TAPPEUR AND PETITSOU
"What are you bringing us now?" growled a voice from a corner of the cell. Gaillard heard the rustling of straw, but his eyes were not enough accustomed to the gloom to enable him to see what sort of being it was who gave utterance to this harsh welcome.
"Are not two enough in a trap like this?" the speaker went on, rising and coming forward. "There's hardly enough air for us as it is, without your putting in another one."
"So it's you, Tappeur, complaining again," remarked the jailer. "You had better be thankful you're not four in a cell as they are in most of them. The prison is full to overflowing. No matter how many they take out, there's always more to fill their places. You'll have to make the best of it." And he closed the door with an unfeeling slam.
Tappeur brushed some of the straw from his hair and beard. "A plague upon these suspects that fill up our prisons!" he exclaimed with an oath; "we honest criminals have to put up with the vilest accommodations because you crowd us to the wall by force of numbers. You are a suspect, aren't you?" he demanded, coming nearer and putting a dirty face close to Gaillard's.
The cell which they occupied was below the level of the ground. Overhead at the juncture of the ceiling and wall was a grating through which came all the light and air they received.
"You are a suspect, is it not so?" repeated Tappeur as Gaillard made no answer.
"I have not the honor of being an 'honest criminal,'" replied the actor, drawing away with a movement of disgust from the seamed and distorted visage thrust close to his.
"Bah, I thought not," said Tappeur with another oath. "Well, suspect, come over here under the grating and let me take a good look at your face," and he seized Gaillard roughly by the arm.
Tappeur received a violent blow on the chest which sent him reeling into a dark corner of the cell, clutching at the empty air as if to sustain himself by catching hold of the shadows. His fall to the ground was followed by an explosion of oaths in a new voice, in which explosion Tappeur himself joined vigorously.
"I've stirred up a nest of them," said Gaillard to himself, and then stood awaiting developments.
The torrent of profanity having exhausted itself, Tappeur emerged from the shadowy recess of the wall followed by a smaller man.
"How do you like my looks?" inquired Gaillard cheerfully.
"I'm satisfied for the present," replied Tappeur.
"Your fist is hard enough; what may your trade be?"
"I have no regular profession, I'm a little of everything. What's yours?"
"I belong to the 'Brotherhood of the Ready Hand.' Our motto is 'Steal and Kill;' our watchward 'Blood and Death;' and our coat of arms 'A Cord and Gallows.'" And Tappeur chuckled gleefully.
"You are evidently a rare accumulation of talent and virtue. I should enjoy knowing more of you. Is this a member of your band?" and Gaillard pointed to the man who had just been awakened, and who was yawning and stretching his arms.
"Our band, oh no, this is the great Petitsou."
"And who is Petitsou?"
"What! you don't know Petitsou?" demanded Tappeur pityingly.
"Never heard of him."
"He never even heard of you, Petitsou!" exclaimed Tappeur, turning to his companion with a gesture of disgust.
Petitsou shrugged his shoulders in reply, as if to say, "He has been the only loser."
"Pray let me be compensated for my ill fortune, by learning all about you now, Citizen Petitsou."
"I have made more counterfeit money than any man in France now living, I might say more than any man who ever has lived, but I believe some one or two of the old kings have surpassed me," said Petitsou.
"He is an artist," whispered Tappeur; "he does not make you a clumsy, bungling coin only to be palmed off upon women and blind men. He creates an article finer to look at than the government mint can produce. Pardieu, I'd rather have a pocket full of his silver than that bearing either the face of Louis Capet or of this new Republic." And Tappeur looked at his friend the artist admiringly.
"It was when the government issued these assignats that my great fortune was made," continued Petitsou. "In fact, it was too much success that brought me here. I found them so easy to make that I manufactured them by the wholesale. I stored my cellar with them. I even had the audacity to make the government a small loan in assignats on which I did the entire work myself, reproducing the very signatures of the officials who received the funds. Oh, it was a rare sport."
"But your forgeries were finally detected?" said Gaillard inquiringly.
"The workmanship and the signatures never. I could have gone on making enough to buy up the whole government, but for a mishap. I made a glaring error in the date of a certain issue of assignats. I never liked the new calendar, and always had to take particular care to get it right, but one day my memory slipped up, and I dated a batch of one hundred thousand francs, November 14, 1793, instead of 25th Brumaire, year II. Oh, that was an unpardonable slip, and I deserved to pay the penalty."
"It seems cruel," remarked Gaillard, "to keep a useful member of society, like you, in this filthy dungeon."
"The greatest cruelty is in keeping the materials of my trade away from me. They know my love for my art, and take delight in torturing me. Although I promise not to try any dodge, they won't trust me. If they would only let me have a little pen, ink, and paper, I should be happy."
"Pen, ink, and paper?" repeated Gaillard. "That's a modest desire."
"They won't let him have them," put in Tappeur. "He'd play them all sorts of tricks. He'd forge all sorts of documents, and worry the life out of the jailers."
The door opened a few inches, and a jug of water and a large square loaf made their appearance, pushed in by an invisible hand.
"Let's divide our rations for the day," suggested Petitsou. "Have they given us a larger loaf, Tappeur, on account of our increased number?"
"But very little larger," replied Tappeur, picking up the loaf of black bread and surveying it hungrily.
"Is that all we receive in the way of food?" asked Gaillard ruefully. He had missed his usual supper after the theatre the night before, and was quite ready for breakfast.
"That's all, unless you've got money. You can buy what you like with that." And Tappeur eyed him slyly out of his deep-set eyes.
"What do you say to some wine in place of this cold water, and some white bread, with perhaps a little sausage added by the way of relish?" suggested Gaillard mildly.
"Hey, you jailer!" called out Tappeur, frantically rushing toward the door, fearful lest the man might be out of hearing. The jailer retraced his steps reluctantly.
"A commission from the new lodger. A bottle of wine. A white loaf in place of this vile, sour stuff, and some sweet little sausage. A little tobacco also. Am I not right, my comrade?" asked Tappeur, looking at Gaillard inquiringly.
"Some tobacco, of course," nodded Gaillard, producing a coin.
"Have it strong; I have tasted none for so long that it must bite my tongue to make up for lost time. Hurry with thy commissions my good little citizen jailer; the new lodger is hungry, and we, too, have no small appetites."
"Tobacco," said Petitsou, "next to ink and paper, I have longed for that. And I have money, too!" and he produced a five-franc piece. "As good a piece of silver as ever rang from the government mint, and yet that cursed jailer refuses to take it, or bring me the smallest portion of tobacco for it. The donkey fears I have manufactured it here on the premises, or that I extracted it from thin air like a magician."
The breakfast being brought, Tappeur rolled a couple of large stones toward the lightest portion of the cell, and placed a board across them for a table. They had nothing to sit upon but their heels. The two criminals had accustomed themselves to this method of sitting at meals, but Gaillard found it more comfortable to partake of his food standing with his shoulders to the wall.
"Fall to, comrades!" cried Tappeur, breaking off an end of the loaf and taking a sausage in his other hand. "There's no cup, so we must drink from the bottle." And he handed the wine to Gaillard first, by way of attention.
Gaillard put the bottle to his lips and took a long draught of the contents while Tappeur watched him anxiously. He then passed it over to Petitsou, who treated it in a like manner. Tappeur received it in his turn in thankful silence, and after having punished it severely, put it down by his side. Gaillard helped himself to a piece of bread and a sausage, and ate with good appetite, leaving his new companions to finish the wine, to the evident satisfaction of those two worthies.
"You have a hard fist, my brave comrade!" exclaimed Tappeur, filling a pipe as short and grimy as the thumb that pushed the tobacco down into the bowl. "A hard fist and a free purse and Tappeur is your friend for life." To give emphasis to his words he puffed a cloud of blue smoke up into Gaillard's face, and drained the last few drops of wine in the flagon.
"That's very good stuff," he continued, balancing the empty bottle upon its nose, "but brandy would be more satisfying."
Gaillard refused to take the hint, and turned away to spread his cloak in a corner of the cell, where he lay down upon it and was soon in a deep sleep.
Week followed week, and Gaillard continued to live below the ground far from the sunlight which he loved so dearly, while Tournay, confined in the cell upon the second floor, wondered why he received no word from the friend in the outside world.
Thus they lived within one hundred yards of each other, thinking of each other daily, and with no means of communication. One thing Gaillard had to be thankful for, and that was the sum of money the theatre manager had paid him on the very night of his arrest. With it he had purchased many comforts to make his life more bearable. He had procured a fresh supply of straw and a warm blanket for his bed; some candles and a rough chair upon which he took turns in sitting with the two jail-birds, his companions, although at meals he always occupied it by tacit consent.
Under the influence of the additional food which Gaillard's purse supplied, Tappeur grew fat and better natured, though he swore none the less, and drank and smoked all that Gaillard would provide for him. Indeed, he thought the actor a little niggardly in furnishing the brandy, and one day, after a good meal, was inclined to be swaggering, intimating that, with respect to drink, the rations should be increased. Whereupon Gaillard cut off his potations entirely for twenty-four hours, and he became as meek as a lamb and remained so ever after.
Both the bully and Petitsou would frequently regale Gaillard with long accounts of their past crimes. During the recitals, Tappeur, although always boastful on his own account, showed a certain deference to the forger.
"I can cut a throat or rob a purse with the best blackguard in France," he would say to the actor, "but that little Petitsou is the true artist."
Notwithstanding these diversions, the time dragged wearily, and Gaillard's face began to lose its roundness, while the smile did not broaden his wide mouth so frequently as of old. His money began to get low, and he looked forward with dread to the time when it would be entirely gone and he would have to divide the musty black loaf and the pitcher of fetid water with the two criminals, without the wherewithal to buy even such good nature and entertainment as they could furnish. He longed for the time of his trial to come. He knew from what he had heard of the experiences of others, that he might be called for trial any day, or that he might languish in jail for months, forgotten and neglected. Every day when he asked the jailer who brought their food, "Have I not been called for trial?" and received the response, "Not to-day," his heart sank lower.
One day when he had only five francs left in his purse, and had refrained from ordering any wine, much to Tappeur's disgust, the jailer came to inform him that he was to come forth for trial.
"Good luck attend you, citizen actor," said Petitsou, with some show of friendship, as Gaillard prepared to leave them, smiling.
"As we must lose you in one way or another," called out Tappeur after him as he disappeared down the corridor, "let us hope that the national razor will not bungle when it shaves you, my brave."
Gaillard's spirits rose as he came up to the light of day. In a few hours he would know what his destiny would be, and the fresh air gave him renewed courage to meet it. His wish to learn just what fate had overtaken Tournay gave him an additional interest in life.
Passing through the main corridor he heard his name called, and looking toward the corridor of the upper tier he saw the face of his friend.
It was only an instant, and then Gaillard passed out with others to the street. At first Tournay's heart throbbed with apprehension at the sight of his friend. He had feared all along that had Gaillard been at liberty he would have received some message from him, or other evidence of his existence, and now his fears were confirmed. Yet somehow the very sight of Gaillard's cheerful face, smiling up at him, reassured him.
"Am called for trial," the actor's lips framed. "And you?" Tournay made a negative gesture.
"Paper destroyed," Gaillard next signaled with his lips, but he dared not make the words too plain for fear of detection, and the message was lost on Tournay. Then they saw each other no longer.
It was into a small court room that Gaillard saw himself conducted. He looked round with surprise. The trials were usually attended by large and interested crowds of people.
"I am evidently considered of small importance, and so am disposed of by an inferior court," thought he. "So much the better."
The case being tried at the moment was one of petty larceny. "The other courts must be doing an enormous business, to oblige them to turn some of us over to these little criminal courts," continued Gaillard musingly as the affair in question was disposed of and he was called.
"Read the act of accusation," said the judge, "and hurry the affair. I wish to go to dinner."
"Don't let me detain you," thought Gaillard. Then he put his hands to his head to ascertain if his ears were in their proper place, for he could not understand a word of the accusation as read by the clerk. He heard a jumble about "coat," "personal assault," "refused payment," then looked in bewilderment at the judge and prosecuting attorney, till from them his eyes wandered about the dingy court room. All at once the sight of a face in the witness box caused a light to flash through his brain, and elucidate the whole matter. He recognized his tailor, who sat with vindictive eyes, holding over his arm the identical coat that had been the cause of the dispute on the very day of his arrest.
Gaillard could barely repress his merriment. The rancor of the little tailor had followed him to prison, and dragged him out to answer a complaint of assault and intent to defraud.
"I wonder," thought Gaillard, "if I am convicted and sentenced for this crime, and subsequently condemned to the guillotine, which penalty I shall have to pay first?"
"Have you any counsel, prisoner?" demanded the judge.
"I will plead my own case," replied Gaillard cheerfully.
"Call the complainant and witness."
After a long recital on the part of the tailor of the history of the coat, and the treatment he had received at the hands of the brutal prisoner, during which the judge yawned, indicating his desire to get out to dinner, Gaillard took the stand.
"My sole defense," said he smilingly, "is that the tailor wittingly, maliciously, and falsely, endeavored to palm off upon me, a poor actor, a garment never made for me."
"How will you prove it?" demanded the judge.
"By simply trying on the coat," answered Gaillard. "If you decide it was made for me, I will abandon my defense."
"Let the prisoner have the garment," ordered the judge.
Gaillard slowly proceeded to divest himself of his own coat and don the offending garment which the tailor now presented to him reluctantly.
It had fitted him badly on the first occasion he had tried it on, and now, by a slight contortion of his supple body, the actor made the misfit ridiculously apparent.
The court officers grinned, even the judge could not repress a smile, and the tailor looked foolish.
"That is quite sufficient," said the justice. "How much did the tailor want you to pay for this grotesque garment?"
"Two hundred francs the bill calls for."
"Two hundred francs?" ejaculated the judge.
"In gold coin," emphasized Gaillard.
"It is very expensive material," explained the tailor ruefully.
"Down how many flights of stairs does the complaint state the prisoner kicked the tailor?" asked the judge.
"Only one short one," volunteered Gaillard, grinning at the discomfited tailor.
"Only one short one?" repeated the judge. "You were very moderate; such an absurd garment would have justified three flights."
There was a laugh in the court room. The judge tapped for order.
"The prisoner is discharged," he said.
Gaillard rose and looked for the guards who had escorted him from the Luxembourg, thankful for the brief respite he had had from the tedium of confinement.
"You are a free man, Citizen Gaillard," said the judge, waving his hand toward the open door.
"Do you mean I can leave the court room by that door?" asked Gaillard, his heart rising up in his throat.
"Certainly; I dismiss the complaint."
"Thank you, your honor," said Gaillard, stepping quickly through the doorway into the street.
"Your honor!" gasped a court attendant hurriedly appearing at the judge's desk.
"I have no time to listen to anything further now. I am off to dinner," said the judge snappishly.
"But does your honor know? Is your honor aware that the prisoner was a suspect from the Luxembourg, brought here by me for trial on this charge of assault, to be returned after"—
"Bring him back at once!" yelled the judge. "You idiot, why didn't you say so before?"
"But, your honor, I"—
"After him, constables; be quick, he cannot have gone fifty yards."
Half a dozen men rushed into the street and looked in all directions. But Gaillard was not to be seen.