by Eugène Sue
“Ah, these men have sometimes a touch of good! The main point is that you are saved. To-morrow you will have your private cell, and to-night you will sleep in the infirmary. So, courage, sir. The bad time is over; and when your pretty little visitor comes to see you, you can comfort her, for once in a cell you have nothing to fear; only you will do wisely, I think, not to tell her of this affair.”
“Certainly not; but I should like to thank my defender.”
“I have just been leaving the governor, who will now interrogate the Skeleton, and I shall take them both, the Skeleton to his dungeon directly, and the Chourineur to the Fosse aux Lions; he will be, besides, somewhat rewarded for what he has done for you; as he is a determined and stout fellow, he will probably replace the Skeleton as captain of the ward.”
The Chourineur, having crossed a small passage from the governor’s apartment, entered the room in which Germain was.
“Wait for me here,” said the turnkey to the Chourineur. “I will go and ask the governor what he decides upon as to the Skeleton, and I will return and let you know. Our young man has quite recovered, and wishes to thank you, and so he should, for otherwise it would have been all over with him.” And the turnkey went out.
The Chourineur’s countenance was very joyous, and he advanced towards Germain, saying, with a cheerful air:
“Thunder! How glad I am! How glad I saved you!” and he extended his hand to Germain, who, by a feeling of involuntary repulsion, withdrew somewhat, instead of taking the hand which the Chourineur offered to him; then, remembering that he owed his life to this man, he was desirous of repairing this display of repugnance. But the Chourineur perceived it; his features became overcast, and, retreating in his turn, he said, with bitter sorrow, “Oh, it is right; your pardon, sir!”
“No, it is I who ought to ask your pardon; am I not a prisoner like yourself? Ought I not to think of the service you have rendered me? You have saved my life. Your hand, sir, I beg — I entreat — your hand!”
“Thanks; but it is useless now. The first feeling is everything. If you had directly given me a grasp of the hand, it would have afforded me pleasure, but, when I reflect, I would not desire it. Not because I am a prisoner like you,” he added, with a sombre and hesitating air, “because, before I came here, I have been—”
“The turnkey told me all,” said Germain, interrupting him; “but yet you saved my life.”
“I have done no more than my duty and pleasure, for I know who you are — Monsieur Germain.”
“You know me!”
“A little, my lad,” said the Chourineur, resuming his usual tone of habitual carelessness; “and, pardieu! you would have been very wrong to have attributed my arrival at La Force to chance. If I had not known you, I should not have been in prison.”
Germain looked at the Chourineur with amazement.
“What! It was because you knew me?”
“That I am here a prisoner in La Force.”
“I, who owe you—”
“A candle to the Virgin, for having procured me the advantage of being in La Force.”
“Really,” said Germain, passing his hand over his brow. “I do not know whether the terrible shock I have just undergone has weakened my senses, but it is impossible for me to understand you. The turnkey told me you were here under a charge of — of—” said Germain, with hesitation.
“Robbery, pardieu! And robbery with forcible entry, and moreover at night; nothing could be more complete!” cried the Chourineur, with a hearty laugh.
Germain, painfully excited at the bold hardihood of the Chourineur, could not forbear saying to him:
“What, you, so brave, so generous, and speak in this way! Are you not aware of the terrible punishment to which you are exposed?”
“Twenty years at the galleys; I know that. I am an out-and-out scoundrel, I know that, for taking it so easy. But what’s the use when one has been and done it? And then, for me to say that it was you, M. Germain,” added the Chourineur, heaving a tremendous sigh, and with an air of assumed contrition, “who are the cause of my misfortune.”
“When you explain yourself more clearly, I shall understand you. Just as much as you please, but my gratitude for the service you have rendered me will never cease or diminish,” added Germain, sorrowfully.
“Oh, pardon me, M. Germain!” replied the Chourineur, becoming serious. “You do not like to see me laugh at this; do not let us add another word. I must let all out with you, and so, perhaps, force you to shake my hand.”
“I have no doubt of that; for, in spite of the crime of which you are accused, and of which you accuse yourself, all in you bespeaks so much courage and frankness that I am convinced you are charged unjustly; strong suspicions may exist, but I am sure that is all.”
“Oh, as to that you are mistaken, M. Germain!” said the Chourineur, hastily; “on my word as a man, and as true as I have a protector,” — the Chourineur took off his cap,— “who is more than all the world to me, I robbed at night by forcing the shutter, and was caught in the fact and deprived of all I was endeavouring to carry off.”
“But want — hunger — pushed you to such an extremity?”
“Hunger! I had one hundred and twenty francs when they apprehended me, the remains of a note of one thousand francs, without including the protector I have mentioned to you, who, by the way, does not know that I am here, but will not let me want for anything. Since, however, I have mentioned him to you, you must suppose I am in earnest, for you must know that he is a man to go on your knees before. So I must tell you, too, that the shower of blows which I drummed on the Skeleton’s sconce was a sketch after his style, copied from nature. The idea of the robbery was on his account; and, in fact, if you were not strangled by the Skeleton, it is through him.”
“But this protector?”
“Is yours also.”
“Mine!”
“Yes, M. Rodolph protects you. When I say monsieur, I should say monseigneur, for he is at least a prince; but I have a habit of calling him M. Rodolph, which he permits me to do.”
“You are under some mistake,” said Germain, more and more surprised; “I do not know the prince.”
“Yes, but he knows you. You don’t believe it? Well, that’s possible, for that’s his way. He knows that there is some worthy fellow in trouble, and then, in an instant, the good fellow is comforted, and, without being seen or known, he is at work, and kindness falls from the skies, like a tile from a house on your head. So patience, and one day or other you will have your tile.”
“Really, what you say amazes me!”
“Ah, you’ll have a great deal more to amaze you yet! To return to my protector: Some time ago, after a service which he persisted I had done him, he procured me a splendid position, I need not say where, or any more about it, for it would be a long tale to tell. Well, he sends me to Marseilles to embark and go to a capital appointment in Algeria. I left Paris as happy as a child; but, all of a sudden, a change comes over me.”
“That was singular!”
“Why, you must know that once separated from M. Rodolph I was uneasy, disturbed, as fidgety as a dog who has lost his master. It was very stupid; but so are dogs, sometimes, but that does not prevent them from being at least attached, and as well mindful of the nice bits given them as of the thumps and kicks they have had, and M. Rodolph had given me many nice bits, and, in truth, M. Rodolph is everything to me. From being a riotous, dare-devil, good-for-nothing blackguard, he made an honest man of me by only saying two words, just for all the world like magic.”
“What were the words he said?”
“He said I had still heart and honour, although I have been at the galleys, not for having stolen, it is true, — ah, never that, — but what perhaps is worse, for having killed, — yes,” said the Chourineur, in a gloomy tone, “killed in a moment of passion, because formerly growing up like a brute beast, or, rather, as a vagabond, without father or mother, and left abandoned in the streets of Pa
ris, I knew neither God nor devil — neither good nor evil. Sometimes the blood mounted to my eyes, and I saw red, and if I had a knife in my hands I slashed and hacked, — I was a real savage — a beast, and only lived amongst thieves and scoundrels. I was in the mud, and in the mud I lived as well as I could. But when M. Rodolph said to me that since, in spite of the contempt of all the world and my misery, instead of plundering like others I had preferred working as long as I could, and for what I could, that showed I had still heart and honour — thunder! — you see these two words had the same effect on me as if I had been seized by the hair of my head and lifted a thousand feet into the air above the vermin with whom I dwelt, and showed me the filth in which my life was spent. So I said, ‘Thank ye, I’ve had enough of this!’ Then my heart beat with something else besides anger, and I took an oath to myself always to preserve that honour which M. Rodolph spoke of. You see, M. Germain, that when M. Rodolph told me so kindly that I was not so bad as I believed myself to be, that encouraged me, and, thanks to him, I became better than I had been.”
When he heard this language, Germain comprehended less and less how the Chourineur had committed the robbery of which he accused himself.
“No,” he said to himself, “it is impossible; the man who was so exalted at the two words honour and heart cannot have committed the robbery of which he talks with so much self-complacency.”
The Chourineur continued, without remarking the astonishment of Germain:
“To say the truth, what made me be like a dog to his master to M. Rodolph was that he raised me in my own opinion. Before I knew him I never felt but on my skin, but he moved me inwardly, and to the bottom of my heart. Once away from him and the place he inhabited, I felt like a body without a soul. In proportion as I proceeded farther I said to myself, ‘He leads such a strange life, — mixes with such scamps (I can answer for that), that he risks his body twenty times a day, and, under some such circumstances, I may be his dog and defend my master, for I am strong in the jaws;’ but then he had said to me,’My good fellow, you must become useful to others, therefore go where you can be serviceable.’ I was very nearly replying, ‘I have no one to serve but you, M. Rodolph,’ but I daredn’t. He said to me, ‘Go,’ and I went, and have gone as far as I could; but, thunder! when I ought to have gone on board the ship, left France, and put the sea between M. Rodolph and myself, I had not the courage. He had desired his correspondent to give me a great lump of money when I sailed, so I went to the gentleman, and said to him, ‘Sir, I can’t do it — I’d rather do anything, so please to give me enough to pay my journey on foot; I have good legs, and I will return to Paris, for I cannot leave France. M. Rodolph will be angry, and, perhaps, refuse to see me, — that’s possible; but I shall see him, know where he is, and if he goes on as usual, sooner or later I may, perhaps, arrive in time to come between him and a stab with a knife; and then I really cannot go so far away from him! Something I cannot account for attracts me to his side.’ Well, they gave me sufficient to pay my way, and I reached Paris. Then I really was frightened. What could I say to M. Rodolph to excuse myself? But, after all, he would not eat me up; so I went to find his friend, a tall, bald-headed man, but a right sort of fellow as ever broke bread. When I saw M. Murphy, I said,’Now my fate will be decided;’ and my throat was dry, and my heart beat such a pace! I expected to catch it pretty handsomely, but, what d’ye think? Why, the worthy gentleman received me just as if we had only parted the previous evening, and told me that M. Rodolph, instead of being angry, wished to see me as soon as possible. Well, so I went at once to my protector, — him with such a stout fist and good heart, — and when I was face to face with him he who is as terrible as a lion and as gentle as a child — he who is a prince, and yet puts on a blouse like me — and once on a time (I bless the day, or night, rather) laid on me such a shower of blows that I saw nothing but fire, why, M. Germain, when I reflected on all the agreeable qualities he is master of, I felt completely overcome, and I snivelled like a woman. Well, instead of laughing at me, for I must be a rum-looking lot when I pipe my eye, M. Rodolph said to me, seriously, ‘Here you are back again, my good fellow, eh?’ ‘Yes, M. Rodolph, and pray excuse me if I have done wrong, but I could not help it. Give me some corner in your courtyard, give me a crust and a glass, or let me earn it here, — that’s all I ask, and pray don’t be angry with me for coming back.’ ‘So far from it, my man, you have come back just in time to do me a service.’ ‘I, M. Rodolph? Is that possible? Well, there must have been something above, for if not, how could I explain how it was I must come back here at the very moment when you wanted me? What can I do for you, M. Rodolph?’ ‘An honest, worthy young man, in whom I take the interest I should do in a son, has been unjustly accused of robbery, and is a prisoner in La Force. His name is Germain; he is of a gentle, quiet disposition. The wretches with whom he is confined have conceived a great aversion for him, and he is in great danger. You unfortunately have known what a prison life is, and a great many prisoners; could not you, in case there may be any of your old companions in La Force (we will find that out), go and see them, and, by promises of money, which shall be duly performed, induce them to protect this unfortunate young man?’”
“But who can this generous and unknown man be, who takes so much interest in my fate?” asked Germain, more and more surprised.
“You will learn, perhaps, hereafter, — as for me, I do not know. To return to my conversation with M. Rodolph. Whilst he was speaking to me there came an idea into my head, so curious, so whimsical, that I could not forbear laughing outright before him. ‘What is it, my lad?’ said he. ‘Why, M. Rodolph, I laugh because I am so happy, and I am happy because I have the means of putting your M. Germain quite safe from any ill-will on the part of the prisoners, of giving him a protector who will defend him boldly, for when once the young fellow is under the care of the man I mean, not one will dare look at him impertinently.’ ‘Very good — one of your old comrades, no doubt?’ ‘Exactly so, M. Rodolph; he has been in La Force some days, that I know. But I must have some money.’ ‘How much shall you require, — a note for a thousand francs? Here it is.’ ‘Thank ye, M. Rodolph; in two days you will have some news.’”
“I begin to understand, or, rather, I’m afraid to understand,” exclaimed Germain. “To come and protect me in this prison you have, perhaps, committed a robbery? Oh, what remorse will beset all my life!”
“Hold hard! M. Rodolph had said I had heart and honour, — these words are my law, you must know; and he may still say it to me, for if I am no better than I was before, at least I am no worse.”
“But this robbery, if you have not committed it, why are you here?”
“Listen! There is a capital joke with my thousand francs, I bought myself a black wig, shaved my whiskers, put on blue spectacles, bent my head on one side, and made up my back as if it were humped, and then went in search of two apartments to let, on the ground floor, in a bustling part of the city. I found what I looked for in the Rue de Provence, and paid a month in advance, under the name of M. Grégoire. Next day I went to the Temple to buy furniture for my two rooms, with my black wig, my hump, and blue glasses, so that I might be easily recognised. Well, I sent the goods to the Rue de Provence, and, moreover, six silver spoons, which I bought in the Boulevard St. Denis, still disguised with my hump. I returned then to arrange all my affairs in my residence. I told the porter I should not sleep there until the following night, and took away my key. The windows of the two rooms were closed with strong shutters. Before I went away I had purposely left one with the bolt undrawn. The night came, and I put off my wig, my spectacles, my hump, and the clothes in which I had made my purchases and hired my apartments, putting this suit in a portmanteau, which I forwarded to M. Murphy, M. Rodolph’s friend, begging him to take care of it for me. I then bought this blouse, and the blue cotton cap, and a bar of iron two feet long; and at one o’clock in the morning I went into the Rue de Provence, where I lurked about before my lodgi
ng, awaiting the moment when the patrol would pass and prevent my robbing myself, — committing a burglary on my own premises, in order to be caught and apprehended.”
And the Chourineur burst into a fit of hearty laughter.
“I begin to understand,” cried Germain.
“But I was nearly getting in a ‘fix,’ for no patrol passed. I might have robbed myself twenty times with the greatest ease and safety. At last, about two o’clock in the morning, I heard the tread of the soldier boys, and then I pushed open the window, jumped into the room, pocketed the silver spoons and some other trifles. Fortunately the lively patrol had heard the smash of the windows, and just as I leaped out of the window they laid hands upon me. They knocked at the door, which the porter opened, they sent for the sergeant of police, who came. The porter told him that the two rooms had been hired that morning by a humpbacked gentleman, with black hair and blue spectacles, whose name was Grégoire. I had the thick head of hair which you now see, and my eyes were as wide open as a hare’s on the watch, was as upright as a Russian sentinel, and could not be taken for a humpbacked gentleman, with blue glasses and black hair. I confessed all, and was conducted to the station, and from the station to this prison, where I arrived in the nick of time to snatch from the clutch of the Skeleton the young man of whom M. Rodolph had said to me, ‘I am interested in him as much as if he were my own son.’”
“What do I not owe you for such devotion?”
“Not to me, — you owe it to M. Rodolph.”
“But whence arises his interest in me?”
“That is for him to tell you, or, perhaps, he will not tell you, for he very often chooses to do good, and if you ask him why, he will not let you know.”
“M. Rodolph, then, knows you are here?”
“I’m not such a fool as to tell him my plans; perhaps he would not have consented to my whim, and, really, I must say it was capital.”