told his guests at dinner that he would allow them to see this bold and unscrupulous person, whose name was on every tongue. He accordingly sent for Collet, who was brought from the prison to the prefecture escorted by the gendarmes. While waiting to be exhibited he was lodged in the serving-room, next the dining-room. Here he found, to his surprise and delight, a full suit of white, the costume of a marmiton, a cook’s assistant. He quickly assumed the disguise, and taking up the nearest dish, walked out between the sentries on guard, passed into the dining-room, through it, and out of the prefecture. He was soon missed, and a great hue and cry was raised through the country, but Collet all the time had found a hiding-place close by the house.
When the alarm had ceased, he slipped away, and leaving Montpelier, made his way to Toulouse, where he cashed another forged bill of exchange, now for 5,000 francs. With the funds obtained he travelled northward, but was followed from Toulouse, for the forgery was quickly discovered. When arrested they carried him to Grenoble, and there he was tried for the forgery. His sentence was to five years’ travaux forcés, and exposure in the pillory (carcan). Before long he was recognised at Grenoble by one of those whom he had nominated to his staff at Fréjus, and being tried again he was now sent to the Bagne of Brest. Collet passed five years in this prison, and somehow contrived to live more or less comfortably as a galley slave. He was always in funds, but how he obtained them, or where he kept them, was a profound mystery to the very last. With the money thus at his disposal he purchased extra food, he bought the assistance of his fellows to relieve him of the severer toils, and no doubt bribed his keepers. He became so fat and round-faced, and generally so benignant and smiling, that he was nicknamed by his comrades of the chain “Monsieur l’évêque.” Numberless attempts were made to discover the sources of his wealth; he was supposed to have secreted a store of precious stones, but, although he was watched and frequently searched, they were never found. He was free-handed, too, with his money, gave freely to other convicts, and was much esteemed by them. It is told of one who committed a murder in the prison that, when permitted to address his comrades before execution, after acknowledging their general kindness to himself, he added, “I wish especially to thank Monsieur Collet.” He did not live to return to liberty, and died, only a few days before the end of his term, consumed with despair at ending his days at the Bagne, but carrying with him the secret of his wealth. Nine louis d’or only were found, in the collar of his waistcoat; what had become of the rest no one could tell. He never had money in the hands of the prison paymaster, he was never found in the possession of more money than he was entitled to receive as prison earnings, and yet, when he wanted it to gratify any expensive taste, to buy white shirts, snuff, books, wine, or toothsome food, the gold flowed from his hand as if by legerdemain.
COGNARD.
Hardly less remarkable than Collet’s adventures are those of Cognard, an ex-convict, who, in the topsy-turvy times of the First Empire, came to be colonel of a regiment, wearing many decorations and having a good record of service in the field.
Pierre Cognard, when serving a sentence of fourteen years in the Bagne of Brest, made his escape, and passed into Spain, where he joined an irregular corps under the guerilla leader Nina, and gained the cross of Alcantara. While in garrison in one of the towns of Catalonia, he made the acquaintance of a person who had been a servant to Count Pontis de Ste. Hélène, recently deceased. This servant had, by some means or other, laid hands upon the Count’s titles of nobility, and he now handed them over to Cognard, who adopted the name and title without question. Despite his antecedents, he appears to have displayed great strictness in dealing with public money, and on one occasion denounced two French officers whom he caught in malpractices. They turned on him, and accused him of complicity. General Wimpfen ordered all to be arrested, but Cognard resisted, and was only taken by force. He was relegated to a military prison in the island of Majorca, from which he escaped with a party of prisoners, who, having seized a Spanish brig in the harbour, sailed in it to Algiers. There they sold their prize, and Cognard crossed into Spain, which the French were occupying. The pretended Comte was appointed to Soult’s staff, took part in the later operations in the Pyrenees, and was in command of a flying column at the battle of Toulouse. After the abdication of Napoleon, he disappeared from sight, but he was with the Emperor at Waterloo, where he acquitted himself well.
At the Restoration Cognard passed himself off as a grandee of Spain, who had served Napoleon under pressure. Having demanded an audience of the king, Louis XVIII., he seems to have had no difficulty in persuading Louis that he was what he pretended; he was well received at Court, and treated with distinction. During the Hundred Days Cognard accompanied the king to Ghent, and made himself conspicuous everywhere as a member of the Court. On the second Restoration he was nominated lieutenant-colonel of the 72nd regiment, and formed part of the garrison of Paris. He was now seemingly at the height of prosperity, but his downfall was near at hand.
There was a review one day in the Place Vendôme, and Cognard was present at the head of his regiment. In the crowd of bystanders was a recently liberated convict, named Darius, who had been at Brest with Cognard. The ex-convict was struck by Cognard’s likeness to an old comrade, and asked the colonel’s name. He was told it was the Count Pontis de Ste. Hélène, a distinguished officer, much appreciated at the Court. Darius was not satisfied, still holding to the idea that he had seen this face at Brest. So when the parade broke up he followed the pretended count to his house, and then asked if he might speak to him. After some parleying, he was admitted to the presence of Cognard, whom he at once addressed with the familiarity of an old friend. “Of course you know me,” said Darius. “I am glad to find you so well off. Do not think I wish to harm you, but you are rich and I am needy. Pay me properly, and I will leave you alone.” Cognard indignantly repudiated the acquaintance, and sent his visitor to the right-about. Darius was furious, and would not let the matter rest there. He went straight to the Ministry of the Interior, who sent him on to the War Office, where he was received by General Despinois. “What proof can you give me,” asked the War Minister, “of this extraordinary statement?” “Only confront us,” replied Darius, “and see what happens.” Cognard was forthwith summoned by an aide-de-camp, and promptly appeared at headquarters. General Despinois treated him with scant ceremony, charging him at once as an impostor. “But this can go on no longer,” said the general. “You cannot humbug me or the Government; we know that you are Cognard, the escaped convict.” Cognard kept his countenance, and merely asked to be allowed to fetch his credentials and other papers from home. The general made no difficulty, but would not suffer Cognard to go alone, and before he started he called in Darius.
Cognard was unable to control a slight movement of surprise, which did not escape the quick eye of General Despinois. But now a fierce war of words ensued between the pretended count and the other convict, to end which Despinois sent Cognard, accompanied by an officer of gendarmes, to fetch his papers. On the way Cognard inveighed against the lies that were being told against him, and had no difficulty in gaining the sympathy of his escort. Arrived at home, Cognard called for wine, and begged the officer to help himself, while he passed into an adjoining room to change his clothes. The other agreed readily enough, and Cognard, finding his brother, who acted as his servant, close by, changed into livery, and in a striped waistcoat, with an apron round his waist, and a feather brush in his hand, quietly walked down the back staircase and straight out of the house. The gendarmes who were on sentry below did not attempt to interfere with this man-servant, and the escape was not discovered until the officer above grew tired of waiting. Now he knocked at the door of the next room, and peremptorily ordered the count to come out. There was, of course, no Cognard to come out, and the officer returned to the War Office without his prisoner.
Cognard now reverted to his old ways. He found a hiding-place with a comrade, and remained there a couple of days, when he left for Toulouse. The records do not say what he did in the provinces, but within a fortnight he was back in Paris, and having joined himself to other thieves, he made a nearly successful attempt to rob the bank at Poissy. Laying a sum of two thousand francs in gold upon the counter, he asked for a bill on Toulouse, and adroitly seized the key of the safe. Cognard’s demeanour did not please the cashier, and the bill was refused. Then Cognard brusquely repocketed his money, and, still keeping the key, made off. He was followed by cries of “Stop, thief!” but he got away with all his comrades but one. This was the man with whom he lodged, and the police, having obliged him to lead them to his domicile, forced an entrance into Cognard’s room, where they found a whole armoury of weapons, a number of disguises, wigs, false whiskers and moustachios. It was generally believed that these were to be worn in a grand attack about to be made upon the diligence from Toulouse. Cognard remained at large for some little time, but a close watch was set upon his movements, and he was eventually arrested by Vidocq, although he stoutly defended himself, and wounded one of the police-officers with his pistol. When brought to trial he was in due course condemned, and sentenced to travaux forcés for life.