Life history of some noted convicts—Collet travels through Europe—In trouble at Montpelier, arrested and lodged in gaol—Brought to hotel to amuse the PrÉfet’s guests—Escapes as a cook’s boy—Fresh swindles—Arrested and sent to bagnes—Other remarkable convicts—Salvador or Jean Ferey, full of strange tricks and laughing at iron bars—The Marquis de Chambreuil—Cognard, the false Comte Pontis de Sainte Helene—Vidocq—His personal experiences at the bagnes—Escape from Brest—Recapture—Other remarkable escapes.
The quality of the criminals upon which the bagne laid its hands will be best realised by describing one or two of the most notable convicts who passed through them.
A very remarkable person was Anselme Collet, who has had few equals in his nefarious profession, that of swindler on the widest scale. He was essentially the product of his age, which undoubtedly encouraged his development and afforded him peculiar facilities for the display of his natural gifts. Chief among these were boundless audacity, readiness of resource, an attractive person, insinuating address, and skill to assume many different parts.
Collet was born at Belley, in the department of the Ain, and from his earliest days gave evidence of a desire to go wrong. He was a born thief and an unmitigated liar, and as he was constantly in trouble his family handed him over to a maternal uncle, a priest, on the point of expatriating himself because he could not take the oath exacted from all ecclesiastics. Three years later Collet returned from Italy and entered the military school at Fontainebleau, and was presently incorporated as a sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment. He had seen too much of the priests to take kindly to soldiering, and when in garrison at Brescia, he spent more time in the Capuchin monastery than in the barracks. Soon after this his regiment went on service, and he was seriously wounded. While in hospital at Naples he nursed a French major, who died in his arms and gratefully bequeathed him all he possessed, a sum of three thousand francs and some valuable jewelry. When Collet was discharged from the hospital, he joined the monks and was associated with a body of missioners destined for La Pouille. Collet’s task was that of treasurer. Returning to his monastery on one occasion, he found himself short of three thousand francs, which he had embezzled, and he saw nothing for it but flight. He had been kindly received by the syndic of the town, from whose office he had stolen a number of passports signed in blank. He had no intention of staying at the monastery, and persuaded the superior that he had an inheritance to claim in France, to which, being a deserter, he dared not return. He got a letter of introduction to a banker at Naples, and was entrusted with a valuable diamond ring and commissioned to buy another like it in that city. Collet managed to swindle the banker out of 22,000 francs, kept the ring, bought a smart suit of clothes and, filling up a blank passport as the Marquis de Darda, proceeded to Capua. Here he picked up a portfolio containing the papers of Chevalier de Tolozan, which title he now adopted with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and passed on to Rome. Here he found a French ecclesiastic, a native of Lyons and an intimate of the Tolozan family, who took Collet under his wing and introduced him to Cardinal Fesch, Napoleon’s uncle and the then Archbishop of Lyons. Collet made the most of his time, and swindled people, right and left,—60,000 francs here and 20,000 there; 5,000 and 10,000 more borrowed under false pretences, with jewels stolen from tradesmen, and moneys craftily secured. Rome became too hot for him. He filled up a new passport, called himself a bishop, changed costume and character and went to live in the city of Mondovi, safe from the police, already in pursuit of him. Well furnished with funds Collet threw off his guise of priest, and led a life of pleasure with the young dandies of the place, among whom he created a desire to perform in amateur theatricals. Subscriptions were raised, Collet becoming costumier. He got together a large wardrobe made up of priest’s robes, military uniforms and diplomatic dresses, with sham jewelry and crosses and ribbons of many orders. He soon made off with this valuable stock in trade, and the first disguise he assumed was that of a general officer. He next became a Neapolitan priest, and thus passed on to Sion, in Switzerland, where he was received with open arms by the bishop, who appointed him to the cÜre of a lucrative parish. What followed may be told in his own words. “I stayed here five months,” he says, “performing all the duties of a priest, confessing, marrying, baptising, visiting the sick and burying the dead. Our church was in a ruinous condition, and subscriptions had been raised for its repair and restoration. There were 30,000 francs in hand, but posing as a man of wealth I offered to make up the sum necessary for the new works, and my generosity was soon seconded by fresh subscriptions. I meant to lay hands on all and, starting with the money, accompanied by my architect and others, proceeded to a neighboring town to purchase pictures, candelabra, a chalice and so forth. None of these purchases were paid for in cash. I sent the Mayor back to Sion, but stayed myself another night, then started for Strasburg.” Thence Collet took the road to Germany, and, passing the mountains of the Tyrol, reËntered Italy, changing his costume en route continually. By passing himself off in various characters he laid everybody under contribution. A banker at Savona advanced him 100,000 francs, but he was nearly detected, and he became once more a bishop, by name Dominico Pasqualini, Bishop of Monardan, and was received most cordially by his confrÈre, the Bishop of Nice. Twenty-seven seminarists were to be ordained next day, and the Bishop of Nice besought his fellow prelate to examine them. Collet tried to get out of it by assuring his Eminence that he saw no necessity for doing so, as it was little likely the Bishop would desire to ordain “incompetent asses;” but the Bishop of Nice insisted, and the Monseigneur de Monardan put on his robes and assisted in the ordination of thirty-three abbÉs. Travelling westward Collet arrived at FrÉjus, en route for Spain, now the plenipotentiary of his Majesty, King Joseph, representing the Inspector-General, and charged with the equipment of the army at Catalonia. From FrÉjus he went on to Draguignan, preceded by official orders to await his coming, and there commenced to form his staff. He appointed a half-pay officer as his aide-de-camp, the son of the sub-prÉfet at Toulon his private secretary, named officers of ordnance, commissioners and pay-masters, and had a suite of twenty persons by the time he had reached Marseilles. At Marseilles he laid hands on 130,000 francs in the government treasury and at Nimes secured about 300,000 more.
His star paled at Montpelier. After spending an hour on an early parade he went to lunch with the PrÉfet, to whom he promised promotion and the decorations of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. Upon returning to his hotel he found it in the hands of the gensdarmes, and himself under arrest. Collet’s staff shared his fate, and all whom he had misled were held in custody for several weeks, while the villain of the piece hourly expected to be shot. One day the PrÉfet had a party, and to amuse them sent orders that Collet should be brought from his prison under escort. He was left for a moment alone in the serving-room, from which there was no exit save through the dining-room. At this door two sentinels were stationed. Collet’s wits were at work. While he waited to make a spectacle for the guests he caught sight of the white suit of an assistant cook, which had been left in the serving-room. Hastily putting it on and taking up a dish of sweets he knocked at the passage door, and was suffered to go through without recognition or interruption. He took refuge in a house close to the PrÉfecture, and remained there in hiding while the alarm was given, and search and pursuit organised.
After escaping from the town he wandered about the country devising fresh swindles. One of the most successful of these was at the expense of a bank at Tulle, where he cashed a forged letter of credit for 5,000 francs, and got off as far as Lorient. A clerk of the bank followed him thither, caught him and handed him over to justice. He was more carefully held this time, and passed on to Grenoble, where he was sentenced to five years of travaux forcÉs, which by special favor he expiated at Grenoble. Here he was recognised and denounced by one of his former staff officers, with the result that he was sent to Toulon to finish his term. When set at liberty he fixed his residence at Poussin, in the department of Ain, where he was kept under surveillance, but managed to evade it, and proceeded to commit fresh crimes. At Toulouse he imposed upon the superior of a religious house, where he was given shelter. To show his gratitude he proposed to endow it with a gift of land. The property was chosen, the purchase agreed upon, but Collet could not immediately produce the funds, and his bankers, according to Collet, talked of delaying completion. Collet meanwhile set himself to borrow from friends he had beguiled, and managed to extract 74,000 francs in all from them. Next day he disappeared.
He played the same trick at Rochbeaucourt in the Dordogne. Now posing as the Comte de GÔlo he desired to purchase a chateau. Using the same methods as at Toulouse, he again made himself scarce with the moneys he borrowed. Then he appeared at Le Mans. He acquired property, and was on the point of exchanging land for diamonds at a jeweller’s, when the rumors of former fraud reached the place, and the police were set on his track. He was arrested, tried and convicted, and was sentenced to twenty years at the bagne, after exposure for an hour in the carcan, or iron collar, on the platform of the guillotine. He was sent first to Brest, but was transferred later to Rochefort, where he died in 1840, having endured his captivity with philosophy, and not, as has been said already, in extreme discomfort. “I have but one grief,” he said in the hospital of the bagne, “and that is that I am dying a forÇat. My money is of no use to me;” for he undoubtedly possessed considerable funds, although the secret of their whereabouts was never disclosed. Collet had no small opinion of himself, and claimed to be an interesting criminal. His head was turned by the attention he attracted, and he actually replied in an open letter to the charges brought against him in the numerous biographies of him published in his lifetime. He sought to correct the severity of the criticisms passed upon him, and protested that the standard of his morality was put too low. “My life has had two sides,” he represented; “and, I am free to confess, presents features I cannot defend; on the other side I can point to many good deeds. I have given largely to the poor when I was in funds, and my conduct in prison has always been irreproachable.”
A few very remarkable convicts contemporary with Collet may well find mention here. One was Salvador, whose real name was Jean Ferey. His prison history includes thirty-two escapes from gaol and nine from the bagne. He was originally a respectable man, a tradesman in the north of France, who, on returning from one of his business journeys, found his house deserted. His wife, after pillaging the place, had run away with a young clerk. He fell away at once into evil courses, vowed eternal hatred to society and instantly adopted a life of crime. He was taken in Paris and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbery by means of false keys. He escaped and was recaptured, finished his term and was again sentenced for a new burglary. He had had a violent struggle with the police, in which he was mortally wounded, as it was supposed, and was taken to the infirmary of La Force, where the surgeon bade him prepare for death. His wounds were deep, his strength was waning and hope abandoned. Next morning he had disappeared, and was driving post-haste along the highroad to Switzerland, in company with a woman, who had assisted in his escape. He had got out through a hole in the infirmary wall, and had lowered himself into the street by a rope made out of his blankets. Then followed a fresh offence and a new sentence, this time of death. The night before his execution he volunteered, with every sign of contrition, to make a full avowal of his crimes. A judge came to attest his confession, and, seeing that the prisoner was suffering acute pain from his chains, ordered his leg irons to be removed. The story was prolonged far into the night. The judge, meaning to return the next morning, left Salvador to sleep entirely unfettered. He was still well guarded and kept under eye; yet next day nothing was found of him but his clothes, which he had been compelled to slip off so as to effect his passage through the usual hole in the wall.
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.
Vidocq was still bent on escape. An obstacle to his plan existed in his chain companion, of whose discretion he was afraid. The man was still young, but already half an idiot from misery and brutal treatment. It was the rule to blame the remaining half of a couple, when the other had got away, and Vidocq knew this man, to avoid punishment, would betray the projected escape. It was necessary to be coupled afresh, and Vidocq, feigning sickness, was laid by for a few days, and then given another partner, who had no fears and was full of good-will. He strongly advised the would-be fugitive to make his move at once, before the sergeants had come to know his face. He helped Vidocq, who was in funds, to buy a disguise, a suit of sailor’s clothing, which was put on the morning of the third attempt, underneath his convict’s frock, and was undetected as the gang passed out of the gate to labor at dawn. His fetters, which he had sawn through, only hung by threads, but these also escaped notice; and on reaching the basin where the works were in progress, Vidocq slipped aside behind a pile of planks, where he made a rapid change, and walked off towards the wicket gate, giving upon the town. Altogether ignorant of the proper way, after threading many intricate streets and turning continually right and left, he luckily reached the main gate of the city, where a veteran guard was posted, who had the credit of being able to tell a convict at a look, and penetrate any disguise. A telltale hang of one leg, that to which the chain has been fastened, is an unfailing sign, but Vidocq had not been coupled long enough to show this. He played his part very coolly. He was carrying a jug of buttermilk, bought on purpose, and placing this upon the ground he halted in front of the warder, and carelessly asked for a light for his pipe. This self-possession served him in good stead. He passed safely through, and three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the three guns giving the alarm were fired. He still held on bravely, and all would have gone well, had not two gensdarmes suddenly appeared at the turn of the road, and took him into custody, but not as an escaped convict. With ready wit Vidocq gave himself up as a deserter from the navy, the Cocarde frigate then in the roadstead of St. Malo, near at hand,—to which he thought to be returned and to escape from the escort on the way.
After prolonged detention Vidocq was started for the coast, when he escaped and passed through many exciting adventures. For a part of the time he wandered about the country disguised as a Sister of Mercy. Then he joined forces with a party of escaped convicts, who had recognised him. Then he became a cattle drover, a business in which he earned good wages, and which took him to Paris. Danger threatened in the capital, and he worked north to Arras, in his own country, and on to Brussels and Rotterdam, where he was pressed into the Dutch navy. He claimed release as a Frenchman born, and was speedily identified as the deserter from the Cocarde. He was carried back into France as a prisoner, and his fate seemed so uncertain that he thought it best to proclaim himself Vidocq, an escaped convict from Brest. He was removed to BicÊtre on a second visit, and to be transferred for a second time on the chain to one of the bagnes. His second journey, which took him south, for Toulon was now his destination, was a repetition of that already described,—the most interesting feature in it being his companionship with a very noted criminal of that period, Jossas, better known as the Marquis Sainte Armande de Faral, one of the most celebrated robbers of Paris. There was very little of the convict about this prosperous thief. Although fettered, he wore a smart travelling costume, knitted pantaloons of silver gray and a waistcoat and cap trimmed with Astrakan fur, the whole covered with a large cloak lined with crimson velvet. He had ample funds, and fared sumptuously every evening, when he treated several of his comrades at dinner. He spent much time daily on his toilet, and was provided with a splendid dressing-case filled with all necessaries. His line of business was that of thefts by means of false keys, and he showed extraordinary cleverness in getting impressions to enable him to open the locks of doors and safes.
On reaching Chalons by road the gangs were transferred to large boats, on which they dropped down the RhÔne to Lyons, then on as far as Avignon, where they landed and recommenced the march. Vidocq and others, who had been guilty of escape, were condemned to the “double chain” as it was called. This meant unbroken confinement in one part of the prison, where they were chained to the guard bed, which they never left except for a short period of exercise. The worst characters in custody were collected here. Vidocq found himself side by side with several celebrities, notably revolutionaries who had robbed the royal wardrobe, a gigantic theft of Crown jewels and priceless treasures valued in all at half a million pound sterling, among which was the famous Regent diamond, sometimes called the “Pitt,” which had been brought from India by Mr. Pitt, Governor of Madras. There was also a member of the Cornu family, the head of which had long terrorised the people of Lombardy. Disguised as a horse-dealer he frequented country fairs and attacked merchants who were carrying large sums of money. He was greatly assisted by his third wife, who ingratiated herself with travellers and led them to their death. This family consisted of three sons and two daughters, all of them habituated to crime from their earliest childhood. The youngest girl, Florentine, showed some repugnance to adopt the criminal profession. She was cured by being compelled to carry in her apron, for two leagues, the decapitated head of a murdered farmer. So rapid is the degeneration of those who once go astray that this same Florentine, when her relatives joined a band of chauffeurs, for her part was to apply the lighted candle to the feet of their victims, when they refused to confess the hiding-place of their valuables. The brother, who was confined at Toulon with Vidocq, carried on the assumed business of a journeyman, and was sentenced to the double chain when caught in the act of committing a burglary.
Vidocq gained the good-will of his guardians by inducing his companions to pursue prison industries, and the prison of the double chain became a busy workshop, where children’s toys and other articles were manufactured in large quantities. The trade was profitable, and supplied the funds needed for undertaking a fresh escape. Vidocq collected materials for disguise—a wig and black whiskers and an old pair of boots. For the rest he trusted to the overcoat, hat, cane and gloves of the prison surgeon, who was in the habit of leaving these unguarded within Vidocq’s reach. The first attempt made in this disguise was a failure, the second was more successful. It had been arranged with the convict, Jossas, already mentioned, who had provided him with the plain clothes which he put on beneath his crimson frock. The rivet in his irons had been removed, and had been replaced by a movable screw, and one morning, when issuing forth to labor, Vidocq slipped behind the pile of wood, quickly threw off his red shirt and, extracting the screw, freed himself from his fetters. He ran at top speed to the basin, where a frigate was in repair, and jumped into a boat on the point of starting from the town. Vidocq seized an oar and pulled manfully towards Toulon, where he landed and made for the Italian gate. Here he was refused admittance. The production of a pass, or green card issued by the Magistrate, was demanded, and while he was still parleying, the three reports of the guns announcing his escape were heard. He forthwith left the gate and, avoiding the crowd, betook himself to the ramparts, where he was accosted by a friendly girl, who had penetrated his disguise, but who sympathised with the convict fugitive. She promised him a green ticket, which she would borrow from her lover; but the lover was absent from home, and recapture seemed imminent, when a funeral procession came past. The girl advised him to mix amongst the mourners. This he did, and thus passed the gate. Presently he gained the high-road which led into the open country. It would be tedious to follow the fugitive in his wanderings, or to detail the narrow chances he constantly ran of being captured. His story as a refugee was that of a hundred others of his class, who had broken prison and infested all parts of France. As a convict turned thief catcher his story is vastly different and of vastly greater interest; as will be seen in the following pages.
