This is how robbery begins; and robbery, if we examine the human soul through a lens, will be seen to be an almost natural instinct in man.
Robbery leads to murder, and murder leads the lover step by step to the scaffold.
Ill-regulated physical desire is therefore, in these men, if we may believe the medical faculty, at the root of seven-tenths of the crimes committed.
And, indeed, the proof is always found, evident, palpable at the post-mortem examination of the criminal after his execution.
And these monstrous lovers, the scarecrows of society, are adored by their mistresses.
It is this female devotion, squatting faithfully at the prison gate, always eagerly balking the cunning of the examiner, and incorruptibly keeping the darkest secrets which make so many trials impenetrable mysteries.
In this, again, lies the strength as well as the weakness of the accused.
In the vocabulary of a prostitute, to be honest means to break none of the laws of this attachment, to give all her money to the man who is nabbed, to look after his comforts, to be faithful to him in every way, to undertake anything for his sake.
The bitterest insult one of these women can fling in the teeth of another wretched creature is to accuse her of infidelity to a lover in quod (in prison).
In that case such a woman is considered to have no heart.
La Pouraille was passionately in love with a woman, as will be seen.
Fil-de-Soie, an egotistical philosopher, who thieved to provide for the future, was a good deal like Paccard, Jacques Collin’s satellite, who had fled with Prudence Servien and the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs between them.
He had no attachment, he condemned women, and loved no one but Fil-de-Soie.
As to le Biffon, he derived his nickname from his connection with la Biffe. (La Biffe is scavenging, rag-picking.) And these three distinguished members of la haute pegre, the aristocracy of roguery, had a reckoning to demand of Jacques Collin, accounts that were somewhat hard to bring to book.
No one but the cashier could know how many of his clients were still alive, and what each man’s share would be.
The mortality to which the depositors were peculiarly liable had formed a basis for Trompe-la-Mort’s calculations when he resolved to embezzle the funds for Lucien’s benefit.
By keeping himself out of the way of the police and of his pals for nine years, Jacques Collin was almost certain to have fallen heir, by the terms of the agreement among the associates, to two-thirds of the depositors.
Besides, could he not plead that he had repaid the pals who had been scragged?
In fact, no one had any hold over these Great Pals.
His comrades trusted him by compulsion, for the hunted life led by convicts necessitates the most delicate confidence between the gentry of this crew of savages.
So Jacques Collin, a defaulter for a hundred thousand crowns, might now possibly be quit for a hundred thousand francs.
At this moment, as we see, la Pouraille, one of Jacques Collin’s creditors, had but ninety days to live.
And la Pouraille, the possessor of a sum vastly greater, no doubt, than that placed in his pal’s keeping, would probably prove easy to deal with.
One of the infallible signs by which prison governors and their agents, the police and warders, recognize old stagers (chevaux de retour), that is to say, men who have already eaten beans (les gourganes, a kind of haricots provided for prison fare), is their familiarity with prison ways; those who have been in before, of course, know the manners and customs; they are at home, and nothing surprises them.
And Jacques Collin, thoroughly on his guard, had, until now, played his part to admiration as an innocent man and stranger, both at La Force and at the Conciergerie.
But now, broken by grief, and by two deaths — for he had died twice over during that dreadful night — he was Jacques Collin once more.
The warder was astounded to find that the Spanish priest needed no telling as to the way to the prison-yard.
The perfect actor forgot his part; he went down the corkscrew stairs in the Tour Bonbec as one who knew the Conciergerie.
“Bibi–Lupin is right,” said the turnkey to himself; “he is an old stager; he is Jacques Collin.”
At the moment when Trompe-la-Mort appeared in the sort of frame to his figure made by the door into the tower, the prisoners, having made their purchases at the stone table called after Saint–Louis, were scattered about the yard, always too small for their number. So the newcomer was seen by all of them at once, and all the more promptly, because nothing can compare for keenness with the eye of a prisoner, who in a prison-yard feels like a spider watching in its web.
And this comparison is mathematically exact; for the range of vision being limited on all sides by high dark walls, the prisoners can always see, even without looking at them, the doors through which the warders come and go, the windows of the parlor, and the stairs of the Tour Bonbec — the only exits from the yard.
In this utter isolation every trivial incident is an event, everything is interesting; the tedium — a tedium like that of a tiger in a cage — increases their alertness tenfold.
It is necessary to note that Jacques Collin, dressed like a priest who is not strict as to costume, wore black knee breeches, black stockings, shoes with silver buckles, a black waistcoat, and a long coat of dark-brown cloth of a certain cut that betrays the priest whatever he may do, especially when these details are completed by a characteristic style of haircutting.
Jacques Collin’s wig was eminently ecclesiastical, and wonderfully natural.
“Hallo!” said la Pouraille to le Biffon, “that’s a bad sign!
A rook! (sanglier, a priest).
How did he come here?”
“He is one of their ‘narks’” (trucs, spies) “of a new make,” replied Fil-de-Soie, “some runner with the bracelets” (marchand de lacets — equivalent to a Bow Street runner) “looking out for his man.”
The gendarme boasts of many names in French slang; when he is after a thief, he is “the man with the bracelets” (marchand de lacets); when he has him in charge, he is a bird of ill-omen (hirondelle de la Greve); when he escorts him to the scaffold, he is “groom to the guillotine” (hussard de la guillotine).
To complete our study of the prison-yard, two more of the prisoners must be hastily sketched in.
Selerier, alias l’Auvergnat, alias le Pere Ralleau, called le Rouleur, alias Fil-de-Soie — he had thirty names, and as many passports — will henceforth be spoken of by this name only, as he was called by no other among the swell-mob.
This profound philosopher, who saw a spy in the sham priest, was a brawny fellow of about five feet eight, whose muscles were all marked by strange bosses.
He had an enormous head in which a pair of half-closed eyes sparkled like fire — the eyes of a bird of prey, with gray, dull, skinny eyelids.
At first glance his face resembled that of a wolf, his jaws were so broad, powerful, and prominent; but the cruelty and even ferocity suggested by this likeness were counterbalanced by the cunning and eagerness of his face, though it was scarred by the smallpox.
The margin of each scar being sharply cut, gave a sort of wit to his expression; it was seamed with ironies.
The life of a criminal — a life of danger and thirst, of nights spent bivouacking on the quays and river banks, on bridges and streets, and the orgies of strong drink by which successes are celebrated — had laid, as it were, a varnish over these features.
Fil-de-Soie, if seen in his undisguised person, would have been marked by any constable or gendarme as his prey; but he was a match for Jacques Collin in the arts of make-up and dress.
Just now Fil-de-Soie, in undress, like a great actor who is well got up only on the stage, wore a sort of shooting jacket bereft of buttons, and whose ripped button-holes showed the white lining, squalid green slippers, nankin trousers now a dingy gray, and on his head a cap without a peak, under which an old bandana was tied, streaky with rents, and washed out.
Le Biffon was a complete contrast to Fil-de-Soie.
This famous robber, short, burly, and fat, but active, with a livid complexion, and deep-set black eyes, dressed like a cook, standing squarely on very bandy legs, was alarming to behold, for in his countenance all the features predominated that are most typical of the carnivorous beast.