Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “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 Fortuné. 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, Fortuné, 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, Fortuné,” 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, Fortuné!” 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 reënter 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.

  CHAPTER VII.

  MAÎTRE BOULARD.

  THE PRISONER WHO entered the reception-room at the moment when Pique-Vinaigre left it was a man about thirty, with reddish brown hair, a jovial countenance, florid and full; and his short stature made his excessive fatness still more conspicuous. This prisoner, so rosy and plump, was attired in a long and warm dressing-gown of gray kersey, with pantaloons of the same down to his feet. A kind of cap of red velvet, called Perinet-Leclerc, completed this personage’s costume, when we add that his feet were thrust into comfortable furred slippers. His gold chain supported a number of handsome seals with valuable stones, and several rings with real stones shone on the red fingers of the détenu, who was called Maître Boulard, a huissier (a law-officer), and accused of breach of trust.

  The person who had come to see him was, as we have said, Pierre Bourdin, one of the gardes de commerce (bailiffs) employed to arrest poor Morel, the lapidary. This bailiff was usually employed by Maître Boulard, the huissier of M. Petit-Jean, the man of straw of Jacques Ferrand.

  Bourdin, shorter and quite as stout as the huissier, formed himself on the model of his employer, whose magnificence he greatly admired. Very fond as he was of jewelry, he wore on this occasion a superb topaz pin, and a long gilt chain was visible through the buttonholes of his waistcoat.

  “Good day, my faithful friend, Bourdin, I was sure you would not fail to come at my summons!” said Maître Boulard, in a joyful tone, and in a small, shrill voice, which contrasted singularly with his large carcass and full-moon face.

  “Fail at your summons!” replied the bailiff; “I am incapable of such behaviour, mon général.”

  This was the appellation by which Bourdin, with a joke at once familiar and respectful, called the huissier, under whose orders he acted; this military appellation being very frequently used amongst certain classes of clerks and civil practitioners.

  “I observe with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to misfortune!” said Maître Boulard, with gay cordiality. “However, I was getting a little uneasy, as three days had elapsed, and no Bourdin.”

  “Only imagine, mon général! — it is really quite a history. You remember that dashing vicomte in the Rue de Chaillot?”

  “Saint-Remy?”

  “Yes; you know how he laughed at all our attempts to ‘nab’ him?”

  “Yes; he behaved very ill in that way.”

  “Well, this vicomte has got another title.”

  “What, is he a comte?”

  “No, but from swindler he has become thief!”

  “Ah, bah!”

  “They are after him for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by the way, they belonged to the jeweller who used to employ that vermin of a Morel, the lapidary we were going to arrest in the Rue du Temple, when a tall, thin chap, with black moustaches, paid for this half-starved devil, and very nearly pitched me and Malicorne headlong down-stairs.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, I remember; you told me all about it, Bourdin, — it was really very droll! But as to this dashing vicomte?”

  “Why, as I tell you, Saint-Remy was charged with robbery, after having made his worthy old father believe that he wished to blow out his brains. A police agent of my acquaintance, knowing that I had been long on the traces of the vicomte, asked me if I could not give him information so that he could ‘grab’ the dandy. I had learned (too late for myself) that he had ‘run to earth’ in a farm at Arnouville, five leagues from Paris; but when we got there the bird had flown!”

  “But next day he paid that acceptance, — thanks, as I have heard say, to some rich woman!”

  “Yes, general; but still I knew the nest, and he might have gone there again, and so I told my friend in the police. He proposed to me to give him a friendly cast of my office and show him the farm, and as I had nothing to do and it was a rural trip, I agreed.”

  “Well, and the vicomte?”

  “Not to be found. After having lurked about the farm for some time, we gained admittance, and returned as wise as we went; and this is why I could not come to your orders sooner, general.”

  “I was sure it was something of this sort, my good fellow.”

  “But, if I may be allowed to ask, how the devil did you get here?”
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  “Wretches, my dear fellow, a set of wretches who, for a miserable sixty thousand francs of which they declare I have wronged them, have charged me with a breach of trust and compelled me to resign my office.”

  “Really, general! Well, that’s unfortunate! And shall I then work for you no longer?”

  “I am on half pay now, Bourdin, — on the retired list.”

  “But who are these vindictive persons?”

  “Why, only imagine, one of the most savage of all is a liberated convict, who employed me to recover the amount of a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which it was requisite to bring an action. Well, I brought the action, and got the money and used it; and because, in consequence of some unsuccessful speculations, I swamped that money and several other sums, all these blackguards have assailed me with warrants; and so you find me here, my dear fellow, neither more nor less than a malefactor.”

  “And does it not alarm you, general?”

  “Yes; but the oddest thing of all is that this convict wrote me word some days ago that this money being his sole resource for bad times, and these bad times having arrived (I don’t know what he means by that), I was responsible for the crimes he might commit in order to escape from starvation.”

  “Amusing, ‘pon my soul!”

  “Very; and the fellow is capable of saying this, but fortunately the law does not recognise any such accompliceships.”