Chapter I: Part 1

The Adventures of
Francois

Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing-Master
during the French Revolution

By

S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.

LL.D. Harvard and Edinburgh

New York
The Century Co.
1898

Copyright, 1897, 1898, by
THE CENTURY Co.

THE DE VINNE PRESS.

TO
PHILIP SCHUYLER

IN RECOGNITION OF
A CONSTANT FRIENDSHIP

*CONTENTS*

*I*

Of how Francois the foundling was cared for by the good fathers of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans, and of what manner of lad he was

*II*

In which Francois becomes a choir-boy, and serves two masters, to the impairment of his moral sense

*III*

Of the misfortunes caused by loss of a voice, and of how a cat and a damsel got Francois into trouble--whereupon, preferring the world to a monastery, he ran away from the choristers of Notre Dame

*IV*

Of how the world used Francois, and of the reward of virtue. He makes his first friend

*V*

Of the immorality which may come of an empty stomach, and of how Francois became acquainted with a human crab

*VI*

Of how Francois regained a lost friend, and of his adventure with the poet Horace and another gentleman

*VII*

Wherein is told how Francois saved a man's neck and learned to juggle

*VIII*

In which Francois discovers the mercantile value of laughter, and the Crab takes toll of the jugglers--with the sad history of Despard, the partner

*IX*

In which Francois tells the fortune of the Marquis de Ste. Luce and of Robespierre, and has his own fortune told, and of how Despard saw a man of whom he was afraid

*X*

How Pierre became a Jacobin and how a nation became insane

*XI*

The juggling firm of Despard, Francois & Co. is broken up--Despard goes into politics, and Francois becomes a fencing-master

*XII*

In which Toto is seen to change his politics twice a day--the mornings and the afternoons quarrel--In which Jean Pierre Andre Amar, "_le farouche,_" appears

*XIII*

Citizen Amar, meeting the marquis, is unlucky and vindictive

*XIV*

Francois escapes from Paris and goes in search of a father. He meets a man who has a wart on his nose, and who because of this is unlucky

*XV*

How Francois finds Despard and has a lesson in politics, and of what came of it

*XVI*

How Francois warns the Marquis de Ste. Luce, and of the battle on the staircase between the old day and the new

*XVII*

Of how Francois, escaping, lives in the wood; of how he sees the daughter of the marquis dying, and knows not then, or ever after, what it was that hurt him; of how he becomes homesick for Paris

*XVIII*

Wherein is told how Francois reenters Paris, and lodges with the Crab; and of how Toto is near to death by the guillotine. Francois meets Despard and the marquis, who warns him and is warned

*XIX*

Of the sorrowful life of loneliness, of Francois's arrest, and of those he met in prison

*XX*

Of how Francois gave Amar advice, and of how the marquis bought his own head

*XXI*

How Francois, having made a bargain with Citizen Amar, cannot keep it with the man of the wart--How Despard dies in the place of the marquis--Of Francois's escape from prison

*XXII*

Wherein is told how Francois baits a crab-trap with the man of the wart

*XXIII*

Of how Francois found lodgings where he paid no rent--Of the death of Toto--Of how his master, having no friends on the earth, finds them underground

*XXIV*

Of how Francois got into good society underground--Of what he saw, and of the value of a cat's eyes--From darkness to light--Of how Francois made friends for life

*EPILOGUE*

Wherein is some further account of Francois and of those who helped him

*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*

The Nets were Hung over Francois's Shoulders . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

Francois and Toto in the Luxembourg

Pierre taught Francois to Juggle with Balls

'T is a Gargoyle Come Down from the Roof of St. Jacques

He Paid in Advance the Customary Denier a Dieu

And so a Dog is Sent to Fetch the Safeguard the People Provide

He Staggered to Left, to Right, and at last Tumbled in a Heap

He Held his Way along the Highroad

The Wanderer Tapped on the Pane

He Saw a White Face on the Pillow

Quatre Pattes

Death to Royal Rats!

Amar Considered this Novel Specimen of Humanity

He Pulled the Bell at No. 33 Bis

"The Little Trap did Work," cried Francois, behind his Screen

*THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCOIS*

FOUNDLING, THIEF, JUGGLER, AND FENCING-MASTER
DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

*I*

_Of how Francois the foundling was cared for by the good fathers of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans, and of what manner of lad he was._

In the summer of the year 1777 a lad of about ten years, clad in a suit of gray, was playing in the high-walled garden of the Benedictine Asylum for Orphans in Paris. The sun was pleasant, the birds sang overhead, the roses were many, for the month was June. A hundred lads were noisily running about. They had the look of being well fed, decently clothed, and kindly cared for. An old priest walked to and fro, at times looking up from his breviary to say a pleasant word or to check some threatening quarrel.

Presently he paused beside the boy who was at the moment intently watching a bird on a branch overhead. As the priest turned, the boy had thrown himself on the grass and was laughing heartily.

"What amuses thee, my son?" said the father.

"I am laughing at the birds."

"And why do they make thee laugh, Francois!"

"I do not know."

"And I," said the priest, "do not know why the birds sing, nor why thou dost laugh. Thou hast a talent that way. The good God grant thee always cause"; and with his eyes on his breviary, and his lips moving in prayer, he walked away.

The lad fell back again on the grass, and laughed anew, as if overcome with some jest he shared with no one but the birds overhead. This was a kindly little waif brought hither from the Enfants Trouves, nameless except for the card pinned on the basket in which he lay when the unknown mother left him, a red-faced baby, to the charity of asylum life.

His constant mirthfulness was a sad cross to some of the good fathers, for neither punishment, fast, nor penance got the better of this gaiety, nor served to repress its instinctive expression. He had, too,--what is rare in childhood,--quick powers of observation, and a certain joy in the world of nature, liking to lie on his back and watch the birds at work, or pleased to note the daily changes of flowers or the puzzling journeys of the ants which had their crowded homes beneath the lilacs in undisturbed corners of the garden. His nearest mother, Nature, meant the boy to be one of those rare beings who find happiness in the use of keen senses and in a wakeful mind, which might have been trained to employ its powers for the partial conquest of some of her many kingdoms. But no friendly hand was here to guide, no example present to incite or lift him. The simple diet provided for the intellect of these little ones was like the diet of their table--the same for one and for all.

His head was high, his face long; all his features were of unusual size, the mouth and ears of disproportionate magnitude; altogether, a quaint face, not quite of to-day, a something Gothic and medieval in its general expression.

The dull round of matins and vespers, the routine of lessons, the silent refectory meals, went on year after year with little variation. The boy Francois simply accepted them as did the rest; but, unlike some of his comrades, he found food for mirth, silent, gentle, or boisterous, where no other saw cause for amusement.

Once a week a sober line of gray-clad boys, with here and there a watchful priest, filed through the gay streets to mass at St. Eustache or Notre Dame. He learned, as he grew, to value these chances, and to look forward with eager anticipation to what they brought him. During these walks the quick-minded Francois saw and heard a hundred things which aroused his curiosity. The broad gardens of the Luxembourg, the young fellows at unrestricted play, the river and the boats, by degrees filled him with keen desire to see more of this outer world, and to have easy freedom to roam at will. It was the first flutter of wings longing for natural flight. Before they set out on these journeys, a good father at the great gateway said to them as they went by: "Look neither to the right nor to the left, my children. 'T is a day of prayer. Remember!" Alas! what eyes so busy as those of Francois? "Look at this--at that," he would cry to the lads close to him. "Be quiet, there!" said the priests' low voices; and on this Francis's droll face would begin to express the unspoken delight he found in the outer world of men and things. This naughty outside world kept calling him to share its liberty. The boy liked best the choir, where his was the most promising voice. Here was happiness such as the use of dexterous hands or observant eyes also gave him. Religion was to him largely a matter of formal service. But in this, as in secular education, the individuality of the creature may not be set aside without risk of disaster. For all alike there was the same dull round, the same instruction. Nevertheless, the vast influence of these repeated services, and of the constant catechism, he continued to feel to his latest day.

He was emotional and imaginative, fond of color, and sensitive to music; but the higher lessons of the church, which should control the life of action, were without effect on a character which was naturally one of exceptional levity. Such a mind has small power to apply to the conduct of life the mere rules laid down for its guidance, and is apt to accept as personally useful only what comes from the lessons of experience.

*II*

_In which Francois becomes a choir-boy, and serves two masters, to the impairment of his moral sense._

He was about fourteen, and the best of the choir, when a great change took place in his life. He was sent, with a dozen others, to the vestry of Notre Dame, and there carefully tested as to the power and quality of his voice. The masters of the choir were exacting, but, to his great delight, he was thought the best of the four who were finally selected to fill vacancies among the boy choristers of the cathedral. This came about in the autumn of the year 1781.

The next day he received a long lecture on how he should behave himself; and thus morally provided, was sent, with his small belongings in a bag, to the house of certain of the choir-masters who lived in the Rue des Chanteurs. One of the priests who escorted the four boys stood at the door of the house of the choir, and saying good-by to them as they went in, bade them come, if they might, and visit their old home; and so, with a benediction, sent them forth into a larger world.

It was not much larger, nor was it as agreeable. When the good father left them, one Tomas, who was steward of the choir-house, took the lads in charge.

"Up with ye, singing-birds!" he cried; "up! up!" And this at each story: "It will soon be your best chance of heaven; up! up!" until they reached a large attic under the tiles.

It was a dismal place, and hospitable to every wind that blew. Each of twelve choir-boys had a straw mattress on the floor, and pegs where hung his clothes and the white surplice he wore during service. The four newcomers took possession, and were soon informed by Tomas of their duties. They must be up at five to sing before breakfast with the second chanter.

"Before breakfast!" cried one of the recruits.

"Little animal!" said Tomas. "Before thou dost eat there is room to fill thy chest; but after, what boy hath room? Breakfast at six and a half; at seven a lesson. Thou wilt intone with Pere Lalatte."

Thus the day was to be filled; for here were lessons a-plenty in Latin, and all must learn to read and to write, for they might be priests some blessed day.

Francois reflected as Tomas packed the hours with this and that as one packs a bag. He made his face as grave as nature would let it be, and said it was very nice, and that he liked to sing. Was there anything else? Tomas replied that this first day they might ask questions, but that after that he (Tomas) had only one answer, because to have only one saved thinking.

This amused Francois, who was prematurely capable of seeing the fun of things.

When a duller boy who did not apprehend asked to know more he received an illustration in the form of a smart smack, which proved convincingly instructive, and silenced all but Francois, who asked, "Please, monsieur, when may we play?" and "Is there anything more?"

Tomas replied that there was a free hour before supper, and a little while somewhere about noon in the garden; also, they must wait on table; and oh, he forgot the prayers; and then went on to complete the packing of the day with various small duties in the nature of attentions to the comfort of Tomas. With some last words as to the time of the next meal, the steward left them.

The lads, silent and anxious, arranged their small possessions. A little goldfinch in a wicker cage was Francis's most valued property; he had taught it many pretty tricks, and now he had been allowed to bring it with him. Francois put the cage on the window-ledge, and fed his brightly tinted bird from a small store of millet with which he had filled his pocket. Then he looked out to see what prospect the view from the attic afforded.

The home of the master-choristers was an ancient house of the days of Henri IV, and leaned so far over that as the boy looked out he had a sudden fear lest it should be about to tumble. The street was not more than twelve feet wide. The opposite dwellings were a full story below the attic from which the boy looked. The nearest house across the way had an ancient stoop. Others bent back from the line of the street, and the open windows gave them a look of yawning weariness which set the boy to gaping in sympathy.

Above was a mottled wilderness of discolored tiles, chimney-pots, and here and there gray corner turrets with vanes which seemed to entertain diverse views as to the direction whence the wind blew. Below was the sunless well of the street. As he gazed he saw the broad hats of priests hiding the figures beneath them. It interested the boy. It was new and strange. He was too intent to notice that all but he had gone, obedient to an order of Tomas.

A woman at a window over the way let fall a skirt she had been drying. It sailed to and fro, and fell on the head of a reflective abbe. The boy broke into laughter. A cat climbed on to a chimney-pot, and was met by a gust of smoke from the flue beside it. She scrambled off, sneezing.

"What fun!" cried the boy, and laughed again.

"Little beast!" shouted Tomas. "Must I come for thee? 'T is not permitted to laugh. It is forbid to laugh. It spoils the voice"--a queer notion which, to his sorrow, the boy found to prevail in the house of the choristers.

"How can that be?" said Francois, boldly.

The man gave him to understand that he was to obey his betters without answering, and then, taking the cage from the window, said: "Come--quick, too! Thou art late for the dinner, and must do without it. There is a singing-lesson. Off with thee!"

He was leaving the room when, suddenly, a strange fury of anger came on the boy. He snatched the cage from the man's hand, crying, "My bird! It is my bird!"

Tomas caught him, and began to administer a smart cuffing; but the lad was vigorous and of feline agility. He used nails, teeth, and feet. Then, of a sudden, he ceased to struggle, and fell on a mattress in an agony of tears. The man had set his foot on the fallen cage, crying:

"I will teach thee a lesson, little animal!"

There lay in the crushed cage the dead bird, still quivering, a shapeless mass of green and yellow with a splotch of red. It was the first lesson of that larger world toward which the foundling had been so joyfully looking.

He made no further resistance to the discipline which followed. Then came a dark cell and bread and water for a weary day, and much profit in the way of experience. It was a gentle home he had left. He had known there no unkindness, nor had he ever so sinned as to suffer more than some mild punishment. The new life was hard, the diet spare. As the winter came on, the attic proved to be cold. The winds came in from the tiles above and through the shrunken window-frames. Once within, they seemed to stay and to wander in chilly gusts. The dark suits worn by the choir-boys were none too warm. If the white surplice were clean, little more was asked in that direction. There were long services twice a day at the great cathedral near by, and three hours of practice under the eye of a junior chorister. The boys were abed at eight, and up at five; and for play, there were two uncertain hours--after the noon meal and at seven in the evening--when they were free to move about a small court behind the house, or to rest, if they pleased, in the attic. Four days in the week there were lessons in Latin and in reading and writing. Assuredly the devil had little of the chance which idle hours are presumed to give. But this fallen angel has also the industry of the minute, and knows how to profit by the many chances of life. He provided suggestive lessons in the habits of the choristers who dwelt in the stories above the wine-shop on the first floor. Sounds of gay carouses reached the small garret saints at night, and gay voices were heard which had other than masculine notes. At meal-times the choir-boys waited on their masters, and fetched their food from the kitchen. The lads soon learned to take toll on the way, and to comfort their shrunken stomachs with a modest share of the diet of their betters.

"Little rats!" said Tomas the steward, "you will squeal in purgatory for this; and 't were better to give you a dose of it here." And so certain of the rats, on account of temporary excess of feed, were given none for a day, and left in a cold cellar to such moral aids as reflection might fetch.

Francois sat with his comrades of mishap in the gloom, and devised new ways of procuring food and concealing their thefts.

"Rats we are," said Francois, gaily; "and rats had need be smart; and who ever heard that the _bon Dieu_ sent rats to purgatory?" Then he hatched queer stories to keep up the spirits of the too penitent; and whether full or empty, cold or warm, took all that came with perpetual solace of good-humored laughter. It was not in him to bear malice. The choir-masters liked him, and with the boys he was the leader.

Most of the dozen choir-bays were dull fellows; but this sharp-witted Francois was of other make, and found in the table-talk of the choristers, and of the cure's who came now and then to share their ample fare, food for such thoughts as a boy thinks. He soon learned, as he grew older, how difficult is complete sin; how many outlets there are for him who, being penitent, desires to create new opportunities for penitence. Francois was fast forming his character. He had small need to look for excuses, and a meager talent for regret. When his stomach was full he was good, and when it was empty he must, as he said in after years, "fill it to squeeze out Satan."

There were singular books about, and for his education, now that he read Latin fairly well, a manual on confession. It was not meant for half-fed choir-boys. More fascinating were the confessions of one Rousseau--a highly educative book for a clever boy of sixteen. At this age Francois was a long-legged, active fellow, a keen-witted domestic brigand, expert in providing for his wants, and eagerly desirous of seeing more of the outside world, of the ways of which he was so ignorant. The procession of closely watched boys went to church and back again to the old house at least once a day, and this was his only glimpse of the entertaining life of the streets. When left to himself, he liked best in good weather to sit at the open attic window and watch the cats on the roofs across the way. So near were the houses that he could toss a bone or a crust on to the roof opposite, and delight to see these Ishmaelites contend for the prize. He grew to know them, so that they would come at dusk to the roof-edge, and contemplate dietetic possibilities with eager and luminous eyes. Being versed in the Bible, as all good choir-boys should be, he found names for his feline friends which fitted their qualities; for there, among the chimneys, was a small world of stirring life which no man disturbed. He saw battles, jealousies, greediness, and loves. Constancy was not there. Solomon of the many wives was king of the tiles; a demure blue cat was Susannah, for good reasons; and there, too, were the elders. It might have seemed to some pitiful angel a sad picture--this poor lad in the grasp of temptations, but made for better chances, finding his utmost joy in the distant company of these lean Arabs of the desert housetops.

*III*

_Of the misfortunes caused by loss of a voice, and of how a cat and a damsel got Francois into trouble--whereupon, preferring the world to a monastery, he ran away from the choristers of Notre Dame._

It was in the month of June, in the year 1784, that a female got him into trouble, and aided to bring about a decision as to his future. This was, however, only one of the distressing incidents which at the time affected his career, and was not his final experience of the perils to which attention to the other sex may expose the unwary. A few days before the sad event which brought about a change in Francois's life, he was engaged in singing one of the noble Gregorian chants. Never had he used his voice with greater satisfaction. He was always pleased and eagerly ambitious when in the choir, and was then at his best. This day it seemed to him, as he sang, that his clear tones rose like a bird, and that something of him was soaring high among the resonant arches overhead. Of a sudden his voice broke into a shrill squeak. The choir-master shook a finger at him, and he fell into a dead silence, and sang no more that morning. The little white-robed procession marched out, and when it reached the gray old house there was wrath and consternation over the broken treble. He was blamed and beaten; but, after all, it was a too likely misfortune. If it chanced again he must go to the Dominican convent at Auteuil, and perhaps in a year or two would be lucky enough to get back his voice. Meanwhile let him take care. Poor Francois did his best; but a week later, amid the solemnity of a mass for the dead, came once more that fatal break in the voice. He knew that his fate was sealed.

Little was said this time, but he overheard the head of the choir arranging with Tomas the steward that the boy should go to Auteuil. Until then he was no longer to serve in the choir.

Francois had seen all this occur before, when, as was common, some little singer lost control of his changing voice. His case was hopeless. Yet here was an idle time and no more singing-lessons. But a part of the small joys of a life not rich in happy moments was gone, to come back no more, as he knew too well. Of late his fine quality of song had won him some indulgence, and he had learned how much a fine voice might mean. Dim visions began to open before him, as he heard of how choir-boys had conquered fame and wealth in France or elsewhere. One day the leader of the choir had praised him and his diligence, and hoped he would never leave them. He was told what a great possession was a voice like his, and had even been envied by the less gifted. Now this possession was taken from him, and he was at once made sadly aware of his loss. His vanity, always great, was wounded to the quick. A little kindness would have led him to go to the convent and hopefully bide his time; but nobody cared, or seemed to care, for him, or to pity what to his active imagination was a fatal wreck of goodly chances.

For a day or two he went about disconsolate, and was set to serve in the kitchen or to wait on the man Tomas, who jeered at his squeaky voice, and called him "little pig," with additions of some coarser amenities of language, and certain information as to the convent life of a lay servant ill calculated to make Auteuil appear desirable.

In his leisure hours, which now were many, Francois took refuge from the jests of his fellows in the lonely garret. The people across the way in their rooms amused him. The cats were never long absent. He watched their cunning search for the nests of the sparrows, and very soon began to feel again the invincible lifting power of his comic nature. Some remembrance of the alarm in the choir-master's face when his voice broke came upon Francois, and he began to laugh. Just then he saw Solomon on the roof opposite. The master of a populous harem was in the company of the two naughty elders. Susannah, behind a chimney, was making her modest toilet with a skilful tongue. He called her, and held up a tempting bone. The shy maiden hesitated. He called, "Suzanne, Suzanne!" to bring her to the edge of the tiled roof and near enough to make sure that the elders would not capture her desired prize.

As he called, a little grisette who was hanging out clothes to dry kissed her hand to the boy. Francois had seen her before. She was not attractive. He liked his cats better. "Suzanne, Suzanne!" he called, as the virgin, looking about her, daintily picked her way to the edge. High on the roof-top, Solomon exhorted the elders, and in a moment backs were humped, and claws out, and there was bad language used, which may have been Hebrew, but at all events appeared to be sufficiently expressive; for the elders and Solomon, of a sudden rolling over in a wild scuffle, disappeared on the farther side of the roof. This was the maid's opportunity, and gratefully licking her anticipative chops, she crawled to the gutter.

"_Bonne Suzanne_! _Viens donc_! Come, come, Suzanne!" cried the boy.

Of a sudden a smart box on the ear broke up this pretty love-affair. There stood Tomas.

"A nice choir-boy! Talking with that beast of a grisette!" Then there were more liberal whacks as the boy, in a rage, was dragged away, and bidden to come down-stairs and carry to market the nets used in place of baskets. Tomas usually went alone to buy provisions, but now the choir-boy was free and could be made of use.

Francois uttered no complaint. It was literally the only time he had had a chance to be in the streets, except as part of the procession to and from the church. He was sore, angry, and resentful of the ill usage which in the last few days had taken the place of the growing respect his talent had created. He took the nets and his cap, and followed Tomas. "What a chance!" he thought to himself.

The boy concealed the delight he felt, and followed the steward, who went down to the river and across it to the open market on the farther bank. He stopped here and there to buy provisions and to chat with the market-women. When one of them, pleased with the odd-looking lad, gave him an apple, Tomas took it from him. Francois laughed, which seemed always to offend the saturnine steward. He could not destroy the pleasure of the gay market for Francois, who made queer faces at the mistresses of the stalls, teased the dogs and cats for sale in cages, and generally made himself happy until they came home again.

But from this time onward, except for these excursions, his life was made miserable enough. He was the slave of Tomas, and was cruelly reminded day after day of the misery of him who has a servant for his master.

At last he learned that the time was near when he must go to Auteuil. His voice had been tested again, and he had been told that there was small hope of its return. He began to think of escape. Once he was sent alone on an errand to a shop near by. He lingered to see some street-jugglers, and paid for it with a day in a damp cellar. Within this sad home he now found only reproaches and unthanked labor. The choristers laughed at him, and the happier boys mocked his changed voice. On the day after his last experience of the cellar, he was told by Tomas to be ready to go to Auteuil, and was ordered once again to follow the steward to market. He took up the nets and went after him. The lad looked back at the choir-house. He meant to see it no more. He was now seventeen, and in the three years of his stay had learned many things, some good and some bad.

They went past Notre Dame to the quai, and through rows of stalls along the shores of the Seine. Tomas soon filled the nets, which were hung over Francois's shoulders. Meanwhile the chattering women, the birds and cages, the flowers, the moving, many-colored crowd, amused or pleased the boy, but by no means turned him from his purpose.

"Come!" cried Tomas, and began to elbow his way through the noisy people on the river-bank. Presently Francois got behind him, and noting his chances with a ready eye, slipped through between the booths and darted up the Seine.

*IV*

_Of how the world used Francois, and of the reward of virtue. He makes his first friend._

When Tomas, having won his way out of the press about a fortune-teller, looked for Francois, there was a lost choir-boy and two days' diet gone none knew whither--least of all the fugitive. He moved away with the speed of fear, and was soon in the somber network of narrow streets which in those days made a part of the Ile de la Cite the refuge of the finest assortment of thieves, bravos, gypsies, and low women to be found in any capital of Europe.

His scared looks and decent black suit betrayed him. An old fellow issued from a doorway like a spider. "Ha, ha, little thief!" he said; "I will buy thy plunder."

Francois was well pleased. He took eagerly the ten sous offered, and saw the spider poke a long red beak into the loaded nets as he passed out of sight in the dark doorway. Francois looked at the money. It was the first he had ever owned. He walked away in haste, happy to be free, and so over a bridge to the Ile St. Louis, with its pretty gardens and the palaces of the great nobles. At the far end of the isle he sat down in the sun and watched the red barges go by, and took no more care for to-morrow than does a moth just out of its cocoon. He caught up the song of a man near by who was mending a bateau. He whistled as he cast stones into the water. It was June, and warm, and before him the river playing with the sunset gold, and behind him the dull roar of Paris. Ah, the pleasure to do as he would! Why had he waited so long?

Toward night he wandered back into the Cite, and saw an old woman selling fried potatoes, and crying, "Two sous, two sous!" He asked for thus much, and received them in the top of his cap. The hag took his ten-sou piece, and told him to begone. Amazed at this bit of villainy, poor Francois entreated her to give him his change. She called him a thief, and when a dreadful man sallied out of a wine-shop and made murderous threats, the boy ran as fast as he could go, and never ceased until he got to the river again. There, like Suzanne, he kept watch for the foes of property, and at last ate his potatoes, and began to reflect on this last lesson in morality. He had stolen many morsels, many dinners, and his fair share of wine; but to be himself robbed of his entire means was calculated to enlarge his views of what is possible in life, and also undesirable. The night was warm; he slept well in an abandoned barge, but woke up early to feel that liberty had its drawbacks, and that emptiness of stomach was one of the large family of needs which stimulate the ingenuity of man or boy.

Quite at a loss, he wandered once more through the slums of the Cite, and soon lost himself in the network of narrow streets to the north of the cathedral, hearing, as he went, strange slang, which his namesake Francois Villon would have better understood than he. The filth of the roadways and that of the tongue were here comparable. Some boys, seeing his sober suit of the dark cloth worn by the choir, pelted him with stones. He ran for his life, and falling over a man who was sawing wood, received a kick for remembrance. Far away he paused breathless in a dark lane which seemed unpeopled, and where the houses leaned over like palsied old scoundrels who whisper to one another of ancient crime. Even to a boy the place was of a sudden terrible. There was murder in the air.

He felt, without knowing why, the danger of the place. A painted creature, half clad, came out of a house--a base animal whom the accident of sex had made a woman. She called to him to come in. He turned and went by her in haste and horror. A man in a red shirt ran toward him, crying out some ordures of speech. As he fled there was a sudden peopling of window and doorway with half-naked drunken men and women. He had never before seen such faces. He was in that pit of crime and bestiality which before long was to overflow and riot in a limitless debauch of blood. The boy's long legs served him well. He dodged and ran this way and that. At the mouth of the _cul-de-sac_ a lank boy caught him by the arm. Francois struck him fiercely, and with a sense of joy in the competence of the first blow he had ever given one of his own years, he fled again; nor did he pause until, free from foes, he stood panting in the open sunshine below the great buttresses of Notre Dame.

He saw here that no one took notice of him, and, once more at ease, crossed from the Cite to the right bank of the Seine. Thus wandering he came at last to one of the low bridges which spanned the broad ditches then bounding the Place Louis XV, where now is the Place de la Concorde. The ducks and swans in these canals delighted him. He lingered, liking the gaiety and careless joy of the children with their nurses. The dogs, acrobats, musketeers, and the pomp of heavy, painted carriages rolling by with servants in liveries, the Swiss guards, the magnificence of the king's palace, were all to him as a new world might have been.

He went on, and at last along the Rue St. Honore and to the Palais Royal, where, amid its splendid shops, cafes, jugglers, fortune-tellers, and richly clad people, he forgot for an hour his poor little stomach and its claims. By and by he took note of the success of a blind beggar. He watched him for an hour, and knew that he had in this time gathered in sous at least a franc. The shrunken stomach of the boy began to convert its claims into demands, and with this hint he put on a sad face and began to beg. It was not a very prosperous business; but he stated his emptiness so pitifully, and his voice had such sweet, pleading notes, that at last he thus acquired six or eight sous, and retired to the outer gate to count them.

The imprudence of estimating wealth in public was soon made clear to him. He was seated back of the open grille, his cap on his lap, when a quick, clawlike hand, thrust between the railings, darted over his shoulder, and seized two thirds of his gains. He started up in time to see that the thief was the blind beggar, who was away and lost in the crowd and among the horses and carriages, to all appearances in excellent possession of the sense of sight. Pursuit was vain. Francois's education was progressing. Most lads thus tormented by fate would have given way to rage or tears. Francois cried out, "_Sathanas!_" not knowing as yet any worse expletive, and burst into a roar of laughter. At least there were three sous left, and these he put into his pocket. His lessons were not over. The crowd thinned at noon, and he rose to go in search of food. At this moment a gentleman in very gorgeous dress, with ruffles, sword, and a variety of dazzling splendors, went by, and at the boy's feet let fall a lace handkerchief. Francois seized it, and stood still a moment. Then he put it in his breast, and again stood still. To take food is one thing; to steal a handkerchief is quite another. He was weak with hunger, but he had three sous. He ran after the gentleman, and cried:

"Here is your handkerchief!"

"A very honest lad," said its owner; "you will do well in the world "; and so went his way, leaving to virtue the proverbial reward of virtue. This time Francois did not laugh. In the Rue St. Honore he bought some boiled beans for two sous, and retired to eat them in peace on the steps of St. Roch. Soon he saw a woman with a tin pan come out of a little shop and after her a half-grown black poodle. She set down the pan, and left the dog to his meal. Francois reconnoitered cautiously, and giving the dog a little kick, fled with the pan, and was shortly safe in an unfrequented passage behind the church. Here he found that he was master of a chop and a half-eaten leg of chicken. He had eaten the chop and some crusts, as well as the beans, when he became aware of the black poodle, which, being young, still had confidence in human nature, and now, with sense of ownership, thrust his black nose in the pan of lessening viands.

Francois laughed gaily. The touch of friendly trust gave the lonely boy a thrill of joy, and, with some reluctance doubtless, he gave the dog what was left, feeding him in bits, and talking as a comrade to a comrade. The poodle was clearly satisfied. This was very delightful society, and he was receiving such attention as flatters a decent dog's sense of his social position. The diet was less than usual, but the company was of the best, and inspired the extreme of confidence. There is a charm of equality as between dog and boy. Both are of Bohemia. The poodle stood up when asked to beg. He was invited to reveal his name. He received with the sympathetic sadness of the motionless tail the legend of Francois's woes.

When at last Francois rose, the dog followed him a little way, saying plainly, "Where thou goest I will go." But the unlicked pan needed attention; he turned back to the fleshpots. Seeing himself deserted, a vague sadness came upon Francois. It was the shadow of an uncomprehended emotion. He said, "Adieu, _mon ami!_" and left the little black fellow with his nose in the pan.

An hour of wandering here and there brought Francois to the palisades around the strong foundations of the new church of the Madeleine. Beyond were scattered country houses, the Pepinieres of the king, and the great English garden of Monceaux belonging to the Duc d'Orleans. This fascinating stretch of trees and green and boundless country was like a heavenly land to the boy. No dream could be more strange. He set out by the Rue de la Pologne, and at last went with timid doubt through the _barriere_, and was soon in the open country. To his surprise, he heard a yap at his side, and there was the little black poodle, apparently as well pleased as he. Francois had no scruples as to ownership. _Mon Dieu!_ had he stolen the dog, or had the dog stolen him? They ran along happy, the boy as little troubled as the dog by questions of conscience. The country was not productive of easily won food, but a few stolen plums were to be had. A girl coming from milking gave a jug of milk, which Francois, despite keen hunger, shared with his friend. When a couple of miles from Paris, he sat down to rest by the roadside. The dog leaped on to his lap, and the boy, as he lay in the sun, began to think of a name for this new friend. He tried merrily all the dog-names he could think of; but when at last he called, "Toto!" the poodle barked so cordially that Francois sagaciously inclined to the belief that he must have hit upon the poodle's name. "Toto it shall be," he cried. All that day they wandered joyfully, begged a crust, and at night slept in an orchard, the poodle clasped to the boy's bosom--a pair of happy vagabonds.

When, next day, the pair of them, half starved, were disconsolately returning toward Paris, an old woman bade Francois earn a few sous by picking strawberries. But the dog must not range the garden; he should be tied in the kitchen. Francois worked hard at the matter in hand, taking good toll of the berries, and at noon went back with the old dame to her cottage.

"It is five sous, _mon garcon_, and a bowl of milk thou shalt have, and a bit of meat; and how merry thou art!"

Alas! as she opened the door the poodle fled past her with a whole steak in his mouth. Hot it was, but of such delicate savor that it gave him courage to hold on. The old woman threw a stool after him, and cried out in wrath that they were both thieves. Then she turned on poor Francois with fury and a broom, so that he had scarce time to leap the fence and follow the dog. He found him at last with his rather dusty prize; and seeing no better thing to do, he went deep into a wood, and there filled himself as he had not done for days. The brigand Toto had his share, and thus reinforced, they set out again to return to Paris.

*V*

_Of the immorality which may come of an empty stomach, and of how Francois became acquainted with a human crab._

This nomad life was sadly uncertain; but Toto was a sharp forager, and what with a sou begged here and there, and the hospitality of summer, for a while they were not ill contented. But at last Francois passed two days of such lean living as set his wits to work. There was clearly no help for it, and with a rueful face he entered the shop whence Toto had followed his uncertain fortunes.

The owner was a pleasant little woman who took honesty for granted. Yes, it was her dog; and how long he had been gone! Here was a great piece of twenty sous; and where did he find the poodle? Francois declared that he lived near by and knew the dog. He had found him in the Rue du Faubourg St. Lazare. And was it so far away as that? He must be tired, and for his honesty should be well fed. Thus, rich as never before, and with a full stomach, he left Toto tied up, and went out into the world again, lonely and sad.

Needless is it to describe his wanderings, or to relate how the lonely lad acquired the sharp ways of a gamin of the streets. For a while he begged or stole what food he required. Some four months later, a combination of motives led him into theft which was not mere foraging.

On a cold November day he was again in the crowded gardens and arcades of the Palais Royal. He was shabby enough by this time, and was sharply reminded by the cool nights of the need for shelter. By chance his eye lighted on the man who shammed blindness and had stolen his precious sous. The beggar was kneeling, cap in hand, with closed eyes, his head turned upward, entreating pity for his loss of sight. There were some sous in his cap. A Francois passed he made believe to add another sou, and as he did so deftly scooped up the greater part of the coins.

The blind man cried out; but the boy skipped aside, laughing, well aware that for the beggar to pursue him would be hardly advisable, as he might lose more than he could gain.

A few sous were of small account. They insured a meal, but not a lodging. As he was thus reflecting, he saw near by and presently beside him the gentleman who had so highly appreciated the return of his handkerchief. The coat pockets were large in those days, and the crowd was great. A little white corner of lace besought Master Francois, crying, "I am food and lodging for thee!" Whereupon it was done, and a lace handkerchief changed owners.

It cannot be said that these downward steps cost Francois any moral discomfort. He grinned as he thought of the beggar's perplexity, and laughed outright as he felt how complete had been his own joy in the satisfaction of possession could he have made the owner of the kerchief understand that he had suffered not merely a theft, but the punishment of injustice.

Francois was now too well versed in the ways of the street-boy, too dirty and too ragged, to fear the Cite. Thither he went, and found a thieves' shop, where he sold the handkerchief, and got ten francs for what was worth thirty.

The question of a place where he could be sure of a bed was his first consideration on coming into his fortune. In the long, warm summers of France one who was not particular could find numerous roosting-places, but in winter a more constant home was to be desired.

In the Cite Francois had occasionally lodged here and there when he could afford to pay, and had been turned out when he had no more sous. Now, being affluent, and therefore hard to please, he wandered until he came upon the lodging-house of an old woman in the Rue Perpignan. He knew of her as a dealer in thieves' goods, and as ever ready to shelter the lucky--and, it was suspected, as willing to betray those who were persistently unfortunate.

What drew him to this woman's house it were hard to tell. She was repulsive in appearance, but, strangely enough, was clean as to her person, dress, and abode. Asylum life had taught Francois to be cleanly. He declares in his memoirs that he was by habit neat, and that it was the absence of dirt which first tempted him into a relation which was so largely to affect his after life.

When he became one of this woman's lodgers he took a step which was for him of moment. Now for the first time he was to be in the company of old and practised thieves; but he was not yet of an age to be troubled as to the future or to reflect upon the past. The horizon of youth is small.

He found plenty of masters to educate him in the evil business into which he had been driven by relentless fate. Never was pupil more ready. His hostess appreciated the cleverness of her new lodger, but it was long before he himself realized how strange was the aspect and how sinister the nature of this mother of evil.

Certain historical epochs create types of face. This was a period which manufactured many singular visages. None was more strange than that which Mme. Quatre Pattes carried on a body quite as remarkable. Francois speaks of her over and over in his memoirs, and dwells upon the peculiarities of her appearance. I recall well what he said to me, one evening, of this creature:

"You see, monsieur, I went to one den of thieves and another until I chanced upon the Crab. It is not to be described; for here in a little room was a witch, crumpled and deformed, sharply bent forward as to the back from the waist, and--ah, _diablement_ thin! She was cleanly and even neat, and her room was a marvel, because over there in the Cite men were born and lived and died, and never saw a clean thing. And she was of a strangeness--consider, monsieur; imagine you a bald head, and a lean face below, very red, and the skin drawn so tight over the bones as to shine. Her eyes were little and of a dull gray; but they held you. Her lips were lean, and she kept them moving in a queer way as if chewing. I did laugh when first I saw her, but not often afterward."

When he confided to this clean and horrible creature what he wanted, she made him welcome. She rattled the two sticks which her bent form made needful for support. She would house him cheaply; but he must be industrious--and to sell a lace handkerchief for ten francs--_tonnerre_! He needed caution. She would be a _bonne maman_ to him--she, Quatre Pattes, "four paws"; the Crab, they called her, too, for short, and because of her red leanness and spite; but what was her real name he did not learn for many a day. At first her appearance excited in his mind no emotion except amazement and mirth. A terrible old crab it was when she showed her toothless gums and howled obscenities, while her sticks were used with strange agility. The quarter feared her. M. Francois had a fortune in his face, she said; and did he know the _savate_, the art to kick? There was a master next door. And again, what a face! With that face he might lie all day, and who would disbelieve him? Better to fetch her what he stole. She would see that no one cheated him but herself, and that would be ever so little. One must live. When she laughed, which was not often, Francois felt that a curse were more gay. There were devil-women in those days, as the mad world of Paris soon came to know; and the Crab, with her purple nose and crooked red claws, was of the worst.

*VI*

_Of how Francois regained a lost friend, and of his adventure with the poet Horace and another gentleman._