character, where decorum is not observed, and where restraint is not
practised. All evil passions are there let loose, and vices revealed
that would be repulsive to any but morbid minds. Such shameful
entertainments are declared to be in imitation of ancient Grecian
revels and Roman rites. The claim is noteworthy, for Paris, in its
most revolting and secret sins, never forgets to assure itself and the
external world that such entertainments are sanctioned by classicism.
These may be imagined: they certainly cannot be described.
[Sidenote: FAST SUPPERS.]
The _petits soupers_ of the under-world are reckoned by many among
the attractions of the French capital. They occur at many of the
restaurants, though at Peter’s and the Café Helder they are given
with the most flavor. These little suppers begin after midnight, and
continue until dawn, and though the best of them are private, the
public ones, or rather those in public places, have enticements for
the masculine mind, on account of the eccentric women to be found at
them. At Peter’s and the Café Helder are spacious saloons, provided
with small tables; and about one o’clock in the morning, parties of
gayly-dressed ladies, with their gallants, and often without gallants,
begin to arrive. Many come in carriages, but some on foot, albeit the
pedestrians are attired like stage queens. The majority of the women
are lorettes, of different grades, but not a few of them are the
inferior actresses of the Gaîté, Variétés, and Gymnase, and the ballet
girls of the Vaudeville, Ambigu, and Folies Dramatiques. There they
completely unbend, cast reserve to the breezes, take easy positions,
chatter like magpies, blow small clouds of smoke at the frescoed
ceiling, or keep time to the clinking of champagne glasses with their
symmetrical feet. Those unescorted are entirely willing to be invited
to partake of salads, ices, or wines by the gentlemen who drop in from
mere curiosity, or from a desire to make feminine acquaintances.
Between two and three o’clock the sexes become adjusted to each other;
everybody is eating and talking, drinking and smoking, at the same
time. The handsome rooms resound with feasting and merriment. Glasses
rattle, forks clatter, tongues wag, songs are sung, toasts given amid
the highest glee and enthusiasm.
Standing in a chair, with a beaker of sparkling Clicquot, is the
pretty soubrette of the Gymnase, making a mock-heroic speech; and
at the end of every sentence she is greeted with the clapping of
hands and loud huzzas. Near her the graceful danseuse of the Folies,
encircled by the arms of the dramatic critic of the _Figaro_, is
offering a toast in a goblet of Château Margaux, and at the other end
of the saloon, two brunette deities are giving a bit of the can-can,
in the midst of vociferous cheering.
Stretched on a velvet sofa, her heels elevated above her head, Marie
Basquinette, a famous adventuress, who has just come from London, is
entertaining her listeners with a droll account of the awkwardnesses
and stupidities of the English. (Whenever the French wish to be
particularly funny, they always caricature John Bull; and many of them
really believe that no Briton can, by any possibility, appear other
than uncouth and ridiculous.)
The French prints of well-dressed carousals with which we are so
familiar, might be actual photographs of the _petits soupers_ and
their surroundings at the Café Helder. As the night wanes apace, and
as the east grows gray, the revellers begin to disappear. There is
something ghastly in the daylight surprise after a debauch, and the
Parisians flee from it as if it brought sermons and endless prayers.
[Sidenote: THE DANGEROUS CLASSES OF PARIS.]
What we should call the dangerous classes would seem, from the fair
outside of Paris, to have no existence there; and yet, as the police
well know, many of the most cunning thieves, audacious burglars, and
desperate scoundrels are native and to the manner born. They keep out
of sight by day, and are rarely seen in the fashionable quarters,
unless they have some special mission of villany. These fellows have
their organizations and their amusements, and herd together and hold
nocturnal revel in out-of-the-way dens, where no one but the gendarme
or government spy would think of looking for them.
Having some desire to become acquainted externally with French
scoundrels, I mentioned my desire to a private detective, who promised
to take me to the district known as the Batignolles, where, he said,
many of the choicest miscreants of the city were in the habit of
assembling on Sunday nights. He told me that, while there was not
likely to be trouble or danger, it would be well to be armed; and so,
with two revolvers each, we sprang into a calèche, one stormy Sunday
evening, at the Grand Hôtel, and drove to our point of destination.
After nearly an hour’s ride through narrow and dreary streets, over
rough pavements, and past malodorous neighborhoods, he stopped before
a tall stone building, that looked like a deserted mill.
[Sidenote: VISITING A DEN OF THIEVES.]
Not a light was visible anywhere, and, as the night was dark, I asked
my guide if he were not mistaken in the locality. He assured me that
he was not, and, taking my hand, told me he would lead the way. I
could see nothing; but after we had stumbled along for a few seconds,
a flash of lightning revealed a long, narrow stone staircase before
us, and down this we slowly crept. At the base was a heavy oaken
door, which appeared as if it might withstand a battering-ram, and
I was wondering how we were to open it, when the detective put his
mouth to the key-hole, and gave a peculiar whistle. The door swung
open at once; we stepped into a dismal vestibule, and were confronted
by a huge figure, who grunted out, “_Tout bien_,” as he recognized
my companion, slammed to the door, and bolted it securely. So large
a Frenchman I had hardly seen. He was a giant in proportions, and I
discovered by a few phrases, that he was an Alsatian. He knew what
we wanted, and told us, pointing in the direction, to go to the main
hall, where, to translate him freely, the boys were very lively, and
having a good time.
A few steps brought us to the hall,—it should have been called a
cellar,—and in it were some fifty of the most villanous-looking men
and coarsest women I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It was
evident, at a glance, that they were thieves, robbers, and assassins;
the slightest acquaintance with phrenology and physiognomy made that
clear—that some of them were of the sneak, some of the burglar, and
others of the desperado order. The place was dimly lighted with a few
sputtering candles; the ceiling was low, and the air mephitic. A few
of the men were standing and smoking pipes; but the greater part sat
at rough tables drinking and talking in hoarse tones, with vile oaths,
on subjects in which it was natural they should be interested.
A murder that had been committed a fortnight before in Marseilles, an
account of which had been printed in the Paris journals, occupied much
of their attention. They were very laudatory of the skilful manner in
which the crime had been perpetrated, and of the adroitness displayed
by the criminal in getting away. They had not a particle of pity for
the victim, an old and inoffensive man, whose throat had been cut
while he was asleep in bed, that a trunk in his apartment might be
broken open and plundered of a thousand francs.
The women, if they might be termed such, were more brutal and
bloodthirsty in their dispositions, judging from their expression,
than the men themselves. They were, as I was informed, either thieves
themselves or aids and accomplices of the thieves. Some of them were
what we should style shoplifters; others made it their business to
obtain information from servants in regard to private residences, and
imparted it to the burglars with whom they consorted.
[Sidenote: LOOKING AT A MURDERESS.]
One Amazon, who had a mustache and slight whiskers, had committed
two murders, the detective said—one in Lyons, and the other in the
arrondissement Vaugirard. She had been so adroit that she could not
be convicted on trial, though there was not the least shadow of
doubt of her guilt. She was a species of she devil in that tophet,
and, as I perceived, was looked up to as something of an oracle. She
planned many of the boldest robberies, and was herself regarded as
absolutely fearless. She must have been very strong; for she was as
broad across the shoulders as a grenadier, and her rolled-up sleeves
showed that she had muscle like a black-smith. I would much rather
have encountered a masculine ruffian and assassin than that virago,
who seemed fierce and cruel, not from passion, but from nature. There
was a tigress look about her which made my flesh creep and my hair
bristle. She appeared so bloodthirsty that I should not have been
surprised if she had sprung upon me and fastened her fangs in my neck.
The thieves and robbers in the cellar knew the detective of course, as
they know detectives all the world over; nodded to him familiarly, and
asked him in an argot—which had to be translated to me—if he had been
successful in making any arrests recently.
I observed that they changed their tone of talk as we entered,
determined not to give him any clew to their latest crimes. They
continued, however, to discuss the exploits of the members of their
profession, and to express the warmest admiration for the greatest
scoundrels. It hardly seemed possible that human beings could be
so hardened and so vicious, and that they could find their chief
gratification in disorder, violation of law, and revolting iniquity.
These fellows were more like brutes than men in semblance. Their eyes
had a fierce and lurid expression; their mouths were sensual and
coarse; their jaws had a heavy, animal-like firmness; and their whole
faces were dark and forbidding. I noticed that many of them drank
spirits, which is uncommon in France, and that the largest potations
did not sensibly affect them.
Three or four of the gang were so repulsive in feature that I felt a
curiosity respecting their history, and made inquiry thereabout of the
detective.
[Sidenote: HISTORY OF A HOUSE-BREAKER.]
“That chap sitting down with the short pipe in his mouth,” said the
legal bloodhound, “is not more than thirty years old, though he looks
nearly fifty. He was born and reared in or near this city, and has
been a thief since his earliest child-hood. His father was a noted
burglar, and died in prison at Bordeaux, where he had been arrested
for an attempt to break into the vault of a bank. The man’s name is
Pierre Boudrot; but he is called by his associates the Mad Bull,
from his great strength and violent temper. Until he was fifteen or
sixteen, he was a petty pilferer; but he afterwards aspired to highway
robbery outside the barrières. He prospered in this for some time; but
having, as it was suspected, shot and killed a merchant, he was forced
to fly to England. Returning three years after, he was apprehended and
tried for the crime. No direct evidence could be adduced against him,
and he was acquitted. He has been involved in any number of personal
encounters with his fellow-villains, and has stabbed and shot at least
a dozen of them. Generally speaking, they have refused to testify
against him, and he has therefore escaped punishment. He is now a
house-breaker, and operates so skilfully that the police seldom have
an opportunity to interfere with him. Some sixteen months ago, he was
living at Pantin with his mistress, a young woman of some intelligence
and so remarkably handsome that it was strange she could fancy so
ill-favored a wretch. Having become jealous of her, they had several
boisterous quarrels. One morning she was found in bed with her throat
cut from ear to ear, and he had disappeared. He was suspected at once,
and publication of the fact was made in the newspapers, whereupon
he surrendered himself, and during the examination which followed,
several of his accomplices swore that the girl had committed suicide,
giving many details that rendered their statements plausible. As his
witnesses could not be impeached, he was acquitted, and returned to
his old calling. He has frequently been seized by policemen while
carrying out some nefarious design, but such has been his strength
that he has almost always managed to get away. On one occasion he
threw an officer of the law from a fourth story window, and broke his
neck. Still nothing could be proved upon him, as no one had witnessed
the deed. He must ultimately come to the guillotine, however, as he
is growing bolder and bolder in his commission of crime, and more
reckless of the means he adopts. Intemperance is telling upon him, as
you can see by his bloodshot eye and bloated face.
[Sidenote: A CRIME-STAINED SCOUNDREL.]
“The gray-haired man,” continued the detective, “laughing so loudly,
with a broad scar above his eye, has been in nearly every principal
prison in France, and yet has never served out a single term.
Professional thief as he is, he does not appear to be very vicious or
malignant. He has never been known to do any one bodily harm, and is
always as cheerful as he is now. He would not be such a bad-looking
fellow except for that scar, and the fracture of his nose, which was
caused, some years ago, by his jumping from a wagon conveying him to
jail.
“The very dark man, sitting on that bench, and swinging his legs, is a
Spaniard. He came here from Madrid, where he had been for some years
a bull-fighter, and whence he had to fly for poisoning his father to
get a little property. Poisoning is his specialty, and he is believed
to have disposed of a number of persons in that way. Whenever he
takes life, he has, of course, a purpose in it, and he has come into
possession of a good deal of money by the deaths he has brought about.
A greater villain than he probably never breathed: he seems to have no
more objection to committing murder than he has to smoking a cigar;
and he is known as Pedro the Killer—a nickname of which he is really
proud.”
[Sidenote: THE GREATEST SCAMP IN PARIS.]
“There is a young person I have not noticed before,” I said to my
companion, pointing to the left. “Who is he? He can’t be a thief.
He must have gotten into this company by mistake. Is he a gentleman
seeking for acquaintance with underground life, like myself?”
The man I had designated could not have been more than twenty. He had
a fresh, handsome face, and when he smiled, as he often did, his smile
lighted up his countenance as sunshine lights up a landscape. It was
hard to associate him with crime or vice of any kind, and hence my
question.
The detective laughed, and said, “You mean the Badger. He is one
of the greatest scamps in all Paris, and one of the most desperate
scoundrels. There is nothing in the world he would not do for money.
If I were not here, and anybody were to offer him five francs, he
would walk up to you, salute you politely, and blow your brains out,
regarding it as a capital joke. The Badger is well educated, and is
reputed to be the son of a prominent lawyer by an actress. He ran away
from home, and turned thief on instinct. He is absolutely without
fear and without conscience. That crime is natural to him is proved
by his enjoyment of it. He has had marvellous good luck, for, though
frequently arrested, he has never been punished, and the fact of his
getting off again and again is ascribed by some to the influence and
wealth of his father.”
The detective would have told more; but by this time the thieves, all
of whom had drank liberally, began singing a coarse and profane song,
in which morality, religion, and decency were burlesqued, and which,
rendered by the harsh voices of the men and women, sounded, in that
dreary cellar, like a chorus of infernal fiends.
[Sidenote: GOING HOME.]
Informing my guide that I had seen and heard enough, we went out of
the stifling cellar, beyond the heavy oaken door, up the narrow stone
staircase, reached our calèche, and as the fresh breeze welcomed us,
and the clouds overhead broke away, revealing the stars, I seemed to
have been transferred to another sphere, and I wondered that such dens
of crime could exist and flourish under the beautiful exterior of
Paris.
XXVIII.
THE EAST RIVER BRIDGE.
LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS UNDER WATER.—HOW THE WORK WAS
PERFORMED.—THE CAISSON.—HOW IT IS MADE.—ITS MODE OF
OPERATION.—WORKING UNDER WATER.—EXPLORING THE BED OF THE
RIVER.—DESCENDING INTO THE BOX.—EFFECTS OF A GREAT PRESSURE OF
AIR.—AN UNPLEASANT SENSATION.—A STRANGE SIGHT.—ACCIDENTS.—HOW A
MAN’S ARM WAS CAUGHT.
A bridge to connect New York and Brooklyn has long been desired,
and many plans for such a structure have been made. It was finally
determined to erect a suspension bridge high enough to permit the
passage of ships beneath it, and stretching, in a single span, from
one side to the other of the East River. Work was begun in 1870, and
continued, with occasional interruptions. The bridge, by comparison
with similar structures, is the longest and largest of its kind in the
world.
[Illustration: THE BROOKLYN SUSPENSION BRIDGE—NOW BUILDING.
Length of River Span, 1616 feet.
“ Each Land Span, 940 feet.
Length of New York Approach, 1441 feet.
“ Brooklyn ” 941 feet.
Total Length, 5878 feet.
Total Height above High Tide, 268 “
]
The bridge rests on two piers, one on the east and the other on the
west bank of the river. The eastern pier was begun some time before
the other, and the work of laying its foundations was of a peculiar
character. Ordinarily, where a pier is to be set in the water, a
coffer dam is built around the place where it is to stand, and the
water is pumped out. But in the present instance, this mode of working
was deemed impracticable, and it was decided to lay the foundations
by means of a caisson. This is quite a curiosity in its way, and well
deserves a visit and a description. I did not visit the one on the
east side, but deferred my caisson explorations till the work on the
west side was under way.
On the invitation of Colonel Paine and Engineer Cottingwood, I was
one of a party of four to descend into the caisson to examine its
workings and inspect its machinery. Arriving at the foot of Roosevelt
Street, we found indications of the construction of a large building.
There were numerous derricks, scaffoldings, and building materials in
the vicinity, and every where there was activity. Just as we reached
the works we found a gang of sixty men indulging in hot coffee, which
is always served to them previous to their descending the shaft of the
caisson. Their coffee drinking over, and the roll-call answered, they
walked in single file to the mouth of the shaft, and there waited the
arrival of those whom they were about relieving.
Most of the men wore nothing but their shirts and trousers, with
water-proof boots reaching above the knees. At a signal given by the
foreman of the gang, some of them entered an elevator, while others
proceeded down a spiral staircase, and were soon lost to view. Before
taking the reader to the interior of the caisson, it may be well to
state that it is nothing else than a large box of iron and wood, the
full size of the intended abutment. This box is turned bottom upward,
and rests upon its edges.
[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THE CAISSON.]
It is one hundred and two feet wide, and one hundred and seventy-two
feet long, and nearly ten feet in height. Its immense weight is
supported by several solid trusses of oak and iron, which run across
the caisson; and in addition to this, it receives an upward support of
forced air equal to forty thousand tons. The pressure of the air in
the caisson is forty-four pounds to the square inch, being twenty-nine
pounds more than the ordinary atmospheric pressure.
The air is sent down the caisson by means of pumps, there being
fourteen engines, each of twenty-four horse power, constantly at work.
In the centre of the caisson, an entrance is obtained by means of a
shaft having a spiral staircase of over one hundred circular steps,
and there is another entrance by an elevator, which, by the by, is
the most agreeable way of descending, particularly if the visitor is
inclined to corpulence.
It was down this entrance I went with the rest of our party. Like
the workmen, each of us swallowed a small quantity of hot coffee and
biscuit, as we were told that we should suffer less from the effects
of the descent. Under the direction of our guide, we took our stand
inside the elevator, for the simple reason that we could not sit.
There were no velvet-covered seats, as are generally found in hotel
elevators.
[Sidenote: GOING INTO THE INTERIOR.]
At a given signal, we began our journey into the East River, and
descended until we reached what our conductor termed the “lock.” Here
we changed our stands again, and entered the lock by crawling through
an opening at the bottom of the elevator sufficiently large for a man
of ordinary size to pass easily. This lock is an oblong iron box,
or boiler, of just sufficient size to allow half a dozen persons to
stand erect. It is eight feet long, and six feet in diameter. At the
bottom of the lock there is an iron door or opening, similar to that
through which we entered, which gives admission to the interior of the
caisson. These iron doors are fitted with rubber, so as to make them
perfectly air-tight.
When we had all entered, the door was closed upon us. We looked at
each other, wondering what would be done next, and we soon found out.
Our conductor, previous to starting the lock, gave us what he termed
a few useful hints, so that we might be able to make the trip as
agreeable as possible under all the circumstances.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “in descending, you will find a
disagreeable sensation, particularly about your ears. You will
find great ease by closing the nostrils every few seconds,—as the
pressure of the air will act upon the tympanum of the ear,—and also by
inflating your cheeks to their full extent.”
These instructions were given that we might cause an artificial
pressure upon the inside of the ear, and thus prevent its rupture.
Our conductor then proceeded to turn a cock, to admit the air forced
from above. In a moment it rushed in with a tremendous force, making
a noise similar to that of a locomotive blowing off steam. The
effect of this was anything but pleasant. A sudden deafness seemed to
overtake us, as if a cannon had been fired under our noses; our voices
were also changed, and appeared cracked, and we almost wished our
curiosity had not led us so far.
[Sidenote: A HEAVY PRESSURE OF AIR.]
This feeling was caused by the air rushing too fast into the orifice
of the ear. There was just sufficient light inside the lock to discern
our faces, and that was all. It took five or six minutes to get the
necessary amount of pressure into the lock, and then the air was
turned off.
We seemed suddenly to lose our footing, and then to regain it; and no
sooner had we righted ourselves than we had another sudden shoot, and
this continued until we reached the bottom. The actual descent was
made in about a minute and a half, or perhaps two minutes; but owing
to the pain we suffered, it appeared to be three times as long.
The sensation we experienced was certainly very disagreeable and
painful, and for a pleasure trip I certainly would not recommend
any one to undertake the journey. Should a lady go down, however
strong-minded she might be, I would not answer for the consequences.
One of the party was so much affected by the pressure of the air that
our conductor had to turn off the cock frequently. The stranger’s ears
pained him greatly, and blood began to spurt from them.
Having reached the bottom of the caisson, where the workmen were
digging out the earth and blasting rock, we were detained in the lock
some minutes, to allow the admission of air of the same density as
that below. This being done, I descended a short iron ladder leading
into the bottom of the caisson, and speedily found myself standing on
the bed of the river, seventy-eight feet below water-mark.