These four men were known under this title.
When the President of the Assizes visited Lacenaire in his prison, and questioned him concerning a misdeed which Lacenaire denied,
“Who did it?” demanded the President.
Lacenaire made this response, enigmatical so far as the magistrate was concerned, but clear to the police:
“Perhaps it was Patron-Minette.”
A piece can sometimes be divined on the enunciation of the personages; in the same manner a band can almost be judged from the list of ruffians composing it.
Here are the appellations to which the principal members of Patron-Minette answered,—for the names have survived in special memoirs.
Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille.
Brujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty; we cannot refrain from interpolating this word.]
Boulatruelle, the road-mender already introduced.
Laveuve.
Finistere.
Homere-Hogu, a negro.
Mardisoir. (Tuesday evening.)
Depeche. (Make haste.)
Fauntleroy, alias Bouquetiere (the Flower Girl).
Glorieux, a discharged convict.
Barrecarrosse (Stop-carriage), called Monsieur Dupont.
L’Esplanade-du-Sud.
Poussagrive.
Carmagnolet.
Kruideniers, called Bizarro.
Mangedentelle. (Lace-eater.)
Les-pieds-en-l’Air. (Feet in the air.)
Demi-Liard, called Deux-Milliards.
Etc., etc.
We pass over some, and not the worst of them.
These names have faces attached.
They do not express merely beings, but species.
Each one of these names corresponds to a variety of those misshapen fungi from the under side of civilization.
Those beings, who were not very lavish with their countenances, were not among the men whom one sees passing along the streets.
Fatigued by the wild nights which they passed, they went off by day to sleep, sometimes in the lime-kilns, sometimes in the abandoned quarries of Montmatre or Montrouge, sometimes in the sewers.
They ran to earth.
What became of these men?
They still exist.
They have always existed.
Horace speaks of them: Ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopol?, mendici, mim?; and so long as society remains what it is, they will remain what they are.
Beneath the obscure roof of their cavern, they are continually born again from the social ooze.
They return, spectres, but always identical; only, they no longer bear the same names and they are no longer in the same skins.
The individuals extirpated, the tribe subsists.
They always have the same faculties.
From the vagrant to the tramp, the race is maintained in its purity. They divine purses in pockets, they scent out watches in fobs.
Gold and silver possess an odor for them.
There exist ingenuous bourgeois, of whom it might be said, that they have a “stealable” air.
These men patiently pursue these bourgeois.
They experience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger or of a man from the country.
These men are terrible, when one encounters them, or catches a glimpse of them, towards midnight, on a deserted boulevard.
They do not seem to be men but forms composed of living mists; one would say that they habitually constitute one mass with the shadows, that they are in no wise distinct from them, that they possess no other soul than the darkness, and that it is only momentarily and for the purpose of living for a few minutes a monstrous life, that they have separated from the night.
What is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish?
Light. Light in floods.