The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious
character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so
have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in
Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and
peculiar humour occurs in the Police _tribuneaux_ of Paris. We
will proceed to give the reader a “taste of their quality.”
An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in
the streets, and the Police having goodnaturedly let her off several
times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into
the Court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue
took place between the President and the old woman.
_President._ Now, my good woman, what have you to say for
yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have
persisted in troubling people with begging.
_Old Woman_ (_in a humble quavering tone_). Ah, Monsieur le
President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I
am a very old woman.
_Pres._ Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be
obliged to punish you.
_Old W._ But, Monsieur le President, I cannot live without--I must
beg--pardon me, Monsieur--I am obliged to beg.
_Pres._ But I say you must not. Can you do no work?
_Old W._ Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.
_Pres._ Can’t you sell something--little cakes--bonbons?--
_Old W._ No, Monsieur, I can’t get any little stock to begin with;
and, if I could, I should be robbed by the _gamins_, or the little
girls, for I’m not very quick, and can’t see well.
_Pres._ Your relations must support you, then. You cannot be
allowed to beg. Have you no son--no daughter--no grandchildren?
_Old W._ No, Monsieur; none--none--all my relations are dead.
_Pres._ Well then, your friends must give you assistance.
_Old W._ Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had
but one, in my life; but he too is gone.
_Pres._ And who was he?
_Old W._ Monsieur de Robespierre--_le pauvre cher homme!_
(The poor, dear man!)
_Pres._ Robespierre!--why what did you know of him?
_Old W._ Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the _tricoteurs_
(knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and
I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by,
in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here
the old woman shed tears) _la belle Marguerite_:--_le pauvre,
cher homme!_
We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the
_tricoteurs_, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on
the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the
“Furies;” but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although
there were occasionally some sanguinary hags amongst them, yet, for
the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there
dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of
sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the _spectacle_.
_Pres._ Well, Goody; finish your history.
_Old W._ I was married soon after this, and then I used to
take my seat as a _tricoteur_ among the others; and on the
days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice
me--_le pauvre cher homme_. I used then to be called _la belle
tricoteuse_, but now--now, I am called _la vielle radoteuse_
(the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all
come to!
The old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at
the President, which completely involved him in the _we_, thus
presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in
the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged
heart.
_Pres._ Ahem!--silence! You seem to have a very tender
recollection of Monsieur Robespierre. I suppose you had reason to be
grateful to him?
_Old W._ No, Monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined
my husband.
_Pres._ Certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory.
_Old W._ Ah, Monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. Monsieur
de Robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband--he had him
executed by mistake for somebody else--_le pauvre cher homme!_
Thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the “poor
dear man” referred to her husband, or to Monsieur de Robespierre; or
whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them.