PIQUE-VINAIGRE.
The prisoner who was beside Barbillon was a man about forty-five years
of age, thin, mean-looking, with a keen, intelligent, jovial, merry
face. He had an enormous mouth, almost entirely toothless; and, when he
spoke, he worked it from side to side, very much after the style of
those orators who are accustomed to harangue from booths at fairs. His
nose was flat, his head disproportionately large and nearly bald; he
wore an old gray knit worsted waistcoat, a pair of trousers of
indescribable colour, torn and patched in a thousand places; his feet,
half wrapped up in pieces of old linen, were thrust into wooden shoes.
This man, Fortune Gobert, called Pique-Vinaigre, formerly a juggler, a
convict freed after condemnation for the crime of uttering false money,
was charged with having broken from gaol and committed violent burglary.
Having been confined but very few days in La Force, Pique-Vinaigre
already filled the office of story-teller, to the general satisfaction
of his fellow prisoners. Now story-tellers have become very rare, but
formerly each ward had usually, for a slight general subscription, its
official story-teller, who, by his narrations, made the long winter
evenings appear less tedious when the prisoners went to bed at sunset.
If it be curious to note the desire for these fictions which these
outcasts display, it is yet a more singular thing to reflect upon the
hearing of these recitals. Men corrupted to the very marrow, thieves,
and murderers, prefer especially the histories in which are expressed
generous, heroic sentiments, recitals in which weakness and goodness are
avenged in fierce retribution. It is the same thing with women of lost
reputation; they are singularly fond of simple, touching, and
sentimental details, and almost invariably refuse to read obscene books.
Pique-Vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic tales in which weakness,
after a thousand trials, concludes by triumphing over persecution. He
possessed, besides, a deep fund of satire, which had procured for him
his name, his repartees being very frequently ironical or merry. He had
just entered the reception-room. Opposite to him, on the other side of
the grating, was a female of about thirty-five years of age, of pale,
mild, and interesting countenance, meanly but cleanly clad. She was
weeping bitterly, and held a handkerchief to her eyes. Pique-Vinaigre
looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection.
"Come, Jeanne," he said, "do not play the child. It is sixteen years
since we met, and to keep your handkerchief up to your eyes is not the
way for us to know each other again."
"Brother--my poor, dear Fortune! I am choking--I cannot speak."
"Ah, nonsense! What ails you?"
His sister repressed her sobs, wiped her eyes, and, looking at him with
astonishment, replied, "What ails me? What, when I find you again in
prison, where you have already been fifteen years!"
"True. It is six months to-day since I left Melun; and I didn't call
upon you in Paris because the capital was forbidden to me."
"Why did you leave Beaugency when you were under surveillance?"
"In the first place, Jeanne, since the gratings are between us, you
must fancy I have embraced you, squeezed you in my arms, as a man ought
to do who has not seen his sister for an eternity. Now let us talk. A
prisoner at Melun, who is called the Gros-Boiteux, told me that there
was at Beaugency an old convict of his acquaintance, who employed the
freed prisoners in a factory of white lead. Those who work at it in a
month or two catch the lead-colic. One in three of those attacked die.
It is true that others die also; but they take their time about it and
get on, sometimes as long as a year or even eighteen months. Then the
trade is better paid than most others, and there are fellows who hold
out at it for two or three years. But they are elders--patriarchs--of
the white-leaders. They die, it is true, but that is all."
"And why did you choose a trade so dangerous that they die at it?"
"What could I do? When I went to Melun for that well-known job of the
forged coin I was a thimble-rigger. As in gaol there was no scope for my
line of business, and I am not stronger than a good stout flea, they put
me to making children's toys. There was a tradesman in Paris who found
it very advantageous to have his wooden trumpets and swords made by the
prisoners. Why, I must have made half the wooden swords used by the
children of Paris; and I was great in the trumpet line. Rattles,
too,--why, with two of my manufacture I could have set on edge the teeth
of a whole battalion! Well, when my time was up I was a first-rate maker
of penny trumpets, and my only resource was making child's playthings.
Now, supposing that a whole town, young and old, were inclined to play
tur-tu-tu-tu on my trumpets, I should still have had a good deal of
trouble to earn a livelihood; and then I could not have induced a whole
population to continue playing the trumpet from morning to night."
"You are still such a jester!"
"Better joke than cry. Well, then, seeing that at forty leagues from
Paris my trade of juggler was no more useful to me than my trumpets, I
requested the surveillance at Beaugency, intending to become a
white-leader. It is a trade that gives you indigestion enough to send
you mad; but until one bursts one lives, and that is always something,
and it was better than turning thief. I am neither brave nor strong
enough to thieve, and it was from pure accident that I did the thing I
have just mentioned to you."
"And yet you had the courage to take up with a deadly trade! Come now,
Fortune, you wish to make yourself out worse than you are."
"I thought that the malady would have so little to take hold of in me
that it would go elsewhere, and that I should become one of the
patriarchal white-leaders. Well, when I came out of prison, I found my
earnings had considerably increased by telling stories."
"So you told us. You remember how it amused poor old mother?"
"Dear soul! She never suspected that I was at Melun?"
"Never. She thought you had gone abroad."
"Why, my girl, my follies were my father's fault, who dressed me up as a
clown to help in his mountebank displays, to swallow tow and spit fire,
which did not allow me spare time to form acquaintance with the sons of
the peers of France; and so I fell into bad company. But to return to
Beaugency. When once I had left Melun, like the rest, I thought I must
see some fun; if not, what was the use of my money? Well, I reached
Beaugency, with scarcely a sou in my pocket. I asked for Velu, the
friend of Gros-Boiteux, the head of the manufactory. Your servant! There
was no longer any white-lead factory; it had killed eleven persons in
the year, and the old convict had shut up shop. So here I was in the
middle of this city, with my talent for trumpet-making as my only means
of existence, and my discharge from prison as my only certificate of
recommendation. I did my best to procure work, but in vain. One called
me a thief, another a beggar, a third said I had escaped from gaol; all
turned their backs upon me. So I had nothing to do but die of hunger in
a city which I was not to leave for five years. Seeing this, I broke my
ban, and came to Paris to utilise my talents. As I had not the means to
travel in a coach and four, I came begging and tramping all the way,
avoiding the _gens-d'armes_ as I would a mad dog. I had luck, and
reached Auteuil without accident. I was very tired, hungry as a wolf,
and dressed, as you may see, not in the height of the fashion." And
Pique-Vinaigre glanced comically at his rags. "I had not a sou, and was
liable to be taken up as a vagabond. Well, _ma foi!_ an occasion
presented itself; the devil tempted me, and, in spite of my cowardice--"
"Enough, brother,--enough!" said his sister, fearing lest the turnkey
might hear his dangerous confession.
"Are you afraid they listen?" he said. "Be tranquil; I have nothing to
conceal. I was taken in the act."
"Alas!" said Jeanne, weeping bitterly; "how calmly you say this!"
"If I spoke warmly what should I gain by it? Come, listen to reason,
Jeanne. Must I have to console you?"
Jeanne wiped her eyes and sighed.
"Well, to go back to my affair," continued Pique-Vinaigre. "I had nearly
reached Auteuil, in the dusk. I could not go any farther, and I did not
wish to enter Paris but at night; so I sat down behind a hedge to rest
myself, and reflect on my plan of campaign. My reflections sent me to
sleep, and when the sound of voices awoke me it was night. I listened.
It was a man and woman, who were talking as they went along on the other
side of the hedge. The man said to the woman, 'Who do you think would
come and rob us? Haven't we left the house alone a hundred times?'
'Yes,' replied the woman; 'but then we hadn't a hundred francs in the
drawers.' 'Who knows that, you fool?' says the husband. 'You are right,'
replies the wife; and on they went. _Ma foi!_ the occasion seemed to me
too favourable to lose, and there was no danger. I waited until they got
a little farther on, and then came from behind the hedge, and, looking
twenty paces behind me, I saw a small cottage, which I was sure must be
the house with the hundred francs, as it was the only habitation in
sight. Auteuil was about five hundred yards off. I said to
myself,'Courage, old boy,--there is no one. Then it is night; if there
is no watch-dog (you know I was always afraid of dogs), why, the job is
as good as done.' Luckily there was no dog. To make sure I knocked at
the door. Nothing. This encouraged me. The shutters were closed on the
ground floor, but I put my stick between and forced them. I got into the
window, and in the room the fire was still alight. So I saw the drawers,
but no key. With the tongs I forced the lock, and under a heap of linen
I found the prize, wrapped in an old woollen stocking. I did not think
of taking anything else, but jumping out of the window, I alighted on
the back of the garde-champetre, who was returning home."
"What a misfortune!"
"The moon had risen. He saw me jump from the window and seized me. He
was a fellow who could have eaten a dozen such as I was. Too great a
coward to resist, I surrendered quietly. I had the stocking still in my
hand, and he heard the money chink, took it, put it in his game bag, and
made me accompany him to Auteuil. We reached the mayor's with a crowd of
blackguards and _gens-d'armes_. The owners of the cottage were fetched,
and they made their depositions. There was no means of denial; so I
confessed everything and signed the depositions, and they put on me
handcuffs, and I was brought here."
"In prison again, and for a long time, perhaps?"
"Listen to me, Jeanne, for I will not deceive you. I may as well tell
you at once; for it is no longer an affair of prison."
"Why not?"
"Why, the relapse, the breaking in and entry into a dwelling-house at
night, the lawyer told me, is a complete affair, and I shall have
fifteen or twenty years at the galleys, and the public exposure into the
bargain."
"The galleys,--and you so weak? Why, you'll die!"
"And suppose I had been with the white-lead party?"
"But the galleys,--the galleys!"
"It is a prison in the open air, with a red shirt instead of a brown
one; and then I have always had a curiosity to see the sea!"
"But the public exposure! To be subject to the contempt of all the
world! Oh, my poor brother!" And the poor woman wept bitterly.
"Come, come, Jeanne, be composed; it is an uncomfortable quarter of an
hour to pass. But you know I am used to see crowds. When I played with
my cups and balls, I always had a crowd around me; so I'll fancy I am
thimble-rigging, and if it has too much effect on me I'll close my eyes,
and that will seem as if no one was looking at me."
Speaking with this derision, the unhappy man affected this
insensibility, in order to console his sister. For a man accustomed to
the manners of prisons, and in whom all shame is utterly dead, the
_bagne_ (galleys) is, in fact, only a change of shirt, as Pique-Vinaigre
said, with frightful truth. Many prisoners in the central prisons even
prefer the _bagne_, because of the riotous life they lead, often
committing attempts at murder in order to be sent to Brest or Toulon.
"Twenty years at the galleys!" repeated Pique-Vinaigre's poor sister.
"Take comfort, Jeanne, they will only pay me as I deserve. I am too weak
to be put to hard labour, and if there is no manufactory of wooden
trumpets and swords as at Melun, why, I shall be set to some easy work;
they will employ me at the infirmary. I am not a troublesome fellow, but
a good, easy chap; and I shall tell my stories as I do here, and shall
be esteemed by my chiefs, and adored by my comrades, and I will send you
carved cocoanuts and straw boxes for my nephews and nieces."
"If you had only written to me that you were coming to Paris, I would
have tried to conceal you until you found work."
"_Pardieu!_ I meant to have gone to you, but I preferred arriving with
my hands full,--for I see you do not ride in your carriage. Well, and
your children,--and your husband?"
"Has left me these three years, after having sold off every stick, not
leaving me or the children one single thing but a straw palliasse."
"Poor Jeanne! How have you managed alone with three children?"
"Why, I have suffered very much. I worked at my business as a
trimming-maker as well as I could, the neighbours helping me a little,
watching my children when I went out. And then I, who haven't much luck,
had a bit of good fortune once in my life; but it was no avail, because
of my husband."
"How was that?"
"My employer had spoken of my trouble to one of his customers, telling
him how my husband had left me with nothing, after having sold all our
furniture, and that, in spite of this, I was working as hard as I could
to bring up my children. One day when I returned what did I find? Why,
my room fitted up again, a good bed, furniture, and linen; it was the
kind customer of my employer."
"Poor sister! Why didn't you write and tell me of your misfortune; and
then, instead of spending my money, I would have sent you some."
"What! I free to ask of you a prisoner?"
"Why not? I was fed, clothed, lodged, at the cost of government; all I
gained was so much profit. But knowing my brother-in-law was a good
workman, and you a good manager and worker, I was quite easy, and melted
my 'tin' with my eyes shut, and my mouth open."
"My husband was a good workman, that is true; but he became dissipated.
However, thanks to this unexpected aid, I took courage again. My eldest
girl began to earn a little, and we were happy, except when we
remembered that you were at Melun. Work went well with us, and my
children were well clad, and wanted for nothing hardly, and that gave me
good heart; and I had actually saved thirty-three francs, when suddenly
my husband returned. I had not seen him for a year; and when he found me
so well off and tidily dressed, he stood for nothing, but took my money
and lived with us without working, getting drunk every day, and beating
me when I complained. And that is not all. He gave up a small room
adjoining ours to a woman with whom he lived openly as his mistress; so
I had that indignity to endure for the second time. He soon began to
make away with the few poor things I had managed to get together; so,
foreseeing what would be the end of such conduct, I went to a lawyer who
lived in the same house, and begged him to advise me how to act to
prevent my husband from taking the very bed from me and my children."
"Why, there needed no lawyer, I should think, to tell you that the only
thing you had to do was to turn your husband out of your doors."
"Ah, but I could not,--the law gave me no power to do so. The lawyer
told me that, as 'head of the family,' my husband could take up his
abode wherever I dwelt, and was not compelled to labour unless he liked;
that it was very hard for me to have to maintain him, and endure his
ill-treatment into the bargain, but that he recommended me to submit to
it, though certainly the circumstance of his having a mistress living
under the same roof entitled me to demand separation from 'bed and
board,' as he called it; and further, that as I would bring witnesses to
prove his having repeatedly struck me, and otherwise ill-treated me, I
could institute a suit against him, but that it would cost me, at the
very least, from four to five hundred francs to obtain a perfect
separation from him. Only think what a sum,--as much as I should earn in
a year! And who would lend me so much money, which would have to be
repaid heaven knows how? For four or five hundred francs is a perfect
fortune."
"Yet there is one very simple means of amassing the money," replied
Pique-Vinaigre, bitterly; "that of living upon air during the twelve
months it would take you to earn that sum, working all the same, but
denying yourself even the necessaries of life; and I am only surprised
the lawyer did not advise you to starve yourself and your children, or
any other kind-hearted expediency."
"You always make a jest of everything, brother!"
"This time, however, I am not in a jesting humour. It is scandalous that
the law should be so expensive to poor creatures such as we. Now, just
look at yourself,--a good and affectionate mother, striving by every
means in your power to bring up your children honestly and creditably;
your husband, a bad, lazy fellow, who, not content with stripping you of
all you earn, that he may spend his time in drinking and all sorts of
loose pleasures, beats and ill-uses you into the bargain. Well, you
apply to the justice of your country for protection for yourself and
your children. 'Ah,' say the lawyers, 'yours is a hard case, and your
husband is a worthless vagabond, and you shall have justice. But then
you must pay five hundred francs for that same justice,--five hundred
francs, mind; precisely all your utmost labour can obtain to nourish
yourself and family for a year. I tell you what, Jeanne, all this proves
the truth of the old saying, that 'There are but two sorts of
people,--those who are hanged, and those who deserve to be!'"
Rigolette, alone and pensively inclined, had not lost a word of all that
tale of woe breathed by the poor, suffering, and patient wife into her
brother's ear; while her naturally kind heart deeply sympathised with
all she heard, and she fully resolved upon relating the whole history to
Rodolph the very first time she saw him, feeling quite sure of his ready
and benevolent aid in succouring them. Deeply interested in the mournful
fate of the sister of Pique-Vinaigre, she could not take her eyes from
the poor woman's face, and was endeavouring to draw a little closer to
her; but unluckily, just at that moment, a fresh visitant, entering the
room, inquired for a prisoner, and while the person he wished to see was
sent for, he very coolly seated himself on the bench between Jeanne and
the grisette, who, at the sight of the individual who so unceremoniously
interrupted her making closer acquaintance with her neighbour, felt a
degree of surprise almost amounting to fear, for in him she recognised
one of the bailiffs sent by Jacques Ferrand to arrest poor Morel, the
lapidary. This circumstance, recalling as it did to the mind of
Rigolette the implacable enemy of Germain, redoubled her sadness, which
had been in some manner diverted while listening to the touching recital
of the unfortunate sister of Pique-Vinaigre.
Retreating from the fresh arrival as far as she could, the grisette
leaned her back against the wall, and once more relapsed into her
mournful ruminations.
"Look here, Jeanne!" cried Pique-Vinaigre, whose mirthful,
pleasure-loving countenance was suddenly overcast by a deep gloom; "I am
by nature neither very strong nor very courageous; but, certainly, if I
had chanced to have been by when your husband so shamefully treated you,
I don't think I should have let him slip through my fingers without
leaving my mark. But you were too good for him, and you put up with more
than you ought!"
"Why, what would you have had me do? I was obliged to endure what I
could not avoid. So long as there remained an article that would fetch
money did my husband sell it, even to the frock of my little girl, and
then repair to the alehouse with his mistress."
"But why did you give him your daily earnings?--you should have hid them
from him."
"So I did; but he beat me so dreadfully that I was obliged to give them
to him. I cared less for the blows he gave me than because I dreaded his
doing me some bodily injury, such as breaking my arm and dislocating my
wrist, that would have hindered me from working; and then, what would
have become of my poor children? Suppose I had been compelled to go to a
hospital, they must have perished with hunger. So, you see, brother, I
thought it was better to give up my earnings to my husband than run the
risk of being lamed by him."
"Poor woman! People talk of martyrs, but what martyrdom can exceed what
you have endured?"
"And yet I can truly say I never injured a living creature, and my only
desire was to work hard and do my duty to my husband and children. But
it is no use thinking about it; there are fortunate and unfortunate
persons, just the same as there are good people and bad people in the
world!"
"True; and it is a beautiful sight to see how happy and prosperous the
good always are,--aren't they, sister? And do you now believe yourself
for ever freed from your scoundrel of a husband?"
"I trust so. He staid till he had sold even my bedstead and the cradle
in which my youngest child lay. But when I think that, even more than
that, he wished--"
"What did he wish?"
"When I say he, I ought rather to tell you that it was rather that
wicked woman who urged him on. One day he said to me, 'I tell you what,
when folks have a pretty girl of fifteen belonging to them, they are
cursed fools if they do not turn her to good account.'"
"Oh, to be sure! When he had sold the poor girl's clothes, he was
willing to sell her also."
"When I heard him say those dreadful words I lost all command over
myself, and, I promise you, I did not spare him all the reproaches he
merited. And when his vile paramour took upon herself to interfere, and
say that my husband had a right to do what he liked with his own child,
I could contain myself no longer; but I fell with all my fury on the
wretched creature. This obtained for me a severe beating from my
husband, who then left me; and I have never seen him since."
"I tell you, Jeanne, that there are men condemned to ten years'
punishment and imprisonment who have not done so much to deserve it as
your husband has done."
"Still he had not a bad heart. It was his frequenting alehouses, and the
bad companions he met there who made him the lost creature he is."
"True, he would not hurt a child; but a grown-up person he was not so
very particular."
[Illustration: "_Then Left Me_"
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel]
"Alas, it is no use repining! We must take life as we find it. Well,
when my husband had left me I seemed to regain my courage, for I had no
longer the constant dread of being crippled by him, and so prevented
from earning bread for my children. For want of money to buy a mattress
(for one must live and pay one's rent before thinking of other things),
and poor Catherine (my eldest girl) working with me fifteen hours a day,
we could scarcely earn twenty pence a day both together, and my other
two children were too young to be able to earn anything; so, as I was
saying, for want of a mattress we slept upon straw we picked up from
time to time before the door of a large furniture packer in the
neighbourhood."
"And to think that I have spent and squandered all my money as I have
done!"
"Pray do not reproach yourself. How could you possibly imagine I was in
want or difficulties when I never said a word to lead you to conclude
so? So poor dear Catherine and I set to work again with redoubled
courage and determination. If you only knew what a dear, good child she
is, so honest, industrious, and good, watching me with her eyes to try
and find out what I wish her to do. Never has a murmur escaped her lips;
and yet she has seen much want and misery, though scarcely fifteen years
of age! She has consoled me in the midst of my severest troubles. Oh,
brother," added Jeanne, drying her eyes, "such a child is enough to
repay one for the severest trials!"
"You were just such another yourself at her age; and it is but fair you
should have some consolation amidst your troubles!"
"Believe me, 'tis rather on her account than mine I grieve; for it
really seems out of nature to see a young creature like her slaving
herself to death. For months together she has never quitted her work,
except once a week, when she goes to wash the trifle of linen we possess
in the river, near the Pont-au-Charge, where they only charge three sous
an hour for the use of the boats, beaters, etc. All the rest of her time
she is working like a galley-slave. Ah, she has known misfortune too
early! I know well that troubles must come; but then a poor girl should
be able to look back upon a happy childhood, at least! And another
thing that grieves and vexes me almost as much as that, is not being
able to render you any assistance. Still I will endeavour."
"Nonsense; don't talk so! Do you suppose I would accept of anything from
you? On the contrary, I'll tell you what I'll do to help you. From this
time forward I'll insist upon being paid for my amusing tales and
wonderful recitals; and those who object to pay from one to two sous for
hearing shall no more be treated to the entertaining histories of
Pique-Vinaigre. I shall soon collect a pretty little sum for you, I
know. But why don't you take furnished lodgings, so that your husband
could not molest you by selling your little possessions?"
"Furnished lodgings! Only consider, there are four, and for such a
number we should have to pay at least twenty sous (ten pence) a day.
What should we have to live upon if we paid all that for rent? And now
we give but fifty francs a year for the rooms we occupy."
"True, my girl," replied Pique-Vinaigre, with bitter irony. "That's
right,--work, slave, begrudge yourself necessary rest or food, in order
to refurnish your place. And directly you have once more got things
comfortably about you, your husband will come and strip you of
everything; and when he has deprived you almost of the garments you
wear, he will take your dear Catherine from you and sell her also."
"No, no, brother; he should take my life ere I would suffer him to
injure my good, my virtuous child."
"Oh, but he does not wish to do her any bodily harm; he only wants to
sell her. And then, remember, as the lawyer said, he is master until you
can find five hundred francs to be legally separated from him. So, as
that is not the case, at present you must make up your mind to submit to
what cannot be helped. It seems that, by law, your husband has a right
to take his child from you and send her where he pleases. And if he and
his mistress are bent upon the ruin of the poor girl, doubtless they
will stop at nothing to achieve it."
"Merciful God!" exclaimed the almost frantic mother, "surely such
wickedness can never be tolerated in a Christian land! Justice itself
would interpose if a father could insist upon selling his daughter's
honour."
"Justice!" repeated Pique-Vinaigre, with a sardonic laugh, "justice! No,
no, that meat is too dear for poor folks like you and I. Only, do you
see, if it refers to sending a parcel of poor wretches to prison or the
galleys, then it is quite a different affair; and they have justice
without its costing them anything,--nay, it becomes a matter of life and
death. An unhappy criminal gets his head shaved off by the guillotine
for nothing; not a single farthing are they or their friends, whether
rich or poor, tailed upon to pay for this act of impartial justice. The
object of it only gives his head! All other expenses are defrayed by a
liberal and justice-loving legislature. But the justice that would
protect a worthy and ill-treated mother of a family from being beaten
and pillaged to support the vices of a man who seeks even to sell the
honour of his innocent child,--such justice as that costs five hundred
francs! So, my dear Jeanne, you must do without it."
"Brother, brother," exclaimed the poor woman, bursting into tears, "you
break my heart by such words as these!"
"Well, and my own heart aches even to bursting as I think of your fate
and that of your children, while I recollect that I am powerless to help
you. I seem always gay and merry; but don't you be deceived by
appearances, Jeanne! I tell you what, I have two descriptions of gaiety,
my gay gaiety, and my sad gaiety. I have neither the strength or the
courage to indulge in envy, hatred, or malice, like the other prisoners;
I never go beyond words, more or less droll as occasion requires. My
cowardice and bodily weakness would never have allowed me to be worse
than I am. And nothing but the opportunity presenting itself of robbing
that poor little lone house, where there was neither a cat nor a dog to
frighten one, would have drawn me into the scheme that brought me here.
And then, again, by chance it was a brilliant moonlight night; for if
ever there was a poor devil afraid of being alone in the dark it is me."
"Ah, dear brother, I have always told you you are better than you
yourself think! Well, I trust the judges will be of my opinion and deal
mercifully with you."
"Mercy! What, for me, a liberated convict? Don't reckon too much on that
or you'll be disappointed. But, hang it, what care I? Here or elsewhere
is all the same to me! Let my judges do as they will with me, I shall
bear them no ill-will. For you are right; I am not a bad sort of fellow
at heart; and those who are worse than myself I hate with all the hatred
of a good man, and show my dislike by raillery of every sort. You can
imagine, can you not, that, by dint of relating stories in which, to
please my auditors, I always make those who wantonly torment others
receive the reward of their wickedness in the end, I get into the habit
of feeling all the indignation and virtuous desire for vengeance I
relate?"
"I should never have thought such persons as your prison companions
would have been interested in such recitals!"
"Oh, but I'm awake to how to tickle their fancies. If I were to relate
to them the story of a man who committed no end of crimes, robbery and
murder being among the mildest, and got scragged at last, they would get
into a downright passion and not allow me to go on; but if I make up a
tale of a woman or child, or a poor, cowardly fellow like myself, that a
breath of wind would knock over, being pursued by an atrocious
persecutor,--a sort of Blackbeard, who torments them to death, for the
pure pleasure of the thing! Oh, how they roar and stamp for joy when I
make Mr. Blackbeard in the end served out as he deserves. I have got a
story they have never yet heard, called 'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half,'
which used to delight all the folks at Melun. I have promised to tell it
to them here to-night. But, before I begin, I shall see that they come
down pretty handsome when I send the box around collecting; and you may
depend upon being all the better for its contents. And, besides that, I
will write out the story itself to amuse your children. Poor dears! How
pleased they will be with it! 'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half,'--there's a
title for you! And, bless you, it is so virtuous and moral that an abbe
might read it from his pulpit! So make yourself quite happy in every
respect."
"One thing gives me great pleasure, dear brother, and that is to see
that your disposition keeps you from being as unhappy as the rest of
your companions here."
"Why, I am quite sure if I were like a poor fellow who is a prisoner in
our ward, I should be tempted to lay violent hands on myself. Poor young
man! I really am sorry for him,--he seems so very wretched; and I am
seriously afraid that before the day is over he will have sustained some
serious mischief at the hands of the other prisoners, whom he refuses to
associate with, and they owe him a grudge for it; and I know that a plan
is arranged to serve him out this very evening."
"Dear me, how shocking! But you, brother, do not mean to take any part
in it, I hope?"
"No, thank you, I am not such a fool; I should be sure to catch some of
the good things intended for another. All I know about it I picked up
while going to and fro. I heard them talking among themselves of gagging
him to hinder him from crying out, and in order to prevent any one from
seeing what is going on they mean to form a circle around him, making
believe to be listening to one of their party, who should pretend to be
reading a newspaper or anything they liked out loud."
"But why should they thus ill-treat the poor man?"
"Because, as he is always alone, never speaks to any person, and seems
to hold everybody in disgust, they have taken it into their heads he is
a spy, which is immensely stupid on their parts, because a spy would
naturally hook on with them the better to find out all they said and
did; but I believe that the principal cause of their spite against him
is that he has the air of a gentleman, which is a thing they hold in
abhorrence. It is the captain of the dormitory, who is known by the name
of the Walking Skeleton, who is at the head of this plot; and he is like
a wild beast after this Germain, for so the object of their dislike is
called. But let them all do as they like; it is no affair of mine. I can
be of no use, therefore let them go their own way. But then you see,
Jeanne, it is of no use being dull and mopish in prison, or the others
are sure to suspect you of something or other. They never had to find
fault with my want of sociability, and for that reason never suspected
me or owed me a grudge. But come, my girl, you had better return home;
we have gossiped long enough. I know very well how it takes up your time
to come hither. I have nothing to do but to idle away my days; it is
very different with you; so good night. Come and see me again when you
can; you know how happy it always makes me."
"Nay, but, brother, pray do not go yet; I wish you to stay."
"Nonsense, Jeanne; your children are wanting you at home. I say--I hope
you have not told the poor, dear, little innocent things that their
'nunky' is in prison?"
"No, indeed, I have not; the children believe you are abroad, and as
such I can always talk to them of you."
"That's all right. Now then, be off, and get back to your family and
your employment as fast as you can."
"But listen to me, brother,--my poor Fortune. I have not much to give,
God knows! but still I cannot bear to see you in so deplorable a plight
as you are at present. Your feet must be half frozen without any
stockings; and that wretched old waistcoat you have on makes my heart
ache to see it. Catherine and I together will manage to get a few things
together for you. You know, Fortune, that at least we do not want for
good will--to--"
"To what--to give me better clothes? Lord love you, I've got boxes full
of everything you can mention, and directly they come I shall be able to
dress like a prince! There, now; come, give me one little
smile,--there's a good girl! You won't? Well, then, you shall make me
and bring me what you like; only remember, directly the tale of
'Gringalet and Cut-in-Half' has replenished my money-box, I am to return
all you expend upon me. And now once more, dear Jeanne, fare you well!
And the next time you come to see me, may I lose the name of
Pique-Vinaigre if I don't make you laugh! But be off now; cut your
stick, there's a good girl! I know I have kept you too long already."
"No, no, dear brother, indeed you have not. Pray hear what I have to
say!"
"Hallo, here! I say, my fine fellow," cried Pique-Vinaigre to the
turnkey, who was waiting in the lobby, "I have said my say, and I want
to go in again. I've talked till I'm tired."
"Oh, Fortune," cried Jeanne, "how cruel you are to send me thus from
you!"
"No, no; on the contrary, I am kinder than you give me credit for."
"Good-bye; keep up your spirits; and to-morrow morning tell the children
you have been dreaming of their uncle who is abroad, and that he desired
you to give his kind love to them. There--good-bye--good-bye!"
"Good-bye, Fortune!" replied the poor woman, bursting into tears, as her
brother entered the interior of the prison.
From the moment when the bailiff seated himself between her and Jeanne,
Rigolette had been unable to overhear a word more of the conversation
between Pique-Vinaigre and his sister; but she continued to gaze
intently on the latter, her thoughts busied with devising some plausible
pretext for obtaining the poor woman's address, for the purpose of
recommending her as a fit object for Rodolph's benevolence. As Jeanne
rose from her seat to quit the place, Rigolette timidly approached her,
and said, in a kind voice:
"Pray excuse my addressing you, but a little while ago I could not avoid
overhearing your conversation, and by that I found that you were a maker
of fringe and fancy trimmings."
"You heard rightly," replied Jeanne, somewhat surprised, but, at the
same time, much prepossessed in favour of the open, frank expression of
Rigolette's charming countenance, as well as won to confidence by her
kind and friendly manner.
"And I," continued Rigolette, "am a dressmaker. And just now that
fringes and gimps are so much worn, I am frequently requested by my
customers to get a particular sort for them; so it occurred to me that
perhaps you who make at home could supply me with what I required
cheaper than the shops, while, on the other hand, you might obtain a
better price from me than you get from the warehouse you work for."
"Certainly, I should make a small profit by buying the silk myself, and
then making it up to order. You are very kind to have made me the
proposal; but I own I feel unable to account for your being so well
acquainted with my manner of gaining a living."
"Oh, I will soon explain all that to you. You must know I am waiting to
see the person I came here to visit. Being quite alone, I could not
help hearing all you said to your brother,--of your many trials, also of
your dear children. So then, thinks I to myself, poor people should
always be ready to assist each other. I hope you believe that I did not
try to listen? And after that gentleman came and placed himself between
us, I lost all that passed between your brother and yourself. So I tried
to hit upon some way of being useful to you, and then it struck me that
you being a fancy trimming-maker, I might be able to put work in your
way more profitable than working for shops,--they pay so very little.
So, if you are agreeable, we will take each other's address. This is
where I live; now please to tell me where to send to you directly I have
any work for you."
With these words Rigolette presented one of her businesslike cards to
the sister of Pique-Vinaigre, who, deeply touched by the words and
conduct of the grisette, exclaimed with much feeling:
"Your face does not belie your kind heart; and pray do not set it down
for vanity if I say that there is something about you that reminds me so
forcibly of my eldest daughter that when you first came in I could not
help looking at you several times. I am very much obliged to you; and
should you give me any work, you may rely on my doing it in my best
possible manner. My name is Jeanne Duport, and I live at No. 1 Rue de la
Barillerie,--No. 1, that is not a difficult number to recollect."
"Thank you, madame."
"Nay, 'tis rather for me to express thanks for having had the goodness
even to think of serving a stranger like myself. But still I cannot help
saying it does surprise me to be taken notice of by a young person like
you, who most likely has never known what trouble was."
"But, my dear Madame Duport," cried Rigolette, with a winning smile,
"there is really nothing so astonishing in the affair. Since you fancy I
bear some resemblance to your daughter Catherine, why should you be
surprised at my wish to do a good action?"
"What a dear, sweet creature it is!" cried Madame Duport, with
unaffected warmth. "Well, thanks to you, I shall return home less sad
than I expected; and perhaps we may have the pleasure of meeting here
again before long, for I believe you, like me, come to this dreadful
place to visit a prisoner?"
"Yes, indeed, I do," replied Rigolette, with a sigh, which seemed to
proceed from the very bottom of her heart.
"Then farewell for the present; we shall very shortly meet again, I
hope, Mlle.--Rigolette!" said Jeanne Duport, after having referred for
the necessary information to the card she held in her hand.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure I trust so, too. Good-bye, then, till we meet again,
Madame Duport."
"Well," thought Rigolette, as she returned and reseated herself on the
bench, "at least I know this poor woman's address; and I feel quite sure
M. Rodolph will assist her directly he knows what trouble she is in, for
he always told me whenever I heard of a case of real distress to let him
know, and I am sure this is one if ever there was." And here Rigolette
suddenly changed the current of her ideas by wondering when it would be
her turn to ask to see Germain.
A few words as to the preceding scene. Unfortunately it must be
confessed that the indignation of the unhappy brother of Jeanne Duport
was quite legitimate. Yes, when he said that the law was too dear for
the poor he spoke the truth. To plead before the civil tribunals incurs
enormous expenses, impossible for workpeople to meet when they can
scarcely subsist on the wages they earn.
Ought not civil as well as criminal justice to be accessible to all?
When persons are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of any law
which is eminently preservative and beneficial, ought not society at its
own cost to enable them to attain it out of respect for the honour and
repose of families?
But let us speak no longer of the woman who must be, for all her life,
the victim of a brutal and depraved husband, and speak of Jeanne
Duport's brother. This freed prisoner leaves a den of corruption to
re-enter the world; he had submitted to his punishment, payed his debt by
expiation. What precaution has society taken to prevent him from falling
again into crime? None! If the freed convict has the courage to resist
evil temptations, he will give himself up to one of those homicidal
trades of which we have spoken.
Then the condition of the freed convict is much more terrible, painful,
and difficult than it was before he committed his first fault. He is
surrounded by perils and rocks,--he must have refusal, disdain, and
often even the deepest misery. And if he relapses and commits a second
crime, you are more severe towards him than for his first fault a
thousand times. This is unjust, for it is always the necessity you
impose on him that makes him commit the second crime. Yes, for it is
demonstrated that, instead of correcting, your penitentiary system
depraves; instead of ameliorating, it renders worse; instead of curing
slight moral defects, it renders them incurable.
The severe punishment inflicted on offenders for the second time would
be just and logical if your prisons, rendered moral, purified the
prisoners, and if, at the termination of their punishment, good conduct
was, if not easy, at least possible for them. If we are astonished at
the contradictions of the law, what is it when we compare certain
offences with certain crimes, either from the inevitable consequences,
or from the immense disproportions which exist between the punishments,
awarded to each?
The conversation of the prisoner who came to see the bailiff will
present one of these overwhelming contrasts.