, I knocked against the
door--nothing; that encouraged me. The shutters of the ground floor were
closed: I passed my stick between the two, I forced them, I entered through
the window into a chamber; there was some fire in the fireplace; this
served as a light; I saw a chest from whence the key had been taken; I took
the tongs, I forced the drawers, and under a heap of linen I found the
treasure, wrapped up in an old woolen stocking; I did not amuse myself by
taking anything else; I jumped out of the window and I fell--guess where?
There's luck!"
"Go on!"
"On the back of the watchman who was going to the village."
"What a misfortune!"
"The moon had risen, he saw me coming out of the window; he seized me. He
was a giant who could have eaten ten such as me. Too cowardly to resist, I
resigned myself to my fate. I still held the stocking in my hand; he heard
the money jingle, he took it all, put it in his bag, and compelled me to
follow him to Auteuil. He went to the mayor's with the usual accompaniment
of boys and constables; they waited for the proprietors to return; they
made their declaration. I could not deny it; I confessed all, they put on
the handcuffs, and off we went!"
"And here you are in prison again, perhaps for a long time!"
"Listen, Jeanne, I do not wish to deceive you, my girl, so I will tell you
at once."
"What more now?"
"Come, take courage!"
"But speak, then!"
"Well! there is no more prison for me."
"How is that?"
"On account of the burglary in an inhabited house, the lawyer told me,
'It's a safe thing.' I shall have fifteen or twenty years at the galleys
and a berth in the pillory to boot."
"The galleys! but you are so weak you will die there!" cried the unhappy
woman, bursting into tears.
"How if I had enrolled myself among the white-leaders?"
"But the galleys, oh! the galleys!"
"It is a prison in the open air, with a red cap instead of a brown one,
and, besides, I have always been curious to see the ocean. What a starer I
am!"
"But the pillory! To be exposed there to the contempt of all the world, oh!
my brother." And the unfortunate woman began again to weep.
"Come, come, Jeanne, be reasonable. It is a bad quarter of an hour to pass,
but I believe one is seated. And, besides, am I not accustomed to a crowd?
When I played juggler I always had people around me; I will imagine that I
am at my old trade, and if it has too much effect upon me I will close my
eyes; it will absolutely be the same as if they did not see me."
Speaking with so much stoicism, this unfortunate man wished less to appear
insensible of his criminal actions than to console and satisfy his sister
by this apparent indifference. For a man accustomed to prison
_manners_, and with whom all shame is necessarily dead--even the
galleys were only a change of condition, a "change of caps," as
Pique-Vinaigre said, with frightful truth.
Many of the prisoners of the central prisons even prefer the galleys on
account of the lively, animated life which is led there, committing often
attempts at murder to be sent to Brest or Toulon. This can be imagined
before they enter the galleys they have almost as much work, according to
their declaration. The condition of the most honest workman of the forts is
not less rude than that of the convicts. They enter the workshop, and leave
it, at the same hour, and the beds on which they repose their limbs,
exhausted by fatigue, are often no better than those of the galleys.
They are free, some one will say. Yes, free one day, Sunday, and this is
also a day of repose for the convict. But feel they no shame and contempt?
What is shame for these poor wretches, who, each day, bronze the soul in
this infamy, in this mutual school of perdition, where the most criminal
are the most distinguished? Such are the consequences of the present system
of punishment. Incarceration is very much sought after. The galleys--often
demanded.
"Twenty years in the galleys!" repeated the poor sister of Pique-Vinaigre.
"But be comforted, Jeanne; they will only pay me in my own coin; I am too
feeble to be placed at hard labor. If there is not a manufactory of
trumpets and wooden swords, as at Melun, they will give me easy work, and
employ me in the infirmary. I am not refractory; I am good-natured. I will
tell stories as I do here, I will make myself adored by the keepers,
esteemed by my comrades, and I will send you some cocoanuts nicely carved,
and some straw boxes for my nephews and nieces; in short. as we make our
bed, so must we lie on it!"
"If you had only written that you were coming to Paris, I would have tried
to conceal and lodge you while you were waiting for work."
"I reckoned to go to your house, but I prepared to come with my hands full;
for, besides, from your appearance I see that you do not ride in your
carriage. How about your children and husband?"
"Do not speak to me about him."
"Always a rattler, it is a pity, for he is a good workman."
"He does me much harm--I have had troubles enough of my own, without having
yours added to them."
"How? your husband--"
"Left me three years ago, after having sold all our furniture, leaving me
with the children, without any thing, my straw bed excepted."
"You did not tell me this!"
"For what good? It would have grieved you."
"Poor Jeanne! How have you managed, all alone with your three children?"
"Holy Virgin! I had much trouble; I worked by the job as a fringe-maker, as
well as I could, my neighbors helped me a little, taking care of my
children when I went out; and then I, who do not always have luck, had it
for once in my life, but it did not profit me, on account of my husband."
"How is that?"
"The lace-maker had spoken of my troubles to one of his customers,
informing him how my husband had left me without anything, after having
sold all my furniture, and that in spite of it I worked with all my
strength to bring up my children; one day, on returning home, what do I
find? my room newly furnished, a good bed, linen, and so on; it was the
charity of my lace-maker's customer."
"Good customer! Poor sister! Why the devil did you not write me about your
poverty? Instead of spending my earnings, I would have sent you some
money."
"I, free, to ask from you, a prisoner!"
"Exactly; I was fed, warmed, lodged at the expense of the government; what
I earned was so much gained; knowing that my brother-in-law was a good
workman, and you a good manager, I was easy, and I fiddled away my money
with my eyes shut and my mouth open."
"My husband was a good workman, it is true, but he became dissipated; in
fine, thanks to this unexpected succor, I took fresh courage; my eldest
daughter began to earn something; we were happy, except for the sorrow of
knowing that you were at Melun. Work was plenty, my children were properly
dressed, they wanted scarcely anything; that made me take heart. At length
I had even saved thirty-five francs, when, suddenly, my husband returned. I
had not seen him for a year. Finding me comfortably fixed and well clad, he
made no bones about it; he took the money, settled himself at home, got
drunk every day, and beat me when I complained."
"The scoundrel!"
"This is not all: he had lodged in a room of our apartments a bad woman
with whom he lived; I had to submit to that. For the second time he began
to sell little by little the furniture I had. Foreseeing what would happen,
I went to a lawyer who lived in the house, and asked him what I should do
to prevent my husband from placing me and my children on straw again."
"It was very plain, you ought to have thrust him out of doors."
"Yes, but I had not the right. The lawyer told me that my husband could
dispose of everything, and remain in the house without doing anything; that
it was a shame, but that I must submit; that the circumstance of his
mistress, who lived under one roof, gave me the right to demand the
separation of bed and board, as it is called; so much the more as I had
proofs my husband beat me; that I could plead against him, but that it
would cost me at least four or five hundred francs to obtain my divorce,
you may judge; it is almost all that I could earn in a year! Where could I
borrow such a sum? And, besides, it is not only to borrow--but to return.
And five hundred francs--all at once--it is a fortune."
"There is, however, a very simple way to amass five hundred francs," said
Pique-Vinaigre, with bitterness; "it is to hang up one's appetite for a
year--to live on air, but work just the same. It is astonishing that the
lawyer did not give you this advice."
"You are always joking."
"Oh! this time, no!" cried Pique-Vinaigre, with indignation; "for it is
infamous that the law should be too dear for poor folks. For look at you,
good and worthy mother of a family, working with all your might to bring up
your children honestly. Your husband is an arrant scoundrel; he beats you,
abuses you, robs you, and spends at the tavern the money you earn; you
apply to justice, that it may protect you, and keep from the clutches of
this rascal your bread and your children's. The people of the law tell you,
'Yes, you are right, your husband is a bad fellow, justice shall be done
you; but this justice will cost you five hundred francs.' Five hundred
francs! that would support you and your family for a whole year! Now, do
you see, Jeanne? all this proves what the proverb says, that there are only
two kinds of people: those who are hung and those who deserve to be."
Rigolett, alone and pensive, having no one else to listen to, had not lost
a word of this conversation, and sympathized deeply in the misfortunes of
this poor woman. She promised herself to mention this to Rudolph as soon as
she should see him, not doubting that he would assist her.
Rigolette, feeling a lively interest in the sad fate of the sister of
Pique-Vinaigre, did not take her eyes from her, and was endeavoring to
approach a little nearer, when, unfortunately, a new visitor entering asked
for a prisoner, and seated himself on the bench between Jeanne and the
grisette. She, at the sight of this man, could not restrain a movement of
surprise, almost fear. She recognized one of the two bailiffs who had come
to arrest Morel, putting in execution the judgment obtained against the
jeweler by Jacques Ferrand.
This circumstance, recalling to Rigolette's mind the untiring persecutor of
Germain, redoubled her sadness, from which her attention had been slightly
withdrawn by the touching and painful communications of the sister of
Pique-Vinaigre. Retreating as far as she could from her new neighbors, the
grisette leaned against the wall, and abandoned herself to her sad
thoughts.
"Hold, Jeanne," resumed Pique-Vinaigre, whose jovial face had become
suddenly clouded; "I am neither strong nor brave; but if I had been there
while your husband was causing you so much misery, very playful things
would not have passed between us. But you did not act rightly--you--"
"What could I do? I have been obliged to suffer what I could not prevent!
As long as there was anything to be sold, my husband sold it, so that he
might go to the tavern with his mistress--everything, even to my little
girl's Sunday frock."
"But your daily earnings, why did you give them to him? Why did you not
hide them?"
"I did hide them; but he beat me so much that I was obliged to give them
up. It was not on account of the blows that I yielded, but because I said
to myself, in the end he will wound me so seriously that I shall not be
able to work for some time. Suppose he breaks my arm, then what will become
of me--who will take care of and feed my children? If I am forced to go the
hospital, they will die of hunger then. Thus you can imagine, my brother, I
preferred to give my money to my husband, not on account of the beating,
but that I might not be wounded, and remain _able to work_."
"Poor woman. Bah! they talk of martyrdom--it is you who are a martyr!"
"And yet I have never harmed any one; I only ask to work to take care of my
children; but what would you? There are the happy and unhappy, as there are
the good and the wicked."
"Yes, and it is astonishing how happy the good are! But you have finally
got rid of that scoundrel of a husband?"
"I hope so, for he did not leave me until he had sold my bedstead, and the
cradle of my two little children. But I think he wished to do something
worse."
"What do you mean?"
"I say him, but it was rather this bad woman who urged him; it is on that
account I speak of it. 'I say,' one day he said to me, 'when in a family
there is a pretty girl of fifteen like ours, it is very stupid not to make
use of her beauty.'"
"Oh! good! I understand. After having sold the clothes, he wished to sell
the body."
"When he said that, Fortune, my blood boiled; and, to be just, I made him
blush with shame at my reproaches: and as this bad woman wished to meddle
in our quarrel by asserting that my husband could do with his daughter as
he pleased, I treated her so badly, the wretch, that my husband beat me,
and since that time I have not seen them."
"Look here, Jeanne, there are folks condemned to ten years' imprisonment,
who would not have done like your husband; at least, they only despoil
strangers."
"At bottom he is not wicked, look you; it is bad company at the taverns
which has ruined him."
"Yes, he would not harm a child; but to a grown person it is different."
"What would you have? One must take life as it comes. At least, my husband
gone, I had no longer any fear of being lamed by any blow. I took fresh
courage. Not having anything to purchase a mattress with, for before all
one must eat and pay rent, and my poor daughter Catherine and myself could
hardly earn together forty sous a day, my two other children being too
young to work--for want of a mattress we slept upon a straw bed, made with
straw that we picked up at the door of a packer in our street."
"And I have squandered my earnings!"
"How could you know my trouble, since I did not tell you? Well, we doubled
our work, Catherine and I. Poor child, if you knew how virtuous, and
industrious, and good she is! always with her eyes on mine to know what I
wish her to do; never a complaint, and yet--she has already seen so much
misery, although only fifteen! Ah, it is a great consolation, Fortune to
have such a child," said Jeanne, wiping her eyes.
"It is just your own picture, I see; you should have this consolation, at
least."
"I assure you that it is more on her account that I complain than on my
own; for, do you see, the last two months she has not stopped working for a
moment; once every week she goes out to wash at the boats near the Pont-au
Change, at three sous the hour, the few clothes my husband left us: all the
rest of the time at the stake like a poor dog. True, misfortune came to her
too soon; I knew well enough that it must come; but at least their are some
who have one or two years of tranquillity. That which has also caused me
much sorrow in all this, Fortune, is, that I could give you no assistance
in anything; yet I will try."
"Do you think I would accept? On the contrary, I'll ask a sou for each pair
of ears that listens to my stories; I will ask two, or they will have to do
without Pique-Vinaigre's romances, and that will help you a little in your
housekeeping. But why don't you go into lodgings? Then your husband can't
sell anything."
"In lodgings? Why, only reflect, we are four; they would ask us at least
twenty sous a days; how much would remain for our living! while our room
only costs us fifty francs a year."
"That is true, my girl," said Pique-Vinaigre, with bitter irony; "work,
break your back to fix up your room a little; as soon as you get something,
your husband will rob you again, and some fine day he will sell your
daughter as he has sold your clothes."
"Oh! before that he must kill me!--my poor Catherine!"
"He will not kill you, and he will sell your poor Catherine. He is your
husband, is he not? He is the head of the family, as your lawyer told you,
as long as you are not separated by law, and as you have not five hundred
francs to give for that, you must be resigned; your husband has the right
to take his daughter from you, and where he pleases. Once he and his
mistress have a hankering after this poor little child, they will have
her."
"But, if this infamy was possible, would there be any justice?"
"Justice," said Pique-Vinaigre, with a burst of sardonic laughter, "is like
meat; it is too dear for the poor to eat. Only, understand me, if it is in
question to send them to Melun, to put them in the pillory, or throw them
into the galleys, it is another affair; they give them this justice
_gratis_. If they cut their throats, it is again _gratis_--always
_gratis_. Ta-a-a-ake your tickets!" added Pique-Vinaigre, imitating a
mountebank; "it is not ten sous, two sous, one you, a centime that it will
cost you. No, ladies and gentlemen, it will cost you the trifle of nothing
at all; it suits every one's pockets; you have only to furnish the
_head_--the cutting and curling are at the expense of the government. Here
is justice _gratis_. But the justice which would prevent an honest mother
of a family from being beaten and despoiled by a vagabond of a husband, who
wishes to make money out of his daughter, this kind of justice costs five
hundred francs; you must give it up, my poor Jeanne."
"Fortune," said the unhappy mother, bursting into tears, "you kill me!"
"And does it not kill me to think of your lot, and that of your family, and
seeing that I can do nothing? I seem always gay; but do not be deceived; I
have two kinds of gayety, Jeanne; my gayety gay, and my gayety sad. I have
neither the strength nor the courage to be bad, angry, nor malicious, as
others are, that always passes over with me in words more or less farcical.
My cowardice and my weakness of body have prevented me from becoming worse
than I am. It needed the chance of this lonely hut, where there was neither
cat, nor, above all, a dog, to have urged me to steal. And then, again, it
chanced to be a fine moonlight night; for alone, and in the dark, I am as
cowardly as the devil!"
"That is what I have always said, my poor Fortune, that you are better than
you think. Thus I hope the judges will have pity on you."
"Pity on me? a returned criminal? reckon on it! After that, I don't wish
it; to be here, there, or elsewhere, all the same to me; and then, you are
right, I am not wicked; and those who are, I hate them, after my fashion,
by making fun of them; you must think that, from relating stories where, to
please my audience, I make it come out that those who torment others from
pure cruelty receive, in the end, their pay, I become accustomed to feel as
I relate."
"Do these people like stories, my brother? I should not have thought it."
"A moment! If I tell them a story where a fellow who robs, or who kills to
rob, is strung up at the end, they will not let me finish; but if it is
concerning a woman or child, or, for example, a poor devil like me, who
would be thrown to the ground if he was only blown upon, and let him be
ill-treated by a Bluebeard, who persecutes him solely for the pleasure of
persecuting him, for honor, as they say; oh! then they shout with joy when,
at the end, the Bluebeard receives his pay. I have, above all, a history
called Gringalet and Cut-in-half, which created the greatest sensation at
the Centrale de Melun, and which I have not yet related here. I have
promised it for tonight; but they must subscribe largely to my money-box,
and you shall profit by it. Without extra charge, I will write it out for
your children. My yarn will amuse them; very religious people would read
this story; so be easy."
"In fine, poor Fortune, what consoles me a little is, to see that you are
not as unhappy as others, thanks to your character."
"I am very sure that if I were like a prisoner of our ward, I should be
hateful to myself. Poor fellow! I am much afraid that before the end of the
day he will bleed; it grows red-hot for him; there is a bad plot formed
against him for to-night."
"Oh! they wish to do him harm? you will have nothing to do with it, at
least, Fortune?"
"Not such a fool! I might be spattered. As I went backward and forward
among them, I heard them muttering. They spoke of a gag, to prevent him
from crying out; and then, to hinder any one from seeing the execution,
they mean to make a circle around him, pretending to listen to one of them
who should be reading a paper or something else."
"But why do they wish to injure him thus?"
"As he is always alone, and speaks to no one, because he seems disgusted
with them, they imagine he is a spy, which is very stupid; for, on the
contrary, he would keep company with every one, if he wished to spy.
Besides, he has the air of a gentleman, and that eclipses them. It is the
_captain_ of the ward, called the Living Skeleton, who is at the head of
this plot. He is like a real _bloody bones_ after this poor Germain--their
intended victim is so named. Let them make their own arrangements--it is
their business; I can do nothing. But you see, Jeanne, what good comes from
being sad in prison; right away you are suspected. I have never been
suspected, not I. But, my girl--enough talk; go and see if I am at your
house; you lose too much precious time by coming here. I can only talk;
with you it is different; therefore goodnight. Come here from time to time;
you know I shall be glad to see you."
"My brother, still a few moments, I beg you."
"No, no; your children are expecting you. Ah, you do not tell them, I hope,
that their uncle is a boarder here?"
"They think you are at the islands, as my mother did formerly. In this way,
I hope, I can talk to them of you."
"Very good. Go! quickly!"
"Yes, but listen, my poor brother. I have not much, yet I will not leave
you thus. You must be cold--no stockings, and this wretched waistcoat! I
will fix something for you, with Catherine's aid. Fortune, you know that it
is not the will to do something for you that is wanting."
"What? clothes? why, I have my trunks full. As soon as they arrive, I shall
have wherewithal to dress myself like a prince. Come, laugh, then, a
little. No? Well! seriously, my girl, I do not refuse, while waiting for
Gringalet and Cut-in-half to fill my money-box. Then I will return it.
Adieu, my good Jeanne; the next time you come, may I love my name of Pique
Vinaigre, if I do not make you laugh. Go away; I have already kept you too
long."
"But, brother, listen!"
"My good man! my good man!" cried Pique-Vinaigre to the warder seated at
the other end, "I have finished my conversation; I wish to go in; talked
enough."
"Oh! Fortune, it is not kind to send me away thus," said Jeanne.
"On the contrary, it is very right. Come, adieu; keep up your courage, and
to-morrow morning say to the children that you have dreamed of their uncle,
who is in the West Indies, and that he begged you to embrace them. Adieu."
"Adieu, Fortune," said the poor woman, all in tears at seeing her brother
enter the prison.
Rigolette, since the bailiff had seated himself alongside of her, had not
been able to hear the conversation of Pique-Vinaigre and Jeanne; but she
had not taken off her eyes from them, thinking how to find out the address
of this poor woman, so as to be able, according to her first idea, to
recommend her to Rudolph. When Jeanne rose from the bench to leave, the
grisette approached her, saying, timidly, "Madame, just now, without
wishing to listen to you, I heard that you were a lace fringe-maker."
"Yes, my friend," answered Jeanne, a little surprised but prepossessed in
favor of Rigolette by her pleasing manners and charming face.
"I am a dressmaker," answered the grisette. "Now that fringes and lace are
in fashion, I have sometimes some customers who ask me for trimmings after
their own taste; I have thought perhaps it would be cheaper to apply to the
makers; and, besides, I could give you more than your employer does,"
"It is true; by buying the silk on my own account I should gain something.
You are very kind to think of me. I am quite surprised."
"I will speak to you frankly. I await a person I came to see; having no one
to talk with, just now, before this gentleman placed himself between us,
without wishing it, I assure you, I have heard you talk to your brother of
your sorrows, of your children; I said to myself, poor folks ought to
assist each other. The idea struck me at the time that I might be of some
use to you, since you are a fringe-maker. If, indeed, what I have proposed
suits you, here is my address; give me yours, so that when I shall have a
little order to give you I shall know where to find you."
And Rigolette gave one of her cards to the sister of Pique-Vinaigre. She,
quite touched at the proceedings, said gratefully:
"Your face has not deceived me; and, besides, do not take it for pride, but
you have a resemblance to my eldest daughter, which made me look at you
twice on entering. I thank you much; if you employ me, you shall be
satisfied with my work; it shall be done conscientiously. I am called
Jeanne Duport. I live at No. 1, Rue de la Barillerie."
"No. 1, it is not difficult to remember. Thank you, madame."
"It is for me to thank you, my dear, it is so kind in you to have thought
at once of serving me! Once more I express my surprise."
"Why, that is very plain, Madame Duport," said Rigolette, with a charming
smile. "Since I look like your daughter Catherine, that which you call my
kindness ought not to surprise you."
"How kind! Thanks to you, I go away from here less sad than I thought; and
then, perhaps, we may meet here again, for you come, like me, to see a
prisoner?"
"Yes, madame," answered Rigolette, sighing.
"Then, adieu. I shall see you again; at least, I hope so, Miss Rigolette,"
said Jeanne Duport, after having cast her eyes on the address of the
grisette.
"At least," thought Rigolette, resuming her seat, "I know now the address
of this poor woman; and certainly M. Rudolph will interest himself for her
when he knows how unfortunate she is, for he has always told me, 'If you
know any one much to be pitied, address yourself to me.'"
And Rigolette taking her place, awaited with impatience the end of the
conversation of her neighbor, in order to be able to ask for Germain.
Now a few words on the preceding scene. Unfortunately, it must be
confessed, the indignation of the brother of Jeanne Duport was legitimate.
Yes: in saying the law was _too dear_ for the poor, he said the truth.
To plead before the civil tribunals is to incur enormous expenses, quite
out of the reach of artisans, who barely exist on their scanty wages.
Let a mother or father of a family belonging to this ever-sacrificed class
wish to obtain an obliteration of the conjugal tie; let them have all right
to obtain it: will they obtain it? No; for there is no workman in a
condition to spend four or five hundred francs for the onerous formalities
of such a judgment.
Yet the poor have no other life than a domestic one; the good or bad
conduct of the head of an artisan's family is not only a question of
morality; but of _bread_. The fate of a woman of the people, such as
we have endeavored to paint, does it deserve less interest, less
protection, than that of a rich woman, who suffers from the bad conduct or
infidelities of her husband, think you?
Nothing is more worthy of pity, doubtless, than the griefs of the heart.
But when to these griefs is added, for an unfortunate mother, the misery of
her children, is it not monstrous that the poverty of this woman places her
without the law, and leaves her and her family without defense against the
odious treatment of a drunken and worthless husband?
Yet this monstrosity exists. [Footnote: Translator's Note.--How singular
that, as this new edition of the _sensational romancist's_ work is
issued, the Imperial Parliament should have a bill to redress this very
oversight before it.]
And a liberated criminal can, in this circumstance as in others, deny, with
right and reason, the impartiality of the institutions in the name of which
he is condemned. Is it necessary to say what there is in this dangerous to
society, to justify such attacks?
What will be the influence, the moral authority, of those laws whose
application is absolutely subordinate to a question of money? Ought not
civil justice, like criminal justice, to be accessible to all?
When people are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of a law
eminently preservative and tutelary, ought not society to assure the
application, through respect for the honor and repose of families?
But let us leave this woman, who will remain all her life the victim of a
brutal and perverted husband, because she is too poor to obtain a
matrimonial separation by law. Let us speak of Jeanne Duport's brother.
This man left a den of corruption to enter the world again; he has paid the
penalty of his crime by expiation. What precautions has society taken to
prevent his falling back into crime? None.
Has any one, with charitable foresight, rendered possible his return to
well-doing, in order to be able to punish, as one should punish, in a
becoming manner, if he shows himself incorrigible? No.
The contagious influence of your jails is so well known, and so justly
dreaded, that he who comes out from them is everywhere an object of
scorn, aversion, and alarm. Were he twenty times an honest man, he would
scarcely find occupation anywhere. And what is more: the penalty of a
ticket-of-leave banishes him to small localities, where his past life
must be well known; and here he will have no means of exercising the
exceptionable employment often imposed on the prisoners by the contractors
of the maisons centrales. If the liberated convict has the courage to
resist temptation, he abandons himself to some of those murderous
occupations of which we have spoken, to the preparation of certain
chemical productions, by which one in ten perishes; or, if he has the
strength, he goes to get out stone in the forest of Fontainebleau, an
employment which he survives, average time, six years! The condition of
a liberated convict is, then, much worse, more painful, more difficult,
than it was before his first criminal action: he lives surrounded by
shackles and dangers; he is obliged to brave repulses and disdain--often
the deepest misery. And if he succumbs to all these frightful temptations
to criminality, and commits a second crime, you show yourself ten times
more severe toward him than for his first fault. That is unjust; for it
is almost always the necessity you impose on him which conducts him to a
second crime. Yes; for it is shown that, instead of correcting him, your
penitentiary system depraves. Instead of ameliorating, it makes worse;
instead of curing slight moral affections, it renders them incurable.
Your aggravation of punishment, applied without pity to the backslider,
is, then, iniquitous, barbarous, since this backsliding is, thus to
express it, a forced consequence of your penal institutions. The terrible
punishment which awaits this _double guilt_ would be just and excusable if
your prisons improved the morals, purified the prisoners, and if, at the
expiration of the sentence, good conduct was, if not easy, at least
generally possible. If any one is surprised at these contradictions of the
law, what would he be when he compares certain penalties to certain
crimes--either on account of their inevitable consequences, or on account
of the disproportion which exists in their punishment? The conversation of
the prisoner whom the bailiff came to see will offer to us one of these
afflicting contrasts.