TAPPEUR AND PETITSOU
"What are you bringing us now?" growled a voice from a corner of the
cell. Gaillard heard the rustling of straw, but his eyes were not enough
accustomed to the gloom to enable him to see what sort of being it was
who gave utterance to this harsh welcome.
"Are not two enough in a trap like this?" the speaker went on, rising
and coming forward. "There's hardly enough air for us as it is, without
your putting in another one."
"So it's you, Tappeur, complaining again," remarked the jailer. "You had
better be thankful you're not four in a cell as they are in most of
them. The prison is full to overflowing. No matter how many they take
out, there's always more to fill their places. You'll have to make the
best of it." And he closed the door with an unfeeling slam.
Tappeur brushed some of the straw from his hair and beard. "A plague
upon these suspects that fill up our prisons!" he exclaimed with an
oath; "we honest criminals have to put up with the vilest accommodations
because you crowd us to the wall by force of numbers. You _are_ a
suspect, aren't you?" he demanded, coming nearer and putting a dirty
face close to Gaillard's.
The cell which they occupied was below the level of the ground. Overhead
at the juncture of the ceiling and wall was a grating through which came
all the light and air they received.
"You are a suspect, is it not so?" repeated Tappeur as Gaillard made no
answer.
"I have not the honor of being an 'honest criminal,'" replied the actor,
drawing away with a movement of disgust from the seamed and distorted
visage thrust close to his.
"Bah, I thought not," said Tappeur with another oath. "Well, suspect,
come over here under the grating and let me take a good look at your
face," and he seized Gaillard roughly by the arm.
Tappeur received a violent blow on the chest which sent him reeling into
a dark corner of the cell, clutching at the empty air as if to sustain
himself by catching hold of the shadows. His fall to the ground was
followed by an explosion of oaths in a new voice, in which explosion
Tappeur himself joined vigorously.
"I've stirred up a nest of them," said Gaillard to himself, and then
stood awaiting developments.
The torrent of profanity having exhausted itself, Tappeur emerged from
the shadowy recess of the wall followed by a smaller man.
"How do you like my looks?" inquired Gaillard cheerfully.
"I'm satisfied for the present," replied Tappeur.
"Your fist is hard enough; what may your trade be?"
"I have no regular profession, I'm a little of everything. What's
yours?"
"I belong to the 'Brotherhood of the Ready Hand.' Our motto is 'Steal
and Kill;' our watchward 'Blood and Death;' and our coat of arms 'A Cord
and Gallows.'" And Tappeur chuckled gleefully.
"You are evidently a rare accumulation of talent and virtue. I should
enjoy knowing more of you. Is this a member of your band?" and Gaillard
pointed to the man who had just been awakened, and who was yawning and
stretching his arms.
"Our band, oh no, this is the great Petitsou."
"And who is Petitsou?"
"What! you don't know Petitsou?" demanded Tappeur pityingly.
"Never heard of him."
"He never even heard of you, Petitsou!" exclaimed Tappeur, turning to
his companion with a gesture of disgust.
Petitsou shrugged his shoulders in reply, as if to say, "He has been the
only loser."
"Pray let me be compensated for my ill fortune, by learning all about
you now, Citizen Petitsou."
"I have made more counterfeit money than any man in France now living, I
might say more than any man who ever has lived, but I believe some one
or two of the old kings have surpassed me," said Petitsou.
"He is an artist," whispered Tappeur; "he does not make you a clumsy,
bungling coin only to be palmed off upon women and blind men. He creates
an article finer to look at than the government mint can produce.
_Pardieu_, I'd rather have a pocket full of his silver than that bearing
either the face of Louis Capet or of this new Republic." And Tappeur
looked at his friend the artist admiringly.
"It was when the government issued these assignats that my great fortune
was made," continued Petitsou. "In fact, it was too much success that
brought me here. I found them so easy to make that I manufactured them
by the wholesale. I stored my cellar with them. I even had the audacity
to make the government a small loan in assignats on which I did the
entire work myself, reproducing the very signatures of the officials who
received the funds. Oh, it was a rare sport."
"But your forgeries were finally detected?" said Gaillard inquiringly.
"The workmanship and the signatures never. I could have gone on making
enough to buy up the whole government, but for a mishap. I made a
glaring error in the date of a certain issue of assignats. I never liked
the new calendar, and always had to take particular care to get it
right, but one day my memory slipped up, and I dated a batch of one
hundred thousand francs, November 14, 1793, instead of 25th Brumaire,
year II. Oh, that was an unpardonable slip, and I deserved to pay the
penalty."
"It seems cruel," remarked Gaillard, "to keep a useful member of
society, like you, in this filthy dungeon."
"The greatest cruelty is in keeping the materials of my trade away from
me. They know my love for my art, and take delight in torturing me.
Although I promise not to try any dodge, they won't trust me. If they
would only let me have a little pen, ink, and paper, I should be happy."
"Pen, ink, and paper?" repeated Gaillard. "That's a modest desire."
"They won't let him have them," put in Tappeur. "He'd play them all
sorts of tricks. He'd forge all sorts of documents, and worry the life
out of the jailers."
The door opened a few inches, and a jug of water and a large square loaf
made their appearance, pushed in by an invisible hand.
"Let's divide our rations for the day," suggested Petitsou. "Have they
given us a larger loaf, Tappeur, on account of our increased number?"
"But very little larger," replied Tappeur, picking up the loaf of black
bread and surveying it hungrily.
"Is that all we receive in the way of food?" asked Gaillard ruefully. He
had missed his usual supper after the theatre the night before, and was
quite ready for breakfast.
"That's all, unless you've got money. You can buy what you like with
that." And Tappeur eyed him slyly out of his deep-set eyes.
"What do you say to some wine in place of this cold water, and some
white bread, with perhaps a little sausage added by the way of relish?"
suggested Gaillard mildly.
"Hey, you jailer!" called out Tappeur, frantically rushing toward the
door, fearful lest the man might be out of hearing. The jailer retraced
his steps reluctantly.
"A commission from the new lodger. A bottle of wine. A white loaf in
place of this vile, sour stuff, and some sweet little sausage. A little
tobacco also. Am I not right, my comrade?" asked Tappeur, looking at
Gaillard inquiringly.
"Some tobacco, of course," nodded Gaillard, producing a coin.
"Have it strong; I have tasted none for so long that it must bite my
tongue to make up for lost time. Hurry with thy commissions my good
little citizen jailer; the new lodger is hungry, and we, too, have no
small appetites."
"Tobacco," said Petitsou, "next to ink and paper, I have longed for
that. And I have money, too!" and he produced a five-franc piece. "As
good a piece of silver as ever rang from the government mint, and yet
that cursed jailer refuses to take it, or bring me the smallest portion
of tobacco for it. The donkey fears I have manufactured it here on the
premises, or that I extracted it from thin air like a magician."
The breakfast being brought, Tappeur rolled a couple of large stones
toward the lightest portion of the cell, and placed a board across them
for a table. They had nothing to sit upon but their heels. The two
criminals had accustomed themselves to this method of sitting at meals,
but Gaillard found it more comfortable to partake of his food standing
with his shoulders to the wall.
"Fall to, comrades!" cried Tappeur, breaking off an end of the loaf and
taking a sausage in his other hand. "There's no cup, so we must drink
from the bottle." And he handed the wine to Gaillard first, by way of
attention.
Gaillard put the bottle to his lips and took a long draught of the
contents while Tappeur watched him anxiously. He then passed it over to
Petitsou, who treated it in a like manner. Tappeur received it in his
turn in thankful silence, and after having punished it severely, put it
down by his side. Gaillard helped himself to a piece of bread and a
sausage, and ate with good appetite, leaving his new companions to
finish the wine, to the evident satisfaction of those two worthies.
"You have a hard fist, my brave comrade!" exclaimed Tappeur, filling a
pipe as short and grimy as the thumb that pushed the tobacco down into
the bowl. "A hard fist and a free purse and Tappeur is your friend for
life." To give emphasis to his words he puffed a cloud of blue smoke up
into Gaillard's face, and drained the last few drops of wine in the
flagon.
"That's very good stuff," he continued, balancing the empty bottle upon
its nose, "but brandy would be more satisfying."
Gaillard refused to take the hint, and turned away to spread his cloak
in a corner of the cell, where he lay down upon it and was soon in a
deep sleep.
Week followed week, and Gaillard continued to live below the ground far
from the sunlight which he loved so dearly, while Tournay, confined in
the cell upon the second floor, wondered why he received no word from
the friend in the outside world.
Thus they lived within one hundred yards of each other, thinking of each
other daily, and with no means of communication. One thing Gaillard had
to be thankful for, and that was the sum of money the theatre manager
had paid him on the very night of his arrest. With it he had purchased
many comforts to make his life more bearable. He had procured a fresh
supply of straw and a warm blanket for his bed; some candles and a rough
chair upon which he took turns in sitting with the two jail-birds, his
companions, although at meals he always occupied it by tacit consent.
Under the influence of the additional food which Gaillard's purse
supplied, Tappeur grew fat and better natured, though he swore none the
less, and drank and smoked all that Gaillard would provide for him.
Indeed, he thought the actor a little niggardly in furnishing the
brandy, and one day, after a good meal, was inclined to be swaggering,
intimating that, with respect to drink, the rations should be increased.
Whereupon Gaillard cut off his potations entirely for twenty-four hours,
and he became as meek as a lamb and remained so ever after.
Both the bully and Petitsou would frequently regale Gaillard with long
accounts of their past crimes. During the recitals, Tappeur, although
always boastful on his own account, showed a certain deference to the
forger.
"I can cut a throat or rob a purse with the best blackguard in France,"
he would say to the actor, "but that little Petitsou is the true
artist."
Notwithstanding these diversions, the time dragged wearily, and
Gaillard's face began to lose its roundness, while the smile did not
broaden his wide mouth so frequently as of old. His money began to get
low, and he looked forward with dread to the time when it would be
entirely gone and he would have to divide the musty black loaf and the
pitcher of fetid water with the two criminals, without the wherewithal
to buy even such good nature and entertainment as they could furnish. He
longed for the time of his trial to come. He knew from what he had heard
of the experiences of others, that he might be called for trial any day,
or that he might languish in jail for months, forgotten and neglected.
Every day when he asked the jailer who brought their food, "Have I not
been called for trial?" and received the response, "Not to-day," his
heart sank lower.
One day when he had only five francs left in his purse, and had
refrained from ordering any wine, much to Tappeur's disgust, the jailer
came to inform him that he was to come forth for trial.
"Good luck attend you, citizen actor," said Petitsou, with some show of
friendship, as Gaillard prepared to leave them, smiling.
"As we must lose you in one way or another," called out Tappeur after
him as he disappeared down the corridor, "let us hope that the national
razor will not bungle when it shaves you, my brave."
Gaillard's spirits rose as he came up to the light of day. In a few
hours he would know what his destiny would be, and the fresh air gave
him renewed courage to meet it. His wish to learn just what fate had
overtaken Tournay gave him an additional interest in life.
Passing through the main corridor he heard his name called, and looking
toward the corridor of the upper tier he saw the face of his friend.
It was only an instant, and then Gaillard passed out with others to the
street. At first Tournay's heart throbbed with apprehension at the sight
of his friend. He had feared all along that had Gaillard been at liberty
he would have received some message from him, or other evidence of his
existence, and now his fears were confirmed. Yet somehow the very sight
of Gaillard's cheerful face, smiling up at him, reassured him.
"Am called for trial," the actor's lips framed. "And you?" Tournay made
a negative gesture.
"Paper destroyed," Gaillard next signaled with his lips, but he dared
not make the words too plain for fear of detection, and the message was
lost on Tournay. Then they saw each other no longer.
It was into a small court room that Gaillard saw himself conducted. He
looked round with surprise. The trials were usually attended by large
and interested crowds of people.
"I am evidently considered of small importance, and so am disposed of by
an inferior court," thought he. "So much the better."
The case being tried at the moment was one of petty larceny. "The other
courts must be doing an enormous business, to oblige them to turn some
of us over to these little criminal courts," continued Gaillard musingly
as the affair in question was disposed of and he was called.
"Read the act of accusation," said the judge, "and hurry the affair. I
wish to go to dinner."
"Don't let me detain you," thought Gaillard. Then he put his hands to
his head to ascertain if his ears were in their proper place, for he
could not understand a word of the accusation as read by the clerk. He
heard a jumble about "coat," "personal assault," "refused payment," then
looked in bewilderment at the judge and prosecuting attorney, till from
them his eyes wandered about the dingy court room. All at once the sight
of a face in the witness box caused a light to flash through his brain,
and elucidate the whole matter. He recognized his tailor, who sat with
vindictive eyes, holding over his arm the identical coat that had been
the cause of the dispute on the very day of his arrest.
Gaillard could barely repress his merriment. The rancor of the little
tailor had followed him to prison, and dragged him out to answer a
complaint of assault and intent to defraud.
"I wonder," thought Gaillard, "if I am convicted and sentenced for this
crime, and subsequently condemned to the guillotine, which penalty I
shall have to pay first?"
"Have you any counsel, prisoner?" demanded the judge.
"I will plead my own case," replied Gaillard cheerfully.
"Call the complainant and witness."
After a long recital on the part of the tailor of the history of the
coat, and the treatment he had received at the hands of the brutal
prisoner, during which the judge yawned, indicating his desire to get
out to dinner, Gaillard took the stand.
"My sole defense," said he smilingly, "is that the tailor wittingly,
maliciously, and falsely, endeavored to palm off upon me, a poor actor,
a garment never made for me."
"How will you prove it?" demanded the judge.
"By simply trying on the coat," answered Gaillard. "If you decide it was
made for me, I will abandon my defense."
"Let the prisoner have the garment," ordered the judge.
Gaillard slowly proceeded to divest himself of his own coat and don the
offending garment which the tailor now presented to him reluctantly.
It had fitted him badly on the first occasion he had tried it on, and
now, by a slight contortion of his supple body, the actor made the
misfit ridiculously apparent.
The court officers grinned, even the judge could not repress a smile,
and the tailor looked foolish.
"That is quite sufficient," said the justice. "How much did the tailor
want you to pay for this grotesque garment?"
"Two hundred francs the bill calls for."
"Two hundred francs?" ejaculated the judge.
"In gold coin," emphasized Gaillard.
"It is very expensive material," explained the tailor ruefully.
"Down how many flights of stairs does the complaint state the prisoner
kicked the tailor?" asked the judge.
"Only one short one," volunteered Gaillard, grinning at the discomfited
tailor.
"Only one short one?" repeated the judge. "You were very moderate; such
an absurd garment would have justified three flights."
There was a laugh in the court room. The judge tapped for order.
"The prisoner is discharged," he said.
Gaillard rose and looked for the guards who had escorted him from the
Luxembourg, thankful for the brief respite he had had from the tedium of
confinement.
"You are a free man, Citizen Gaillard," said the judge, waving his hand
toward the open door.
"Do you mean I can leave the court room by that door?" asked Gaillard,
his heart rising up in his throat.
"Certainly; I dismiss the complaint."
"Thank you, your honor," said Gaillard, stepping quickly through the
doorway into the street.
"Your honor!" gasped a court attendant hurriedly appearing at the
judge's desk.
"I have no time to listen to anything further now. I am off to dinner,"
said the judge snappishly.
"But does your honor know? Is your honor aware that the prisoner was a
suspect from the Luxembourg, brought here by me for trial on this charge
of assault, to be returned after"--
"Bring him back at once!" yelled the judge. "You idiot, why didn't you
say so before?"
"But, your honor, I"--
"After him, constables; be quick, he cannot have gone fifty yards."
Half a dozen men rushed into the street and looked in all directions.
But Gaillard was not to be seen.