This embarrassed him a little, and he made answer indirectly: did monsieur entirely disapprove this form of transfer? He seemed to regard it as merely a manner of commercial transaction by which one man alone profited. I returned that as to this nations held diverse opinions, and that some Oriental people considered it a creditable pursuit, but that personally it did seem to me wrong.
M. des Illes was distinctly of that opinion; but, after all, his (François's) account of what he had seen and been was not limited to mere details of business, and I might discover his adventures to have other interest. When he heard at last that some day I might, through his writings, enlighten the nations outside of the pale of Gallic civilization, he went away with the satisfied air of a young author who has found a publisher with a just appreciation of his labors—a thing both rare and consolatory.
His personal history, as I have said, was well known to the entire household; nor did he resent a jest now and then as to his disused art, if it came from one of a rank above his own. The old duke would say, "Any luck of late in snuff-boxes, François?"
"M. le Duc knows they are out of fashion."
"Eh bien; then handkerchiefs?"
"Diable!" says François. "They are no more of lace; what use to steal them? M. le Duc knows that gentlemen are also out of fashion. M. le Bourgeois is too careful nowadays."
"True," says the duke, and walks away, sadly reflective.
This François was what people call a character. He had a great heart and no conscience; was fond of flowers, of birds, and of children; pleased to chat of his pilferings, liking the fun of the astonishment he thus caused. Had he really no belief in its being wrong to steal? I do not know. The fellow was so humorous that he sometimes left one puzzled and uncertain. He went duly to mass and confession, but—"Mon Dieu, monsieur; nowadays one has so little to confess, M. le Curé must find it dull."
When I would know his true ethics as to thine and mine, he cried, laughing, "Le mien et le tien; 't is but a letter makes the difference, and, after all, one must live." It seemed a simple character, but there is no such thing; all human nature is more complex than they who write choose to think it. If character were such as the writer of fiction often makes it, the world would be a queer place.
He is dead long ago, this same François, as my old friend Des Illes wrote me a few years later. He was very fond of a parrot he had taught to cry, "Vive Bonaparte!" whenever the aged duke came by his perch. One morning Poll was stolen by some adroit purveyor of parrots. This loss François felt deeply, and vastly resented the theft,—in fact, he described himself as being humbled by the power of any one to steal from a man bred up to the business,—and so missed his feathered companion that for the first time he became depressed, and at last took to his bed. He died quietly a few weeks after, saying to the priest who had given him the final rites of the church: "M. le Curé—the gold snuff-box the duke gave you—" "Well, my son?" "The left-hand pocket is the safer; we look not there." Then, half wandering, he cried: "Adieu, Master Time! Thou art the best thief, after all"; and so died, holding Des Illes's hand.