“Ah! Madame de San-Esteban, Madame la Marquise,” cried Carlos Herrera, “what admirable devotion!”
“But, madame, such interviews are against the rules,” said the good old Governor. And he intercepted the advance of this bale of black watered-silk and lace.
“But at such a distance!” said Jacques Collin, “and in your presence — — ” and he looked round at the group.
His aunt, whose dress might well dazzle the clerk, the Governor, the warders, and the gendarmes, stank of musk. She had on, besides a thousand crowns of lace, a black India cashmere shawl, worth six thousand francs. And her chasseur was marching up and down outside with the insolence of a lackey who knows that he is essential to an exacting princess. He spoke never a word to the footman, who stood by the gate on the quay, which is always open by day.
“What do you wish? What can I do?” said Madame de San-Esteban in the lingo agreed upon by this aunt and nephew.
This dialect consisted in adding terminations in ar or in or, or in al or in i to every word, whether French or slang, so as to disguise it by lengthening it. It was a diplomatic cipher adapted to speech.
“Put all the letters in some safe place; take out those that are most likely to compromise the ladies; come back, dressed very poorly, to the Salle des Pas-Perdus, and wait for my orders.”
Asie, otherwise Jacqueline, knelt as if to receive his blessing, and the sham priest blessed his aunt with evengelical unction.
“Addio, Marchesa,” said he aloud. “And,” he added in their private language, “find Europe and Paccard with the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs they bagged. We must have them.”
“Paccard is out there,” said the pious Marquise, pointing to the chasseur, her eyes full of tears.
This intuitive comprehension brought not merely a smile to the man’s lips, but a gesture of surprise; no one could astonish him but his aunt. The sham Marquise turned to the bystanders with the air of a woman accustomed to give herself airs.
“He is in despair at being unable to attend his son’s funeral,” said she in broken French, “for this monstrous miscarriage of justice has betrayed the saintly man’s secret. — I am going to the funeral mass. — Here, monsieur,” she added to the Governor, handing him a purse of gold, “this is to give your poor prisoners some comforts.”
“What slap-up style!” her nephew whispered in approval.
Jacques Collin then followed the warder, who led him back to the yard.
Bibi-Lupin, quite desperate, had at last caught the eye of a real gendarme, to whom, since Jacques Collin had gone, he had been addressing significant “Ahems,” and who took his place on guard in the condemned cell. But Trompe-la-Mort’s sworn foe was released too late to see the great lady, who drove off in her dashing turn-out, and whose voice, though disguised, fell on his ear with a vicious twang.
“Three hundred shiners for the boarders,” said the head warder, showing Bibi-Lupin the purse, which Monsieur Gault had handed over to his clerk.
“Let’s see, Monsieur Jacomety,” said Bibi-Lupin.
The police agent took the purse, poured out the money into his hand, and examined it curiously.
“Yes, it is gold, sure enough!” said he, “and a coat-of-arms on the purse! The scoundrel! How clever he is! What an all-round villain! He does us all brown — — and all the time! He ought to be shot down like a dog!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the clerk, taking back the money.
“The matter! Why, the hussy stole it!” cried Bibi-Lupin, stamping with rage on the flags of the gateway.
The words produced a great sensation among the spectators, who were standing at a little distance from Monsieur Sanson. He, too, was still standing, his back against the large stove in the middle of the vaulted hall, awaiting the order to crop the felon’s hair and erect the scaffold on the Place de Greve.
On re-entering the yard, Jacques Collin went towards his chums at a pace suited to a frequenter of the galleys.
“What have you on your mind?” said he to la Pouraille.
“My game is up,” said the man, whom Jacques Collin led into a corner. “What I want now is a pal I can trust.”
“What for?”
La Pouraille, after telling the tale of all his crimes, but in thieves’ slang, gave an account of the murder and robbery of the two Crottats.
“You have my respect,” said Jacques Collin. “The job was well done; but you seem to me to have blundered afterwards.”
“In what way?”
“Well, having done the trick, you ought to have had a Russian passport, have made up as a Russian prince, bought a fine coach with a coat-of-arms on it, have boldly deposited your money in a bank, have got a letter of credit on Hamburg, and then have set out posting to Hamburg with a valet, a ladies’ maid, and your mistress disguised as a Russian princess. At Hamburg you should have sailed for Mexico. A chap of spirit, with two hundred and eighty thousand francs in gold, ought to be able to do what he pleases and go where he pleases, flathead!”
“Oh yes, you have such notions because you are the boss. Your nut is always square on your shoulders — but I — — ”
“In short, a word of good advice in your position is like broth to a dead man,” said Jacques Collin, with a serpentlike gaze at his old pal.
“True enough!” said la Pouraille, looking dubious. “But give me the broth, all the same. If it does not suit my stomach, I can warm my feet in it — — ”
“Here you are nabbed by the Justice, with five robberies and three murders, the latest of them those of two rich and respectable folks.... Now, juries do not like to see respectable folks killed. You will be put through the machine, and there is not a chance for you.”
“I have heard all that,” said la Pouraille lamentably.
“My aunt Jacqueline, with whom I have just exchanged a few words in the office, and who is, as you know, a mother to the pals, told me that the authorities mean to be quit of you; they are so much afraid of you.”
“But I am rich now,” said La Pouraille, with a simplicity which showed how convinced a thief is of his natural right to steal. “What are they afraid of?”
“We have no time for philosophizing,” said Jacques Collin. “To come back to you — — ”
“What do you want with me?” said la Pouraille, interrupting his boss.
“You shall see. A dead dog is still worth something.”
“To other people,” said la Pouraille.
“I take you into my game!” said Jacques Collin.
“Well, that is something,” said the murderer. “What next?”
“I do not ask you where your money is, but what you mean to do with it?”
La Pouraille looked into the convict’s impenetrable eye, and Jacques coldly went on: “Have you a trip you are sweet upon, or a child, or a pal to be helped? I shall be outside within an hour, and I can do much for any one you want to be good-natured to.”
La Pouraille still hesitated; he was delaying with indecision. Jacques Collin produced a clinching argument.
“Your whack of our money would be thirty thousand francs. Do you leave it to the pals? Do you bequeath it to anybody? Your share is safe; I can give it this evening to any one you leave it to.”
The murderer gave a little start of satisfaction.
“I have him!” said Jacques Collin to himself. “But we have no time to play. Consider,” he went on in la Pouraille’s ear, “we have not ten minutes to spare, old chap; the public prosecutor is to send for me, and I am to have a talk with him. I have him safe, and can ring the old boss’ neck. I am certain I shall save Madeleine.”
“If you save Madeleine, my good boss, you can just as easily — — ”
“Don’t waste your spittle,” said Jacques Collin shortly. “Make your will.”
“Well, then — I want to leave the money to la Gonore,” replied la Pouraille piteously.
“What! Are you living with Moses’ widow — the Jew who led the sw
indling gang in the South?” asked Jacques Collin.
For Trompe-la-Mort, like a great general, knew the person of every one of his army.
“That’s the woman,” said la Pouraille, much flattered.
“A pretty woman,” said Jacques Collin, who knew exactly how to manage his dreadful tools. “The moll is a beauty; she is well informed, and stands by her mates, and a first-rate hand. Yes, la Gonore has made a new man of you! What a flat you must be to risk your nut when you have a trip like her at home! You noodle; you should have set up some respectable little shop and lived quietly. — And what does she do?”
“She is settled in the Rue Sainte-Barbe, managing a house — — ”
“And she is to be your legatee? Ah, my dear boy, this is what such sluts bring us to when we are such fools as to love them.”
“Yes, but don’t you give her anything till I am done for.”
“It is a sacred trust,” said Jacques Collin very seriously.
“And nothing to the pals?”
“Nothing! They blowed the gaff for me,” answered la Pouraille vindictively.
“Who did? Shall I serve ‘em out?” asked Jacques Collin eagerly, trying to rouse the last sentiment that survives in these souls till the last hour. “Who knows, old pal, but I might at the same time do them a bad turn and serve you with the public prosecutor?”
The murderer looked at his boss with amazed satisfaction.
“At this moment,” the boss replied to this expressive look, “I am playing the game only for Theodore. When this farce is played out, old boy, I might do wonders for a chum — for you are a chum of mine.”
“If I see that you really can put off the engagement for that poor little Theodore, I will do anything you choose — there!”
“But the trick is done. I am sure to save his head. If you want to get out of the scrape, you see, la Pouraille, you must be ready to do a good turn — we can do nothing single-handed — — ”
“That’s true,” said the felon.
His confidence was so strong, and his faith in the boss so fanatical, that he no longer hesitated. La Pouraille revealed the names of his accomplices, a secret hitherto well kept. This was all Jacques needed to know.
“That is the whole story. Ruffard was the third in the job with me and Godet — — ”
“Arrache-Laine?” cried Jacques Collin, giving Ruffard his nickname among the gang.
“That’s the man. — And the blackguards peached because I knew where they had hidden their whack, and they did not know where mine was.”
“You are making it all easy, my cherub!” said Jacques Collin.
“What?”
“Well,” replied the master, “you see how wise it is to trust me entirely. Your revenge is now part of the hand I am playing. — I do not ask you to tell me where the dibs are, you can tell me at the last moment; but tell me all about Ruffard and Godet.”
“You are, and you always will be, our boss; I have no secrets from you,” replied la Pouraille. “My money is in the cellar at la Gonore’s.”
“And you are not afraid of her telling?”
“Why, get along! She knows nothing about my little game!” replied la Pouraille. “I make her drunk, though she is of the sort that would never blab even with her head under the knife. — But such a lot of gold — — !”
“Yes, that turns the milk of the purest conscience,” replied Jacques Collin.
“So I could do the job with no peepers to spy me. All the chickens were gone to roost. The shiners are three feet underground behind some wine-bottles. And I spread some stones and mortar over them.”
“Good,” said Jacques Collin. “And the others?”
“Ruffard’s pieces are with la Gonore in the poor woman’s bedroom, and he has her tight by that, for she might be nabbed as accessory after the fact, and end her days in Saint-Lazare.”
“The villain! The reelers teach a thief what’s what,” said Jacques.
“Godet left his pieces at his sister’s, a washerwoman; honest girl, she may be caught for five years in La Force without dreaming of it. The pal raised the tiles of the floor, put them back again, and guyed.”
“Now do you know what I want you to do?” said Jacques Collin, with a magnetizing gaze at la Pouraille.
“What?”
“I want you to take Madeleine’s job on your shoulders.”
La Pouraille started queerly; but he at once recovered himself and stood at attention under the boss’ eye.
“So you shy at that? You dare to spoil my game? Come, now! Four murders or three. Does it not come to the same thing?”
“Perhaps.”
“By the God of good-fellowship, there is no blood in your veins! And I was thinking of saving you!”
“How?”
“Idiot, if we promise to give the money back to the family, you will only be lagged for life. I would not give a piece for your nut if we keep the blunt, but at this moment you are worth seven hundred thousand francs, you flat.”
“Good for you, boss!” cried la Pouraille in great glee.
“And then,” said Jacques Collin, “besides casting all the murders on Ruffard — Bibi-Lupin will be finely cold. I have him this time.”
La Pouraille was speechless at this suggestion; his eyes grew round, and he stood like an image.
He had been three months in custody, and was committed for trial, and his chums at La Force, to whom he had never mentioned his accomplices, had given him such small comfort, that he was entirely hopeless after his examination, and this simple expedient had been quite overlooked by these prison-ridden minds. This semblance of a hope almost stupefied his brain.
“Have Ruffard and Godet had their spree yet? Have they forked out any of the yellow boys?” asked Jacques Collin.
“They dare not,” replied la Pouraille. “The wretches are waiting till I am turned off. That is what my moll sent me word by la Biffe when she came to see le Biffon.”
“Very well; we will have their whack of money in twenty-four hours,” said Jacques Collin. “Then the blackguards cannot pay up, as you will; you will come out as white as snow, and they will be red with all that blood! By my kind offices you will seem a good sort of fellow led away by them. I shall have money enough of yours to prove alibis on the other counts, and when you are back on the hulks — for you are bound to go there — you must see about escaping. It is a dog’s life, still it is life!”
La Pouraille’s eyes glittered with suppressed delirium.
“With seven hundred thousand francs you can get a good many drinks,” said Jacques Collin, making his pal quite drunk with hope.
“Ay, ay, boss!”
“I can bamboozle the Minister of Justice. — Ah, ha! Ruffard will shell out to do for a reeler. Bibi-Lupin is fairly gulled!”
“Very good, it is a bargain,” said la Pouraille with savage glee. “You order, and I obey.”
And he hugged Jacques Collin in his arms, while tears of joy stood in his eyes, so hopeful did he feel of saving his head.
“That is not all,” said Jacques Collin; “the public prosecutor does not swallow everything, you know, especially when a new count is entered against you. The next thing is to bring a moll into the case by blowing the gaff.”
“But how, and what for?”
“Do as I bid you; you will see.” And Trompe-la-Mort briefly told the secret of the Nanterre murders, showing him how necessary it was to find a woman who would pretend to be Ginetta. Then he and la Pouraille, now in good spirits, went across to le Biffon.
“I know how sweet you are on la Biffe,” said Jacques Collin to this man.
The expression in le Biffon’s eyes was a horrible poem.
“What will she do while you are on the hulks?”
A tear sparkled in le Biffon’s fierce eyes.
“Well, suppose I were to get her lodgings in the Lorcefe des Largues” (the women’s La Force, i. e. les Madelonnettes or Saint-Lazare) “for a stretch, allowing that time for you to
be sentenced and sent there, to arrive and to escape?”
“Even you cannot work such a miracle. She took no part in the job,” replied la Biffe’s partner.
“Oh, my good Biffon,” said la Pouraille, “our boss is more powerful than God Almighty.”
“What is your password for her?” asked Jacques Collin, with the assurance of a master to whom nothing can be refused.
“Sorgue a Pantin (night in Paris). If you say that she knows you have come from me, and if you want her to do as you bid her, show her a five-franc piece and say Tondif.”
“She will be involved in the sentence on la Pouraille, and let off with a year in quod for snitching,” said Jacques Collin, looking at la Pouraille.
La Pouraille understood his boss’ scheme, and by a single look promised to persuade le Biffon to promote it by inducing la Biffe to take upon herself this complicity in the crime la Pouraille was prepared to confess.
“Farewell, my children. You will presently hear that I have saved my boy from Jack Ketch,” said Trompe-la-Mort. “Yes, Jack Ketch and his hairdresser were waiting in the office to get Madeleine ready. — There,” he added, “they have come to fetch me to go to the public prosecutor.”
And, in fact, a warder came out of the gate and beckoned to this extraordinary man, who, in face of the young Corsican’s danger, had recovered his own against his own society.
It is worthy of note that at the moment when Lucien’s body was taken away from him, Jacques Collin had, with a crowning effort, made up his mind to attempt a last incarnation, not as a human being, but as a thing. He had at last taken the fateful step that Napoleon took on board the boat which conveyed him to the Bellerophon. And a strange concurrence of events aided this genius of evil and corruption in his undertaking.
But though the unlooked-for conclusion of this life of crime may perhaps be deprived of some of the marvelous effect which, in our day, can be given to a narrative only by incredible improbabilities, it is necessary, before we accompany Jacques Collin to the public prosecutor’s room, that we should follow Madame Camusot in her visits during the time we have spent in the Conciergerie.
One of the obligations which the historian of manners must unfailingly observe is that of never marring the truth for the sake of dramatic arrangement, especially when the truth is so kind as to be in itself romantic. Social nature, particularly in Paris, allows of such freaks of chance, such complications of whimsical entanglements, that it constantly outdoes the most inventive imagination. The audacity of facts, by sheer improbability or indecorum, rises to heights of “situation” forbidden to art, unless they are softened, cleansed, and purified by the writer.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 656