“That chap sitting down with the short pipe in his mouth,” said the legal bloodhound, “is not more than thirty years old, though he looks nearly fifty. He was born and reared in or near this city, and has been a thief since his earliest child-hood. His father was a noted burglar, and died in prison at Bordeaux, where he had been arrested for an attempt to break into the vault of a bank. The man’s name is Pierre Boudrot; but he is called by his associates the Mad Bull, from his great strength and violent temper. Until he was fifteen or sixteen, he was a petty pilferer; but he afterwards aspired to highway robbery outside the barrières. He prospered in this for some time; but having, as it was suspected, shot and killed a merchant, he was forced to fly to England. Returning three years after, he was apprehended and tried for the crime. No direct evidence could be adduced against him, and he was acquitted. He has been involved in any number of personal encounters with his fellow-villains, and has stabbed and shot at least a dozen of them. Generally speaking, they have refused to testify against him, and he has therefore escaped punishment. He is now a house-breaker, and operates so skilfully that the police seldom have an opportunity to interfere with him. Some sixteen months ago, he was living at Pantin with his mistress, a young woman of some intelligence and so remarkably handsome that it was strange she could fancy so ill-favored a wretch. Having become jealous of her, they had several boisterous quarrels. One morning she was found in bed with her throat cut from ear to ear, and he had disappeared. He was suspected at once, and publication of the fact was made in the newspapers, whereupon he surrendered himself, and during the examination which followed, several of his accomplices swore that the girl had committed suicide, giving many details that rendered their statements plausible. As his witnesses could not be impeached, he was acquitted, and returned to his old calling. He has frequently been seized by policemen while carrying out some nefarious design, but such has been his strength that he has almost always managed to get away. On one occasion he threw an officer of the law from a fourth story window, and broke his neck. Still nothing could be proved upon him, as no one had witnessed the deed. He must ultimately come to the guillotine, however, as he is growing bolder and bolder in his commission of crime, and more reckless of the means he adopts. Intemperance is telling upon him, as you can see by his bloodshot eye and bloated face.
A CRIME-STAINED SCOUNDREL.
“The gray-haired man,” continued the detective, “laughing so loudly, with a broad scar above his eye, has been in nearly every principal prison in France, and yet has never served out a single term. Professional thief as he is, he does not appear to be very vicious or malignant. He has never been known to do any one bodily harm, and is always as cheerful as he is now. He would not be such a bad-looking fellow except for that scar, and the fracture of his nose, which was caused, some years ago, by his jumping from a wagon conveying him to jail.
“The very dark man, sitting on that bench, and swinging his legs, is a Spaniard. He came here from Madrid, where he had been for some years a bull-fighter, and whence he had to fly for poisoning his father to get a little property. Poisoning is his specialty, and he is believed to have disposed of a number of persons in that way. Whenever he takes life, he has, of course, a purpose in it, and he has come into possession of a good deal of money by the deaths he has brought about. A greater villain than he probably never breathed: he seems to have no more objection to committing murder than he has to smoking a cigar; and he is known as Pedro the Killer—a nickname of which he is really proud.”
THE GREATEST SCAMP IN PARIS.
“There is a young person I have not noticed before,” I said to my companion, pointing to the left. “Who is he? He can’t be a thief. He must have gotten into this company by mistake. Is he a gentleman seeking for acquaintance with underground life, like myself?”
The man I had designated could not have been more than twenty. He had a fresh, handsome face, and when he smiled, as he often did, his smile lighted up his countenance as sunshine lights up a landscape. It was hard to associate him with crime or vice of any kind, and hence my question.
The detective laughed, and said, “You mean the Badger. He is one of the greatest scamps in all Paris, and one of the most desperate scoundrels. There is nothing in the world he would not do for money. If I were not here, and anybody were to offer him five francs, he would walk up to you, salute you politely, and blow your brains out, regarding it as a capital joke. The Badger is well educated, and is reputed to be the son of a prominent lawyer by an actress. He ran away from home, and turned thief on instinct. He is absolutely without fear and without conscience. That crime is natural to him is proved by his enjoyment of it. He has had marvellous good luck, for, though frequently arrested, he has never been punished, and the fact of his getting off again and again is ascribed by some to the influence and wealth of his father.”
The detective would have told more; but by this time the thieves, all of whom had drank liberally, began singing a coarse and profane song, in which morality, religion, and decency were burlesqued, and which, rendered by the harsh voices of the men and women, sounded, in that dreary cellar, like a chorus of infernal fiends.
GOING HOME.