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Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

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




Now a few words on the preceding scene. Unfortunately, it must be
confessed, the indignation of the brother of Jeanne Duport was legitimate.
Yes: in saying the law was _too dear_ for the poor, he said the truth.
To plead before the civil tribunals is to incur enormous expenses, quite
out of the reach of artisans, who barely exist on their scanty wages.

Let a mother or father of a family belonging to this ever-sacrificed class
wish to obtain an obliteration of the conjugal tie; let them have all right
to obtain it: will they obtain it? No; for there is no workman in a
condition to spend four or five hundred francs for the onerous formalities
of such a judgment.

Yet the poor have no other life than a domestic one; the good or bad
conduct of the head of an artisan's family is not only a question of
morality; but of _bread_. The fate of a woman of the people, such as
we have endeavored to paint, does it deserve less interest, less
protection, than that of a rich woman, who suffers from the bad conduct or
infidelities of her husband, think you?

Nothing is more worthy of pity, doubtless, than the griefs of the heart.
But when to these griefs is added, for an unfortunate mother, the misery of
her children, is it not monstrous that the poverty of this woman places her
without the law, and leaves her and her family without defense against the
odious treatment of a drunken and worthless husband?

Yet this monstrosity exists. [Footnote: Translator's Note.--How singular
that, as this new edition of the _sensational romancist's_ work is
issued, the Imperial Parliament should have a bill to redress this very
oversight before it.]

And a liberated criminal can, in this circumstance as in others, deny, with
right and reason, the impartiality of the institutions in the name of which
he is condemned. Is it necessary to say what there is in this dangerous to
society, to justify such attacks?

What will be the influence, the moral authority, of those laws whose
application is absolutely subordinate to a question of money? Ought not
civil justice, like criminal justice, to be accessible to all?

When people are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of a law
eminently preservative and tutelary, ought not society to assure the
application, through respect for the honor and repose of families?

But let us leave this woman, who will remain all her life the victim of a
brutal and perverted husband, because she is too poor to obtain a
matrimonial separation by law. Let us speak of Jeanne Duport's brother.
This man left a den of corruption to enter the world again; he has paid the
penalty of his crime by expiation. What precautions has society taken to
prevent his falling back into crime? None.

Has any one, with charitable foresight, rendered possible his return to
well-doing, in order to be able to punish, as one should punish, in a
becoming manner, if he shows himself incorrigible? No.

The contagious influence of your jails is so well known, and so justly
dreaded, that he who comes out from them is everywhere an object of
scorn, aversion, and alarm. Were he twenty times an honest man, he would
scarcely find occupation anywhere. And what is more: the penalty of a
ticket-of-leave banishes him to small localities, where his past life
must be well known; and here he will have no means of exercising the
exceptionable employment often imposed on the prisoners by the contractors
of the maisons centrales. If the liberated convict has the courage to
resist temptation, he abandons himself to some of those murderous
occupations of which we have spoken, to the preparation of certain
chemical productions, by which one in ten perishes; or, if he has the
strength, he goes to get out stone in the forest of Fontainebleau, an
employment which he survives, average time, six years! The condition of
a liberated convict is, then, much worse, more painful, more difficult,
than it was before his first criminal action: he lives surrounded by
shackles and dangers; he is obliged to brave repulses and disdain--often
the deepest misery. And if he succumbs to all these frightful temptations
to criminality, and commits a second crime, you show yourself ten times
more severe toward him than for his first fault. That is unjust; for it
is almost always the necessity you impose on him which conducts him to a
second crime. Yes; for it is shown that, instead of correcting him, your
penitentiary system depraves. Instead of ameliorating, it makes worse;
instead of curing slight moral affections, it renders them incurable.
Your aggravation of punishment, applied without pity to the backslider,
is, then, iniquitous, barbarous, since this backsliding is, thus to
express it, a forced consequence of your penal institutions. The terrible
punishment which awaits this _double guilt_ would be just and excusable if
your prisons improved the morals, purified the prisoners, and if, at the
expiration of the sentence, good conduct was, if not easy, at least
generally possible. If any one is surprised at these contradictions of the
law, what would he be when he compares certain penalties to certain
crimes--either on account of their inevitable consequences, or on account
of the disproportion which exists in their punishment? The conversation of
the prisoner whom the bailiff came to see will offer to us one of these
afflicting contrasts.




CHAPTER V.

BOULARD.


The prisoner who entered at the moment that Pique-Vinaigre left it was a
man of about thirty years of age, with red hair, and a jovial, fat, and
rubicund face; his middling stature rendered still more remarkable by his
enormous corpulency. This prisoner, so rosy and stout, was wrapped up in a
long, warm coat of gray swan's-down, with gaiter trousers of the same
material. A kind of hooded cap of red velvet completed the costume of this
personage, who wore excellent furred slippers. Although the fashion of
wearing trinkets was over, the golden watch-chain sustained a goodly number
of fine gold seals and rings. Finally, several rings, enriched with
precious stones, sparkled on the fat red fingers of this prisoner, known as
Boulard the Bailiff, accused of breach of trust.

[Illustration: THE REQUEST FOR A FRIENDLY SERVICE]

His visitor was Pierre Bourdin, one of the officers charged with the arrest
of Morel the jeweler. Bourdin was rather shorter, but quite as fat, and
attired after his patron, whose magnificence he admired. Having, like him,
a partiality for jewels, he wore on this day a huge topaz pin, and a long
gold chain, suspended from his neck, was entwined among the buttonholes of
his waist-coat.

"Good-day! faithful Bourdin; I was quite sure you would not be missing at
the roll-call," said Boulard, joyously, in a faint, cracked voice, which
singularly contrasted with his fat body and blooming face.

"Missing at the roll-call!" answered the bailiff; "I am incapable of such
an act, general!" It was thus that Bourdin, with a pleasantry at once
familiar and respectful, called the bailiff, under whose orders he acted;
this military form of speech being often used among certain classes of
civil practitioners.

"I see with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to the unfortunate,"
said Boulard, with cordial gayety; "yet I began to be uneasy. Three days
since I wrote to you, and no Bourdin till now."

"Imagine, general, quite a history. You recollect well the handsome
viscount in the Rue de Chaillot?"

"Saint Remy?"

"Exactly! you know how he laughed at our writs?"

"It was quite indecent."

"To be sure it was. Malicorne and I were quite stupefied at it, if that
were possible."

"It is impossible, brave Bourdin."

"Happily, general, but here is the fact; this handsome viscount has got new
titles."

"Has he become a count?"

"No! from a cheat he has become a robber."

"Ah! ah!"

"They are at his heels for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by way of
parenthesis, they belong to that jeweler who employed this sneak of a
Morel, the lapidary whom we went to nab in the Rue du Temple, when a tall
slim jockey, with black mustaches, paid for the starved rat, and came near
pitching headforemost down the stairs Malicorne and me."

"Oh! yes, yes; I recollect. You told me that, my poor Bourdin; it was very
funny. The best of the farce was that the portress of the house emptied on
your backs a saucepan of boiling soup."

"Saucepan included, general, which burst like a bomb at our feet. The old
sorceress!"

"That will be taken into your charge. But this handsome viscount?"

"I tell you, then, that Saint Remy was prosecuted for a robbery, after
having made his ninny of a father believe that he had blown his brains out.
An agent of the police, one of my friends, knowing that I had for a long
time tracked this lord, asked me if I could not put him on the scent. I
learned too late, at the time of our last writ, which he had escaped, that
he was burrowed in a farm at Arnouville, at five leagues from Paris. But
when we arrived there it was too late; the bird had flown!

"Besides, he had the following day paid this bill of exchange, thanks to a
certain great lady, they say. Yes, general; but no matter, I knew the rest.
He had once been concealed there; he might well enough be concealed there a
second time. That is what I said to my friend in the police. He proposed
for me to lend a hand, as an amateur, and conduct him to the farm. I had
nothing to do--it was a nice party to the country--I accepted."

"Well! the viscount?"

"Not to be found. After having at first wandered around the farm, and
having afterward introduced ourselves there, we returned as wise as we
went; and this is the reason I have not been able to render myself sooner
to your orders, general."

"I was very sure there was an impossibility on your part, my good fellow."

"But, if it is not improper, tell me, how the devil did you get here?"

"Vulgar people, my dear--a herd of riff-raff, who, for the miserable sum of
sixty thousand francs, of which they pretend I have despoiled them, have
carried a complaint against me for an abuse of confidence, and forced me to
give up my commission."

"Really! general? Ah, well! this is a misfortune! How--shall we work no
more for you?"

"I am on half-pay, my good Bourdin; here I am on an allowance."

"But who is, then, so savage?"

"Just imagine that one of the most severe against me is a liberated robber,
who gave me to collect a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which
it was necessary to prosecute. I did prosecute; I was paid, and I pocketed
the money; and because, in consequence of speculations which did not
succeed, I have spent this money, as well as that of many others, all the
rubbishing lot have made such a brawling, that a writ was issued to arrest
me, and thus you see me here, my good fellow; neither more nor less than a
malefactor."

"Take care that don't hurt you, general."

"Yes; but what is most curious is, this convict has written to me, some
days since, that this money, being his sole resource for rainy days, and
that these days had now arrived (I do not know what lie means by that), I
was responsible for the crimes he might commit to escape starvation."

"It is charming, on my word!"

"Is it not? Nothing more convenient. The droll fellow is capable of giving
that as an excuse. Happily, the law knows no such accomplices."

"After all, you are only accused of an abuse of confidence, is it not, my
general?"

"Certainly! Do you take me for a thief, Master Bourdin?"

"Oh! general. I meant to say there was nothing serious in all this; after
all, there is not enough to whip a cat."

"Have I a despairing look, my good fellow?"

"Not at all; I never saw you look more cheerful. Indeed, if you are
condemned, you will only have two or three months' imprisonment, and
twenty-five francs fine. I know my code."

"And these two or three months I shall be allowed, I am sure, to pass at my
ease in a lunatic asylum. I have one deputy under my thumb."

"Oh! then your affair is sure."

"Hold, Bourdin, I can hardly keep from laughing; these fools who have sent
me here will gain much by it! They shall never see a sou of the money they
claim. They force me to sell my commission--all the same. I am aware of the
duty I owe my predecessor. You see it is these muffs who will be the geese
of the farce, as Robert Macaire says."

"That produces the same effect on me, general; so much the worse for them."

"My good fellow, let us come to the subject which made me beg you to come
here; it is touching a delicate mission concerning a female," said Boulard,
with a mysterious air.

"Ah! rogue of a general, I recognize you there! What is it? Count on me."

"I interest myself particularly in a young actress of the
Folies-Dramatiques; I pay her board, and, in exchange, she pays me in
return--at least, I think so; for, my good fellow, you know, the absent are
often in the wrong. Now, I am the more tenacious to know if I am wrong, as
Alexandrine--she is called Alexandrine--has sent for some money. I have
never been stingy with the fair sex; but I do not wish to be made a fool
of. Thus, before playing the generous with this dear friend, I wish to know
if she deserves it by her fidelity. I know there is nothing more absurd
than fidelity; but it is a weakness I have. You will render me, then, a
friendly service, my dear comrade, if you can for a few days have a
supervision over my love, and let me know how to act either by talking with
the landlady of Alexandrine, or--"

"Sufficient, general," interrupting. "This is nothing worse than watching,
spying, and following a creditor. Have confidence in me; I shall find out
if Lady Alexandrine sticks a penknife in the contract, which appears to me
quite improbable; for, without flattery, general, you are too handsome a
man, and too generous not to be valued."

"I ought to be a handsome man; yet I am absent, my dear comrade, and it is
a great wrong; in fine, I count on you to know the truth."

"You shall know it, I will answer for it."

"Ah! my dear comrade, how can I express my gratitude?"

"Come, come, now, general."

"It is understood, my good Bourdin, that in this affair your fees shall be
the same as for an arrest."

"General, I will not allow it; so long as I acted under your orders, have
you not always allowed me to grind the debtors to the quick, treble the
fees of arrest, costs, which you have afterward prosecuted to payment with
as much activity as if they had been due to yourself?"

"But, my dear comrade, that is different; in my turn I will not allow--"

"General, you will humiliate me, if you do not allow me to offer you this
as a feeble proof of my gratitude."

"Very well; I shall struggle no longer with your generosity. Besides, your
devotion will be a sweet recompense for the freedom that I have always
maintained in our business affairs."

"That is what I expect, my general; but can I not serve you in any other
way? you must be horribly situated here, you, who like to be so much at
your ease! You are in a cell by yourself, I hope?"

"Certainly, and I arrived just in time, for I have the last vacant room. I
have arranged myself as well as I can in my cell; I am not very badly off;
I have a stove; I sent for a good arm-chair; I make three long repasts; I
digest, I walk and sleep. Saving the inquietude which Alexandrine causes
me, you see I am not much to be pitied."

"But you are so much of a _gourmand_, general! the resources of the prison
are so meager!"

"But the provision merchant who lives in this street has been created, as
it were, for my service. I have an open account with him, and every day he
sends me a nice little basket; and while on this subject, and you are ready
to do me a favor, beg good Mrs. Michonneau, who, by the way, is not so
bad--"

"Ah! rogue--rogue of a general!"

"Come, my dear comrade, no evil thoughts," said the bailiff, "I am only a
good customer and neighbor. Pray dear Mrs. Michonneau to put into my basket
to-morrow some pickled funny fish; it is now in season; it will be good for
my digestion, and make me thirsty."

"Excellent idea!"

"And then, let her send a hamper of Burgundy, Champagne, and Bordeaux, just
like the last--she knows what that means! and let her add two bottles of
her old 1817 Cognac, and a pound of pure Mocha, fresh ground and burned."

"I will just note down the date of the brandy, so as not to forget it,"
said Bourdin, taking his notebook from his pocket.

"Since you are writing, my dear comrade, have the goodness to note down to
ask at my house for my eiderdown coverlet."

"All this shall be executed to the letter, general. Be easy; I feel now a
little more assured as to your good living. But do you take your walks
pell-mell among the low prisoners?"

"Yes, and it is very gay, very animated; I come out of my room after
breakfast. I go sometimes into one court, sometimes into another; and, as
you say, I mix with the dregs. I assure you that, at the bottom, they
appear to be very good fellows; some of them are very amusing. The most
abandoned assemble in what they call the Lions' Den. Ah! my dear comrade,
what hangdog faces! There is one among them named Skeleton! I have never
seen his fellow."

"What a singular name!"

"He is so thin, or, rather, so fleshless, that it is no nickname; I tell
you, he is frightful; and with all this, he is provost-marshal of his ward;
he is by far the greatest villain of them all. He comes from the galleys,
and he has again robbed and murdered; but his last murder is so horrible,
that he knows very well he will be condemned to death to a certainty, but
he laughs at it like fun."

"What a ruffian!"

"All the prisoners admire, and tremble before him. I put myself at once in
his good graces, by giving him some cigars; he has taken me into his
friendship, and teaches me slang. I make progress."

"Oh! oh! what a good lark! my general learning flash!"

"I tell you I amuse myself like anything. These jockeys adore me; some of
them are even familiar as relations. I am not proud, like a little
gentleman, Germain, a barefoot, who has not the means to be separate, and
yet pretends to play the disdainful with them."

"But he must have been delighted to find a man so much at home as you are,
to talk with, if he is so highly disgusted with the others?"

"Bah! he did not seem to remark who I was; but had he remarked it, I should
have been very guarded to respond to his advances. He is the butt of the
prison. They will play him, sooner or later, a bad turn, and I have not, of
course, any desire to partake of the aversion of which he is the object."

"You are very right."

"That would spoil my recreation; for my promenade with the prisoners is a
real promenade. Only these robbers have not a great opinion of me,
mentally. You comprehend--my accusation of a simple abuse of confidence--it
is a sad thing for such fellows. Thus they look upon me as no great shakes,
as Arnal says."

"In fact, alongside of these matadores of crime, you are--"

"A lamb, my dear comrade. Since you are so obliging, do not forget my
commissions."

"Do not be uneasy, my general."

"1st Alexandrine; 2d the fish, and the hamper of wine; 3d the old 1817
Cognac, the ground coffee, and the eiderdown coverlet."

"You shall have all. Anything more?"

"Yes, I forgot. Do you know where M. Badinot lives?"

"The broker? yes."

"Will you tell him that I reckon on his obliging disposition to find me a
lawyer who is prepared for my cause--that I shall not regard a cool
thousand?"

"I will see M. Badinot, be assured, general; this evening all your
commissions shall be executed, and to-morrow you will receive what you have
demanded. Adieu, and a good heart, general."

"Ta, ta!"

And the prisoner left on one side, and the visitor on the other.

Now compare the crime of Pique-Vinaigre, a robber, to the offense of
Boulard, the bailliff. Compare the point of departure from virtue of the
two, and the reasons, necessities, which have pushed them on to crime.
Compare, finally, the punishment that awaits them. Coming out of prison,
inspiring everywhere fear and indifference, the liberated convict could not
follow, in the residence appointed him, the trade he knew; he hoped to be
able to work at an occupation dangerous to his life, but suitable for his
strength; this resource failed him.

Then he breaks his terms of release, returns to Paris, contriving to
conceal his former life and find some work. He arrives, exhausted with
fatigue, dying with hunger; by chance he discovers that a sum of money is
deposited in a neighboring house; he yields to temptation, he forces a
window, opens a desk, steals one hundred francs, and flies. He is arrested,
is a prisoner. He will be tried, condemned. For a second crime, fifteen or
twenty years of hard labor and the pillory is what awaits him. He knows it.
This formidable punishment he deserves. Property is sacred. He who, at
night, breaks open your doors to take your goods ought to undergo a severe
penalty. In vain shall the culpable plead the want of work, poverty, his
position so difficult and intolerable, the wants which this position, this
condition of a liberated convict, imposes on him. So much the worse; there
is but one law. Society, for its peace and safety, will and ought to be
armed with boundless power, and without pity repress these audacious
attacks upon others.

Yes, this wretch, ignorant and stupid, this corrupted and despised convict,
has merited his fate. But what shall he then deserve who, intelligent,
rich, educated, surrounded by the esteem of all, clothed with an official
character, will steal--not to eat, but to satisfy some fanciful caprice, or
to try the chance of stock-jobbing? Will steal, not a hundred francs, but a
hundred thousand francs--a million? Will steal, not at night, at the peril
of his life, but tranquilly, quite at his ease, in the sight of all? Will
steal, not from an unknown who has placed his money under the safeguard of
a lock, but from a client, who has placed from necessity his money under
the safeguard of the public officer, whom the law points out--imposes on
his confidence? What terrible punishment will be deserve, then, who,
instead of stealing a small sum almost from necessity, will steal wholesale
a considerable amount? Would it not be a crying injustice not to apply to
him a similar punishment to that bestowed on the poor villain pushed to
extremities by misery, to theft by want? Get along! says the law. How!
apply to a man well brought up the same punishment as to a vagabond? For
shame! To compare an offense of good society with a vulgar burglary? Fie!

Thus, for the public defaulting officer: two months imprisonment. For the
liberated prisoner: twenty years hard labor, and the pillory. What can be
added to these facts? They speak for themselves.

What sad and serious reflections they give birth to. Faithful to his
promise, the old warder had called for Germain. When Boulard re-entered
the prison, the door opened, Germain entered, and Rigolette was no longer
separated from her poor lover but by a slight wire railing.




CHAPTER VI.

FRANCOIS GERMAIN.


Germain's features were wanting in regularity, but a more interesting face
could scarcely be seen; his bearing was exalted; his figure graceful; his
dress plain, but neat (gray trousers and a black frock-coat closely
buttoned), showed none of that slovenly carelessness so peculiar to
prisoners; his white hands bore witness of a care for his person which had
still more increased the aversion of the other prisoners; for moral
perversity is almost always joined to personal filthiness. His brown hair,
naturally curled, which he wore long and parted on the side, according to
the fashion of the times, hung around his pale and dejected face; his eyes,
of a beautiful blue, announced frankness and kindness; his smiles, at once
sad and sweet, expressed benevolence and habitual melancholy; for, although
very young, this unfortunate youth had experienced many trials.

In a word, nothing could be more touching than his appearance, suffering,
affecting, resigned; as also nothing more honest, more loyal, than the
heart of this young man. The cause even of his arrest (despoiling it of the
calumnious aggravations due to the hatred of Jacques Ferrand) proved the
kind-heartedness of Germain, and accused him only of a moment's
thoughtlessness or imprudence; culpable, doubtless, but pardonable, when
one reflects that he was able to replace in the desk of the notary the sum
taken to save Morel the lapidary. Germain blushed slightly when, through
the grating, he perceived the fresh and charming face of Rigolette. She,
according to her custom, wished to appear gay, to encourage and cheer his
spirits; but she ill-concealed the sorrow and emotion that she had always
felt since he had been imprisoned. Seated on a bench on the other side of
the railing, she held on her lap her basket.

The old warder, instead of remaining in the passage, went and seated
himself near a stove at the extremity of the room. In a few moments he fell
asleep. Germain and Rigolette could talk at their ease.

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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