The Adventures of François Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing-Master during the French Revolution

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: "THE NETS WERE HUNG OVER FRANCOIS'S SHOULDERS." (See page 18.)]

The Adventures of Francois

Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing-Master during the French Revolution

By

S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.

LL.D. Harvard and Edinburgh

New York The Century Co. 1898

Copyright, 1897, 1898, by THE CENTURY Co.

The De Vinne Press.

To Philip Schuyler

In Recognition Of A Constant Friendship

*Contents*

*I*

Of how Francois the foundling was cared for by the good fathers of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans, and of what manner of lad he was

*II*

In which Francois becomes a choir-boy, and serves two masters, to the impairment of his moral sense

*III*

Of the misfortunes caused by loss of a voice, and of how a cat and a damsel got Francois into trouble--whereupon, preferring the world to a monastery, he ran away from the choristers of Notre Dame

*IV*

Of how the world used Francois, and of the reward of virtue. He makes his first friend

*V*

Of the immorality which may come of an empty stomach, and of how Francois became acquainted with a human crab

*VI*

Of how Francois regained a lost friend, and of his adventure with the poet Horace and another gentleman

*VII*

Wherein is told how Francois saved a man's neck and learned to juggle

*VIII*

In which Francois discovers the mercantile value of laughter, and the Crab takes toll of the jugglers--with the sad history of Despard, the partner

*IX*

In which Francois tells the fortune of the Marquis de Ste. Luce and of Robespierre, and has his own fortune told, and of how Despard saw a man of whom he was afraid

*X*

How Pierre became a Jacobin and how a nation became insane

*XI*

The juggling firm of Despard, Francois & Co. is broken up--Despard goes into politics, and Francois becomes a fencing-master

*XII*

In which Toto is seen to change his politics twice a day--the mornings and the afternoons quarrel--In which Jean Pierre Andre Amar, "_le farouche,_" appears

*XIII*

Citizen Amar, meeting the marquis, is unlucky and vindictive

*XIV*

Francois escapes from Paris and goes in search of a father. He meets a man who has a wart on his nose, and who because of this is unlucky

*XV*

How Francois finds Despard and has a lesson in politics, and of what came of it

*XVI*

How Francois warns the Marquis de Ste. Luce, and of the battle on the staircase between the old day and the new

*XVII*

Of how Francois, escaping, lives in the wood; of how he sees the daughter of the marquis dying, and knows not then, or ever after, what it was that hurt him; of how he becomes homesick for Paris

*XVIII*

Wherein is told how Francois reenters Paris, and lodges with the Crab; and of how Toto is near to death by the guillotine. Francois meets Despard and the marquis, who warns him and is warned

*XIX*

Of the sorrowful life of loneliness, of Francois's arrest, and of those he met in prison

*XX*

Of how Francois gave Amar advice, and of how the marquis bought his own head

*XXI*

How Francois, having made a bargain with Citizen Amar, cannot keep it with the man of the wart--How Despard dies in the place of the marquis--Of Francois's escape from prison

*XXII*

Wherein is told how Francois baits a crab-trap with the man of the wart

*XXIII*

Of how Francois found lodgings where he paid no rent--Of the death of Toto--Of how his master, having no friends on the earth, finds them underground

*XXIV*

Of how Francois got into good society underground--Of what he saw, and of the value of a cat's eyes--From darkness to light--Of how Francois made friends for life

*Epilogue*

Wherein is some further account of Francois and of those who helped him

*List Of Illustrations*

The Nets were Hung over Francois's Shoulders . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

Francois and Toto in the Luxembourg

Pierre taught Francois to Juggle with Balls

'T is a Gargoyle Come Down from the Roof of St. Jacques

He Paid in Advance the Customary Denier a Dieu

And so a Dog is Sent to Fetch the Safeguard the People Provide

He Staggered to Left, to Right, and at last Tumbled in a Heap

He Held his Way along the Highroad

The Wanderer Tapped on the Pane

He Saw a White Face on the Pillow

Quatre Pattes

Death to Royal Rats!

Amar Considered this Novel Specimen of Humanity

He Pulled the Bell at No. 33 Bis

"The Little Trap did Work," cried Francois, behind his Screen

*The Adventures Of Francois*

Foundling, Thief, Juggler, And Fencing-Master During The French Revolution

*I*

_Of how Francois the foundling was cared for by the good fathers of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans, and of what manner of lad he was._

In the summer of the year 1777 a lad of about ten years, clad in a suit of gray, was playing in the high-walled garden of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans in Paris. The sun was pleasant, the birds sang overhead, the roses were many, for the month was June. A hundred lads were noisily running about. They had the look of being well fed, decently clothed, and kindly cared for. An old priest walked to and fro, at times looking up from his breviary to say a pleasant word or to check some threatening quarrel.

Presently he paused beside the boy who was at the moment intently watching a bird on a branch overhead. As the priest turned, the boy had thrown himself on the grass and was laughing heartily.

"What amuses thee, my son?" said the father.

"I am laughing at the birds."

"And why do they make thee laugh, Francois!"

"I do not know."

"And I," said the priest, "do not know why the birds sing, nor why thou dost laugh. Thou hast a talent that way. The good God grant thee always cause"; and with his eyes on his breviary, and his lips moving in prayer, he walked away.

The lad fell back again on the grass, and laughed anew, as if overcome with some jest he shared with no one but the birds overhead. This was a kindly little waif brought hither from the Enfants Trouves, nameless except for the card pinned on the basket in which he lay when the unknown mother left him, a red-faced baby, to the charity of asylum life.

His constant mirthfulness was a sad cross to some of the good fathers, for neither punishment, fast, nor penance got the better of this gaiety, nor served to repress its instinctive expression. He had, too,--what is rare in childhood,--quick powers of observation, and a certain joy in the world of nature, liking to lie on his back and watch the birds at work, or pleased to note the daily changes of flowers or the puzzling journeys of the ants which had their crowded homes beneath the lilacs in undisturbed corners of the garden. His nearest mother, Nature, meant the boy to be one of those rare beings who find happiness in the use of keen senses and in a wakeful mind, which might have been trained to employ its powers for the partial conquest of some of her many kingdoms. But no friendly hand was here to guide, no example present to incite or lift him. The simple diet provided for the intellect of these little ones was like the diet of their table--the same for one and for all.

His head was high, his face long; all his features were of unusual size, the mouth and ears of disproportionate magnitude; altogether, a quaint face, not quite of to-day, a something Gothic and medieval in its general expression.

The dull round of matins and vespers, the routine of lessons, the silent refectory meals, went on year after year with little variation. The boy Francois simply accepted them as did the rest; but, unlike some of his comrades, he found food for mirth, silent, gentle, or boisterous, where no other saw cause for amusement.

Once a week a sober line of gray-clad boys, with here and there a watchful priest, filed through the gay streets to mass at St. Eustache or Notre Dame. He learned, as he grew, to value these chances, and to look forward with eager anticipation to what they brought him. During these walks the quick-minded Francois saw and heard a hundred things which aroused his curiosity. The broad gardens of the Luxembourg, the young fellows at unrestricted play, the river and the boats, by degrees filled him with keen desire to see more of this outer world, and to have easy freedom to roam at will. It was the first flutter of wings longing for natural flight. Before they set out on these journeys, a good father at the great gateway said to them as they went by: "Look neither to the right nor to the left, my children. 'T is a day of prayer. Remember!" Alas! what eyes so busy as those of Francois? "Look at this--at that," he would cry to the lads close to him. "Be quiet, there!" said the priests' low voices; and on this Francis's droll face would begin to express the unspoken delight he found in the outer world of men and things. This naughty outside world kept calling him to share its liberty. The boy liked best the choir, where his was the most promising voice. Here was happiness such as the use of dexterous hands or observant eyes also gave him. Religion was to him largely a matter of formal service. But in this, as in secular education, the individuality of the creature may not be set aside without risk of disaster. For all alike there was the same dull round, the same instruction. Nevertheless, the vast influence of these repeated services, and of the constant catechism, he continued to feel to his latest day.

He was emotional and imaginative, fond of color, and sensitive to music; but the higher lessons of the church, which should control the life of action, were without effect on a character which was naturally one of exceptional levity. Such a mind has small power to apply to the conduct of life the mere rules laid down for its guidance, and is apt to accept as personally useful only what comes from the lessons of experience.

*II*

_In which Francois becomes a choir-boy, and serves two masters, to the impairment of his moral sense._

He was about fourteen, and the best of the choir, when a great change took place in his life. He was sent, with a dozen others, to the vestry of Notre Dame, and there carefully tested as to the power and quality of his voice. The masters of the choir were exacting, but, to his great delight, he was thought the best of the four who were finally selected to fill vacancies among the boy choristers of the cathedral. This came about in the autumn of the year 1781.

The next day he received a long lecture on how he should behave himself; and thus morally provided, was sent, with his small belongings in a bag, to the house of certain of the choir-masters who lived in the Rue des Chanteurs. One of the priests who escorted the four boys stood at the door of the house of the choir, and saying good-by to them as they went in, bade them come, if they might, and visit their old home; and so, with a benediction, sent them forth into a larger world.

It was not much larger, nor was it as agreeable. When the good father left them, one Tomas, who was steward of the choir-house, took the lads in charge.

"Up with ye, singing-birds!" he cried; "up! up!" And this at each story: "It will soon be your best chance of heaven; up! up!" until they reached a large attic under the tiles.

It was a dismal place, and hospitable to every wind that blew. Each of twelve choir-boys had a straw mattress on the floor, and pegs where hung his clothes and the white surplice he wore during service. The four newcomers took possession, and were soon informed by Tomas of their duties. They must be up at five to sing before breakfast with the second chanter.

"Before breakfast!" cried one of the recruits.

"Little animal!" said Tomas. "Before thou dost eat there is room to fill thy chest; but after, what boy hath room? Breakfast at six and a half; at seven a lesson. Thou wilt intone with Pere Lalatte."

Thus the day was to be filled; for here were lessons a-plenty in Latin, and all must learn to read and to write, for they might be priests some blessed day.

Francois reflected as Tomas packed the hours with this and that as one packs a bag. He made his face as grave as nature would let it be, and said it was very nice, and that he liked to sing. Was there anything else? Tomas replied that this first day they might ask questions, but that after that he (Tomas) had only one answer, because to have only one saved thinking.

This amused Francois, who was prematurely capable of seeing the fun of things.

When a duller boy who did not apprehend asked to know more he received an illustration in the form of a smart smack, which proved convincingly instructive, and silenced all but Francois, who asked, "Please, monsieur, when may we play?" and "Is there anything more?"

Tomas replied that there was a free hour before supper, and a little while somewhere about noon in the garden; also, they must wait on table; and oh, he forgot the prayers; and then went on to complete the packing of the day with various small duties in the nature of attentions to the comfort of Tomas. With some last words as to the time of the next meal, the steward left them.

The lads, silent and anxious, arranged their small possessions. A little goldfinch in a wicker cage was Francis's most valued property; he had taught it many pretty tricks, and now he had been allowed to bring it with him. Francois put the cage on the window-ledge, and fed his brightly tinted bird from a small store of millet with which he had filled his pocket. Then he looked out to see what prospect the view from the attic afforded.

The home of the master-choristers was an ancient house of the days of Henri IV, and leaned so far over that as the boy looked out he had a sudden fear lest it should be about to tumble. The street was not more than twelve feet wide. The opposite dwellings were a full story below the attic from which the boy looked. The nearest house across the way had an ancient stoop. Others bent back from the line of the street, and the open windows gave them a look of yawning weariness which set the boy to gaping in sympathy.

Above was a mottled wilderness of discolored tiles, chimney-pots, and here and there gray corner turrets with vanes which seemed to entertain diverse views as to the direction whence the wind blew. Below was the sunless well of the street. As he gazed he saw the broad hats of priests hiding the figures beneath them. It interested the boy. It was new and strange. He was too intent to notice that all but he had gone, obedient to an order of Tomas.

A woman at a window over the way let fall a skirt she had been drying. It sailed to and fro, and fell on the head of a reflective abbe. The boy broke into laughter. A cat climbed on to a chimney-pot, and was met by a gust of smoke from the flue beside it. She scrambled off, sneezing.

"What fun!" cried the boy, and laughed again.

"Little beast!" shouted Tomas. "Must I come for thee? 'T is not permitted to laugh. It is forbid to laugh. It spoils the voice"--a queer notion which, to his sorrow, the boy found to prevail in the house of the choristers.

"How can that be?" said Francois, boldly.

The man gave him to understand that he was to obey his betters without answering, and then, taking the cage from the window, said: "Come--quick, too! Thou art late for the dinner, and must do without it. There is a singing-lesson. Off with thee!"

He was leaving the room when, suddenly, a strange fury of anger came on the boy. He snatched the cage from the man's hand, crying, "My bird! It is my bird!"

Tomas caught him, and began to administer a smart cuffing; but the lad was vigorous and of feline agility. He used nails, teeth, and feet. Then, of a sudden, he ceased to struggle, and fell on a mattress in an agony of tears. The man had set his foot on the fallen cage, crying:

"I will teach thee a lesson, little animal!"

There lay in the crushed cage the dead bird, still quivering, a shapeless mass of green and yellow with a splotch of red. It was the first lesson of that larger world toward which the foundling had been so joyfully looking.

He made no further resistance to the discipline which followed. Then came a dark cell and bread and water for a weary day, and much profit in the way of experience. It was a gentle home he had left. He had known there no unkindness, nor had he ever so sinned as to suffer more than some mild punishment. The new life was hard, the diet spare. As the winter came on, the attic proved to be cold. The winds came in from the tiles above and through the shrunken window-frames. Once within, they seemed to stay and to wander in chilly gusts. The dark suits worn by the choir-boys were none too warm. If the white surplice were clean, little more was asked in that direction. There were long services twice a day at the great cathedral near by, and three hours of practice under the eye of a junior chorister. The boys were abed at eight, and up at five; and for play, there were two uncertain hours--after the noon meal and at seven in the evening--when they were free to move about a small court behind the house, or to rest, if they pleased, in the attic. Four days in the week there were lessons in Latin and in reading and writing. Assuredly the devil had little of the chance which idle hours are presumed to give. But this fallen angel has also the industry of the minute, and knows how to profit by the many chances of life. He provided suggestive lessons in the habits of the choristers who dwelt in the stories above the wine-shop on the first floor. Sounds of gay carouses reached the small garret saints at night, and gay voices were heard which had other than masculine notes. At meal-times the choir-boys waited on their masters, and fetched their food from the kitchen. The lads soon learned to take toll on the way, and to comfort their shrunken stomachs with a modest share of the diet of their betters.

"Little rats!" said Tomas the steward, "you will squeal in purgatory for this; and 't were better to give you a dose of it here." And so certain of the rats, on account of temporary excess of feed, were given none for a day, and left in a cold cellar to such moral aids as reflection might fetch.

Francois sat with his comrades of mishap in the gloom, and devised new ways of procuring food and concealing their thefts.

"Rats we are," said Francois, gaily; "and rats had need be smart; and who ever heard that the _bon Dieu_ sent rats to purgatory?" Then he hatched queer stories to keep up the spirits of the too penitent; and whether full or empty, cold or warm, took all that came with perpetual solace of good-humored laughter. It was not in him to bear malice. The choir-masters liked him, and with the boys he was the leader.

Most of the dozen choir-bays were dull fellows; but this sharp-witted Francois was of other make, and found in the table-talk of the choristers, and of the cure's who came now and then to share their ample fare, food for such thoughts as a boy thinks. He soon learned, as he grew older, how difficult is complete sin; how many outlets there are for him who, being penitent, desires to create new opportunities for penitence. Francois was fast forming his character. He had small need to look for excuses, and a meager talent for regret. When his stomach was full he was good, and when it was empty he must, as he said in after years, "fill it to squeeze out Satan."

There were singular books about, and for his education, now that he read Latin fairly well, a manual on confession. It was not meant for half-fed choir-boys. More fascinating were the confessions of one Rousseau--a highly educative book for a clever boy of sixteen. At this age Francois was a long-legged, active fellow, a keen-witted domestic brigand, expert in providing for his wants, and eagerly desirous of seeing more of the outside world, of the ways of which he was so ignorant. The procession of closely watched boys went to church and back again to the old house at least once a day, and this was his only glimpse of the entertaining life of the streets. When left to himself, he liked best in good weather to sit at the open attic window and watch the cats on the roofs across the way. So near were the houses that he could toss a bone or a crust on to the roof opposite, and delight to see these Ishmaelites contend for the prize. He grew to know them, so that they would come at dusk to the roof-edge, and contemplate dietetic possibilities with eager and luminous eyes. Being versed in the Bible, as all good choir-boys should be, he found names for his feline friends which fitted their qualities; for there, among the chimneys, was a small world of stirring life which no man disturbed. He saw battles, jealousies, greediness, and loves. Constancy was not there. Solomon of the many wives was king of the tiles; a demure blue cat was Susannah, for good reasons; and there, too, were the elders. It might have seemed to some pitiful angel a sad picture--this poor lad in the grasp of temptations, but made for better chances, finding his utmost joy in the distant company of these lean Arabs of the desert housetops.

*III*

_Of the misfortunes caused by loss of a voice, and of how a cat and a damsel got Francois into trouble--whereupon, preferring the world to a monastery, he ran away from the choristers of Notre Dame._

It was in the month of June, in the year 1784, that a female got him into trouble, and aided to bring about a decision as to his future. This was, however, only one of the distressing incidents which at the time affected his career, and was not his final experience of the perils to which attention to the other sex may expose the unwary. A few days before the sad event which brought about a change in Francois's life, he was engaged in singing one of the noble Gregorian chants. Never had he used his voice with greater satisfaction. He was always pleased and eagerly ambitious when in the choir, and was then at his best. This day it seemed to him, as he sang, that his clear tones rose like a bird, and that something of him was soaring high among the resonant arches overhead. Of a sudden his voice broke into a shrill squeak. The choir-master shook a finger at him, and he fell into a dead silence, and sang no more that morning. The little white-robed procession marched out, and when it reached the gray old house there was wrath and consternation over the broken treble. He was blamed and beaten; but, after all, it was a too likely misfortune. If it chanced again he must go to the Dominican convent at Auteuil, and perhaps in a year or two would be lucky enough to get back his voice. Meanwhile let him take care. Poor Francois did his best; but a week later, amid the solemnity of a mass for the dead, came once more that fatal break in the voice. He knew that his fate was sealed.

Little was said this time, but he overheard the head of the choir arranging with Tomas the steward that the boy should go to Auteuil. Until then he was no longer to serve in the choir.

Francois had seen all this occur before, when, as was common, some little singer lost control of his changing voice. His case was hopeless. Yet here was an idle time and no more singing-lessons. But a part of the small joys of a life not rich in happy moments was gone, to come back no more, as he knew too well. Of late his fine quality of song had won him some indulgence, and he had learned how much a fine voice might mean. Dim visions began to open before him, as he heard of how choir-boys had conquered fame and wealth in France or elsewhere. One day the leader of the choir had praised him and his diligence, and hoped he would never leave them. He was told what a great possession was a voice like his, and had even been envied by the less gifted. Now this possession was taken from him, and he was at once made sadly aware of his loss. His vanity, always great, was wounded to the quick. A little kindness would have led him to go to the convent and hopefully bide his time; but nobody cared, or seemed to care, for him, or to pity what to his active imagination was a fatal wreck of goodly chances.

For a day or two he went about disconsolate, and was set to serve in the kitchen or to wait on the man Tomas, who jeered at his squeaky voice, and called him "little pig," with additions of some coarser amenities of language, and certain information as to the convent life of a lay servant ill calculated to make Auteuil appear desirable.

In his leisure hours, which now were many, Francois took refuge from the jests of his fellows in the lonely garret. The people across the way in their rooms amused him. The cats were never long absent. He watched their cunning search for the nests of the sparrows, and very soon began to feel again the invincible lifting power of his comic nature. Some remembrance of the alarm in the choir-master's face when his voice broke came upon Francois, and he began to laugh. Just then he saw Solomon on the roof opposite. The master of a populous harem was in the company of the two naughty elders. Susannah, behind a chimney, was making her modest toilet with a skilful tongue. He called her, and held up a tempting bone. The shy maiden hesitated. He called, "Suzanne, Suzanne!" to bring her to the edge of the tiled roof and near enough to make sure that the elders would not capture her desired prize.

As he called, a little grisette who was hanging out clothes to dry kissed her hand to the boy. Francois had seen her before. She was not attractive. He liked his cats better. "Suzanne, Suzanne!" he called, as the virgin, looking about her, daintily picked her way to the edge. High on the roof-top, Solomon exhorted the elders, and in a moment backs were humped, and claws out, and there was bad language used, which may have been Hebrew, but at all events appeared to be sufficiently expressive; for the elders and Solomon, of a sudden rolling over in a wild scuffle, disappeared on the farther side of the roof. This was the maid's opportunity, and gratefully licking her anticipative chops, she crawled to the gutter.

"_Bonne Suzanne_! _Viens donc_! Come, come, Suzanne!" cried the boy.

Of a sudden a smart box on the ear broke up this pretty love-affair. There stood Tomas.

"A nice choir-boy! Talking with that beast of a grisette!" Then there were more liberal whacks as the boy, in a rage, was dragged away, and bidden to come down-stairs and carry to market the nets used in place of baskets. Tomas usually went alone to buy provisions, but now the choir-boy was free and could be made of use.

Francois uttered no complaint. It was literally the only time he had had a chance to be in the streets, except as part of the procession to and from the church. He was sore, angry, and resentful of the ill usage which in the last few days had taken the place of the growing respect his talent had created. He took the nets and his cap, and followed Tomas. "What a chance!" he thought to himself.

The boy concealed the delight he felt, and followed the steward, who went down to the river and across it to the open market on the farther bank. He stopped here and there to buy provisions and to chat with the market-women. When one of them, pleased with the odd-looking lad, gave him an apple, Tomas took it from him. Francois laughed, which seemed always to offend the saturnine steward. He could not destroy the pleasure of the gay market for Francois, who made queer faces at the mistresses of the stalls, teased the dogs and cats for sale in cages, and generally made himself happy until they came home again.

But from this time onward, except for these excursions, his life was made miserable enough. He was the slave of Tomas, and was cruelly reminded day after day of the misery of him who has a servant for his master.

At last he learned that the time was near when he must go to Auteuil. His voice had been tested again, and he had been told that there was small hope of its return. He began to think of escape. Once he was sent alone on an errand to a shop near by. He lingered to see some street-jugglers, and paid for it with a day in a damp cellar. Within this sad home he now found only reproaches and unthanked labor. The choristers laughed at him, and the happier boys mocked his changed voice. On the day after his last experience of the cellar, he was told by Tomas to be ready to go to Auteuil, and was ordered once again to follow the steward to market. He took up the nets and went after him. The lad looked back at the choir-house. He meant to see it no more. He was now seventeen, and in the three years of his stay had learned many things, some good and some bad.

They went past Notre Dame to the quai, and through rows of stalls along the shores of the Seine. Tomas soon filled the nets, which were hung over Francois's shoulders. Meanwhile the chattering women, the birds and cages, the flowers, the moving, many-colored crowd, amused or pleased the boy, but by no means turned him from his purpose.

"Come!" cried Tomas, and began to elbow his way through the noisy people on the river-bank. Presently Francois got behind him, and noting his chances with a ready eye, slipped through between the booths and darted up the Seine.

*IV*

_Of how the world used Francois, and of the reward of virtue. He makes his first friend._

When Tomas, having won his way out of the press about a fortune-teller, looked for Francois, there was a lost choir-boy and two days' diet gone none knew whither--least of all the fugitive. He moved away with the speed of fear, and was soon in the somber network of narrow streets which in those days made a part of the Ile de la Cite the refuge of the finest assortment of thieves, bravos, gypsies, and low women to be found in any capital of Europe.

His scared looks and decent black suit betrayed him. An old fellow issued from a doorway like a spider. "Ha, ha, little thief!" he said; "I will buy thy plunder."

Francois was well pleased. He took eagerly the ten sous offered, and saw the spider poke a long red beak into the loaded nets as he passed out of sight in the dark doorway. Francois looked at the money. It was the first he had ever owned. He walked away in haste, happy to be free, and so over a bridge to the Ile St. Louis, with its pretty gardens and the palaces of the great nobles. At the far end of the isle he sat down in the sun and watched the red barges go by, and took no more care for to-morrow than does a moth just out of its cocoon. He caught up the song of a man near by who was mending a bateau. He whistled as he cast stones into the water. It was June, and warm, and before him the river playing with the sunset gold, and behind him the dull roar of Paris. Ah, the pleasure to do as he would! Why had he waited so long?

Toward night he wandered back into the Cite, and saw an old woman selling fried potatoes, and crying, "Two sous, two sous!" He asked for thus much, and received them in the top of his cap. The hag took his ten-sou piece, and told him to begone. Amazed at this bit of villainy, poor Francois entreated her to give him his change. She called him a thief, and when a dreadful man sallied out of a wine-shop and made murderous threats, the boy ran as fast as he could go, and never ceased until he got to the river again. There, like Suzanne, he kept watch for the foes of property, and at last ate his potatoes, and began to reflect on this last lesson in morality. He had stolen many morsels, many dinners, and his fair share of wine; but to be himself robbed of his entire means was calculated to enlarge his views of what is possible in life, and also undesirable. The night was warm; he slept well in an abandoned barge, but woke up early to feel that liberty had its drawbacks, and that emptiness of stomach was one of the large family of needs which stimulate the ingenuity of man or boy.

Quite at a loss, he wandered once more through the slums of the Cite, and soon lost himself in the network of narrow streets to the north of the cathedral, hearing, as he went, strange slang, which his namesake Francois Villon would have better understood than he. The filth of the roadways and that of the tongue were here comparable. Some boys, seeing his sober suit of the dark cloth worn by the choir, pelted him with stones. He ran for his life, and falling over a man who was sawing wood, received a kick for remembrance. Far away he paused breathless in a dark lane which seemed unpeopled, and where the houses leaned over like palsied old scoundrels who whisper to one another of ancient crime. Even to a boy the place was of a sudden terrible. There was murder in the air.

He felt, without knowing why, the danger of the place. A painted creature, half clad, came out of a house--a base animal whom the accident of sex had made a woman. She called to him to come in. He turned and went by her in haste and horror. A man in a red shirt ran toward him, crying out some ordures of speech. As he fled there was a sudden peopling of window and doorway with half-naked drunken men and women. He had never before seen such faces. He was in that pit of crime and bestiality which before long was to overflow and riot in a limitless debauch of blood. The boy's long legs served him well. He dodged and ran this way and that. At the mouth of the _cul-de-sac_ a lank boy caught him by the arm. Francois struck him fiercely, and with a sense of joy in the competence of the first blow he had ever given one of his own years, he fled again; nor did he pause until, free from foes, he stood panting in the open sunshine below the great buttresses of Notre Dame.

He saw here that no one took notice of him, and, once more at ease, crossed from the Cite to the right bank of the Seine. Thus wandering he came at last to one of the low bridges which spanned the broad ditches then bounding the Place Louis XV, where now is the Place de la Concorde. The ducks and swans in these canals delighted him. He lingered, liking the gaiety and careless joy of the children with their nurses. The dogs, acrobats, musketeers, and the pomp of heavy, painted carriages rolling by with servants in liveries, the Swiss guards, the magnificence of the king's palace, were all to him as a new world might have been.

He went on, and at last along the Rue St. Honore and to the Palais Royal, where, amid its splendid shops, cafes, jugglers, fortune-tellers, and richly clad people, he forgot for an hour his poor little stomach and its claims. By and by he took note of the success of a blind beggar. He watched him for an hour, and knew that he had in this time gathered in sous at least a franc. The shrunken stomach of the boy began to convert its claims into demands, and with this hint he put on a sad face and began to beg. It was not a very prosperous business; but he stated his emptiness so pitifully, and his voice had such sweet, pleading notes, that at last he thus acquired six or eight sous, and retired to the outer gate to count them.

The imprudence of estimating wealth in public was soon made clear to him. He was seated back of the open grille, his cap on his lap, when a quick, clawlike hand, thrust between the railings, darted over his shoulder, and seized two thirds of his gains. He started up in time to see that the thief was the blind beggar, who was away and lost in the crowd and among the horses and carriages, to all appearances in excellent possession of the sense of sight. Pursuit was vain. Francois's education was progressing. Most lads thus tormented by fate would have given way to rage or tears. Francois cried out, "_Sathanas!_" not knowing as yet any worse expletive, and burst into a roar of laughter. At least there were three sous left, and these he put into his pocket. His lessons were not over. The crowd thinned at noon, and he rose to go in search of food. At this moment a gentleman in very gorgeous dress, with ruffles, sword, and a variety of dazzling splendors, went by, and at the boy's feet let fall a lace handkerchief. Francois seized it, and stood still a moment. Then he put it in his breast, and again stood still. To take food is one thing; to steal a handkerchief is quite another. He was weak with hunger, but he had three sous. He ran after the gentleman, and cried:

"Here is your handkerchief!"

"A very honest lad," said its owner; "you will do well in the world "; and so went his way, leaving to virtue the proverbial reward of virtue. This time Francois did not laugh. In the Rue St. Honore he bought some boiled beans for two sous, and retired to eat them in peace on the steps of St. Roch. Soon he saw a woman with a tin pan come out of a little shop and after her a half-grown black poodle. She set down the pan, and left the dog to his meal. Francois reconnoitered cautiously, and giving the dog a little kick, fled with the pan, and was shortly safe in an unfrequented passage behind the church. Here he found that he was master of a chop and a half-eaten leg of chicken. He had eaten the chop and some crusts, as well as the beans, when he became aware of the black poodle, which, being young, still had confidence in human nature, and now, with sense of ownership, thrust his black nose in the pan of lessening viands.

Francois laughed gaily. The touch of friendly trust gave the lonely boy a thrill of joy, and, with some reluctance doubtless, he gave the dog what was left, feeding him in bits, and talking as a comrade to a comrade. The poodle was clearly satisfied. This was very delightful society, and he was receiving such attention as flatters a decent dog's sense of his social position. The diet was less than usual, but the company was of the best, and inspired the extreme of confidence. There is a charm of equality as between dog and boy. Both are of Bohemia. The poodle stood up when asked to beg. He was invited to reveal his name. He received with the sympathetic sadness of the motionless tail the legend of Francois's woes.

When at last Francois rose, the dog followed him a little way, saying plainly, "Where thou goest I will go." But the unlicked pan needed attention; he turned back to the fleshpots. Seeing himself deserted, a vague sadness came upon Francois. It was the shadow of an uncomprehended emotion. He said, "Adieu, _mon ami!_" and left the little black fellow with his nose in the pan.

An hour of wandering here and there brought Francois to the palisades around the strong foundations of the new church of the Madeleine. Beyond were scattered country houses, the Pepinieres of the king, and the great English garden of Monceaux belonging to the Duc d'Orleans. This fascinating stretch of trees and green and boundless country was like a heavenly land to the boy. No dream could be more strange. He set out by the Rue de la Pologne, and at last went with timid doubt through the _barriere_, and was soon in the open country. To his surprise, he heard a yap at his side, and there was the little black poodle, apparently as well pleased as he. Francois had no scruples as to ownership. _Mon Dieu!_ had he stolen the dog, or had the dog stolen him? They ran along happy, the boy as little troubled as the dog by questions of conscience. The country was not productive of easily won food, but a few stolen plums were to be had. A girl coming from milking gave a jug of milk, which Francois, despite keen hunger, shared with his friend. When a couple of miles from Paris, he sat down to rest by the roadside. The dog leaped on to his lap, and the boy, as he lay in the sun, began to think of a name for this new friend. He tried merrily all the dog-names he could think of; but when at last he called, "Toto!" the poodle barked so cordially that Francois sagaciously inclined to the belief that he must have hit upon the poodle's name. "Toto it shall be," he cried. All that day they wandered joyfully, begged a crust, and at night slept in an orchard, the poodle clasped to the boy's bosom--a pair of happy vagabonds.

When, next day, the pair of them, half starved, were disconsolately returning toward Paris, an old woman bade Francois earn a few sous by picking strawberries. But the dog must not range the garden; he should be tied in the kitchen. Francois worked hard at the matter in hand, taking good toll of the berries, and at noon went back with the old dame to her cottage.

"It is five sous, _mon garcon_, and a bowl of milk thou shalt have, and a bit of meat; and how merry thou art!"

Alas! as she opened the door the poodle fled past her with a whole steak in his mouth. Hot it was, but of such delicate savor that it gave him courage to hold on. The old woman threw a stool after him, and cried out in wrath that they were both thieves. Then she turned on poor Francois with fury and a broom, so that he had scarce time to leap the fence and follow the dog. He found him at last with his rather dusty prize; and seeing no better thing to do, he went deep into a wood, and there filled himself as he had not done for days. The brigand Toto had his share, and thus reinforced, they set out again to return to Paris.

*V*

_Of the immorality which may come of an empty stomach, and of how Francois became acquainted with a human crab._

This nomad life was sadly uncertain; but Toto was a sharp forager, and what with a sou begged here and there, and the hospitality of summer, for a while they were not ill contented. But at last Francois passed two days of such lean living as set his wits to work. There was clearly no help for it, and with a rueful face he entered the shop whence Toto had followed his uncertain fortunes.

The owner was a pleasant little woman who took honesty for granted. Yes, it was her dog; and how long he had been gone! Here was a great piece of twenty sous; and where did he find the poodle? Francois declared that he lived near by and knew the dog. He had found him in the Rue du Faubourg St. Lazare. And was it so far away as that? He must be tired, and for his honesty should be well fed. Thus, rich as never before, and with a full stomach, he left Toto tied up, and went out into the world again, lonely and sad.

Needless is it to describe his wanderings, or to relate how the lonely lad acquired the sharp ways of a gamin of the streets. For a while he begged or stole what food he required. Some four months later, a combination of motives led him into theft which was not mere foraging.

On a cold November day he was again in the crowded gardens and arcades of the Palais Royal. He was shabby enough by this time, and was sharply reminded by the cool nights of the need for shelter. By chance his eye lighted on the man who shammed blindness and had stolen his precious sous. The beggar was kneeling, cap in hand, with closed eyes, his head turned upward, entreating pity for his loss of sight. There were some sous in his cap. A Francois passed he made believe to add another sou, and as he did so deftly scooped up the greater part of the coins.

The blind man cried out; but the boy skipped aside, laughing, well aware that for the beggar to pursue him would be hardly advisable, as he might lose more than he could gain.

A few sous were of small account. They insured a meal, but not a lodging. As he was thus reflecting, he saw near by and presently beside him the gentleman who had so highly appreciated the return of his handkerchief. The coat pockets were large in those days, and the crowd was great. A little white corner of lace besought Master Francois, crying, "I am food and lodging for thee!" Whereupon it was done, and a lace handkerchief changed owners.

It cannot be said that these downward steps cost Francois any moral discomfort. He grinned as he thought of the beggar's perplexity, and laughed outright as he felt how complete had been his own joy in the satisfaction of possession could he have made the owner of the kerchief understand that he had suffered not merely a theft, but the punishment of injustice.

Francois was now too well versed in the ways of the street-boy, too dirty and too ragged, to fear the Cite. Thither he went, and found a thieves' shop, where he sold the handkerchief, and got ten francs for what was worth thirty.

The question of a place where he could be sure of a bed was his first consideration on coming into his fortune. In the long, warm summers of France one who was not particular could find numerous roosting-places, but in winter a more constant home was to be desired.

In the Cite Francois had occasionally lodged here and there when he could afford to pay, and had been turned out when he had no more sous. Now, being affluent, and therefore hard to please, he wandered until he came upon the lodging-house of an old woman in the Rue Perpignan. He knew of her as a dealer in thieves' goods, and as ever ready to shelter the lucky--and, it was suspected, as willing to betray those who were persistently unfortunate.

What drew him to this woman's house it were hard to tell. She was repulsive in appearance, but, strangely enough, was clean as to her person, dress, and abode. Asylum life had taught Francois to be cleanly. He declares in his memoirs that he was by habit neat, and that it was the absence of dirt which first tempted him into a relation which was so largely to affect his after life.

When he became one of this woman's lodgers he took a step which was for him of moment. Now for the first time he was to be in the company of old and practised thieves; but he was not yet of an age to be troubled as to the future or to reflect upon the past. The horizon of youth is small.

He found plenty of masters to educate him in the evil business into which he had been driven by relentless fate. Never was pupil more ready. His hostess appreciated the cleverness of her new lodger, but it was long before he himself realized how strange was the aspect and how sinister the nature of this mother of evil.

Certain historical epochs create types of face. This was a period which manufactured many singular visages. None was more strange than that which Mme. Quatre Pattes carried on a body quite as remarkable. Francois speaks of her over and over in his memoirs, and dwells upon the peculiarities of her appearance. I recall well what he said to me, one evening, of this creature:

"You see, monsieur, I went to one den of thieves and another until I chanced upon the Crab. It is not to be described; for here in a little room was a witch, crumpled and deformed, sharply bent forward as to the back from the waist, and--ah, _diablement_ thin! She was cleanly and even neat, and her room was a marvel, because over there in the Cite men were born and lived and died, and never saw a clean thing. And she was of a strangeness--consider, monsieur; imagine you a bald head, and a lean face below, very red, and the skin drawn so tight over the bones as to shine. Her eyes were little and of a dull gray; but they held you. Her lips were lean, and she kept them moving in a queer way as if chewing. I did laugh when first I saw her, but not often afterward."

When he confided to this clean and horrible creature what he wanted, she made him welcome. She rattled the two sticks which her bent form made needful for support. She would house him cheaply; but he must be industrious--and to sell a lace handkerchief for ten francs--_tonnerre_! He needed caution. She would be a _bonne maman_ to him--she, Quatre Pattes, "four paws"; the Crab, they called her, too, for short, and because of her red leanness and spite; but what was her real name he did not learn for many a day. At first her appearance excited in his mind no emotion except amazement and mirth. A terrible old crab it was when she showed her toothless gums and howled obscenities, while her sticks were used with strange agility. The quarter feared her. M. Francois had a fortune in his face, she said; and did he know the _savate_, the art to kick? There was a master next door. And again, what a face! With that face he might lie all day, and who would disbelieve him? Better to fetch her what he stole. She would see that no one cheated him but herself, and that would be ever so little. One must live. When she laughed, which was not often, Francois felt that a curse were more gay. There were devil-women in those days, as the mad world of Paris soon came to know; and the Crab, with her purple nose and crooked red claws, was of the worst.

*VI*

_Of how Francois regained a lost friend, and of his adventure with the poet Horace and another gentleman._

Thus Francois was launched on what he was pleased to call the business of life, and soon became expert in the transfer of property. Strange to say, he had little pleasure in the debauchery of successful crime, and was too good-natured to like violence. When he had enough for his moderate wants he wandered in the country, here and there, in an aimless, drifting way. Simple things gave him pleasure. He could lie in the woods or on the highway half a day, only moving to keep in the sun. He liked to watch any living creature--to see the cows feed, to observe the birds. He had a charm for all animals. When the wagons went by, dogs deserted them, and came to him for a touch and a word. Best of all it was to sit beside some peasant's beehive, finding there no enmity, and smiling at the laborious lives he had no mind to imitate. Sometimes he yearned for the lost poodle, and had a pang of loneliness. That this man should have had gentle tastes, a liking for nature, a regard for some of the decencies of life, will not surprise those who know well the many varieties of the young criminal class; neither will these be amazed to learn that now and then he heard mass, and crossed himself devoutly when there was occasion. Children he fascinated; a glance of his long, odd face would make them leave nurse and toy, and sidle up to him. In the Cite these singularities made him avoided, while his growing strength caused him to be feared. He sought no friends among the thieves. "Very prudent, that," said Mme. Quatre Pattes; "the more friends, the more enemies."

He was quick and active, and a shrewd observer; for the hard life of the streets had sharpened his naturally ready wits, and he looked far older than his years. Of a Sunday in May he was walking down the Rue St. Honore, feeling a bit lonely, as was not often the case, when he saw Toto. He whistled, and the poodle ran to him, and would no more of the shop or fat food he liked.

"Toto! _Mon Dieu_!" he laughed, hugging the dog, his eyes full with the tears of joy. "Hast stolen me again! Wilt never return me? 'T is no honest dog. _Viens donc_. Come, then, old friend." Joyous in the company of his comrade, who was now well grown, he strolled out into the fields, where Toto caught a rabbit--a terrible crime in those days.

During the next two years the pair fairly prospered. Francois, as he used to relate, having risen in his profession, found a certain pleasure in good clothes, and being of a dramatic turn, could put on an air of bourgeois sobriety, or, with a sword at his side and a bit of lace here and there, swagger as a lesser gentleman. If things were very bad, he sold Toto and all his fine tricks for a round sum, and in a day or two was sure to find the dog overjoyed and back again at the garret door. The pair were full of devices. There was Toto, a plated snuff-box in his mouth, capering before some old gentle or some slow-pacing merchant; appears Francois, resistlessly smiling.

"Has monsieur lost a snuff-box? My dog? Yes, monsieur. He is honest, and clever too."

Monsieur, hastily searching, produces his own snuff-box--the indispensable snuff-box of the day.

"No; thanks." And it is noted that the box he shows is of gold, and into what pocket it falls. In the next crowd Toto knows how to make a disturbance with some fat lap-dog, and in the confusion thus created the snuff-box changes owners.

"If the man be sorry, I at least am made happy," says Francois; "and he hath been the better for a lesson in caution. I got what I needed, and he what he required. Things are very even in this world." Francois had learned philosophy among the cures and priests of the choir-house. As he avoided great risks, and, as I have said, was averse to violence, he kept clear of detection, and could deceive the police of the king if by rare chance he were in peril of arrest. When the missing property was some minor article, such as a handkerchief, it was instantly hid in Toto's mouth. The dog skipped away, the outraged master was searched; the bewildered owner apologized, and the officers were shocked at such a needless charge. Francois talked about his offended honor, and as he looked at twenty to be a strong man of full age, the affair was apt to go no further.

Half the cleverness and thought thus devoted to an ignoble pursuit would have given him success in more honest ways. But for a long while no angel chance tempted him, and it must be admitted that he enjoyed the game he pursued, and was easily contented, not eagerly caring to find a less precarious and less risky mode of life.

Temperament is merely a permanent mood. Francois was like the month of June in his dear Paris. There might be storms and changes, but his mental weather had the pleasant insurance of what was in the order of despotic nature. And yet to be owner of the continual sunshine of cheerfulness has its drawbacks. It deprives a man of some of the wholesome lures of life. It dulls the spurs which goad us to resolve. It may make calamity too easy of endurance. To be too consistently cheerful may be in itself a misfortune. It had for this vagrant all its values and some of its defects. His simple, gay existence, and his flow of effervescent merriment, kept him happy and thoughtless. Most persons of this rare type like company; but Francois was an exception. He was better pleased to be alone with his dog, and usually desired no other society. As the poodle could not talk, his master was given to making answer for him, and finding no one to his taste among the Crab's villainous lodgers, kept to himself, and was satisfied. Nor did he ever appear to have imagined what the larger world he knew not held of such human society as would have comforted that sense of void in his heart which he acknowledged at times, but had no way to fill. When fortune played him some sorry trick, he laughed, and unconsciously quoted La Rochefoucauld. "Toto, ah, my Toto, one can never be as cunning as everybody." This was apropos of an incident which greatly amused him.

He was in his favorite resort, the Palais Royal, one June morning, and was at this time somewhat short of cash. The Crab had preached him a sharp sermon on his lack of industry, and he had liked neither the sermon nor the preacher. At this moment a young fellow in fine clothes came by. Francois, producing, as usual, a gaudy snuff-box worth some ten francs, politely asked of monsieur had he lost this box. Monsieur took it in his hand. Yes, yes; he had just missed it, the gift of his god-father, and was much obliged. He let it fall into his pocket, and walked away. Francois looked after him. "Toto, _nous sommes voles_--we are sold!" Then the fun of it, as usual, overcame him, and he wandered away to the garden of the Luxembourg, and at last threw himself on a bench, and laughed as a child laughs, being for moments quiet, and then given over to uncontrolled mirth. Having feasted with honest comfort on all the humorous aspects of the situation, his hand chanced to fall on a little book left by some one on the seat. He had long ceased to read, for no books fell in his way, nor could he often have afforded to buy them even had he had a keen appetite for their contents.

[Illustration: FRANCOIS AND TOTO IN THE LUXEMBOURG.]

The little vellum-bound volume opened to his touch, as if used to be generous of what it held. It was Latin, and verse. He knew, or had known, more than most choir-boys needed of this tongue, and the talk of the choir-house was, by stringent rule, in Latin. But this book was not of a religious kind; it half puzzled his mind as he read. Unaccustomed to profane Latin verse, and yet wholly pleased, he began to murmur aloud the rhythmic measures:

"Poseimus, si quid vacui sub umbra Lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum Vivat, et plures: age, dic Latinum, Barbite, carmen.

"It hath a fine sound, _mon ami_; and who was this Quintus?" He went on reading aloud the delicious rhythms for the joy of hearing their billowy flow. Now and then he smiled as he caught the full meaning of a line.

The keen-faced poodle sat on the bench beside him, with a caressing head laid against his shoulder; the sun was sweet and warm, the roses were many. The time suited the book, and the book the man. He read on, page after page of the beautiful Aldine type, now and then pausing, vexed to be so puzzled by these half-guessed beautiful riddles.

"Toto, my dog, I would thou didst know Latin. This man he loved the country, and good wine, and girls; and he had friends--friends, which you and I have not."

Then he was lost for an hour. At last he ceased to read, and sat with a finger in the book, idly drifting on the immortal stream of golden song.

"That must have been a merry companion, Toto. I did hear of him once in the choir-house. He must be dead a mighty while ago. If a man is as gay as that, it must be horrid to die."

My poor thief was one of the myriad who through the long centuries had come into kindly touch of the friend of Maecenas. For the first time in his uncertain life he felt the charm of genius.

Indulgent opportunity was for Francois always near to some fatal enmity of chance. So does fate deal with the unlucky. He saw coming swiftly toward him a tall, strongly built man of middle age. He was richly dressed, and as he drew near he smiled.

"Ah, monsieur," he said; "I came back in haste to reclaim my little Horace. I missed it only when I got home. I am most fortunate."

Francois rose. He returned the small volume, but did not speak.

"Monsieur of course knows Horace," said the gentleman, looking him over, a little curious and more than a little interested. Too sure of his own position to shun any intercourse which promised amusement, he went on: "No; not know Horace? Let us sit awhile. The sun is pleasant."

Francois, rather shy, and suspicious of a manner of man he had never before encountered, sat down, saying, "I was a choir-boy once. I know some Latin, not much; but this sounded pleasant to the ear."

"Yes; it is immortal music. A choir-boy, you said; and pardon me, but, _mon Dieu_, I heard you laugh as I was searching for my book. You have a fine gift that way, and there is little to laugh at nowadays in France."

"Monsieur will excuse me; I am so made that I laugh at everything and at nothing. I believe I do laugh in my sleep. And just now I laughed because--because--"

"Well, why did you laugh?"

Francois glanced at the questioner. Something authoritative in his ways made it seem needful to answer, and what this or any man thought of him he cared little--perhaps because in his world opinions went for nothing. And still he hesitated a moment.

"Well?" There was a note of strong surprise in the voice, as if the owner felt it to be unusual that a query he put should not evoke instant reply.

"I laughed because I was cheated."

"Charming, that! May I ask how? But perhaps--"

"No," said Francois; "if it amuse monsieur, why should I care?" He calmly related his adventure.

The gentleman threw himself back on the seat in an ecstasy of amusement. He was out of humor with the time and with his own world, and bored by the incessant politics of the day; here was a pleasant diversion.

"By St. Denis! my friend, you are like the great Chicot that was fool to King Henry of merry memory."

"And how, monsieur?"

"How? He had a long face that laughed ever, long legs, and a shrewd way of seeming more simple than he was."

"Monsieur flatters me."

"Ah, and a smart rogue, too. I may conclude your profession to be that of relieving the rich of their too excessive luxuries."

Francois was enchanted with this ingenious and unprejudiced companion, who had, like himself, a sense of the laughable aspects of life.

"Monsieur has hit it," he said gaily; "I am a thief."

No one had taught him to be ashamed of anything but failure in his illegal enterprises.

"_Tiens_! That is droll;--not that you are a thief: I have known many in my own world. They steal a variety of things, each after his taste in theft--the money of the poor, the character of a man, a woman's honor."

"I scarcely comprehend," said Francois, who was puzzled.

"They lack your honesty of confession. Could you be altogether honest if a man trusted you?"

"I do not know. No man ever trusted me, and one must live, monsieur."

The gentleman hesitated, and relapsed into the indifference of a too easy life. He had been on the point of offering this outcast a chance.

"_Enfin_, no doubt you are right. I wish you every success. The deuce! Have you my snuff-box and my handkerchief?"

"Both," said Francois.

"Then don't run away. I could never catch you. Long legs must be of use in your profession. The snuff-box I will ransom. Let us say fifty francs. It is worth more, but it bears my name, and there are risks."

"Certainly," said Francois. "And the handkerchief. Monsieur is _enrhume_--has a cold; I could not deprive monsieur."

The gentleman thanked him, paid over the money for the box, and, greatly pleased, rose, saying: "You are a dangerous acquaintance; but I trust we may meet again. _Au revoir!_"

Francois remained on the bench, Toto at his feet in the sun. This meeting affected him strangely. It had been the first touch of a world remote from his own. He did not recognize the fact that he had gifts which enable men to rise in life. At times he had had vague ambitions, but he was at the foot of a ladder, and the rungs above were broken or not to be seen. These moods were brief, and as to their cause not always clear to him. He was by nature social, and able to like or to love; but the people of the Cite were dreadful, and if now and then some broken refugee from a higher class delighted him for a time, the eventful hand of justice or what not was apt to separate them.

As he looked after the gentleman he felt his charm and the courtesy of his ways as something to be desired. His own form of attractiveness, the influence of joyous laughter and frank approach, he had often and usefully tested; and perhaps this sense of his own power to please made him intelligently apprehensive of what he had just experienced. Had he seized eagerly the half-offered help the gentleman suggested rather than offered, he had been wiser; but it was literally true that, being when possible honest as to speech, he had obeyed the moment's impulse. A better man than the gentleman would have gone further. He had lazily reflected, and concluded that to help this poor devil might be troublesome, and thus the jewel opportunity lay lost at their feet. They were to meet again, and then it was to be the thief's turn.

Now he sat in thought, kicking the ground with his boot. Out of the past came remembrances of the asylum, and how he had been told to be good, and not to kill or to steal, or to do certain other naughty things less clear to him then than now. But this was a far-away time. At the choir-house were the same moral lessons, but they who taught were they who sinned. Since then no one had said a word of reproach to the waif; nor had this great gentleman, and yet he had left him in the rare mood of thought-filled depression.

"Wake up, Toto," he cried; "thou art become too fat. _En avant aux champs!_" And, followed by the poodle, he went away up the Seine, and was gone so long that Quatre Pattes began to think he had taken to honest courses and would return no more.

He came back in a fortnight, the better for certain prosperous ventures. And thus the days ran on. If fortune were against him, and even diet hard to get, Toto went with the Crab to some distant market after dusk, and, while she bargained, knew to steal a cutlet, and to run away with his prize, and make for home or the next dark lane. But these devices failed at times, and thus Francois's life consisted of a series of ups and downs. When lucky he bought good clothes, for which he had a liking; when unlucky he pawned them, and went back to garments no one would take in pledge.

It was in the year 1788 that this adventure occurred. He was, as far as was to be guessed, fully twenty-one years of age. His life of adventure, of occasional hardships, and of incessant watchfulness had already given him the appearance of being a far older person.

Always an odd-looking lad, as he grew to maturity his great length of limb, his long face, and ears of unnatural bigness, gave him such singularity of aspect as made disguises impossible.

The poodle was an added danger, and for this reason, when in pursuit of prey, Francois was forced to leave the dog with Mother Crab. Thus time ran on with such perils as attend the life he led, but with better fortune than could have been expected. As to these later years up to 1790, Francois, in his memoirs, says little. Once--indeed, twice--he left the Crab's house, only to be driven back by stress of circumstance. After 1790 his account is more complete, and here it is that we take up again the fuller story of his life.

The turmoil of vast governmental and social changes was disturbing all ranks of life. If the Revolution was nursed in the salons, as some say, it was born in the furrows of the tax-tormented peasant, and in the seething caldron of the Cite and the quarters of the starving poor.

Francois, who cared little what ruler was on top, or who paid taxes, was aware of the uneasy stir in his own neighborhood. Men were more savage. Murder and all violent crimes were more common. That hungry beast, the mob, began to show its fangs, soon to be red with blood. The clubs of all opinions were busy. The church was toppling to ruin, its centuries of greedy gain at an end. Political lines were sharply drawn. The white cockade and the tricolor were the badges of hostile ranks, still more distinctly marked by costume. The cafes were divided: some were Royalist, some Jacobin or neutral. Too many who were of the noble class were flying, or, if more courageous or less forethoughtful, were gathering into bitterly opponent camps. So much of that lower Paris as felt, yearned, hated, and was hungry, glad of any change, was pleased amid tumult to find its chance to plunder and to kill.

The fall of the Bastille in the preceding year had not seemed important to Francois. He had interested himself in the purses of the vast crowd which looked on and was too much taken up with the event to guard the contents of its pockets. The violence which came after was not to Francois's taste; but these street crowds were admirable for business until money became scarce, and the snuff-box and the lace handkerchief disappeared with armorial bearings, and with the decree of the people that great dames must no more go in fine carriages.

*VII*

_Wherein is told how Francois saved a man's neck and learned to juggle._

In the early spring of this year Francois found himself, one day, in a crowd near to the Porte St. Denis. He stood high on his long legs, looking on, while men on ladders broke up the royal escutcheon on the stone archway. It amused him a little to see how furious they were, and how crazy were the foolish _poissardes_: these fishwomen, who had so many privileges under the monarchy, at every blow of the hammer yelled with delight; and behold, here was the Crab, Quatre Pattes, far away from her quarter, hoarse with screaming, a horrible edition of woman as she stood under the arch, careless of the falling fragments. On the edge of the more prudent crowd, an old man was guilty of some rash protest in the way of speech. Francois heard the cry, "_A bas l'aristocrate! a la lanterne!_" and saw the Crab leap on the man like some fierce insect, horribly agile, a thin gray tress down her back. Swift and terrible it was. In a moment he swung writhing from the chain of the street-lantern, fighting with vain hands to loosen the rope. A red-haired woman leaped up and caught his leg. There was laughter. The man above her hung limp. Francois did not laugh. He tried to get out of the crowd, away from this quivering horror. To do so was not easy. The crowd was noisy and turbulent, swaying to and fro, intent on mischief. As he moved he saw a small, stout man take, with some lack of skill, a purse from the side-pouch of a huge fishwoman. Francois, being close to the thief, saw him seized by the woman he had robbed. In the press, which was great, Francois slipped a hand into the thief's pocket, and took out the purse. Meanwhile there were again wild cries of "To the lantern!" "Up with him!" the woman lamenting her loss, and denouncing the man who had stolen. His life was like to be brief. Surrounded by these she-devils, he stood, white, shaking, and swearing he was innocent. The man's anguish of fear moved Francois. "_Dame!_" he cried, "search the man before you hang him! I say, search him!" While one of them began to act on his hint, Francois let the purse fall into the pocket of the original owner--an easy feat for a practised hand. "The man has it not. Look again in thy pouch, maman," he cried. "The man has it not; that is plain." When the dame of the market found her purse, she turned on Francois, amid the laughter of her friends. "Thou art a confederate. Thou didst put it back thyself." Indeed, things were like to go ill. The crowd was of a mind to hang some one. A dozen hands fell on him, while the man he had aided slipped away quietly. Francois shook off the women, and with foot and fist cleared a space, for he was of great strength of body. He would have earned but a short reprieve had he not seen the Crab. He called to her: "_A moi_! Quatre Pattes!" The ring of red-faced furies fell back for a moment before the rage and power of a man defending his life. Half dismayed, but furious, they shouted: "Hang him! rail him!" and called to the men to help them. Again Francois was hustled and struck as the crowd closed in on him. He struggled, and called to Toto, whom nothing so disturbed as to see a rude touch laid on his master. In an instant the dog was busy with the stout calves about him, biting, letting go, and biting again. The diversion was valuable, but brief; and soon Toto, who was not over-valiant, fled to his master, the crowd yelling: "Kill him! Hang him and the beast!" Once more Francois exerted his exceptional strength, crying, "Not while I live!" and catching up the dog under his arm. Then he heard the shrill voice of the Crab. "_A moi!_" he shouted, and struck right and left as Quatre Pattes, with her sticks, squirmed in under the great arms of the fishwomen.

"_A moi!_" she cried, "Francois!" With her sticks, and tongue of the vilest, she cleared a space as the venomous creatures fell back from one more hideous than themselves.

Meanwhile the accusing dame shook her purse at the Crab, crying, "He put it back; I felt him do it." But the rest laughed, and the Crab faced her with so fierce a look that she shrank away.

"Off with thee!" said the Crab to Francois; "thou wert near to the lantern."

"'T is a Jacobin of the best," she cried to the mob; "a friend of mine. You will get into trouble--you cursed fools!"

The crowd cheered her, and Francois, seizing the chance, cried, laughing, "Adieu, mesdames," and in a moment was out of the crowd and away. He turned as many corners as possible, and soon, feeling it safe to move more slowly, set down the dog and readjusted his dress.

A minute later he saw beside him the man he had saved. "Do not speak to me here," he said; "follow me at a distance." The man, still white and shaking, obeyed him. At the next turn, as Francois paused in doubt which way to go, he met Quatre Pattes.

"The devil nearly got thee, my little boy," she said; "but a smart thief is worth some trouble to save. Pay me for thy long neck, and quick, too." She was full _eau-de-vie_, and, as usual then, savage and reckless.

"More!" she cried--"more!" as he gave her a franc. "More, more! Ungrateful beast, thou art good to feed me, and for little else. More, more! I say, or I will call them after thee, and this time I shall have a good pull at the rope. More, more!" and she struck him with her stick. "_Sacre_, waif of hell! More! more!" she screamed. "And that fellow who helped thee! I have seen him; I know him."

Francois turned without a word, and ran as fast as his long legs would carry him. Two blocks away he was overtaken by the other thief. They pushed on in silence.

At last Francois, getting back his somewhat scattered wits, said: "We can talk now."

"Ah, I understand," said the other; "thou didst steal her purse from me, and put it back in her pouch."

"Yes; I took it just as they caught thee; then I let it fall into her pouch."

"I thank thee, monsieur. _Dieu_! I am all in a sweat. We are of a trade, I perceive. Why didst thou help me?"

"To keep it was a risk. My turn might have come next. I pitied thee, too."

"I shall never forget it--never."

Francois laughed. The fat man looked up at him. "_Dame!_ but thou hast a queer face, and ears like wings. 'T is a fortune. Let us have a little wine and talk. I have a good idea."

"Presently," said Francois; "I like not the neighborhood."

Soon they found a _guinguette_, or low liquor-shop, in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, and, feeling at last secure, had a long talk over a bottle of wine.

Francois learned that his new acquaintance was named Pierre Despard, and that he had, for the most part of his means of living, given up the business of relieving the rich of their purses. He explained that he did well as a conjurer, and had a booth near the Pont Neuf. He made clear to Francois that with his quick fingers, and a face which none could see and not laugh, he would be a desirable partner.

"Thou must learn to move those huge ears." Would he be his assistant? When times were bad they might profit by tempting chances in their old line of life.

Francois was just now as near to penitence as his nature permitted him to be, and his recent peril disposed him to listen. The more he reflected as Despard talked, the more he liked it. He ended by saying, "Yes"; and before the Crab had reached home he had taken away his slender store of garments, and, with Toto at his heels, found his way to the room of his new friend, in a little street which ran into the Rue Basse du Rempart, not far from the Madeleine. Thus began a mode of life which he found fresh and full of satisfaction.

The pair so strangely brought together took a room in the fifth story, and, with Toto, set up domestic life on a modest scale. It was much to Francois's contentment. He had what I may call a side taste for the respectable, and this new business seemed to him a decided rise in life. It was varied enough to amuse him; nor was it so conventionally commercial as to lack such adventure and incident as this wild young reprobate of the Cite had learned to like. The new business soon gave the partners more than enough to live upon. After their lodging and diet were provided for, Pierre Despard took two thirds of what was left, and put it away in a stocking, at first with some doubt as to his comrade, but soon with the trust which Francois was apt to inspire. From early morn until noon, Pierre taught Francois to do tricks with cards, to juggle with balls, and to tell fortunes by the lines of the hand. Toto was educated to carry a basket and collect sous, to stand on his head with a pipe in his mouth, and to pick out a card at a signal. The rest of the day was spent in the booth, where they rarely failed to be well paid. At evening there was a quiet cafe and dominoes, and a modest _petit verre_ of brandy. Meanwhile the peasants burned chateaux, and Protestant and Catholic hanged one another in the pleasant South.

[Illustration: "PIERRE TAUGHT FRANCOIS TO JUGGLE WITH BALLS."]

Now and then the Paris mob enjoyed a like luxury, and amid unceasing disorder the past was swept on to the dust-heaps of history.

The little audience of children and nurses in front of the booth was as yet nowise concerned as to these vast changes; nor was Toto disturbed when it was thought prudent to robe him with a three-colored ribbon. The politics of the masters of the show varied as their audiences changed from the children of the rich at noon to the Jacobin workmen at the coming of dusk. Francois personally preferred splendor and the finery of the great. He was by nature a Royalist. Pierre was silent or depressed, and said little as to his opinions. But both had the prudence of men always too near to poverty to take risks of loss for the sake of political sentiments in which they had no immediate interest.

Despard was a somber little man, and nimble, as some fat men are. He was as red-cheeked as a Norman apple, and, at this time, of unchanging gravity of face and conduct. Not even Francois's gaiety could tempt him to relate his history; and although at times a great talker, he became so terrified when frankly questioned as to his past, that Francois ceased to urge him. That any one should desire to conceal anything was to Francois amazing. He was himself a valuable possession to his morose partner.

"I do not laugh," said Pierre; "nay, not even as a matter of business. Thou shalt laugh for two. Some day we will go to see the little girl who is at Sevres, in a school of nuns. 'T is there the money goes."

This was a sudden revelation to Francois. Here was a human being, like himself a thief, who was sacrificing something for another. The isolation of his own life came before him with a sense of shock. He said he should be glad to see the child, and when should they go?

*VIII*

_In which Francois discovers the mercantile value of laughter, and the Crab takes toll of the jugglers--with the sad history of Despard, the partner._

Late in the evenings, in the room they shared, the practice of the early morning was resumed, and, above all, Pierre was overjoyed to see what tricks of feature were within Francois's control. He had, in fact, some of the art of the actor, and was the master of such surprises of expression as were irresistibly comic. By and by the fame of his wonderful visage spread, and very often the young nobles, with their white cockades, came to see, or great ladies would pause to have their palms read. When palmistry was to be used, the booth was closed with black curtains, between which was seen only this long face, with the flaring ears and laughing eyes. Presently a huge hand came out below, the rest of the figure remaining unseen. Then, in the quaintest language, Francois related wonderful things yet to be, his large mouth opening so as to divide the merry face as with a gulf.

It was a time eager for the new, and this astonishing mask had a huge success. The booth grew rich, and raised its prices, so that soon these two pirates of the Cite sat in wonder over their gains, and Pierre began to store up a few louis for a bad day, and for the future of the little maid at Sevres, where two or three of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart had found a new home, and taken again the charge of some of their scattered flock.

Francois was fast learning the art of the conjurer; but at times, sad to say, he yearned for a chance to apply his newly acquired dexterity in ways which were more perilous. He liked change, and had the pleasure in risk which is common to daring men. Indeed, he was at times so restless as to require the urgent counsels of Pierre to keep him tranquil. Once or twice he must needs insist on a holiday, and went away with Toto for two days. They came back dirty and happy, but to Pierre's relief. This uneasy partner was now essential, and more and more Jacobin and Royalist crowded about the booth to get a laugh out of the sight of the face which, appearing through the curtain with hair brushed up and long brown beard combed down, suddenly grew as broad as it had been long. The laugh into which it broke was so cheery, so catching, so causeless, that all who saw fell into fits of merriment such as were not common in those days of danger and anxiety.

Then the partner appeared in front of the booth. So many wished the man who laughed to read their palms that Pierre declared it must be for the highest bidder. A gay auction took place; and the winner heard his fate slyly whispered by the voice of many tones, or it might be that it was loudly read for the benefit of the crowd, and, amid cries and jeers, the victim retired with promise of a wife with a negative dowry in some unexistent section of Paris. Or, again, it was an elderly dame who consulted the voice of fate. She was to have three husbands, and die young. Then another broad hand came forth, and on it the black poodle upright, with a handkerchief to his eyes, and his tail adorned with crape. It was witty, innocent, and amusing, and delighted this Paris, which was becoming suspicious, cruel, and grimly devilish.

Very soon the business in which laughter was sold for what it would bring in laughter, and for what men were willing to pay for an honest grin, began to have incidents which more than satisfied Francois's taste for adventure and greatly troubled Pierre. The little room of the two conjurers had flowers in the window, and a caged bird. These were Francois's luxuries. Pierre did not care for them. He had begun to read books about the rights of man, and bits of "The Friend of the People," by Marat. When Francois first knew him he liked to gossip gravely of what went on, as to the changing fashions, or as to the new "baptism" of the streets, but of the serious aspect of the tumbling monarchy was not inclined to speak. At times, too, he let it be seen that he was well educated; but beyond this, Francois still learned nothing of his past. One evening Francois, gaily whistling, and with Toto after him, turned the knob of their chamber door. There was some resistance. He called, "Pierre!" and the door yielded. He went in. Two candles were burning on their little dining-table. Facing him, in a chair, sat the Crab, Quatre Pattes, the spine bent forward, the head tilted up to get sight of Pierre, who was leaning against the wall back of the door. Her eyes, a dusky red, were wide open to enlarge the view which the bend of her back limited. The beak between them was purple. Her mouth, grim and lipless, was set in deep, radiating wrinkles, and the toothless gums were moving as if she were chewing. Her two wrists rested on the curved handles of her short canes, and her outstretched hands, lean, eager, and deformed, were moving like the claws of some ravenous creature of the jungle.

Francois looked from her to his partner, Despard. He was standing as if flattened, his eyes upon the woman, his palms, outspread, set hard on the wall behind him, a pitiful image of alarm and hatred.

"_Mon Dieu!_" cried Francois, "what is all this? What does this she-devil want?"

"Want! I want money, vagabond thief! I saw thee in the booth yesterday. We are honest, are we? And I know him, too. Him!" and she pointed at Pierre, who murmured:

"Kill her! Take her away!"

Francois laughed. "Out of this, hag!" and he laughed again.

"I know that man," she cried. "_Sacre_, but he is scared, the coward! I remind him of old times. He must pay--pay, or I will fetch the police. He knows me. Out with the money! Empty your pockets!"

Francois shouted: "What, Mother Puzzlebones, dost thou think to scare an old dog of the Cite? Art fit to be mother-in-law of Satan. Out with thee! Out of this, I say! Here is to buy flesh to cover thy rattlebone carcass." He threw two francs before her.

The Crab stood up, and beat with her sticks on the table. "No francs! It is gold I will have--red louis, or I will set the police on thee, and on the fat fool yonder. I will find that girl of his. She must be fit to sell by this time. A beauty was her mother."

"Kill her! Kill her!" said Pierre, wrath in his words, fear in their tremor. Of a sudden he seized a stool, and, mad with some memory of wrong, leaped forward. The Crab faced him with courage, as Francois tore away the stool, and pushed him back. "No murder here. Keep quiet, idiot! And as to thee, thou gutter Crab, out of this!"

Upon this, Toto set up a dismal howl, and made at the old woman. A rousing whack from her stick sent him howling under the bed, where he sat pensive. Then she turned on Francois.

"Look here," she said; "thou hast some sense. That ass has none. Let us talk. Thou canst give me money or let it alone. You both know me. A word to the police, and up goes the little show."

"Very likely."

"Then make a bargain. Pay me, and I hold my tongue. No use to call me names."

"Well, let us have peace, and talk," said Francois. This threat of the Crab as to the officers of the law might not be vain; she was quite too well informed; and there was Pierre, white and furious. Francois foresaw tragedy; comedy was more to his taste.

"What wilt thou have, Quatre Pattes? We are poor. Why threaten thy old lodger?" He was eager to get her away, in order to understand matters. Too much was dark. Pierre said no more, but stood staring, angry and yet afraid.

"A louis a week," cried the Crab.

"Nonsense! These good geese would soon die of starvation, and then no more golden eggs. Here are ten francs. Each week thou shalt have five."

"_Nom de Dieu!_" groaned Pierre; "and to kill her were so easy!"

"Not for thee, coward!" shouted the Crab, knocking her sticks together for emphasis.

"Kill her!" said Pierre, faintly.

"Nonsense!" said Francois. "Come to the booth for it, Crab; not here, mind you, not here--not a sou here."

"Adieu, my jolly bankers," cried the hag. "For the day this will do; then we shall see." With this, the sticks rattled on the tiled floor, and she pattered out of the door, which Francois shut after her.

"Behold us, netted like larks!" he said, and broke into a laugh.

"It is not a thing to laugh at," said Pierre, the sweat rolling down his face.

"No; perhaps not. Let us take counsel. But what troubled thee? Shall a crippled old woman ruin two strong men?"

Pierre groaned, and let his face fall on his palms, making no reply.

"What is it, my friend?"

"I cannot tell thee now. It were useless; it would not help. God has made the little one safe--safe. One of these days I may have the courage to tell thee."

His natural reticence and some too dreadful past combined to keep him silent. Francois was puzzled. He knew the man to be a coward; but his timidity, followed by this sudden outbreak of murderous fury, was inexplicable; nor did he comprehend it fully until later events revealed to him, as he looked back at this scene, the nature of the morbid changes which his partner's character had already begun to feel. "What does it all mean?" he demanded.

"Ask me no more," said Despard. "Not now--not now. She cannot hurt me or mine. It is hate, not fear, I have. But thou? Why didst thou pay?"

"For good enough reasons," said Francois; "but I can take care of myself." He was by no means sure of this. Nevertheless, he laughed as usual, and said: "Let us have supper; I cannot think when I am empty."

No more was said. They ate in silence, and then Pierre turned to his "L'Ami du Peuple," and Francois to a pipe and to his thoughts. Must he give up the booth, and wander? He knew the Crab well enough to fear her. The price of her silence would rise, and to deny her would bring about disaster. He began to wish he had been honest. It was too late now; but France was large, and, after all, he could laugh at his own embarrassment. There was time to think; he had bought that.

They spoke no further of the Crab; but from this time Pierre became depressed and suspicious at every knock on the door. Quatre Pattes came to the booth with her usual eagerness, and if she chanced to be full of bad brandy, and too noisy and unappeasable, Francois paid her something out of his own share of their growing profits. Had he been alone, he might have done otherwise; but Pierre was timid, watchful, and talked sadly of the little one at Sevres. How should he manage if the show came to an end? It had not been worth much until Francois joined him. Before that he had been starving himself to keep the child in careful hands. He became increasingly melancholy, and this especially in the early mornings. He was apt to say at night, "A day is gone, and nothing has happened."

Francois was courageous, and mocked a little at the jade Fortune. "What could happen?" And yet this shrinking little man, fat, doleful, and full of fears, sat heavily upon him; and there, too, was this child whom he had never seen. _Peste_! The children he had known at the asylum were senseless, greedy little cattle, all of one make. Perhaps this girl at Sevres was no better.

*IX*

_In which Francois tells the fortune of the Marquis de Ste. Luce and of Robespierre, and has his own fortune told, and of how Despard saw a man of whom he was afraid._

Francois was soon to be further amazed by Pierre Despard. To the last of his life, Francois remembered that day. A cool October had stripped the king's chestnut-trees of their glory as clean as the king himself was soon to be shorn. The leaves were rustling at evening across the Place Louis XV, and covering the water of the canals. Here, of late, the tent-booth had been set up for the benefit of the better society, which still wore the white cockade of the Bourbons. A merry group of the actors of the Comedie was waiting to see Francois, the maker of faces. There were Chenard of the Opera Comique; Fleury and Saint-Prix, whose gaiety no prison in after days could lessen, and no fear of death abate. "Behold, there is the great Talma," said Pierre, peeping out; "and the aristos are many to-day. Art ready, Francois?"

Francois was delighted. The great Talma here, and actually to see him--Francois! He had of late been acquiring stage ambitions, and taking great pains to improve the natural advantages of a face quite matchless in Paris.

Despard peeped in again. "Yes, Francois; they talk of thee, and there are many in the crowd. They gather to see Talma. There are Jacobins, and thy friends the aristocrats. Make thou haste. Art ready?"

"Yes, yes," said Francois. He felt it to be a great, an unusual occasion. He had a bright idea. He struck with a stick three times on the floor of the booth, the traditional signal at the Theatre Francais for the curtain to rise. A roar of applause outside rewarded his shrewd sense of what was due to this audience.

"_Tiens_! That is good," said La Rive.

The slit in the curtain opened, and, framed in the black drapery, appeared a face which seemed to have come out of the canvas of Holbein. It was solemn, and yet grotesque, strong of feature, the face, beard, and hair white with powder; the eyes were shut.

"_Mon Dieu_," said Talma, "what a mask! 'T is stern as fate." The crowd stayed motionless and silent.

"Look! look!" said Fleury. "'T is a study. To smile with closed eyes! Didst thou ever see a man smile in sleep, Talma?"

It was pretty and odd. Little curves of mirthful change crawled downward from the eyes over the large, grave features; the ears moved; the eyes opened; and a storm of liberal laughter broke up the quiet lines of cheek and mouth.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Talma and the other actors, while the crowd burst into a roar of applause and responsive mirth.

"Angels of fun!" cried Saint-Prix, "what a face! 'T is a gargoyle come down from the roof of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. Does it go back of nights? I wonder what next will he do?"

[Illustration: "''T IS A GARGOYLE COME DOWN FROM THE ROOF OF ST. JACQUES.'"]

"_Tiens_! Wait," said La Rive.

The white face seen above in the slit of the black curtain became suddenly serious, with moveless eyes looking past the audience as if into futurity. Below appeared two large hands, scrupulously clean, while the man's figure remained hidden. There was something impressive in this artful pose.

"Fortunes, fortunes, _messieurs et dames_!" cried Pierre. "Who will have his hand read? _Avancez_--come!"

A shrill voice on the outskirts of the crowd cried, "Read Louis Capet's!" The white cockades turned to look. "It were easy to read," said a tall Jacobin. A gentleman in the black garments of the unprogressive noblesse turned: "Your card, citizen, or monsieur, as you like." The crowd was scarcely stirred by this politely managed difference. It was the year of duels.

Two lads pushed forward their tutor, an abbe, as was plain to see, although few clerics still ventured to wear their old costume. He laughed awkwardly, and timidly laid a fat, well-fed hand on that of Francois's. The grave face of the reader of palms fell forward to see the fateful lines. For a moment Francois was silent; then the voice which came from his stolid visage was monotonously solemn, and the words dropped from it one by one, as if they were the mechanical product of some machine without interest in the results of its own action. One long, lean forefinger traversed the abbe's palm, and paused. "An easy life thou hast had. A woman has troubled it." The two pupils were delighted; the crowd laughed. "The line of life is broken--broken"--Francois's hands went through the pantomime of the snapping of a thread--"like that." The abbe drew back, and could not be persuaded to hear further. Again there was a pause. A grisette advanced smiling, and was sent away charmed with the gifts a pleasant future held in store. Pierre exhorted for a time in vain. Presently the crowd made way. A slight man in breeches and silk stockings came forward; he was otherwise dressed in the extreme of the fashion still favored by the court party, but wore no cockade, and carried two watches, the heavy seals of which Francois greatly desired to appropriate. His uneasy eyes were covered with spectacles, and around them his sallow complexion deepened to a dusky, dull green. Altogether this was a singular and not a pleasant face, or so, at least, thought the palm-reader, a part of whose cunning was to study the expressions of those who asked his skill. The man who laid his hand on Francois's looked up at the motionless visage of the ex-thief. Francois said: "Is it for the citizen alone to hear, or for all?"

"For me--for me."

Francois's voice fell to a low whisper.

"Let the past go," said the listener; "what of the future?"

"It is dark. The lines are many. They are--citizen, thou wilt be a ruler, powerful, dreaded. Thou wilt have admiration, fame, and at last the hatred of man."

"I--I--what nonsense! Then?"--and he waited,--"then? What then? What comes after!"'

"I will tell thee"; and Francois whispered.

"No more--no more; enough of such foolishness!" He was clearly enough disturbed by what he had heard. "Thou must think men fools."

"Fate is always a fool, citizen; but the fools all win, soon or late."

"That, at least, is true, Master Palmister." Then a pair of sinister eyes, set deep behind spectacles, sought those of Francois. "Thou hast a strange face, Master Palm-reader. Dost thou believe what thou dost make believe to read on men's palms?"

"Sometimes."

"Now--now?--this time?"

"Yes; I believe."

"I shall not forget thee."

Francois felt something like a chill between his shoulders. The Jacobin stepped aside after depositing an ample fee in the basket which Toto presented.

There was a murmur in the crowd. Several persons looked with curious eyes after the retreating man, and the conjurer heard some one say: "_Tiens! C'est drole_. It is Robespierre." His was at this time not more than a well-known name. For a minute no one else came forward. Francois saw Pierre slip hastily into the tent; he knew not why. A gentleman came up gaily. He was dressed splendidly, with no regard for the leveling tastes of the day.

"The deuce!" he said quickly; "you are my thief!"

"_De grace_, monsieur!" exclaimed Francois; "you will get me into trouble."

"Not I. Happy to meet you. I am myself fond of palmistry. Come, read me my hand."

Francois bent over the palm. He began aloud: "Ah, here have been many loves." Then his voice fell. "Monsieur is a good swordsman."

"So-so," said the gentleman.

"Monsieur has been unfortunate in his duels."

"_Mon Dieu_! Yes; I always kill people."

"Monsieur has one remorse."

"_Sapristi_! Thou art clever, and I lucky to have but one. Go on; 't is vastly amusing. Shall I live to be old? My people do."

"Monsieur will have troubles, but he will live to be old--very old."

"Will he, indeed? I hardly like that. If I were you, I would tell more agreeable fortunes. To outlive the joys of life, to be left a stranded wreck, while the world goes by gay and busy--pshaw! I like not that. You do it well. Let me read your own palm. I have a taste for this art."

Francois was at once interested. The gentleman's strong left hand took that of the thief, and with a wandering forefinger he ran over the lines of the palm. He let it fall, and looked downward at his own hand. "It is strange that we shall meet again, and in an hour of danger. You will be fortunate, and I shall not. You will have--"

"_Tenez_, monsieur--stop!" cried Francois; "I will hear no more"; and he drew his hands within the tent-folds.

"_Dame_! and you are really a believer in it all, my good thief? Belief is out of fashion. I hope you did tell that cursed Jacobin he would go to a place he doesn't believe in, but which is a little like France to-day. Come and see me if ever you are in trouble and this trade comes to an end. I like men who can laugh. 'T is a pretty talent, and rather gone out just now. I am the Marquis de Ste. Luce--or was. Come and laugh for me, and tell me your story." He let fall a gold louis in Toto's basket, and elbowed his way through the crowd, with "Pardon, monsieur," to white cockades, and scant courtesy to the Jacobins and the _demi-constitutionnels_, who were readily known by their costumes.

As the marquis ceased to speak, Francois heard a singular noise in the tent back of him. He withdrew his head to see the cause, and a moment later, reappearing, said he must be excused, because his friend was ill. The crowd broke up. Within the tent lay Pierre on the ground, in a fit. Francois, greatly alarmed and utterly at a loss, threw water in his face, and waited. In a few moments it was over, and the man, flushed and breathing deeply, lay with red froth on his lips, as if in a deep sleep. He was no longer convulsed; but what further to do the partner knew not, and sat beside him, not more competent to deal with this novel situation than was Toto, who walked about, and scratched his nose, and gave it up. An hour went by with Pierre's head resting on Francois's lap.

At last Despard opened his eyes. "Take him away," he said. The man was delirious.

"Who?"

"Take him away. Will he kill me? He killed her." A half-hour he wandered in mind, while Francois bathed his flushed face. Then he drew a deep breath, and said: "What is this? Where am I?"

Francois replied: "Thou hast had a fit."

"A fit? Yes; I have them--not often. I remember now. Has he gone, that devil?--that marquis?"

"Who? Ste. Luce? Was it he that troubled thee?"

"Yes; he."

"But what then?"

By and by Pierre sat up. Seeing him to be quite himself, but staring about as if in fear, Francois said:

"Come, now; I must have the whole story. What the mischief has this fine gentleman done to thee? I am out of patience with thy tiresome mysteries. I know him; we have met before. Perhaps I can help thee."

"Thou?"

Pierre lay back on the floor, and covered his face.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he cried, "why wilt thou force me to talk of it? Oh, to hate, and to be afraid!" He started up. "I am afraid."

"If I hated a man," said Francois, "_sacre bleu_! I would twist his neck."

"If I could! if I could! I am not like thee. I am--am a coward. That's the truth."

"_Dame!_ that is curious." He regarded the fat little man with attentive eyes. "Suppose we have it all out, and get done with it."

"Done with it?"

"Yes; done with it! Hast thou often had these fits before?"

"Yes; and then I am better for a while."

"Tell me all about this man. I will take care of thee."

"No; God did not: thou canst not."

"Then we must separate. I am tired of thy nonsense, and I do not care a rap how soon this business ends, what with your cursed melancholy and that jade Quatre Pattes. Now, out with it!"

Pierre, seated on the floor of the booth, red-eyed and dejected, looked up piteously at his questioner. "If I tell thee all, thou wilt despise me."

"Not I. Go on! If thou canst speak out like a man, I may be able to help thee; but if thou art of a mind to hold thy tongue, it were better we parted. I am tired of thy folly."

Thus urged, Pierre told his story, reluctant, with bowed head, and at times in tears. Francois sat over him on a stool, now and then asking a question, or waiting patiently when Pierre, choked by overmastering emotions, was silent for a while.

"I have been unhappy and unlucky from the time I can first remember," said Pierre. "My people belonged to the lesser noblesse, but my father was poor--oh, very poor. We had been ruined folks away there in Normandy for half a century, only a bit of farm and vineyard left to us. My mother was of the bourgeoisie, foolish and pretty. She died young, and I was left the only child. My father treated me ill. I had no courage, he said. It was true. As I grew up, I was timid like a girl, and fearful of quarrels. When I was about twenty years old I had a trouble with a brother of this marquis. He struck me with his whip because of something I said. My father learned that I had excused myself, and was wild with rage. It was my bourgeois mother, he said; we had lost all but honor, and now that too was gone. He died not long after, and I, with a few hundred francs, was driven out to care for myself. The marquis had a mortgage on the farm. I went to a village near by, and lived awhile as I could until I was down to my lust sou. I worked like a peasant in the fields; I was the servant at an inn. At last a mountebank company attracted me, and in despair I went with them to take care of the horses which served them in their performances. By and by I learned sleight of hand, and fared better. At last I married a girl who danced in our company. She was pretty,--oh, more than pretty,--and clever, too. When we came again to our town, a notary offered me a petty clerk's place, and I was well contented to settle down. My wife was too eager for the society of the bourgeoisie, and they would have none of that of the dancing-girl. Then, unhappily, this marquis saw my wife, and how I know not, but his fine clothes and cunning were too much for one who was eager for a society she could not have. I was busy, and often absent collecting small debts. No one warned me. I was satisfied, and even put by a little money.

"There was a woman in the village, Mme. Quintette, a dressmaker, a shameless creature of bad life. She might have been then some fifty years old. 'T is now twelve years ago. At her house the marquis met my wife. One day my Renee was gone, and this Quintette with her. It is she who is this Quatre Pattes."

"The deuce!" cried Francois. "Now I see."

"More than a year went by. Thou wouldst have killed the man. I could not. I am a coward, Francois--a coward! God made me so; I can't help it. One day an infant was brought to my door, with a note. _Mon Dieu_, such a note! The dying mother in the hospital with her last money paid a good sister to take the child to me--to me, of all men! And would I pardon her? Francois, it was that devil's babe and hers. Would I forgive her, and keep it? Wouldst thou have kept it?"

"No," said Francois; "not I."

"I did! I did! It was like her, all but the eyes. I grew to love it. Then there was an accident, a fall, and the little maid is crippled for life. It seemed horrible, but now I thank God, because she is safe from the baseness of men. I wanted to die, but I must live; she has no other friend."

Francois sat still, pitiful, and deep in thought. At last he said: "Why were you so terribly afraid of that woman? She could do no worse than ruin our business."

"I--hast thou ever been afraid thou wouldst murder some one? I was. I would have done it in a minute hadst not thou come in."

"_Sac a papier_! Afraid of thyself! How queer! Thou wert afraid of thyself?"

"Yes; I am--I was--I am often afraid of myself."

"Let us forget it."

"I cannot. What can I do?"

"Do? Nothing."

"But that man--"

"Well, thou art helpless. I should not be. Forget. Thy chance may come." He was at the end of his wisdom. He pitied this weak-hearted coward who so frankly avowed his defect. "We will speak of it no more, Pierre, or not now. But what brought you to Paris? Let us have it all, and get done with it."

"My poor little humpback was hardly six years old when she came to me, crying, to know why the village children would not play with her. She was a humpback and a bastard. What was 'bastard'? I have always fled from trouble. One day I took the child and what little I had, and was away to Paris. God knows how it hurt me to hear every evening how she had been mocked and tormented; one is so foolishly tender. In this great city I sought work, and starved. And when at last she was fading before my eyes, I stole--my God, I stole!"

"_Dame_! thou art particular. Must a man starve?"

"When I got money out of a full purse I took, I set up our little business, and then I found thee. And this is all. I dare say I shall feel better to have told some one. I did not want to steal. I did not steal after I began with the booth, unless I was in need--oh, sorely in need. It was so on that fortunate day when I was saved by thee. In thy place I should have kept the old fishwife's purse."

"And let me swing?"

"Yes--perhaps; I don't know. I--it is well for me thou wert not a coward."

"_Sacristie_! It appears that not to be a coward has its uses. Now _bon jour_ and adieu to the whole of this business. Let the miserable past go. 'T is bad company, and not amusing. Have no fear; I will take care of thee. Come, let us go home."

"Thou wilt look about a little before we go?"

"Toto, he is mad, this man."

"I sometimes think I am. At night, in my dreams, I have him by the throat, and he laughs, and I cannot hold him. I wake up, and curse in the darkness because I cannot kill him. And then I know it is a debt never to be paid--never."

Francois had had enough of the small man's griefs. Contempt and pity were strangely mingled as he listened to his story.

"I shall let thee talk no more," he said. "But _mille tonnerres_! I cannot help thee to go mad. Let us go and wander in the country to-morrow, thou and I and Toto. It will comfort thee. But no more of this; I will not stand it."

The advice was wholesome, and, as usual, Pierre accepted the orders of his more sturdy-minded friend.

*X*

_How Pierre became a Jacobin and how a nation became insane._

Although the marquis was not again upon the scene, as the months went by Despard became by degrees more gloomy. At night, in place of the gay little cafe, he went out to the club of the Jacobins, and fed full of its wild declamations against the _emigres_ and the aristocrats. It amused Francois, who saw no further ahead than other men. Despard came home loaded with gazettes and pamphlets, and on these he fed his excitement long after his partner was asleep.

When, as time went by, Pierre's vagaries increased, Francois found in them less subject for mirth. The fat little man sat up later and later at night. At times he read; at others he walked about muttering, or moving his lips without uttering a sound. What disturbed Francois most was that the poodle now and then showed fear of Pierre, and would no longer obey him as he had been used to do.

Meanwhile, as Pierre still attended sedulously to business, Francois could find no fault. He himself had become devoted to his art of palm-reading. He bought at the stalls old books, Latin and French, which treated of the subject, and tried to keep up the name his odd ways had made so profitable. Deceit was a part of his working capital; but deceit and credulity are apt to go together, as a great man has well said. Not for many louis would the conjurer have let any one read again the lines of his own hand. When Despard began to teach him the little he himself knew of palmistry, it had caused interest, and after a while a half-belief. This grew as he saw the evident disturbance to which the use of his art gave rise in certain of those who at first appeared to look upon it as an idle jest. The imaginative have need to be wary, and this man was imaginative, and had the usual notions of the gambler and thief as to omens and luck. I have said he had no definite working conscience. I have also said that he possessed an inborn kindness of heart; he had a long memory for benefits, and a short one for injuries. His courage was of fine quality: not even Quatre Pattes could terrify him.

The politics of the time were becoming month by month more troublous to such as kept their heads steady in the amazing tumble of what for centuries had been on top, and the rise of that which had been as long underneath. The increasing interest of Pierre in all that went on surprised Francois, and sometimes, as I have said, amused him. He could not comprehend why he should care whether the king ruled, or the Assembly. This mighty drama was nothing to him. He paid no taxes; he toiled not, nor spun, except nets of deceit; and whether or not commerce died and the plow stood idle in the furrow was to him of no moment. Meanwhile, before the eyes of a waiting, wondering world historic fate was shuffling the cards as neither war nor misrule had shifted them for many a day. Knave and king, spade and club, were now up, now down. Every one was in a new place. The old surnames were replaced by classical appellations. Streets, palaces, and cities were rebaptized with prenominal republican adjectives. Burgundy, Anjou, Navarre, and the other ancient provinces, knew no more their great names heroically famous.

All men were to be equal; all men were free to be what they could. But the freedom of natural or acquired inequality was not to be recognized. There were new laws without end. The Jacobin added a social creed. All men must _tutoyer_. "Your Majesty" was no more to be used. Because the gentles said "thou" and "thee" to one another and to an inferior, all men must "thou" as a sign that all are on a level.

A bit of paper was to be five francs--and take care of thy head if thou shouldst venture to doubt its value. As to all else, men accepted the numberless and bewildering decrees of the Assembly. But the laws of commerce no ruler can break. These are despotic, changeless, and as old as the act of barter between man and man. The assignats fell in value until two hundred francs would scarce buy a dinner. There, too, was a new navy and a new army, with confusing theories of equal rights for sailor, soldier, and captain.

A noble desire arose everywhere to exercise the new functions. What joy to cast a ballot, to act the part of officials, to play at soldiering! All the cross dogs in France are unchained and the muzzles off; and some are bloodhounds. What luxury to be judge, jury, and hangman, like the noble of long ago!

Even childhood caught the temper of the time. It played at being officer and prisoner, built and tore down bastilles, and at last won attention and a law all to itself when some young ruffians hung one of their number in good earnest for an aristocrat.

However indifferent was Francois at this time, the shifting drama amused him as some monstrous burlesque might have done. Its tragedies were as yet occasional, and he was by nature too gay to be long or deeply impressed. There was none he loved in peril, and how to take care of Francois his life had taught him full well.

"_Allons zi gaiement!_" he cried, in the tongue of his old quarter; and kept a wondering, anxious eye on Pierre.

*XI*

_The juggling firm of Despard, Francois & Co. is broken up--Despard goes into politics, and Francois becomes a fencing-master._

January, 1791, Francois, having of late found business slack, had moved to the open _place_ in front of the Palais Royal. He had taught Toto new tricks--to shoulder a musket and to die _pour la patrie_. Time was telling men's fortunes quite too fast for comfort. Neither his old devices nor Toto's recently acquired patriotism was of much avail. Moreover, Pierre was losing interest in the booth as he became absorbed in politics.

"Thou wilt not go to thy _sacre_ club, Pierre," said Francois, one night late in February. "Here are two days thou hast left us, the patriot Toto and me, to feed thee and make sous for the poor little maid at Sevres."

"She is not at Sevres."

"Why not? Thou hast not said a word to me of this."

"No; I had more important matters to think of."

Francois, who was tranquilly smoking his pipe, looked up at his partner. The man had lately worn a look of self-importance.

"Well, what else?"

"The sisters are aristocrats. A good _citoyenne_ hath her. I shall give up the show. The country calls me, Pierre Despard, to save her. The great Robespierre hath asked me to go into Normandy, to Musillon, whence I came. I am to organize clubs of Jacobins." He spoke with excitement, striding to and fro. He declared that he was not afraid now of any one. To serve France was to have courage.

"And how as to money?" asked Francois.

He said his expenses would be paid by the clubs. Barnave, Duport, and the deputies of the Right must be taught a lesson. There must be no more kings. The people must rule--the people! He declaimed wildly.

"_Fichtre!_" cried Francois, laughing. "It does seem to me that they rule just now."

Pierre went on with increasing excitement; and would not Francois go with him?

"Go with thee? Thou sayest we shall be deputies in the new Convention. A fine thing that! And Toto too, I suppose? Not I. I am an aristocrat. I like not thy Robespierre. As to the show, it pays no longer, and I have greased the claws of the Crab until there is no more grease left. I shall take to the streets, Toto and I. And so thou art to be a great man, and to play poodle on thy hind legs for Petion and the mob?"

Pierre was offended. He rose and stood glaring at Francois with wide-open eyes; then he said, as if to himself: "The marquis is near Evreux. Let him take heed!"

"_Mon Dieu_! He will eat thee as he would the frogs of his moat, that man! I am not of those who fear, but if I had angered him--"

"I have named him to the great Robespierre, the just, the good. He will remember him."

"Then go; and the devil take the whole lot of you!"

"I shall go. But do not say thou art an aristocrat, for then I must hate thee."

"_Grand merci_! Thou poor, fat little pug, canst thou hate?"

"Aye, as hell hates." Upon this Toto took refuge under his master's bed.

Francois rose, and, standing in front of the flushed, fat little man, set a hand on each of Pierre's shoulders and stopped his excited march.

"I cannot understand thee. I never could contrive to hate even a gendarme, and if hell hates, I know not. Thou art helpless as a turtle that is on his back. What use to kick? No; do not answer me. Hear me out. I shall go my way--thou thy way. I served thee a good turn once, and thou hast helped me to a living. Now I like not thy ways; thou art going mad, I think."

"Perhaps--perhaps," returned Pierre, gloomily. "Well, _c'est fini_--'t is done. Now to settle."

They divided their spare cash; and after that Pierre went to his club, and Francois to bed and a dreamless sleep.

In the morning he rose early, left his share of the rent on the table, and with a little bag of clothes, and Toto after him, walked away across the Seine, and soon found a small room under the roof. He paid in advance the customary _denier a Dieu_, and settled down to think.

[Illustration: "HE PAID IN ADVANCE THE CUSTOMARY DENIER A DIEU."]

He was tired of the show, and meant to resume his old trade. His conscience, or so much as he had, was at peace; all France was plundering. Now the nobles were robbed, and now the church.

"The world is on my side," he laughed, as he sat with Toto on his knees, looking over a wide prospect of chimney-pots and tiles.

Thus began again the life of the thief; but now, thanks to his long training as a juggler, he was amazingly expert. He took no great risks, but the frequent tumults of the streets were full of chances, although it must be said that purses were thinner, watches and gold snuff-boxes rarer, and caution less uncommon than it had once been. If business prospered, he and Toto took long holidays in the country, and did a little hunting of rabbits; for the gamekeeper was no longer a person to be dreaded. Sometimes, lying on the turf, he thought how pleasant would be a bit of garden, and assurance of good diet and daily work to his taste. I fear it would scarcely have been long to his taste. When something like a chance came, he could not make up his mind to accept the heaven-sent offer. He was to see many things and suffer much before his prosperous hour arrived.

One fine day in April, Francois, with whom of late fortune had quarreled, was seated in the sun on a bench in the now ill-tended garden of the Luxembourg. The self-made difficulties of the country were affecting more and more the business of the honest, and of that uncertain guild which borrows but never returns. He had a way of taking Toto into his counsels. "What shall we do, little devil?" The poodle barked. "No. These accursed Jacobins are ruining France. What, knock a man on the head at night! Bad dog, hast thou no morals? _Va donc_! Go to. Thou hast not my close experience of the lantern, and stone walls for a home I like not. Work, thou sayest? Too late; there is work for no one nowadays. Thou wilt end badly, little monster."

Toto whined, and having no more to say, fell asleep. At this moment Francois, looking up, saw go by a young woman in black, and with her a boy of perhaps ten years. On the farther side was a tall, well-dressed man of middle age, whom, as he was looking away, Francois did not recognize. Some bright thing fell unnoticed from the woman's wrist, and lay in the sun. "Hist, Toto! Look there--quick!" In a moment the dog was away, and back again, with a small miniature set in gold and surrounded by pearls. It was the portrait of a young officer. Francois hastily put it back into the dog's mouth, saying: "Go to sleep! Down! down quickly!" The dog, well taught, accepted the trust, and dropped as if in slumber, his head on his paws, while his master studied the weathercocks on the old gray palace. A moment later both the man and the woman turned to look for the lost miniature. Then Francois saw that it was his old acquaintance the marquis. He had more than once seen him in the garden, where he was fond of walking; but the great seigneur had passed him always without notice. The boy ran back ahead of his grandfather, and coming to Francois, said innocently:

"Monsieur, have you seen a little picture madame let fall? It is so big, and I saw it only just now on her wrist. Please to help us to look for it. It is my father; he is dead."

After the boy came the woman, looking here and there on the gravel.

"_Dame de Dieu!_ she is beautiful," murmured Francois; "and that _sacre_ marquis!"

The voice he heard was sweet and low, and tender with regret at her loss.

"Has monsieur chanced to see a little miniature?"

Monsieur was troubled, but his pocket and stomach were both empty. Monsieur was distressed. He had seen no miniature.

Next came the marquis.

"Ho, ho!" he said pleasantly. "Here is the citizen my thief again. Have you seen a small miniature?"

Francois had not.

"_Diable_! 'T is a pity, monsieur. Well, pardon a _ci-devant_ marquis, but I do think monsieur knows a little too much of that miniature for his eternal salvation. Also, monsieur does not lie as well as might be expected from one in his line of life."

Francois rose. He was embarrassed as he saw the tearful face of the woman.

"I was about to say I would look--I would search."

Ste. Luce smiled. "Suppose we begin with you?"

"I have it not."

"Well, but where is it? I am not a man to be trifled with. Come, quick, or I must ask the gendarmes yonder for a bit of help."

Francois looked at him. There was menace in those cold gray eyes. Should he trust to his own long legs? At this instant he heard a sob, and glancing to the right, saw the woman seated on the bench with her face in her hands, the little fellow at her side saying: "Do not cry, mama; the gentleman will help us." The gentleman was ill clothed and seedy. He had seen women cry, but they were not like this woman.

"M. le Marquis does me injustice. Permit that my dog and I search a little."

The marquis smiled again. "_Pardieu!_ and if you search, and meanwhile take a fancy to run, your legs are long; but now I have you. How the deuce can I trust a thief?"

The little lad looked up. "I will go with monsieur to look--and the dog; we will find it, mama."

"Monsieur may trust me; I will not run away," said Francois. "If monsieur desires to search me?"

"I do not search thieves."

Francois looked at this strangely quiet gentleman with the large, light-gray, unpleasant eyes, and then at the woman.

"Come, Toto; we must take a look."

The marquis stood still, quietly watching thief, dog, and boy.

"Renee," he said, "don't make a fool of yourself."

Then from a distance the boy cried, "We found it, mama!" and ran to meet her.

The marquis took it as Francois rejoined the group.

"Ah, Master Thief, you are clever; but it is a little wet, this trifle, and warm too. The dog had it all the while in his mouth. He is well taught. Why the deuce did you give it up?"

The boy began to understand this small drama. He had the courage of his breed, and the training.

"Did you dare to steal my mama's picture?"

"Yes; when she let it fall."

"I know now why you were glad to give it back. It was because she cried."

"Yes; it was because she cried."

"Venire St. Gris!" exclaimed the marquis, who was pleased to swear like Henry of Navarre. "You are a poor devil for a thief. You have temptations to be good. I never have them myself. I thank Heaven I have reasonably well used my opportunities to be agreeably wicked."

"Father!" said the young woman, reproachfully; and then to Francois: "If you are a thief, still I thank you; I cannot tell you how much I thank you."

"And how many louis do you expect, most magnanimous of thieves?" said the marquis.

The woman looked up again. "Come to me to-morrow; I will find a way to help you."

Something of yearning, some sense of a void, some complexity of novel distress, arose in the thief's mind.

"_Mon Dieu!_ madame," he said, turning toward her, without replying to the marquis, "you are a saint. I--I will think. I am not fit for such as you to talk to."

"Quite true," said the marquis. "Hast thou thy purse, Renee? I forgot mine."

"No, no," she said. "Come and see us--Rue des Petits-Augustines--a great house with a gilded gate. You will come? I will say they are to let you in. Promise me that you will come."

"And bring that poodle," added the marquis; "I will buy him."

Francois laughed outright--that merry laugh which half Paris had learned to like, till Paris tired of it and of its owner.

"Monsieur will pardon me. I cannot sell my only friend. Good day." And he walked away, the boy crying after him: "You will come? Oh, you must come, because my mama says so."

The marquis muttered: "_Animal_! If I had your carcass--no, if I had had you awhile ago in Normandy, your manners would have been bettered. But now the world is upside down. He will come, Renee. If thou art quit of him for two hundred francs and a few lost spoons, thou mayest rest thankful."

Francois moved moodily away. Something was wrong in his world; an angel coming into his crude life would not have disturbed him as this lady's few kind words had done, and yet he had left her unanswered. He knew he had been a fool, but knew not why. He had, too, a notion that he and this marquis would meet again, but for this he was not eager. He recalled the palm-reading. Had the woman been alone, he would probably have said a glad "Yes"; but now his inclinations to obey her were sadly diluted by feelings which he did not analyze, or perhaps could not have analyzed. He did not accept the hand thus stretched out to save him, but for many a day her tender eagerness and the pleading face which had so attracted him came before him at times with a look of reproach. Is it strange that this glimpse of a nobler nature and a better life than his own should have had an influence on this man quite the reverse of that which its good will sought to effect? He cannot be said to have been refined, but he had in him tastes which are the germs of refinement, and which, when I knew him, had no doubt produced results. Probably he was in 1791 a coarser person, but he must always have been a man who could be forced by circumstances to think.

It may have been that the sense of a great gulf between him and a world he was by nature inclined to like caused one of those rare spells of despair to which the gay and over-sanguine are liable. Of course he had seen and for brief seasons shared the profligacy of the Cite,--his memoirs confess this with absolute frankness,--but these gross lapses had been rare and brief. Now he plunged headlong into the worst vileness of the most dissolute quarter, where few lived who were not saturated with crime. I have no desire to dwell on this part of his life. A month passed away, and he was beginning to suffer in health. This amazed him. He had not hitherto known a pang save that of hunger. He began to drink _eau-de-vie_ to relieve his sense of impaired strength, and being off his guard and under the influence of the temporary mood of rashness which drink is apt to cause, he twice narrowly escaped arrest.

Under the vivid impression thus created he was wandering homeward late at night to some low resort in the Cite, when in the Rue aux Feves he heard a cry in front of him. The moon was bright, and he saw a man set upon by two fellows. The person assailed was staggering from the blow of a club, and fell with the cry which the thief heard. Both bandits threw themselves upon him, and, as he unwisely struggled, Francois saw the glitter of a knife. Clearly this was no easy prey. As the three tumbled over in the mud of the street there was small chance for a decisive use of the blade. Francois, as I have said, had been always free from crimes of violence, but this affair was none of his business, and had his pocket been full he might have left the ruffians and their prey unmolested. His purse, however, was down to the last sou, and here was a chance.

He called, "Catch them, Toto!" and, leaping forward, seized one of the men by the throat and threw him on his back. The poodle took a good nip of the other rascal's leg, and when the man broke away and, stumbling, ran, pursued him until recalled by Francois's whistle. Meanwhile the assaulted man sat up, a bit dazed. The other fellow--it was he of the knife--was on his feet again, and at once turned furiously on the rescuer. Francois darted to one side, and, catching him by the neck, throttled him savagely. His great length of arm made it impossible for the scamp, who was short and strong, to reach any vital organ. But he stabbed Francois's shoulder over and over. Francois's grip on the throat was weakening, when the victim, now on his feet, struck the man under the ear, and thus knocked him clean out of Francois's failing grip. He fell headlong, but was up and away in a moment, while a crowd began to collect.

"Hi! it is Francois!" some one cried.

"Quick!" said the thief. "Room there! Let us get out of this." Seizing the man he had saved, he hustled his way through the crowd and hurried him toward the bridge. In a few minutes they were standing alone by the river, amid the tombs back of Notre Dame. Then the man spoke:

"By Heaven! thou hast saved my life. Hallo! thou art bleeding. Here!" and he tied a handkerchief about his shoulder. "We shall be in luck to find a chaise. Wait!" and he ran away.

Francois's head was dizzy. He sat on a tombstone, well sobered now, but bleeding freely. It was long before he heard a horse; and when in the chaise, where Toto promptly followed him, he fell back, and knew little more until they stopped in the Rue St. Honore. Here his new acquaintance got out, and soon returned with a glass of _eau-de-vie_. With this aid, and the arm of his host, Francois was able to reach a large room in the second story. He fell on a couch, and lay still while the other man ran out to find a surgeon.

On his arrival, Francois was put to bed in an adjoining room, and for two weeks of care and good diet had leave to meditate on the changeful chances of this wretched world. For a while he was too weak to indulge his customary keenness of curiosity. His host, M. Achille Gamel, paid him brief visits, and was singularly unwilling to talk one day, and the next sufficiently so for the patient to learn that he had been in the army as a _maitre d'armes_, and was now, in his own opinion, the best fencing-master in France. Through the partitions could be heard the click, click of the foils, and now and then the crack of pistols. After a fortnight Francois's wounds were fairly healed, and he began to get back his rosy complexion and his unfailing curiosity.

One pleasant evening in June, Gamel appeared as usual. It was one of his days of abrupt speech.

"Art well?"

"Yes."

"Thou art soon mended."

"Yes." His brevity begot a like form of answer, and Francois was now somewhat on his guard.

"I pay my debts."

"That is true."

"Now thou art well, what wilt thou do?"

"I--I--I shall go away."

"Why didst thou help me?"

"My pocket and paunch were empty. It seemed a chance."

"Thy two reasons are good. Who art thou?"

"Who is every one in the Cite? A thief."

"_Diable!_ but thou art honest--in speech at least."

"Yes, sometimes. I was a conjurer too--for a while."

"Yes, yes, I remember now. Thou art the fellow with a laugh. I see not yet why thou hast helped me. Thou mightest easier have helped the rascals and shared their gains."

Francois began to be interested, and laughed a laugh which was the most honest of his possessions.

"I dislike clumsiness in my profession," he said. "Why should the brutality of war be brought into a peaceful occupation?" He was half in earnest, half in jest.

"That is a third reason, and a good one." It was difficult to surprise Gamel. "Suppose we talk business," he added.

"Mine or thine?"

"Mine. A moment, Citizen Francois--permit me. Pray stand up a moment."

Francois rose as the fencing-master produced a tape-measure. "Permit me," and with no more words he set one end of the tape on Francois's shoulder and carried the length of it to his finger-tips.

Francois stood still, wondering what it all meant.

"The deuce!" said Gamel, slowly rolling up the measuring-tape.

"Well, what is it? What is wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing. It is astonishing!"

"What?"

"This arm of thine."

"Why?"

"It is one and a half inches longer than mine."

"Well?"

"A gift! To have the longest arm in Paris! _Mon Dieu!_"

"What of that?"

"A fortune! Phenomenal! Superb! And a chest--and muscles! By Hercules, they are as hard as horn!"

"Well?"

"_Diable_! Thou art dull for a thief."

Francois had a high opinion of himself. He said: "Perhaps. What next?"

"I need help. I will teach thee to fence and to shoot. Canst thou be honest? I ask not if thou art."

"Can I? I do not know. I have never tried very long." Then he paused. To fence like a gentleman, to handle a sword, had its temptations. "Try me."

"Good! Canst thou be a Jacobin to-day and a Royalist to-morrow?"

"Why not?"

"The messieurs and their kind fence here in the morning; after our breakfast come the Jacobins about two. I ask not thy politics."

"Why not?" said Francois, who was the frankest of men--"why not? I am an aristocrat. I am at the top of my profession. I like naturally the folks who are on top."

"France is like a ball now, no top, no bottom, rolling. Let us be serious."

"_Dieu!_ that is difficult. I want to quit thieving. It doesn't pay at present. I accept the citizen's offer. Does it include my dog?"

"Yes, indeed! Toto--a treasure! He will delight our pupils."

"Good! He must have a little sword and wear a white cockade till noon, and then a tricolor."

"And will five francs a week suffice until thou art fit to teach? And thy board and lodging--that goes without saying. After a while we will talk again."

"'T is a fortune!" said Francois; and upon this agreement the pair fell to chatting about the details of their future work.

"One moment," said Francois, as Gamel rose. "What are thy own politics?"

"I will tell thee when I can trust thee," said the fencing-master. "Now they vary with the clock."

"I see. But I have told thee mine."

"Thou wert rash. I am not."

Francois laughed merrily, "Good night." He was happy to be at rest, well fed, and with something to do which involved no risk. Gamel went away, and Francois fell to talking to the poodle.

"Toto! Sit up, my sleepy friend! Attention! What dost thou think of M. Achille Gamel?" The poodle had been taught when questioned to put his head on one side, which gave him an air of intelligent consideration. "Ah, thou dost think he is as long-legged as I! Any fool of a cur can see that. What else?"

"He has great teeth--big--the better to eat thee, my dear! Curly hair, like thine, and as black; a nose--of course he has a nose, Toto. Art perplexed, little friend? Oh, that is it! I see. Thou art right. He smiles; he never laughs. 'T is that bothered thee. Thou dost like him? Yes. Thou art not sure? Nor I. We must laugh for two. The bones are good here. That is past doubt. We will stay, and we will keep our eyes open. And listen now, Toto. We are honest. Good! Dost thou understand? No more purses, or out we go. No stealing of cutlets. Ah, thou mayest lick thy chops in vain, bandit!"

A few days later Gamel began to fence with Francois, who liked it well. He was strong, agile, and like his old friends the cats for quickness of foot. Gamel was charmed.

"We must make no mistakes. The foil held lightly--so, so! If you grasp it too strongly you will not feel the other's blade. That is better. 'T is the fingers direct the point. Thy hand a little higher--so, so!"

They fenced before the pupils came and in the intervals when none was on hand. Francois was tireless.

It was June now, and Robespierre was the public prosecutor, with Petion at his side. Gamel read aloud the announcement with a coldly stern face. Francois heard it with indifference.

"_Tiens!_" he cried. "What matters it? _Dame!_" as he lunged at the wall, "I do believe my arm is an inch longer." He was thinking, as he tried over and over a new guard, of what a queer education he had had. Gamel walked away into his own room. He was a man who often liked to be alone. Apt to be monosyllabic with his pupils, he could at times become seriously talkative at night over a pipe and a glass. Francois began to like him, and to suspect that he in turn was liked--a matter not indifferent to this poor devil, who had himself an undeveloped talent for affection.

"_Mon ami_, Toto! Let us think. I might have been a priest. What an escape! Or a great chorister. That is another matter. A thief, a street-dog, a juggler, a _maitre d'escrime_. _Parbleu_! What next? We are getting up in the world. My palm, little rascal? Thou wouldst read it. Ah, bad dog, not I! Let us to bed; come along. It seems too good to last."

*XII*

_In which Toto is seen to change his politics twice a day--the mornings and the afternoons quarrel--In which Jean Pierre Andre Amar, "le farouche," appears._

The fencing-master took great pains with his promising _debutant_, and now at last thought he could trust him to give lessons. He gave him much advice, full of good sense. He must dress simply, not in any marked fashion. And here were the two cockades, and two for Toto, who was fitted with a toy sword, and had been taught to howl horribly if Francois said, "Citizen Capet," and to do the like if he cried, "Aristocrat!"

Francois, gay and a little anxious, followed Gamel for the first time during the lesson-hours into the _salle d'armes_. Toto came after them in full rig, with a cap and a huge white cockade. A dozen gentlemen, most of them young, were preparing to fence.

The poodle was greeted with "Bravo!" and strutted about on his hind legs with evident enjoyment of the approval.

"Wait here," said Gamel to Francois. "I will by and by give thee a chance." Francois had, of course, been constantly in the room when the patrons were absent, and it was now familiar. It had been part of the old hotel of some extinct nobleman, and was of unusual height, and quite forty feet square, with tall windows at each end; a cushioned bench ran around the walls, and above it hung wire masks, foils, sabers, and a curious collection of the arms of past ages and barbarous tribes. Chiefly remarkable were the many fine blades, Spanish or Eastern. At the side of the hall, a doorway led into the shooting-gallery, a late adjunct since the English use of the pistol had been brought into the settlement of quarrels made savage by the angry politics of the day. On one of the walls of the fencing-room was a large sign on which was painted: "Achille Gamel, _ci-devant_ Maitre d'Armes, Regiment du Duc de Rohan-Chabot. Lessons in the small sword, saber, and pistol." The word "Duc" was chalked over, but was still easily to be made out.

Presently Gamel came to Francois in his shirt and breeches, foil in hand. "This way, Francois." As they slowly crossed the room, Gamel went on to say in a low tone of voice: "Don't be too eager. Take it all as a matter of course. Don't be nervous. One must have had a serious affair or two before one gets over the foil fever. Remember, you are here to teach, not to triumph. There are few here you cannot touch, but that is not business."

"I understand," said Francois.

"I will give you for your lesson the best blade in Paris. You can teach him nothing. He is my foster-brother, the Marquis de Ste. Luce."

"Ste. Luce!"

"Yes; he is here often."

As they approached, the great gentleman came to meet them, separating himself from the laughing group of younger men.

"_Ma foi!_" he exclaimed. "Is this your new blade, Gamel?" He caught Francois's appealing eye, and showed no sign of having known the thief until they were apart from the rest and had taken their foils. Then he said quietly, "Does Gamel know?"

"Yes, monsieur. I saved his life in a row in the Cite, and he gives me this chance."

"Good! I shall not betray you. But beware! You must keep faith, and behave yourself."

"Monsieur may trust me."

"And you can fence?"

"A little, monsieur."

"Well, then, on guard!" The marquis was pleased to praise the new teacher. "He has a supple wrist, and what a reach of arm!" At last he went away to Gamel's room, where they were absent a half-hour. These private talks, Francois observed later, were frequent, especially with certain of the middle-aged gentlemen who took here their morning exercise.

After this first introduction to business, Francois sat still when the marquis had left him. By and by the gentleman came back, and saying a word of encouragement to Francois, went away.

"Take M. de Lamerie, Francois," said Gamel; and turning to a gentleman near by, added, "_A vous_, monsieur." Others began to select foils and to fence in couples, so that soon the hall rang with the click, click of meeting steel. Francois was clever enough to let his pupil get in a touch now and then, and meanwhile kept him and those who looked on delighted with his natural merriment. He was soon a favorite. The dog was made to howl at a tricolored cockade, and proved a great success. As to the fencing-lessons, Gamel was overjoyed, and as time ran on came to trust and to like his thief, who began speedily to pick up the little well-mannered ways and phrases he heard about him. He liked well to be liked and to be praised for his skill, which week by week became greater, until none except M. Gamel and the marquis were able to meet him on equal terms. The master of arms was generous; the wages rose. The clothes Francois now wore were better, and when Gamel asked him to choose a rapier for wear in the street, which was not yet forbidden, the poor thief felt that he was in the full sunlight of fortune.

The afternoons were less to his taste. If a new pupil arrived, the cook, an old woman, let him in, and Gamel saw him in an anteroom and settled terms and hours. The Jacobins came after two o'clock. Then the room was unusually full. The poodle howled at the name of Louis Capet. Tricolored cockades were everywhere. The talk was of war and the frontier, the ways of speech were guarded, the manners not those of the morning. These citizens were awkward, but terribly in earnest. The pistol-gallery was much in favor; but at this deadly play Francois was never an expert. He did not like it, and was pleased when the Vicomte de Beausejour, a favored pupil, said: "'T is a coarse weapon, Francois. Ah, well enough to enable bulldog English to settle their disputes over a bone; but, _dame!_ quite unfit to be the arm of honor of gentlemen." This uncertain property of honor seemed to Francois a too insecure kind of investment. It was enough to have to take care of one's pocket; and his being now well lined, Francois began to resent the possibility of those sudden changes of ownership which under other conditions he had looked upon as almost in the nature of things.

During this summer, and in the winter of '91 and '92, Gamel was at times absent for days. Whenever he returned he was for a week after in his monosyllabic mood. Francois, who was keenly alive to his present advantages, and who saw how these absences interfered with their business, began to exercise his easily excited inquisitiveness, and to meditate on what was beneath Gamel's frequent fits of abstraction. His own life had known disappointments, not always of his own making. He dreaded new ones. The past of the Cite, Quatre Pattes, Despard, those haunting eyes of the marquis's widowed daughter, the choristers, the asylum, the mad street life--all the company of his uncertain days--were gone. Now, of late, he began to have a feeling of uneasy belief that things were once more about to change. Nor was the outer life of the capital such as to promise tranquillity. A nation was about to become insane. It was at this time like a man thus threatened: to-day it was sane, to-morrow it might be reeling over the uncertain line which separates the sound from the unsound. Had Francois been more interested and more apprehensive, he was intelligent enough to have shared the dismay with which many Frenchmen saw the growth of tumultuous misrule. Indeed, the talk of the morning fencing-school should have taught him alarm. But he had formerly lived the life of the hour, even of the minute, and as long as he was well fed, housed, and clothed, his normal good humor comfortably digested anxiety.

I should wrongly state a character of uncommon interest if I were to give the impression of a man who had merely the constant hilarity of a happy child. He was apt to laugh where others smiled; but, as he matured, cheerful contentment was his usual mood, and with it, to the last, the probability of such easily born laughter as radiated mirth upon all who heard it, like a companionable fire diffusing its generous warmth. He was at this time doing what he most fancied. The company suited him. He liked the tranquil ways of these courteous gentlemen. In a word, he was contented, and for a time lost all desire to seek change or adventure. His satisfaction in the life made him more quiet and perhaps more thoughtful. He had every reason to be cheerful, and cheerfulness is the temperate zone of the mind.

At times, on Sundays, in the summer of '92, he wandered into the country with Toto; but these holidays were rare. Now and then the habits of years brought again the longing for excitement; with the meal-hours he recovered his common sense, being a big fellow of sharp appetite and a camel-like capacity for substantial food.

The feud between the cockades broke out at this time in duels, which it became the fashion to drive to the Bois to see. Women of all classes looked on and applauded, and few liked it if the affair failed to prove grave. Francois found it entertaining. The duels were, in fact, many in the years of grace '91 and '92.

The morning pupils wore their hair in curls, dressed in short clothes, and defied the new-fashioned republican pantaloons, which were rising up to the armpits and descending the legs. They carried sword-canes, or sticks like the club of Hercules; a few still wore the sword. Brown and gray wore the afternoon citizens, with long straight hair, short waistcoats, and long and longer _culottes_ above large steel shoe-buckles, all that were silver having been given to aid the funds of a bankrupt government. The morning, which knew very well who came in the later hours, abused the afternoon, and this portion of the day returned those compliments in kind.

Now and then the morning had a little affair with the afternoon, for the Terror was not yet. In cafes and theaters there were constant outbreaks, and men on both sides eager enough to sustain opinion by the sword or the pistol. When one of what Francois called "our little domestic difficulties" was on hand, there was excitement and interest among Royalists and Jacobins, with much advice given, and huge disgust when monsieur was pinked by Citizen Chose of the Cordeliers or of the Jacobin Club.

If the reverse obtained, and some gentleman of ancient name condescended to run Citizen Chose through the lungs, there was great rejoicing before noon and black looks after it. Here were a half-dozen affairs in a month, for these were the first blades in France.

There were laws against the duel, but the law changed too fast for obedience, and fashion, as usual, defied it. Hatred and contempt were ready at every turn. Two abbes fought, and what was left of the great ladies went