by Eugène Sue
“On your word and honour?”
“Yes, gentlemen; for, after my story, you will be so satisfied, that it is not twenty sous but twenty francs — a hundred francs — you will force me to take! I know that I should be shabby enough to accept them; and thus, you see, it is from consideration, and you will do wisely to give me twenty sous in advance.”
“You don’t want for the gift of the gab!”
“I have nothing but my tongue, and I must make use of that. And then, — if it must be told, — my sister and her children are in terrible distress, and, in a small house, even twenty sous is a consideration.”
“Then why doesn’t your sister prig, and her kids, too, if they’re old enough?” asked Nicholas.
“Don’t ask me; it distresses — dishonours me! I am too kind—”
“What do you mean, you fool? Why, you encourage her!”
“True; I encourage her in the vice of being honest, and that is the only line in which she shines. But come, it is agreed that I shall tell you my famous story of ‘Gringalet and Cut-in-Half.’ But you must hand out twenty sous, and Barbillon shall not pick a quarrel with this simpleton of a Germain!”
“Well, you shall have twenty sous, and Barbillon shall not pick a quarrel with that simpleton of a Germain,” said the Skeleton.
“Then open your ears, and you will hear what you will hear! But it is raining, which will make the customers tumble in, and there will be no occasion to go out and seek them.”
And the rain began to fall, and the prisoners, quitting the yard, took refuge in the day-room, the turnkey being still in attendance.
We have said that this room was large and long, with a pavement, and lighted by three windows, which looked out into the yard. In the centre was the stove, near which were the Skeleton, Barbillon, Nicholas, and Pique-Vinaigre. At a signal from the prévôt, the Gros-Boiteux joined this group. Germain was one of the last to enter, absorbed in most delightful thoughts, and he went mechanically to seat himself on the ledge at the lowest window in the apartment, a place he usually occupied, and which no one disputed with him, for it was at a distance from the stove around which the prisoners were assembled.
We have already said that some fifteen of the prisoners had been informed in the first instance of the treachery attributed to Germain, and the murder which was to avenge it. But, soon whispered to one another, the plan comprised as many adherents as there were prisoners; these ruffians, in their blind cruelty, considering this fearful plot as legitimate revenge, and viewing therein a certain guarantee against the future disclosure of spies. Germain, Pique-Vinaigre, and the turnkey were alone ignorant of what was about to take place. General attention was divided between the executioner, the victim, and the story-teller, who was about innocently to deprive Germain of the only succour he could hope for; for it is nearly sure that the turnkey, when he saw the prisoners attentive to the story of Pique-Vinaigre, would think his surveillance useless, and take advantage of that moment of tranquillity to go and take his meal. And when the prisoners had entered, the Skeleton said to the turnkey:
“Old fellow, Pique-Vinaigre has a capital idea; he is going to tell us his story of ‘Gringalet and Cut-in-Half.’ It is weather in which one would not put a policeman out-of-doors, and we shall quietly wait in till it is time to go to roost.”
“Why, you are always pretty quiet when he begins his talk, and have no need for me to be at your heels.”
“Yes,” said the Skeleton; “but Pique-Vinaigre asks a high price, — he wants twenty sous for his story.”
“Yes, the trifle of twenty sous, — a mere nothing!” cried Pique-Vinaigre. “Yes, gents, nothing; for who that had a liard would not bestow it to hear the adventures of poor little Gringalet, Cut-in-Half, and the wicked Gargousse? It will rend your hearts, and make your hair stand on end! And, gents, who is there that would not dispose of the paltry sum of four liards — or, if you prefer counting my mites, of five centimes — to have their hearts rent and their hair standing on end?”
“There are two sous,” said the Skeleton, throwing down the piece of money before Pique-Vinaigre. “Come, is the stone-jug too niggardly to enjoy this pastime?” he added, looking at his accomplices with a significant air.
Several sous fell around him, to the great joy of Pique-Vinaigre, who thought of his sister as he collected the money.
“Eight — nine — ten — eleven — twelve — thirteen!” he said, as he picked up the money. “Now, my rich friends, my capitalists, and others of the cash interest, try once more. You cannot stop at thirteen, for it is an unlucky number! Only seven sous deficient, the trifle of seven sous! What, gents, shall it be said that the Fosse aux Lions could not produce seven sous — seven miserable sous? Oh, gents, gents, you would make me believe that you have been brought here very unjustly or that you have all had a sad run of ill luck.”
The shrill voice and broad jests of Pique-Vinaigre had brought Germain from his reverie, and, as much to follow Rigolette’s advice and make himself popular with the prisoners as to give a trifle to the poor devil who had testified some desire to be of service to him, he rose and threw a piece of ten sous at the tale-teller’s feet, who exclaimed, as he pointed at his generous benefactor:
“Ten sous, gents! You see, I was speaking of capitalists! Honour to that gentleman! He behaves like one of the monied interest, as an ambassador to be agreeable to the company! Yes, gents; for it is to him that you will owe the greater portion of ‘Gringalet and Cut-in-Half,’ and you will thank him for it. As to the three sous over, why, I shall earn them by imitating the voices of the personages, instead of speaking like you and me. That will be another obligation you will owe to this wealthy capitalist, whom you ought to adore.”
“Come, no more blarney, but begin!” said the Skeleton.
“One moment, gents!” said Pique-Vinaigre. “It is but right that the capitalist who has given me ten sous should be the best situated, except our prévôt, who has first choice.”
This proposal squared so well with the Skeleton’s project that he exclaimed:
“True; after me he ought to be best placed!” And again he looked significantly at the prisoners.
“Yes, yes; let him come nearer,” said the prisoners.
“Let him sit on the front bench.”
“You see, young man, your liberality is recompensed; the honourable company sees that you have a right to the front seat,” said Pique-Vinaigre to Germain.
Believing that his liberality had really better disposed his hateful companions in his favour, and delighted thus to follow up Rigolette’s earnest desires, Germain, in spite of considerable repugnance, left the place of his choice, and went towards the story-teller, who, having arranged four or five benches around the stove, by the aid of Nicholas and Barbillon, said, with emphasis:
“Here are the dress-boxes. All respect to the worthy — the capitalist first.”
“Now, then, let those who have paid take their seats,” added Pique-Vinaigre, gaily, firmly believing that, thanks to himself, Germain had nothing now to fear. “And those who have not paid,” he added, “will sit down or stand up, which they please.”
Let us sum up the arrangement of his scene. Pique-Vinaigre was standing up near the stove ready to commence; near him was the Skeleton, also standing up, and with his eyes intently fixed on Germain, ready to rush upon him the moment the turnkey left the cell. At some distance from Germain, Nicholas, Barbillon, Cardillac, and other prisoners, amongst whom was the man with the blue cotton nightcap and gray blouse, occupying the remoter benches. The majority of prisoners, grouped here and there, some sitting on the ground, others standing and leaning against the wall, composed the secondary figures of this picture, lighted, à la Rembrandt, by three lateral windows, which threw strong light and deep shadows on forms so variously characterised and so strongly marked. The turnkey, whose departure was to be, unknown to himself, the signal for Germain’s murder, kept close to the door, which was ajar.
“
Are we all ready?” asked Pique-Vinaigre of the Skeleton.
“Silence in the stone-jug!” said the latter, turning half around; and then addressing Pique-Vinaigre, “Now, begin; we are all attention!”
CHAPTER XI.
GRINGALET AND CUT-IN-HALF.
PIQUE-VINAIGRE BEGAN HIS recital thus, in the midst of the profound silence of his auditory:
“It is no inconsiderable time ago that the story occurred which I am about to relate to this honourable company. What was called La Petite Pologne was not then destroyed. The honourable society knows (or does not know) what was called La Petite Pologne?”
“Well enough!” said the prisoner in the blue cap; “they were some small houses near the Rue du Rocher and the Rue de la Pépinière?”
“Exactly so, my dear sir,” replied Pique-Vinaigre; “and the Quartier of the Cité, which, at the same time, does not consist of palaces, would be in comparison to La Petite Pologne the Rue de la Paix or the Rue de Rivoli. What a rookery! but, at the same time, very convenient for gents in our line. There were no streets but narrow alleys, no houses but ruins, no pavement but a small carpet of mud and dungheaps, which would have destroyed all the noise of wheels, — that is, supposing any carriages passed by that way; but none did! From morn till night, and, particularly, from night till morn, there were only heard cries of ‘Watch! Watch! Help! Murder!’ but the watch took no notice. The more persons were knocked on the head in La Petite Pologne, the fewer persons there were to apprehend. You should have seen the respectable inhabitants who lived there! There were very few jewellers, goldsmiths, and bankers; but then, on the other hand, there were quantities of organ-grinders, puppet-showmen, punches, and showers of remarkable animals. Amongst the latter was one well known as Cut-in-Half, — he was so cruel, and especially to children. He acquired this name because it was reported that he had cut a small Savoyard in two with a blow of his hatchet.”
At this moment the prison clock struck a quarter past three o’clock. The prisoners being made to return to their cells at four o’clock, the Skeleton’s murderous design must be carried into execution before that hour.
“Mille tonnerres! The turnkey won’t go!” he said, in a low tone, to Gros-Boiteux.
“Be easy! He’ll go when once the story is begun.”
Pique-Vinaigre continued: “No one knew where Cut-in-Half came from. Some said he was an Italian, others a Bohemian, others a Turk, others an African; the gossips called him a magician, although a magician in our times would be something to look at. What made them believe this was, that he always had with him a large red monkey called Gargousse, and who was so cunning and savage that he seemed as if possessed by the devil. I shall mention this beauty again presently; as to Cut-in-Half, I shall soon describe him. His complexion was like the old tops of a pair of jockey-boots, his hair as red as the hair of his monkey, his eyes green, and (what made the women think he was a conjuror) he had a black tongue.”
“A black tongue!” exclaimed Barbillon.
“Black as ink!” replied Pique-Vinaigre.
“And how did that happen?”
“Because, no doubt, when his mother was in the family way she had, perhaps, talked of a negro,” said Pique-Vinaigre, with modest assurance. “To these attractions Cut-in-Half joined the profession of having a multitude of tortoises, monkeys, guinea-pigs, white mice, foxes, and marmosettes, corresponding to an equivalent total of Savoyards and forsaken children. Every morning he distributed his animal to each, and a morsel of black bread, and then despatched them to beg for ‘Only one ha’penny!’ or dance the Catarina. Those who only brought in at night fifteen sous were beaten, soundly beaten, so that their shrieks might be heard from one end of La Petite Pologne to the other. I should also say that there was in La Petite Pologne a man called Le Doyen (the Dean), because he was the ‘oldest inhabitant,’ and, as it were, mayor, provost, magistrate, for it was in his room (he kept a Tom and Jerry shop) that all went when they could not otherwise decide their quarrels. Although rather aged, yet Le Doyen was as strong as Hercules, and very generally feared. They swore by him in La Petite Pologne; and when he said ‘Very good!’ all the world said ‘Very good!’ When he said ‘That’s bad!’ all the world said ‘That’s bad!’ He was a good fellow at bottom, but very fierce, particularly when the strong misused the weak, — then look out for squalls! As he was Cut-in-Half’s nearest neighbour, he had heard the children cry very frequently from the blows which the shower of beasts gave them. He had said to him, ‘If I hear the children cry, I will make you cry in your turn; and, as you have the stronger voice, I will give you the severer beating.’”
“Well done, Le Doyen! I like Le Doyen!” said the prisoner in the blue nightcap.
“So do I!” added the turnkey, as he approached the group.
The Skeleton could not repress a movement of angry impatience.
Pique-Vinaigre proceeded:
“Thanks to Le Doyen, who had threatened Cut-in-Half, the cries of the children were heard no more in the night-time in La Petite Pologne; but the poor, unhappy little fellows did not suffer the less, for if they cried no longer when their master beat them, it was because they were afraid of being more cruelly beaten. As to complaining to Le Doyen, they had no idea of that. For the fifteen sous which each little fellow was obliged to bring in, Cut-in-Half lodged, boarded, and clothed them. In the evening a bit of black bread, as at breakfast, — this was their food. He never gave them clothes, — that was the way he clothed them; and he shut them up at night with their animals, on the same straw in a garret, to which they mounted by a ladder and a trap, — this was the lodging. When once all had ascended, and the tale of children and animals was complete, he took away the ladder and locked the trap.
“You may judge of the life and row which these monkeys, guinea-pigs, foxes, mice, tortoises, marmosettes, and children made all in the dark in this cock-loft, which was as big as a barn. Cut-in-Half slept in a room underneath, with his great ape, Gargousse, fastened to the foot of his bed. When the brute growled, because there was too much noise in the loft, the beast-shower went up the ladder without any light, and, going into the loft, laid about him right and left with a heavy whip, without seeing or counting his blows. As there were always some fifteen children, and some of the poor dears brought him in twenty sous a day, Cut-in-Half having defrayed all his outlay, which was by no means excessive, had left for himself some four or five francs a day, with which he enjoyed himself, for it must be told that he was one of the greatest tipplers that ever lived, and was regularly blind drunk once a day. That was his rule; and he declared that, but for that, he should have the headache every day. We should add, that out of his gains he used to buy some sheeps’ hearts for Gargousse, who ate raw flesh like a cannibal. But I see the honourable society are anxious to be introduced to Gringalet! Here he is, gents!”
“Let’s have Gringalet, and I’ll go and eat my soup,” said the turnkey.
The Skeleton exchanged a look of savage satisfaction with the Gros-Boiteux.
“Amongst the children to whom Cut-in-Half distributed his animals,” continued Pique-Vinaigre, “was a poor little devil named Gringalet. Without father or mother, brother or sister, without fire, food, or shelter, he was alone in the world, — quite alone in a world which he had not asked to enter, and which he might leave without attracting any one’s attention. He was not called Gringalet for any pleasure he had in the name, for he was meagre, lean, and pallid; he did not look above seven or eight years old, but was really thirteen. If he did not seem more than half his name, it was not because of his own will, but because he only fed perhaps every other day, and then so scantily, so poorly, that it was really an exertion to make him pass for seven years old.”
“Poor little brat! I think I see him!” said the prisoner in the blue cotton nightcap; “there are so many children like him on the streets of Paris dying of hunger!”
“They must begin to learn that way of living very young in order to get accustomed to i
t,” said Pique-Vinaigre, with a bitter smile.
“Come, get on!” said the Skeleton, suddenly; “the turnkey is getting impatient — his soup is getting cold.”
“Oh, never mind that!” said the surveillant. “I wish to know something more of Gringalet; it is very amusing!”
“Yes, it is really very interesting!” added Germain, who was very attentive to the story.
“Ah, thank ye for saying that, my capitalist,” said Pique-Vinaigre; “that gives me more satisfaction than your ten-sous’ piece.”
“Tonnerre!” exclaimed the Skeleton, “will you have done with your delays?”
“Well, then,” replied Pique-Vinaigre, “one day Cut-in-Half had picked up Gringalet in the streets, dying with cold and hunger; perhaps it would have been best if he had let him die. As Gringalet was weak, he was a coward; as he was a coward, he became the jest and sport of the other lads, who beat him and used him so ill that he would have become wicked if he had not been deficient in strength and courage. But no; when he had been heartily thumped, he cried, and said, ‘I have not done any harm to anybody, and everybody is unkind to me, — that’s very cruel; oh, if I were strong and bold!’ You will, perhaps, imagine that Gringalet was about to add, ‘I would return to others the ill they do to me?’ By no means. He said,’ Oh, if I were strong and bold, I would defend the weak against the strong, for I am weak, and the strong have made me suffer!’ In the meanwhile, as he was too small a boy to prevent the strong from ill-using the weak, beginning with himself, he prevented the larger brutes from eating the smaller ones.”
“What a strange idea!” said the prisoner in the blue cap.
“And, what is stranger still,” said the tale-teller, “it was this idea that consoled Gringalet for being beaten; which proves that his heart was not bad at bottom.”