Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “You are very good, and so are your cigars. But you were saying you had several reasons for walking out to-day?”

  “Well, and so I have. First and foremost, I don’t feel as hungry as usual; so, thinks I, I’ll go and look on while those chaps eat their dinner. Who knows but the sight of their jaws all working away together may screw me up a bit, and give me a relish against feeding-time?”

  “A famous idea!” said Nicholas. “But if you really do want to see a couple of feeders, just draw this way. There!” added he, pointing to the bench on which Frank was sitting; “what do you think of a pair of grubbers like those? I should say we were better behind than before them, or they might even swallow us instead of those huge lumps of bread and cheese and onions so rapidly stowed away in their capacious jaws.”

  “Let’s have a look at them!” said Maître Boulard.

  “Well, to be sure!” cried Nicholas, with feigned surprise; “I declare one of them is Gros-Boiteux!”

  Gros-Boiteux and Frank both turned around at these words. Stupefied and speechless, the bailiff continued to gaze in utter amazement at the man he had so wronged, while, starting up with a sudden spring, Frank threw down the morsel he had been eating, and darting on Maître Boulard, he seized him by the throat, exclaiming, “My money — my money; give me my money!”

  “Hallo! Who are you? What do you mean? Hands off, or you’ll strangle me! I—”

  “My money, I say!”

  “My good man, only calm yourself and listen to reason!”

  “No, not till you give me back my money. What, aren’t you satisfied with having brought me here? Can you not restore me what you stole from me?”

  “But I — I — I — never—”

  “I tell you again, if I get sent to the galleys ’tis all along of you; for had you not taken my little all from me, I should not have been driven to the necessity of robbing others; I might have lived and died an honest man. You may be acquitted, you may escape the punishment you deserve, but, at least, you shall carry my marks away with you. Ha, ha! You can come it grand, and swagger about here dressed up with your gold chains and trinkets, bought, no doubt, with the money of other poor devils who have been cheated by you as I have been. Take that for your pains — and that — that — and that! Now, have you had enough? No! Then here’s for you again!”

  “Help, help!” screamed the bailiff, as he rolled on the ground at Frank’s feet, while his infuriated antagonist continued to belabour him with all his force.

  The rest of the prisoners took little or no interest in this affray, but contented themselves with forming a circle around the two combatants, or rather the assailant and the assailed; for Maître Boulard, frightened and out of breath, made not the slightest resistance, but contented himself with warding off his adversary’s blows as well as he could. Fortunately, the repeated cries of the poor maltreated bailiff reached the ears of one of the superintending officers, by whose intervention he was rescued from the rough hands of Frank. Pale, terrified, and almost speechless with terror, Maître Boulard arose. One eye was wholly closed by the severe beating he had received, and without giving himself time to pick up his cap, he wildly cried, as he rushed towards the officer:

  “Open the door! Let me out — let me out! I can’t and I won’t stay here another minute. Help, here! Help, help!”

  “As for you,” exclaimed the officer, grasping Frank by the collar, “do you come along with me before the governor. I know you’ll catch it, too, for fighting; two days in the black-hole is the very least you’ll get, I promise you.”

  “I’ve paid him off, at any rate,” returned Frank; “and I don’t care for the rest.”

  “I say,” whispered Gros-Boiteux, while affecting to be merely helping to arrange his dress, “I say, you won’t breathe a word of what’s going to happen to the sneak, of course?”

  “Oh, don’t be afraid; ’tis just likely, had I been by, I might have stood up in his defence, because to kill a man in that manner is — hard — at least — and for such a trifle! But as for telling of it, or betraying you all — oh, no!”

  “Now, then,” called out the officer, “I say, are you coming or are you not?”

  “That’s all right!” said Nicholas. “We’ve got well rid of Frank and the bailiff, now let’s go to work without further loss of time upon the sneak!”

  As Frank was being led from the prison yard, Germain and Pique-Vinaigre entered it. It was scarcely possible to recognise Germain, for his hitherto melancholy and dejected countenance was radiant with joy and exulting happiness. He walked proudly erect, casting around him a look of certain and assured content; he knew himself to be beloved, and with that consciousness all the horrors of his prison seemed to disappear. Pique-Vinaigre followed him with a timid, confused air, and, after much hesitation, at length plucked up sufficient courage to venture to address Germain, whose arm he gently touched, ere the intended victim had reached the group of prisoners, who, from a distance, were examining him with looks of deadly hatred. Spite of himself, Germain shuddered at thus being brought into contact with a person of Pique-Vinaigre’s appearance, whose wretched person and ragged attire were ill-calculated to impress any one with a favourable opinion of him; but recollecting the earnest advice of Rigolette, and feeling altogether too happy himself to act with any want of benevolence, Germain stopped, and said to Pique-Vinaigre, in a gentle tone of voice:

  “What do you want with me, my friend?”

  “I want to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For the kindness shown to my sister by the pretty young woman who visited you to-day.”

  “I really do not understand you,” said Germain, much surprised.

  “Well, then, I’ll try and make you. Just now, when I was in the lodge of the prison, I saw the man who was on duty in the visitors’ room a little while ago.”

  “Ah, yes, a very good-hearted sort of man, too. I recollect him well.”

  “It is not often you can apply that term to the gaolers of a prison, but the man I mean (Rousel is his name) is really deserving of being styled a kind, good-hearted man. So, all of a sudden, he whispers in my ear, ‘I say, Pique-Vinaigre, my lad,’ he says, ‘do you know M. Germain?’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I do,’ says I; ‘he’s the bête noire of the prison yard.’” Then suddenly interrupting himself, Pique-Vinaigre said to Germain, “I beg your pardon for calling you a bête noire. Don’t, think anything of that, but listen to the end of my story.”

  “Oh, I’m listening; go on.”

  “‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I know who you mean very well,’ says I. ‘You mean M. Germain, the bête noire of the prison yard.’ ‘And of you, too, I suppose?’ said the officer, in a severe and serious manner. ‘Oh, bless you,’ says I, ‘I am too good-natured, as well as too much of a coward, to venture to call any one disagreeable; and less M. Germain than any one else,’ says I, ‘for I don’t see any harm in him, and other folks appear to me very cruel and unjust towards him.’ ‘That’s all right, then,’ answers the officer; ‘and I can tell you that you are bound to side with M. Germain, for he has been very kind to you,’ he says. ‘To me?’ says I; ‘how do you mean?’ ‘Well,’ he answers, ‘I don’t mean M. Germain exactly, and it ain’t to you altogether he’s been kind; but still, for all that,’ says Rousel, ‘you are bound to show him your gratitude.’”

  “Try,” said Germain, smilingly, “and make me understand what it is you do mean.”

  “That’s precisely what I said to the officer. ‘Speak more clearly,’ I says. So then he makes answer, ‘Why, it was not M. Germain, but the very pretty young person that was here just now to see him, who loaded your sister with all sorts of kindnesses. She overheard the poor thing telling you all her troubles; and directly as the creature went out, the charming young woman as come visiting to M. Germain went and offered to serve her in every way she could.’”

  “Dear, good Rigolette!” murmured Germain, deeply affected by this little incident; “she said not
one word to me of all this.”

  “‘Well, to be sure!’ I says to the officer; ‘what a poor stupid goose I am!’ ‘You are quite right — you are!’ M. Germain — leastways, his friend — has been good to me, — that is to say to my sister Jeanne, which is the same thing, only much more than if the favour had been done to myself.”

  “Poor, dear Rigolette!” said Germain; “ever the same tender, compassionate, generous-hearted creature!”

  “So then the officer goes on to say how he heard all that passed between your nice young woman and my poor sister Jeanne. ‘And now,’ he says, ‘Pique-Vinaigre, that you are aware of the fact, if you don’t try to show kindness by every means in your power to M. Germain, and more especially, if you should know of any plot got up against him and not warn him of it, why,’ he says, ‘Pique-Vinaigre, you would be a regular scamp and a blackguard.’ ‘I tell you what,’ I makes answer and says, ‘I’m an unfinished scamp as yet, but I’m no blackguard, and, what’s more, I never will be worse than I am, for the sake of my poor dear Jeanne and her children; and so because M. Germain’s friend has taken notice of my Jeanne, who is one of the best and worthiest creatures that ever lived, — I may venture to boast of my sister, though I am ashamed of myself, but for that reason I will do all in my power to save or serve M. Germain; unfortunately, I can do but little, after all!’ ‘Never mind! Do your best; that is all I ask of you. But I will give you the pleasure of being the pleasing bearer of news to M. Germain, which, indeed, I have only just learned myself.’”

  “What is it?” inquired Germain.

  “That to-morrow morning there will be a vacant chamber you can have for paying for, then you will be all to yourself. The officer desired me to tell you so.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Germain; “how truly glad I am to hear it! That worthy man was right in saying you would be the bearer of pleasant news.”

  “Well, I do think so myself; for it is quite easy to perceive that you do not feel comfortable among such poor wretches as we are.” Then suddenly breaking off, Pique-Vinaigre hastily added, in a low whisper, while feigning to stoop, as though searching for something he had dropped, “Hark ye, M. Germain, the prisoners are all looking at us, wondering what we are talking about. I must go. But be on your guard; and if any one tries to quarrel with you, don’t make any answer; they want a pretext for all attacking you at once. Barbillon is the one chosen to provoke you, so take especial care of him. I will try and turn the attention of the others from being directed towards you in a spiteful manner.” And, with these words, Pique-Vinaigre rose up from his stooping position, with the air of one who had found the object of his search.

  “Thanks, my good fellow!” said Germain, eagerly, as he separated from his companion; “rely on my prudence!”

  Only that morning aware of the plot against Germain, which, as far as he knew, consisted merely in an intention of involving him in some affray which should compel the governor of the prison to remove him to some other yard in the building, Pique-Vinaigre was not only ignorant of the murderous designs so recently projected by the Skeleton, but equally so that the conspirators intended to avail themselves of his recital of “Gringalet and Cut-in-Half” to deceive the vigilance of the officer on duty, as well as to beguile his attention from what was going on.

  “Come on, old Make-believe!” said Nicholas to Pique-Vinaigre, as he advanced to meet him. “Throw away that lump of dog’s-meat you have got in your hand; we have got a regular feast among us, and you are invited to it!”

  “A feast? La, how nice! What, out of the Panier Fleuri, or the Petit Ramponneau? — tell us which it is! But they are both such nice places, there isn’t a pin to choose.”

  “Oh, you fool! Our feast is prepared in the day-room; all laid out so temptingly on a bench. There you’ll see ham and eggs, and cheese, and — It’s my treat, mind!”

  “Well, I’m one of the right sort to walk into it. But it seems a pity to throw away this good ration I have just received! I only wish my poor sister and her children could have the benefit of it. Ah, poor things! It’s not often they see meat, unless, indeed, when they find a few scraps thrown out before the butcher’s door.”

  “Oh, bother about your sister and her brats! Let’s go in, or Barbillon and the Skeleton will leave nothing but empty trenchers for us!”

  Nicholas and Pique-Vinaigre entered together into the day-room, where they found the Skeleton sitting astride on the bench on which the savoury viands were displayed, swearing and grumbling at the absence of the founder of the feast.

  “Oh, there you are, you creeping animal!” exclaimed the ruffian, as he caught sight of the story-teller. “What the deuce hindered you from bringing your blessed carcass here a little sooner?”

  “He was spinning a yarn with Germain when I found him,” answered Nicholas, helping himself to a large slice of the ham.

  “Ho, ho!” cried the Skeleton, gazing earnestly on Pique-Vinaigre, without, however, diminishing the ardour with which he devoured the provisions; “so you were gossiping with Germain, were you?”

  “Yes, I was,” returned Pique-Vinaigre. “But what a fool that Germain is! I used to think that he was a sort of spy in the yard; but, Lord love you, he is too much of a simpleton for that!”

  “Oh, you think so, do you?” said the Skeleton, exchanging a rapid and significant glance with Nicholas and Barbillon.

  “I’m as sure of it as I am that I see a capital ham before me. Besides, how the devil can he be a spy when he is always by himself? He speaks to no one, and nobody ever changes a word with him; and you all know that he runs from us as if we carried the plague in our pockets. Now, how a man can tell many tales who acts as he does, is more than I can conceive. However, spy or not, he will not be able to do us much more harm, as to-morrow he will obtain a room for himself.”

  “The deuce he will!” replied the Skeleton. Then taking advantage of a conversation which had commenced between Barbillon and Pique-Vinaigre, he leaned towards Nicholas, and said, whisperingly, “You see, we have not an instant to lose. After four o’clock to-day all chance of serving him out is over; it is now nearly three. You see, unfortunately, he does not sleep in my dormitory, or I would settle him in the night; and to-morrow he will be out of our reach.”

  “Well, I don’t care!” answered Nicholas, as though replying to some observation of his companions; “I say — and I’ll stick to it — Germain always seems to look down upon us as though we were not as good as he.”

  “No, no!” interposed Pique-Vinaigre; “you are quite wrong as regards this young man — you are, indeed. You frighten him — you do; and I know that he considers himself not fit to hold a candle to you. Why, if you only knew what he was saying to me just now—”

  “Let’s hear what it was!”

  “‘Why,’ says he, ‘you are a lucky fellow, Pique-Vinaigre, you are,’ he says, ‘to take the liberty of speaking to the celebrated Skeleton (that was the very word he used), just for all the world as if you were his equal! But whenever I meet him,’ he says, ‘I feel myself overcome with so much awe and respect that, though I would give my eyes out of my head to know him and converse with him, I no more dare do it than I should make bold to accost the préfet de police if he were in his chair of office, and me beholding him body and bones.’”

  “He said that, did he?” returned the Skeleton, feigning to believe the well-meant fiction of Pique-Vinaigre, as well as to feel gratified by the deep admiration he was reported to have excited in the breast of Germain.

  “As true as that you are the cleverest ruffian upon earth, he said those very words; and, more than that, he—”

  “Oh, then, if that is the case,” said the Skeleton, “I shall make it up with him. Barbillon wanted to pick a quarrel with him, but I shall advise him to be quiet.”

  “That’s right!” exclaimed Pique-Vinaigre, fully persuaded that he had effectually diverted from Germain the danger that threatened him; “that would be much the best way! For this poor
chicken-hearted fellow would never quarrel, — simply because, like me, he has not pluck enough to fight; therefore it is no use getting into a dispute.”

  “Still,” cried the Skeleton, “I am sorry, too, that we shall not have our fun; we had quite reckoned upon getting up a fight with Germain to amuse us after dinner. I don’t know now what we shall do to kill the time.”

  “Ah, to be sure!” chimed in Nicholas. “What the deuce shall we do with ourselves? Can anybody tell me?”

  “Well, then, I’ll settle it!” said Barbillon. “Since you seem to recommend my leaving Germain alone, I’ll agree to do so, on condition that Pique-Vinaigre tells us one of his best stories.”

  “Done!” exclaimed the story-teller. “But I must make one condition as well as you, and, without both are agreed to, I don’t open my lips.”

  “Well, then, say what your other condition is. I dare say it is not more difficult than the former, and we soon agreed about that.”

  “It is that this honourable company, which is overstocked with riches,” said the Pique-Vinaigre, resuming his old tone when addressing his audiences preparatory to commencing his juggling tricks, “will have the trifling kindness to club together and present me with the small sum of twenty sous, — a mere trifle, gents, when you are about to listen to the celebrated Pique-Vinaigre, who has had the honour of appearing before the most celebrated prigs of the day — he who is now expected at Brest or Toulon, by the special command of his majesty’s government.”

  “Well, then, we’ll stand the twenty sous after you have finished your story.”

  “After? — no — before!” said Pique-Vinaigre.

  “What! Do you suppose us capable of doing you out of twenty sous?” asked the Skeleton, with an air of disdain.

  “By no means!” replied Pique-Vinaigre. “I honour the stone jug with my confidence, and it is in order to economise its purse that I ask for twenty sous in advance.”