The woman who, in his first escape, had carried him off in a post-chaise, became his wife and clung to him with every mark of loyal affection. Once Salvador, when in custody, persuaded his guards to allow her to dine with him in prison. The dishes were brought in from outside and carefully examined as they passed the gate, but there was a file carefully concealed in a stick of celery, with which the prisoner sawed through his bars and gained his liberty.
Salvador had a certain pride in his nefarious profession as well as for his fellow criminals. He could not bear the idea that any one sentenced to exposure in the carcan, or collar, upon the scaffold should appear in a shabby dress; and he was frequently known to provide them with a suitable costume out of his own private purse. He had the reputation of being a staunch and devoted comrade, whose loyalty to his fellows nothing could shake, and who was never known to betray a soul. On one occasion, in a great robbery of goods in a shop, he had gained the assistance of one of the salesmen. Salvador was presently taken, and it was clear that it had been a “put up” job, the slang phrase for collusion from inside; but when the whole staff of the shop were assembled, and Salvador was called upon to indicate his accomplice, he obstinately declined and declared that he had never seen a single one of them before. He ended his days on the guillotine in a bagne. It was said that he had grown weary of the life of constant escapes and repeated recapture, and to put an end to it all had attacked and wounded a warder so as to incur the extreme penalty of the law.
The bagne had its aristocracy, not of crime only, but in the actual persons of men of rank and title, real or fictitious. There was the Marquis de Chambreuil, who spent many years at Rochefort, and was always distinguished by his air of good breeding and exquisite manners. There was a mystery about him, which was never penetrated, and no one ever knew his real name. Another pretended nobleman was the so-called Comte d’Arnheim, who appeared at Rochefort with the badge of his rank on his convict cap and his coat of arms embroidered in silk.
The most notable of all such pretenders was the famous Cognard, commonly known at the bagne under the name of the Comte de Pontis de Sainte-Hélène, a man with a curious history, who passed through many strange adventures and vicissitudes. He was endowed with many personal gifts, was of handsome appearance with regular features, had a firm mouth, a keen eye and a suave voice, which easily assumed a note of command. He escaped from Toulon, when a convict sentenced to travaux forcés, and found his way into Spain, where he somehow made the acquaintance of the family of Pontis de Sainte-Hélène, the last representative of which died suddenly, and Cognard became possessed of his papers. He had military aspirations, and as one of the old noblesse he easily obtained a lieutenancy in the French army, in which by varied service he rapidly rose to the rank of major and leader of a squadron. As such he served with the staff of Marshal Soult in the Pyrenees. When the French army retreated he was appointed to the command of the 100th regiment of the line. He was present at the battle of Toulouse, and afterwards behaved well at Waterloo, where he was seriously wounded. He went over at the Restoration and was decorated with the order of Saint Louis, and was appointed by the Duc de Berry, lieutenant-colonel of the legion of that nobleman and soldier.
He was playing a bold game and yet he dared to march at the head of his regiment day after day, through the streets of Paris, constantly crowded with old comrades, who might at any time recognise him. This actually happened at a parade in the Place de Vendôme, when an old friend claimed his acquaintance, demanding blackmail. This was but grudgingly given, and the false Count and convict Lieutenant was denounced to the police. He was soon faced with the record of his evil antecedents and re-committed to the bagne at Brest, where he died.
A strong light is thrown upon the life of the bagne by one who passed through it in the early part of the nineteenth century. Readers of French memoirs are no doubt familiar with the autobiography of Vidocq, who, from an active pursuit of crime in all its forms, went over to the other side and became a famous thief catcher. His black treachery to his class, his constant betrayal of his old confederates, may be said to have been condoned by the services he rendered society by bringing so many of the worst depredators to justice; but he was a contemptible character with no redeeming points but his pertinacious courage and his unflagging pursuit of the criminals, whom, renegade that he was, he hunted unceasingly. The “Memoirs” he gave to the world have been widely read, and not less widely discounted as extravagant beyond measure and probably unveracious. But it is the fact that they never were contradicted, although many of the people he exposed were still living when he wrote, and would certainly have refuted the charges he brought, had they been false. Withal, the “Memoirs” are amusing, even fascinating to lovers of personal adventure, full of hairbreadth escapes, thrilling exploits and great dangers incurred and surmounted. They no doubt present a faithful picture of criminal episodes and the prison treatment of criminals in his time.
He was confined in the bagne of Brest, from which he speedily made his escape, and his account of his life as a convict, his journey from Paris “by the chain” will be read with interest when contrasted with the experiences of Jean Marteilhe, the innocent Protestant galley-slave of just a century before. Vidocq started from Bicêtre, where the travellers, some one hundred and twenty in number, were assembled in the forenoon in the cour des fers, “Court of Irons,” and medically examined as to their fitness for the march. The commander of the gang, Captain Thierry, and his lieutenant, M. Viez, were present, both of long experience and much respected by all. A ring in the centre of the chain that joined every two men seemed to take the gang chain, and the whole twenty-five couples were as one man. The act of fettering seems to have completed the degradation of these miserable creatures. So far from despairing, they gave themselves up to riotous and reckless gaiety. The most horrible and disgusting language was heard on every side, wild shouts and indecent gestures provoked stupid, senseless laughter. Vidocq himself comments bitterly upon the scene. It was painfully evident that the criminal loaded with fetters was goaded into trampling under foot all that is honored and respected by the society which has cast him off. He feels no restraints, no obligations, his charter is the length of his chain, his only law the stick of his argousin (guard). When night came on they began to sing. Imagine fifty scoundrels, the greater number of them drunk, all screeching different and timeless airs. Where the few gave way to the horrors of their situation and wept bitter tears, their abandoned companions fell upon them and beat them. That night three of the number charged with the heinous offence of having betrayed the secrets of the prison house were all but killed. One indeed, a noted informer, was only rescued by the argousin, and he was so misused that he died within four days.
That first night was passed on the bare stones of a disused church. At daybreak all were afoot, the lists were read over, the fetters examined. Then the larger number mounted long, low cars, back to back, legs hanging over outside. They were soon covered with frost and their bodies were motionless from extreme cold. The balance, made up of the most robust, were condemned to walk, which at least kept them warm; and besides they could attack defenceless people and rob, when they escaped supervision, which was not always exercised, for the guards shared in the plunder. On reaching the first stage out (St. Cyr), all were stripped of their clothes and a close search made of their person and of every article—stockings, shoes, and shirt—for hidden files or watch springs likely to be used in sawing through their irons. This examination lasted for nearly an hour, while the convicts undressed and shivered with unendurable cold.
The night resting-place was a cattle shed. The beds were made on the impure litter, in the midst of which were set the wooden troughs, filled with a steaming mess of bean soup, from which each man’s porringer was filled. At the end of this disgusting meal the sergeant blew his whistle for silence. “Listen, robbers, and answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Have you had bread?” “Yes.” “Soup?” “Yes.” “Meat?” “Yes.” “Wine?” “Yes.” “Then go to sleep or pretend to do so.” In striking contrast to this mockery of a feast, the guards dined at a table laid out close by, and abundantly supplied. “It is not easy to imagine a more hideous spectacle than this stable,” says Vidocq. “On one side were a hundred and twenty men, herded together like foul beasts, rolling their haggard eyes, from which fatigue and misery had banished sleep. On the other were eight ugly ruffians, carousing and eating greedily, but never losing sight of their carbines or their clubs. A few miserable candles affixed to the blackened walls cast a murky glare upon the revolting scene, and the grim silence was constantly broken by the clank of fetters.”
The toilsome journey occupied twenty-four days and ended at a depot outside the bagne, where a sort of quarantine was performed. The prisoners were bathed two and two, put in the crimson uniform and rested for three days. No great vigilance was shown here, and it was easy to get out and over the outer wall. Vidocq had been meditating escape, and prepared for it by obtaining private clothes, a shirt, trousers, and neckerchief, which he concealed in the centre of an enormous loaf of ration bread. Having secured a steel chisel, negligently left within his reach, he cut a hole through the wall of his chamber, while a friendly comrade relieved him of his irons. He gained the yard and the boundary wall, which he surmounted with the aid of a pole, which was too heavy to be lifted on top and used for the descent. At last his only chance was to jump down, and in doing this he injured his ankles seriously, and could only drag himself to an adjoining bush, where he lay for hours, hoping the pain would abate and he might go on. But his feet swelled prodigiously, and he was obliged to surrender himself. Three weeks were now spent in hospital, and a charitable Sister of Mercy who nursed him gained him forgiveness from the commandant.