French prisons, it is said, are such pleasant places of
confinement that at the approach of every winter they are
besieged by requests from vagrants for shelter.
Fresnes is notorious for its “hospitality,” and so agreeable is
a sojourn there that many criminals, at the approach of winter,
regularly arrange to get locked up until it is time to come out
into the balmy air of springtime and the genial sunshine.
A short time since, the story goes, a new prison in France was
opened to receive its first prisoner, sentenced to six months’
detention. The new establishment had cost nearly $20,000 to
build and equip, but unfortunately the prison budget made no
allowance for the warders and their “guests.”
The governor finally solved the dilemma by deciding that a
policeman, who was married, should take up his quarters in
the prison and serve the prisoner with his meals. But after
a few days the policeman got tired of this. The profit made
on the arrangement was very small, and in a confidential tone
he confided to the prisoner that, if he cared to take “French
leave,” he would see that every facility was given him to do so.
But his charge quickly reassured him on the point.
“I’m all right here,” he said. “Your wife is an excellent cook.
You are all very kind to me. This is a nice, new prison. I
haven’t been so well off for a long time. You don’t catch me
running away. What’s more, if you discharge me, I’ll jolly soon
be back.”
Then the chief warder tried to persuade the prisoner that he
would be well advised to make himself scarce. But he might as
well have saved himself the trouble, for he met with no more
success than the policeman. All the doors and windows of the
prison were left wide open. He was given permission, he was even
asked to go for a walk, in the hope that he would disappear
for good. He thanked his jailers, and several times went for a
stroll around the neighborhood.
But he always returned again in time for his meals. One night
recently, however, he met an old friend when he was out, and
after a glass or two of wine they found so many things to
talk about that it was three o’clock in the morning when the
“prisoner” returned to his lodgings. But altho he hung on to the
bell and rung for all he was worth, no one came to the prison
gate. At last the policeman opened a window and shouted angrily:
“If you don’t begone, I’ll fire on you.”
The lodger took the hint, but at six o’clock he was back
again, and his guardian had to comply with his request to be
admitted to his cell. How the affair will end no one knows,
but it is said that the Sous-Préfet is seriously thinking of
offering the “prisoner” a louis to go elsewhere for his food and
lodging.--Baltimore _Sun_.
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