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Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

E >> Eugene Sue >> Mysteries of Paris, V3




"'Never mind, do what you can; I am also going to give you some good news
for Germain; I have just heard it.'"

"What is it, then?" asked Germain.

"'To-morrow there will be a separate cell vacant,' the keeper told me to
inform you."

"Can it be true? Oh, what happiness!" cried Germain. "The good man was
right; it is good news you tell me."

"I think so; for your place is not with rough-scuff like us, Germain." Then
he added hastily, and in a low tone, as he pretended to stoop for
something, "Germain, look at the prisoners, how they stare at us; they are
astonished to see us talking together. I leave you; be on your guard. If
they pick a quarrel, do not answer; they only want a pretext to engage you
in a dispute, and beat you. Barbillon is to begin the dispute--look out for
him; I will try to turn them from this notion." And Pique-Vinaigre lifted
up his head as if he had found what he pretended to look for. Only informed
of the conspiracy of the morning, which was to provoke a quarrel in which
Germain would be roughly handled, in order to force the governor to change
his ward, not only was Pique-Vinaigre ignorant of the murderous project,
but he was also ignorant that they counted on his story of Gringalet to
deceive and distract the attention of the keeper.

"Come along, lazybones!" said Nicholas to Pique-Vinaigre, going to meet
him; "leave your ration of flesh there; we have a merry-making and
feasting. I invite you."

"Whereabouts? To the Panier-Fleuri? to the Petit Ramponneau?"

"No, in the hall; the table is set on a bench. We have some ham, eggs, and
cheese--my treat."

"That suits me; but it is a pity to lose my ration, and still more that my
sister cannot profit by it. Neither she nor her children often see meat,
except at the butcher's door."

"Come, come quick, Skeleton is making a beast of himself; he is capable of
devouring the whole with Barbillon."

Nicholas and Pique-Vinaigre entered the hall; seated astride on the end of
the bench where the feast was spread, Skeleton swore and cursed while
waiting for the giver of the banquet.

"Here you are at last, snail, laggard!" cried the bandit, at the sight of
Pique-Vinaigre; "what have you been doing then?"

"He was chatting with Germain," said Nicholas, carving the ham.

"Oh! talking with Germain?" said Skeleton, looking attentively at
Pique-Vinaigre, without pausing in his mastication.

"Yes!" answered the patterer. "Oh! here is another who never invented
bootjacks and hard eggs (I say eggs, because I adore them). Isn't he a
fool! this Germain! I used to think that he was a spy, but he is too much
of a flat for that!"

"Oh! you think so?" said Skeleton, exchanging a rapid and significant
glance with Nicholas and Barbillon.

"I am as sure of it as that I see ham! And, then, how the devil would you
have him spy?--he is always alone; he speaks to no one, and no one speaks
to him; he runs away from us as if we had the cholera. Besides, he will not
spy for a long time; he is going to be boxed up alone."

"He!" cried Skeleton; "when?"

"To-morrow morning there will be a cell vacant."

"You see we must kill him at once. He does not sleep in my ward; to-morrow
will be too late. To-day we have only until four o'clock, and now it is
almost three," whispered Skeleton to Nicholas, while Pique-Vinaigre talked
with Barbillon.

"All the same," answered Nicholas aloud, pretending to answer an
observation of Skeleton, "Germain looks as if he despises us."

"On the contrary, my children," answered Pique-Vinaigre, "you intimidate
this young man. He looks upon himself, in comparison with you, as the least
of the least. Just now, what do you think he said?"

"How should I know?"

"He said to me, 'You are very happy, Pique-Vinaigre, to dare to speak with
the famous Skeleton (he used the word famous) as an equal and a companion.'
I am dying to speak to him; but he produces an effect upon me so
respectful--so respectful--that, should I see the chief of police in flesh,
and bones, and uniform, I could not be more overcome."

"He told you that?" replied Skeleton, feigning to believe him, and to be
flattered at the admiration he excited in Germain.

"As true as that you are the greatest magsman on the earth, he told me so."

"Then it is different," answered Skeleton; "I must make it up with him.
Barbillon had a mind to pick a quarrel, but he, too, will do well to let
him alone."

"He will do better," cried Pique-Vinaigre, persuaded that he had turned
away the danger with which Germain was threatened. "He will do better, for
this poor fellow won't dispute; he is one of my kind, bold as a hare."

"Yes, it is a pity," said Skeleton; "we reckoned on this quarrel to amuse
us after dinner, the time appears so long."

"Yes. What shall we do then?" asked Nicholas.

"Since it is so, let Pique-Vinaigre tell us a story. I will not seek a
quarrel with Germain," said Barbillon.

"Agreed, agreed!" cried the story-teller. "That is one condition; but there
is another, and without both I tell no stories."

"Come, what is your other condition?"

"It is, that the honorable society which is poisoned with capitalists,"
said Pique-Vinaigre, assuming his mountebank twang, "will make for me the
trifle of a contribution of twenty sous. Twenty sous, ladies and gents, to
hear the famous Pique-Vinaigre, who has had the honor to perform before the
most renowned robbers, before the most famous rogues, of France and
Navarre, and who is immediately expected at Brest and at Toulon, where he
goes by order of the government. Twenty sous! A mere nothing, gents."

"Come, you shall have twenty sous when you have told your story."

"After? No; before!" cried Pique-Vinaigre.

"I say, do you think us capable of cheating you out of twenty sous?" said
Skeleton, with a displeased air.

"Not at all," answered Pique-Vinaigre; "I honor the family with my
confidence, and it is to spare its purse that I ask twenty sous in
advance."

"On your word of honor?"

"Yes, gents; for after my tale is finished, you will be so satisfied that
it is no longer twenty sous, but twenty francs--a hundred francs that you
will force me to take! I know, myself, I should have the _meanness_ to
accept the offering; so, you see, that for economy's sake, you will do
better to give me twenty sous in advance."

"Oh! you are not wanting in soft-sawder."

"I have nothing but my tongue; I must use it; and, then, the point of the
matter is that my sister and her children are in Queer Street, and twenty
sous is an out-and-out _friendly call_."

"Why does she not toddle out on the prigging lay; and her kids also, if
they are old enough?" said Nicholas.

"Do not speak of it; it wounds me, it dishonors me. I am too good."

"You had better say too stupid, since you encourage her."

"It is true, I encourage her in the vice of honesty. But she is only good
for that trade--she makes me pity her. Come, is it agreed? I will relate
to you my famous history of 'Gringalet', but I must have my twenty sous;
and Barbillon will not seek a quarrel with that softy, Germain."

"You shall have your twenty sous, and Barbillon will not pick a quarrel
with Germain," said Skeleton.

"Then open your ears, for you are going to hear something choice. But here
is the rain, which sends in the audience; there will be no need to go after
them."

In fact, the rain began to fall, the prisoners left the court, and came to
take refuge in the hall, accompanied by a keeper. We have already said this
hall was a long paved room, lighted by windows looking out on the court; in
the center was placed the stove, near which were Skeleton, Barbillon,
Nicholas, and Pique-Vinaigre. At a nod from the provost, Big Cripple joined
the group. Germain entered among the last, absorbed in delightful thoughts.
He went mechanically to seat himself on the ledge of the farthest window in
the room, a place he habitually occupied, which no one disputed; for it was
far from the stove, around which the prisoners clustered. We have said that
only a dozen of the prisoners had been informed at first of the intended
murder of Germain. But, once divulged, this project counted as many
adherents as there were prisoners; these wretches, in their blind cruelty,
regarded this frightful plot as a legitimate vengeance, and saw in it a
certain guarantee against future denunciations.

Germain, Pique-Vinaigre, and the keeper were alone ignorant of what was
about to take place. The general attention was divided between the
executioner, the victim, and the patterer, who was about innocently to
deprive Germain of the only succor which he had to depend upon; for it was
almost certain that the keeper, seeing the prisoners attentive to the story
of Pique-Vinaigre, would believe his presence useless, and profit by this
moment of calm to go and take his repast. When all the prisoners had
entered, Skeleton said to the keeper:

"I say, old man, Pique-Vinaigre has a good idea; he is going to tell us his
story of 'Gringalet.' The weather is so bad it is not fit to turn a
constable out of doors; we are going to wait here quietly for the time to
turn in."

"True enough, when he talks, you keep yourselves quiet. At least, there is
no need of being behind your backs."

"Yes," replied Skeleton; "but Pique-Vinaigre charges high for telling a
story; he wants twenty sous."

"Yes, the trifle of twenty sous; and then it is for nothing," cried
Pique-Vinaigre. "Yes, nothing; for one should not keep a red in his pocket,
and thus deprive himself of the pleasure of hearing the adventures of poor
little Gringalet, of the terrible Cut-in-half, and the wicked Gargousse; it
is enough to break one's heart, to make your hair stand on end. Now, gents,
who is it that cannot spare the bagatelle of four coppers, to have his
heart broken and his hair stand on end?"

"I give two sous!" said Skeleton; and he threw his penny toward
Pique-Vinaigre. "Shall the gang be stingy for such an entertainment?" he
added, looking at his accomplices with a significant air. Several sous were
thrown, from one side and the other, to the great joy of Pique-Vinaigre,
who thought of his sister as he made his collection. "Eight, nine, eleven,
twelve, thirteen!" he cried, picking up his money. "Come, rich folks,
capitalists and other bankers, one more little effort; you cannot remain at
thirteen, it is an unlucky number. Only seven sous wanting--a paltry seven
sous. How! shall it be said the Lions' Den cannot raise seven sous more--
seven miserable sous! O! you will lead me to think that you have been
placed here unjustly, or that you have been very unlucky."

The piercing voice and the witticisms of Pique-Vinaigre had roused Germain
from his reverie; as much to follow the advice of Rigolette, to make
himself popular, as to make a slight donation to this poor fellow, who had
shown some desire to be useful to him, he arose and threw a piece of ten
sous at the speaker's feet, who cried, showing to the crowd the generous
donor: "Ten sous, gents! you see I spoke of capitalists; honor to the
banker, who tries to be agreeable to the society. Yes, gents! for it is to
him you will owe the greater part of Gringalet, and you will thank him for
it. As to the three sous surplus caused by his donation, I will deserve
them by imitating the voices of my personages, instead of speaking in my
ordinary manner! This shall be another delight that you will owe to this
rich capitalist whom you must adore."

"Come, don't gammon so much, but begin," said Skeleton.

"A moment," said Pique-Vinaigre; "it is but just that this capitalist, who
has given me ten sous, should have the best place, except our provost, who
must choose first." This proposition answered the purpose of Skeleton so
well that he cried:

"It is true, after me he should be the best seated." And the bandit again
cast a look of intelligence at the prisoners.

"Yes, yes, let him approach," they cried.

"Let him take the front seat."

"You see, young man, your liberality is recompensed; the honorable society
recognizes that you have the right to the first seat," said Pique-Vinaigre
to Germain.

Believing that his liberality had really disposed his odious companions in
his favor, enchanted thus to follow the advice of Rigolette, Germain, in
spite of his repugnance, left his seat, and approached.

Pique-Vinaigre, aided by Nicholas and Barbillon, having arranged around the
stove the four or five benches, said with emphasis,

"Here are orchestra stalls! honor to whom honor is due; in the first place
the capitalist. Now let those who have paid seat themselves on the
benches," added Pique-Vinaigre, gayly, firmly believing that Germain had,
thanks to him, no more danger to apprehend. "And those who have not cashed
up," he added, "will sit on the ground or stand up, as they choose."

Let us glance at the arrangements as now completed.

Pique-Vinaigre, standing near the stove, was getting ready to commence his
story. Near him, Skeleton is also standing, ready to spring on Germain the
moment the keeper should leave the hall. Some distance from Germain,
Nicholas, Barbillon, Cardillac, and some other prisoners, among whom was
seen the man in the blue cotton cap and gray blouse, occupied the back
benches. The larger number of the prisoners grouped here and there, some
seated on the ground, others standing, and leaning against the walls,
composed the background of this picture, lighted, after the manner of
Rembrandt, by the three lateral windows, which cast a vivid light and deep
shade on these figures, so differently characterized and so strongly
marked.

The keeper who, without knowing it, was, by his departure, to give the
signal for the murder of Germain, stood near the half-opened door.

"All ready!" said Pique-Vinaigre to Skeleton.

"Silence in the band" answered the latter, half-turning round; then,
addressing Pique-Vinaigre, "Now fire away! we listen." A profound silence
reigned in the sitting-room.




CHAPTER X.

GRINGALET AND CUT-IN-HALF.


Before we commence the recital of Pique-Vinaigre, we will recall to our
readers that, by a strange contrast, the majority of the prisoners,
notwithstanding their cynical perversity, almost always preferred artless
stories (we will not say puerile), in which the oppressed, by the laws of
an inexorable fatality, is revenged on his tyrant, after trials and
difficulties without number. The thought is far from us, to establish the
slightest parallel between corrupted beings and the honest and poor masses;
but is it not known with what frenzied applause the audience of minor
theaters behold the deliverance of the victim, and with what curses they
pursue the traitorous and the wicked? One ordinarily laughs at these rough
evidences of sympathy for that which is good, weak, and persecuted; of
aversion for that which is powerful, unjust, and cruel. It seems to us that
to laugh at this is wrong. Nothing is more consoling than these feelings
innately of the multitude. Is it not evident that these salutary instincts
may become fixed principles in those unfortunate beings whom ignorance and
poverty expose to the subversive attacks of evil? Why not have every hope
of a people whose good moral sense is so invariably manifested? of a people
who, in spite of the fascinations of art, will never permit a dramatic work
to arrive at its denouement by the triumph of the wicked and the punishment
of the just? This fact, scorned and laughed at though it be, appears to us
of considerable importance on account of the tendencies which it proves,
and which are even often found (we repeat it) among beings the most
corrupt, when they are, so to speak, in repose, and sheltered from criminal
temptations or necessities. In a word, since men hardened in crime still
sometimes sympathize with the recital and expression of elevated
sentiments, ought we not to believe that all men have more or less in them
of the good, the well doing, the just, but that poverty and ignorance, in
falsifying, in stifling these Divine instincts, are the first causes of
human depravity?

Is it not evident that generally ones does not become wicked except through
misfortune, and that to snatch man from the terrible temptations of warn by
the equitable melioration of his material condition, is to make him capable
of the virtues of which he is conscious? The impression caused by the story
of Pique-Vinaigre will demonstrate, or rather display, we hope, some of the
ideas we have just set forth. Pique-Yinaigre then commenced his story in
these terms, in the midst of the profound silence of his audience. "It is
not very long since the events occurred which I am going to relate to this
honorable society. Little Poland was not then destroyed. Does the honorable
society know what was called Little Poland?"

"I remember," said the prisoner in the blue cap and gray blouse, "it was
some small houses near the Rue du Rocher, and the Rue de la Pepiniere."

"Exactly, pal," replied Vinaigre; "the city streets, which, however, are
not full of palaces, would be lovely alongside of Little Poland, but,
otherwise, a famous resort for our lot; there were no streets, but lanes;
no houses, but hovels; no pavement, but a carpet of mud, so that the noise
of carriages would not have incommoded you if any passed; but none passed.
From morning to night, and, above all, from night till morning, what one
did not cease to hear, were cries, of '_watch_!' '_help_!' '_murder_!' but
the watch did not disturb himself. The more with their brains dashed out in
Little Poland--so many the less to be arrested!

"The swarming population, therein, you should have seen; very few jewelers,
goldsmiths, or bankers lodged there! but to make amends, there were heaps
of organ-players, rope-dancers, Punch-and-Judy-men, or keepers of curious
beasts. Among the latter was one named Cut-'em-in-half, so cruel was he;
above all, cruel toward children. They called him so, because, with a
hatchet, he had cut in two a little Savoyard!"

At this part of the story the prison clock struck a quarter past three. The
prisoners entering their sleeping apartments at four o'clock, the crime was
to be consummated before that hour.

"Thousand thunders! the keeper does not go," whispered the Skeleton to the
Big Cripple.

"Be quiet; once the story started, he will leave." Pique-Vinaigre continued
his recital.

"No one knew whence Cut-in-half came; some said he was an Italian, others a
gipsy, others a Turk, others an African; the old women called him a
magician, although a magician in these days may appear fishy; as for me, I
should be quite tempted to say the same as the old women. What makes this
likely is, that he always had with him a great red ape called Gargousse,
which was so cunning, and wicked, that one would have said he had Old Nick
in him. By and by I shall speak again of Gargousse. As to Cut-'em-in-half,
I am going to show him up; he had skin the color of a bootlining, hair as
red as the hide of his ape, green eyes, and what makes me think with the
old women that he was a magician, is, that he had a black tongue."

"Black tongue?" said Barbillon.

"Black as ink!" answered Pique-Vinaigre.

"And how is that?"

"Because, before he was born, his mother had probably spoken of a negro,"
answered Pique-Vinaigre, with modest assurance. "To this ornament,
Cut-in-half joined the trade of having I do not know how many tortoises,
apes, guinea-pigs, white mice, foxes and marmots, with an equal number of
little Savoyards.

"Every morning, the padrone distributed to each one his beast and a piece
of black bread, and started them off, to beg for a sou or dance a Catalina.
Those who, at night, brought back less than fifteen sous were beaten, oh!
how they were beaten! so that they were heard to cry from one end of Little
Poland to the other.

"I must tell you also that there was in Little Poland a man who was called
the Alderman, because he was the longest resident of this quarter, and also
the mayor, justice of the peace, or rather, of war, for it was in his court
(he was a wine dealer) that they went to comb one another's heads when
there was no other way to settle their disputes. Although quite old, the
Alderman was strong as a Hercules, and very much feared; they swore only by
him in Little Poland; when he said, 'It is good,' every one said, 'It is
very good;' when he said, 'It is bad,' every one said, 'It is awful bad,'
he was a good man at the bottom, but terrible; when, for example, strong
people caused misery to the weaker, then, stand from under! As the Alderman
was the neighbor of Cut-in-half, he had in the commencement heard the
children cry, on account of the blows which the owner of the beasts gave
them; so he said to him, 'If I hear the kids squeal again, I'll make you
cry in your turn, and, as you have a stronger voice, I'll strike harder.'"

"Comic of the Alderman! I quite tumble to the old boy," said the prisoner
in a blue cap.

"And so do I," added the keeper, approaching the group. Skeleton could not
restrain a movement of angry impatience.

Pique-Vinaigre continued:

"Thanks to the Alderman threatening Cut-in-half, the children were no more
heard to cry at night; but the poor little unfortunates did not suffer the
less, for if they did not cry when their master beat them, it was because
they feared to be beaten still more. As for going and complaining to the
Alderman, they never had such an idea. For the fifteen sous which each of
the little boys was obliged to bring him, Cut-in-half fed them, lodged
them, and clothed them. At night, a piece of black bread, the same for
breakfast--that was the way he fed them; he never gave them any
clothes--that was the way he clothed them; and he shut them up at night
pell-mell with their beasts, on the same straw, in a garret, to which they
clambered by a ladder and through a trap-door--and that was the way he
lodged them. Once the beasts and children were all housed, he took away the
ladder and locked the trap-door with a key. You may imagine the noise and
uproar which these apes, guinea-pigs, foxes, mice, tortoises, marmosets,
and children made, without any light, in this garret, which was as large as
a thimble. Cut-in-half slept in a room underneath, having his large ape
Gargousse tied to the foot of the bed. When the noise was too loud in the
garret, the owner of the beasts arose, took a large whip, mounted the
ladder without a light, opened the trap, and lashed away at random. As he
always had about a dozen boys, and some of the innocents brought sometimes
as much as twenty sous a day, Cut-in-half, his expenses paid, and they were
not heavy, had for himself about four or five francs each day; with that he
frolicked, for note well that he was the greatest drinker on the earth, and
was regularly dead drunk once every day. It was his rule, he said; except
for that he would have a headache all day long; it must be said, also, that
from his gains he bought sheep's hearts for Gargousse, the big ape eating
raw meat like a very cannibal. But I see that the honorable assembly asks
for Gringalet (Walking Rushlight); here he is, gents!"

"Ay! let us see Gringalet, and then I'll go and eat my soup," said the
keeper. Skeleton exchanged a look of ferocious satisfaction with the
Cripple.

"Among the children to whom Cut-in-half distributed his beasts," resumed
Pique-Vinaigre, "there was a poor little devil nicknamed Gringalet. Without
father or mother, without sister or brother, without a home, he found
himself alone--all alone in the world, where he never asked to come, and
whence he could have gone, without anybody caring at all about it. He was
not called Gringalet in mere sport; he was dwarfish and puny, and reedy; no
one would have given him over seven or eight years, yet he was thirteen;
but if he did not look more than half his age, it was not his fault, for he
had not on the average eaten more than every other day, and then so little,
and so bad, that he really did very well to appear to be seven."

"Poor babby, I think I see him," said the prisoner in the blue cap; "there
are so many like him on the streets of Paris, little starved-to-deaths."

"They ought to begin to learn that trade young," replied Pique-Vinaigre,
bitterly; "so that they can become used to it."

"Come, go on then, make haste," said Skeleton, gruffly; "the keeper is
impatient, his soup is growing cold."

"Oh, bah! never mind," answered the keeper; "I wish to make a little more
acquaintance with Gringalet. It is amusing."

"Really, it is very interesting," added Germain, attentive to the story.

"Oh, thank you for what you say, my capitalist; that gives me more pleasure
than your ten sous."

"Thunder! you sluggard!" cried the Skeleton. "Will you have done keeping us
waiting?"

"Here goes!" answered Pique-Vinaigre.

"One day Cut-in-half had picked up Gringalet in the street, dying with cold
and hunger; he would have done just as well to let him alone to die. As
Gringalet was feeble, he was afraid; and as he was cowardly, he became the
laughing-stock and scapegoat of his companions, who beat him, and caused
him so much misery, that he would have been very wicked if strength and
courage had not failed him. But no; when they beat him, he cried, saying,
'I have done no harm to any one, yet every one harms me--it is unjust. Oh!
if I were strong and bold!' You think, perhaps, that Gringalet was going to
add, 'I would return to others the evil they did me.' Well, no! not at all:
he said, 'Oh! if I were strong and bold, I would defend the weak against
the strong; for I am weak, and the strong make me suffer.' In the mean
time, as he was too much of a pigmy to prevent the strong from molesting
the weak, he prevented the larger beasts from injuring the smaller ones.

Alex Ross: Winner of the Guardian first book award
Stuart Evers: They made a real difference to Britain's literary culture, and it would be a terrible shame if they got forgotten in the age of Amazon

Congratulations to Alex Ross, winner of the Guardian first book award
One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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