Chapter IX: Part 9

Few could have stood here alone, and not felt its terror and its mystery. Francois stood a moment, appalled, and unable to think or to observe. At last he began to study the place with care and increasing interest. A rusty sword, sheathed, was caught in the arm of the ruined chair. Here and there lay bits of gold lace. He picked up the rusted clasp of a purse, gnawed by the rats. Near it lay scattered a number of gold and silver coins, a rosary, and a small ring set with red stones. He put them all in his pocket. There was scarce a remnant of the man's dress.

Francois looked at the tumbled bones. "_Mon Dieu!_" said he; "am I like that?" and turned to see what else was here. On the lowest stair was a glint of yellow--a cross of gold. "Good luck!" he cried. On the hearth was a copper kettle, green with rust. Soon he began to see better, and at last found a fragment of wood less damp than the rest of the floor and what lay upon it; for a steady, slow, irregular rain fell in drops, with dull patter here and there. He shaved off some slivers of the wood, and, getting at the drier inside, soon, with paper from his pouch, made a fire on the stone pavement. Presently he had a bright little blaze, and in the brilliant glow began to shed his terror. He found other wood, and nourished the flame. But when he saw that the fragments were from the end of a crushed cradle, he ceased to use them; because here were little bones lying scattered, and the man guessed at the extent of the tragedy, and was strangely stirred. He moved to and fro in the tent-like space in awe and wonder, in thought reconstructing the house, and seeming to share in the horror of its story.

Before leaving, he looked again at the overturned chair, the stones lying about it, and the moldering remains of the man. He must have been asleep, and died instantly when the house fell into the great cave. There was no more to be seen. "God rest his soul!" said the thief, and crawled backward out of the tangle of broken beams and stones.

In a few minutes he was again with those he had left, and, saying only, "'T is well, madame; we shall get out," fell into a peaceful sleep.

The next day every one dragged on wearily, the duke still leading, and Francois hoping that he would be asked advice. The water rained on them a noisome downfall, the rats came out in hordes; and still Francois cheered his companions, now carrying the baby, and now encouraging the tired boys.

I have not given in full detail all the miseries of these weary days and sorrowful nights. They have been more fully told elsewhere by one who felt them as more serious than did Francois, whose narrative I now am following. These unhappy victims of the Terror had been altogether six days in the cave, but Francois not so long. By this time their spirit was quite broken. The thief alone remained gay, hopeful, and even confident, but saw clearly enough that these people, used to easy lives, could not endure much longer the strain of this unguided wandering in the dark and somber alleys of this horrible labyrinth of darkness and foul odors. The duke seemed also to be of a like mind, for on the morning of the seventh day he awakened Francois at six, and, of a sudden grown sadly familiar, whispered low to him:

"Is there any hope? Madame and the boys are failing. Soon we shall have to carry them."

"We shall get out," said Francois.

"But how? how? Why to-day any more than yesterday? Do you think of any way to help us?"

"If monsieur will permit me to lead--"

"Good! Why did you not say so before?"

Francois made no direct reply, but asked: "Did ever a house fall into these quarry-caves?"

"A house? Why do you ask? Yes; it was long ago. The house of the lieutenant of the guard it was. I do not recall the date. A house in the Rue des Peches."

"Will this help to know when it was?" and Francois showed his coins and told his story.

"Yes, yes; I see. How wonderful! These are of the time of Francis I."

"Rue des Peches?"

"Yes; it is now the Rue des Bon Secours. It is close to the Asile des Innocents."

"_Dieu!_ monsieur, then I know. I think we may get out to-day; but it may be well not yet to tell madame. I think we are still near to the fallen house."

"Then you shall lead," said the duke. "_Tiens!_ a queer fellow, this thief," he muttered, and went to waken the sleeping children. No word was said as to the house of the lieutenant of the guard, but Francois refreshed the tired party by promising a speedy glimpse of day. For, now that the candles were few, they thought more of this than of the perils which the daylight might bring.

The thief led, and all day long they went on and on. Once he was quite dismayed to find that he had lost his way, and once came to the very entrance of the cave he had left the night before. The duke again became querulous and dissatisfied; but Francois only laughed, and, resolutely concealing his mistake, retraced his steps. It was near to seven o'clock in the evening of July 28 when the thief bade them rest, and he would be back soon. The duke said something cross; but Francois made no reply, and, turning a corner, lost sight of his party. He took careful note of the turns and windings of this maze, and now and then found himself in a blind alley, and must of need turn back. At the far end of one of these recesses he saw in the gloom two great, green, phosphorescent eyes. Like mighty jewels they were, set in the darkness. They were soon lost to view, and came and went. "They are cats," he murmured; "and what a hunting estate they have! Ye saints! if I had here my poor Toto!" He began to move toward these eyes, which shot back the light his lantern gave. There were three sets of the pale-green jewels, and now their owners were maneuvering to escape. He began to use caressing cat-talk, such as had won the heart of Suzanne, and, falling on his knees, crept closer. Then there was a quick rush past him of his feline game; but one cat was indecisive, and he had her by the leg. He paid well for his audacity, but held on, and pretty soon began to exercise the curious control he had over all animals. At last pussy lay still and panting. When the scared animal grew quiet, he set her down. For a moment she hesitated, and then began to move away. As he followed she ran. He cast the lantern-light before her, and pursued her with all speed. Once or twice she was nearly lost to view. Then she turned a corner, and another, and of a sudden fled toward a distant archway, through which he saw the light of day. A great rush of warm air went by him. He stood still, murmuring aves. To his surprise, he was near to the place where he had left his companions. He stood a moment in deep thought. "We are out at last," he murmured. "But _ciel!_ there is much to think about. We may have too much light."

He went back and told of the discovery, but of the cat not a word. The duke said: "I thought we should soon get out; come, let us be off."

Madame said gently: "Let us kneel before we go, and thank the good God for this friend he sent us in our trouble." Then they all knelt, and she prayed, speaking her thankfulness to Heaven, with at the end a word as to her husband, and also asking God's mercy for him who had led them forth out of darkness into light. When Francois heard her, he was disturbed as he had never been in all his days. When a man like Francois sheds tears, it is a great event in his life. He rose from his knees, and asked the duke and the rest to go with him; and thus it was that in a few minutes they stood fifty feet from an open archway, through which came the level light from the western sky.

The duke was moved at last to say how clever Francois had been; and how had he managed it? The thief declared it had been easy; but the cat got no credit, and never was praised, then or ever, for her share of their escape. Set in this rocky frame before them was a picture as it were of a disused quarry, and beyond it vineyards, with yet farther a red-tiled housetop. Here it was, as they paused, that madame said solemnly, with tears in her eyes:

"'God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good.'"

After the duke and Francois had peeped out, and seen no one, the duke began to set forth a variety of schemes as to what they should do. None of these was very wise, and at last madame turned to Francois. He had disappeared, but presently came again, dressed in the clothes of the dead officer. He wore his sword and pistols, and now, as seen clearly in the light of day, was certainly a queer enough figure. The garments were too short below and too wide above, and over them rose the long face, the broad mouth, and the huge ears. The boys, who looked on their troubles as at an end, set up a shout of laughter.

"The deuce! I shall arrest you, citizens," cried Francois. "And first, monsieur." He explained that he proposed to tie the duke's hands behind his back, and with, as was usual, one end of the rope in his hand, would conduct the _ci-devant_ into Paris by the Barriere d'Enfer. The weeping widow would follow, with the two children, to see the last of their poor papa.

The duke was disgusted, but pretended to be much amused. "Well, it is a pretty comedy," he said, as Mme. des Illes insisted.

"_Dame!_" said the thief, "but the tragedy is not far away."

"And what is to come after?" said she. "Had we not better wait till night?"

"No. The guards are doubled at night. It is boldness which will win."

"And what then, Francois?"

"I must find for you a refuge while I go to see if M. des Illes may not have returned; for, madame, you have assured me that he would be released. Pray God it is so. And what better is there?" The duke was forced to consent.

A rope found in the officer's pocket made part of Francois's spoil. He tied the duke's hands, and showed him how, at need, a pull would release them. The gold was divided. All else they left. Francois reported the way clear, and they set out. But the boys giggled so much at the duke and his indignant face that Francois paused.

"_Dame!_" he cried, "madame must weep." She was already doing that, her mind on the fate of M. des Illes. "If you boys are fools, and laugh, we are lost. Cry, if you can; but, for the love of Heaven, do not look about you, or smile. Take a hand of madame--so. Cry, if ever you mean to get away safe."

The road beyond the quarry was little used, and they went on, the duke furious. When they met any one, Francois cried: "Get on, aristocrat! Pig of a _ci-devant_, march!"

Duke Philippe muttered: "_Sacre_, thief!" and got a smart jerk of the rope, and more abuse, until the fun of it nearly upset the thief, who could scarce contain himself. At the Barriere d'Enfer were but two guards; nor were there as many people in the streets as usual.

Suddenly Francois halted at the summons to leave his prisoner with one of the two men, and to enter the little office and exhibit his papers, as was needful.

"_Dame!_" muttered the thief, "one cannot know all things. I forgot about the papers." He showed, however, no indecision. "Guard this wretch, citizen," he said. "Here, take the rope. He is a returned _emigre_." The man took the rope. "I shall not be long." So saying, he went in after the second guard, closing the door behind them. The man sat down at a desk, and opened a blank-book, saying: "The order, citizen."

"I am afraid it is lost," said Francois, eagerly searching his acquired pockets. "The mischief! What to do?"

"To do? Thou must wait till the lieutenant comes back. He has gone to see the fun."

"Fun! What fun?"

At this moment the man rose hastily. "_Diable!_ thou art Francois! I thought I knew thy voice. There are orders to arrest thee. Citizen Amar desires thy society. Best make no fuss. I arrest thee. I am in luck. It is sure promotion. What trick art thou up to? And those folks outside, who axe they?"

"But thou, an old thief, to arrest a comrade! Surely thou wilt not."

"No use. Come! no nonsense."

Francois put out a pleading hand. "But they will kill me, comrade." He looked all the alarm needed.

"Bah!"

In an instant the strongest grip of the Cite was on the man's throat, and closed as a vise closes. A faint cry escaped as the man struggled. Francois threw a leg back of the fellow, and as he fell dropped on his chest. It was brief. The man's heels clattered on the floor; he was still. The thief rose. The man was to appearance dead. He would revive, perhaps. "_Peste!_" cried Francois, "it is hard to keep one's head."

Seizing a paper from the table, Francois went out of the door, closing it after him, and coolly caressing a cat on the step. He said to the guard that his comrade would be out by and by, and that it was all right. As he spoke he waved the paper, and, taking the rope, went on, crying: "Get up, _ci-devant_!" As they got farther away he hurried the duke. "Death is behind us. Get on. Faster--faster!" He twisted and turned, and was not at ease until they were deep in the sinuous, box-hidden paths of the Luxembourg.

Very few people were to be seen, and these looked at or after them with curiosity.

"We must be a queer party. Get on, citizen. Thou art lazy. Thou wilt soon have a fine carriage." He was terribly anxious. "_Sacre_, monsieur! For the love of the saints, go on, and quicker!"

"What the deuce is it?" said the duke.

"That beast at the barrier knew me. He was an old thief."

"And what then? Why were we not stopped if he knew you?"

"He does not know me nor anybody now."

"_Foi d'honneur_, but you are a brave fellow!"

"Thanks; but make haste."

At last they were in the long Rue de Varennes, where they saw a great crowd filling the street, and were soon in the midst of a mass of excited people.

Francois cried out: "Room, citizens, room!"

An old woman shook her fist at him, yelling furiously: "Cursed Jacobin!"

The people were wild; and presently a man hustled the supposed officer. Others cried fiercely: "Hang him!" Another screamed out: "Robespierre is dead!" and the crowd took up the cry. A dozen hands seized on Francois.

"What the deuce is all this?" he shouted. "Take care, or the law will have you."

"Robespierre is dead! _A la lanterne!_"

Upon this, the duke exclaimed: "Let him go; it is a good fellow, and not an officer"; and then, amid a maddening tumult, succeeded in hastily explaining enough to secure the release of the officer.

"_A bas la guillotine!_" cried Francois. "Down with the Terror!"

The crowd thickened, and went its way with wild cries. Meanwhile the boy Des Illes was lost, and madame in tears. They went on, asking questions, and hearing of the execution of Robespierre, Couthon, Saint-Just, and the rest. The thief said: "Let us go straight to M. des Illes's house."

At the door madame fell into her husband's arms; and soon after dusk the boy came running back with his father, who had gone out to search for him.

Then all was hastily made clear, and the long story told of Des Illes's release, and how he had found the dog, and in the cave the Jacobins both dead, and of his vain efforts to discover his own people. They were fed and reclothed; and now, it being ten at night of this 10th Thermidor, Francois rose. "I must go," he said.

"You? Never!" said madame. "Our house is your home for life. You will wander and sin no more."

On this, Francois looked about him, from one kind face to another, and sat down, and broke into tears.

"It shall be as madame desires. I am her servant."

And this is the end of the adventures of Francois, the thief. Let who will judge him.

*EPILOGUE*

_Wherein is some further account of Francois and of those who helped him._

In a little book which has found many friendly readers I related a strange story of the French Revolution.[#] In it was promised some further account of the most remarkable of the personages concerned. I have now fulfilled my desire to relate the adventures of Francois. The singular incidents I record are not without foundation.

[#] "A Madeira Party," The Century Co., which contains a tale called "A Little More Burgundy," to which the reader is referred.

In the story above mentioned I have told how I chanced to meet Francois and those with whom he spent his days after the stormy period during which they first came together. My acquaintance with M. des Illes and the old Duc de St. Maur slowly ripened into friendship. I was a lonely student in the Latin Quarter, and felt deeply the kindness which never ceased insisting that their house should be to me a home. In the summer, and often after that, I was a guest at Des Illes's chateau in Touraine. There I came to know Francois, as one may know a French or an Italian servant. During these visits he acted as my valet, serving me with admirable care, and never better pleased than when I invited him to talk about himself. He had long since shed his thief-skin, but I fear that it was only the influence of fortunate circumstances which left him without excuse to be or to seem other than as honest as the rest of the world about him.

I have known a great variety of disreputable folk in my lifetime, but never one who had so many winning qualities, or who was so entirely at his ease. A scamp in the company of men of better morals usually becomes hypocritical or appears awkwardly aware of breathing an atmosphere to which he is unused. Francois had no such difficulties. For half a century he had been for Des Illes something between friend and servant. His former life and habits were well known to the few who came to his master's house. He was comfortable, with some forty thousand francs in the _rentes_, for his old acquaintance, the marquis, had not forgotten his services. He had no necessity to exercise what he still tranquilly called his profession. Like a clever street-dog adopted by a respectable family, though for a time uneasy, he ceased by degrees to wander for the joy of stealing a bone, and became contented with the better and less perilous chances of a dinner at home.

I learned from M. de St. Maur, the duke's son, that while Mme. des Illes lived Francois remained the most domestic of animals. Her death caused him a grief so profound that for a time his master was troubled lest his reason might suffer. She herself would never hear a word against him. Unlike her husband, she was a fervent Protestant, and had now and then some vain hope of converting Francois. While she lived he considered himself her special servant, but after her death transferred his regard to young Des Illes, the son. For many months Francois pined, as I have said. He then became restless, disappeared for a week at a time, and it is to be feared that once, or more often, he courted temptation. When I knew him all this was in a remote past. At the chateau he usually came to my bedroom an hour before dinner to set out my evening dress, and was pretty sure, when this was done, to put his head in my little salon and ask if I needed anything. Perhaps, like M. des Illes, I might desire a _petit verre_ of vermuth for the bettering of appetite. As I soon found what this meant, I commonly required this sustaining aid. When by and by he returned, carrying a neat tray with vermuth and cognac, it came to be understood that he should be led into talk of himself over the little glass, which would, I am sure, have paid toll before it got back to the buffet. Pretty soon I got into the way of making him sit down, while I drew from by no means unwilling lips certain odd stories which much amused me. With an English or Irish servant such familiar intercourse would have been quite impossible; but Francois, who had none of the shyness of other races, soon came to be on as easy terms with me as he was with M. des Illes. When I asked him one evening to tell me his own story of the famous escape through the catacombs, he said, "But it is long, monsieur." When I added, "Well, sit down; I must have it," he replied simply, "As monsieur wishes," and, taking a chair, gave me an account of their escape, in which he drew so mirthful a picture of the duke's embarrassments that I saw how little of the humor of the tale M. des Illes had allowed himself to put into his recital.

Francis's long life amid people of unblemished character had by no means changed his views. Yes, he had been a thief; but now he was out of business. He had retired, just as M. des Illes had done, there being no longer any cause why he should relieve his own necessity by lessening the luxury of others; monsieur might feel quite secure.

As for politics, he was all for the Bonapartes, who, he said, were magnificent thieves, whereas he had never been able to rise to the very highest level of his business. M. des Illes objected, and the last time he had indulged himself in a prolonged absence--monsieur would comprehend that this was many years ago--there had been a serious quarrel; and how could he annoy so good a master, even though they disagreed as to matters political? If monsieur were still curious as to his life, he had a few pages in which he had set down certain things worth remembering, and would monsieur like to see them? Monsieur would very much like to read them. Thus came into my possession this astonishing bit of autobiography, which at last I had leave to copy. It was oddly written, in a clear hand, and in a quaint and abrupt style, from which, in my use of it, I have generally departed, but of which I fear some traces may yet be seen.

Two evenings later, and before I had found leisure to read all of it, Francois said to me, "Does monsieur think to give my poor little account to the world?" I said I did not. At this I saw his very expressive face assume a look which I took to mean some form of regret. As he spoke he was standing in the doorway, and was now and then mechanically passing a brush over my dress-coat. Presently he said: "I only desired not to have set forth in France, when I am gone, such things as might give concern to M. des Illes, or trouble him if he should outlive me."

I replied that it should never be published; and when, after this, he lingered, I added, "Is that as you desire?" It was not. His vanity was simple and childlike, but immense.

"Monsieur will find it entertaining," he said; and I, that this was sure to be the case, and that it were a pity the world should lose so valuable a work. At this his lean face lighted up. Perhaps in English it might some day be of interest to monsieur's friends; and as he understood that the English were given to stealing whole countries belonging to feeble folks, it might seem to them less unusual than it would to people like those of France. But monsieur was not English. He asked my pardon. I kept a grave face, and inquired if it were a treatise on the art of theft.

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 (Francois'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, Francois?"

"M. le Duc knows they are out of fashion."

"_Eh bien_; then handkerchiefs?"

"_Diable!_" says Francois. "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 Francois 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 Cure 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 Francois, 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 Francois 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 Cure--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.

I learned from the duke and his son, as well as from M. des Illes, many more facts as to Francois than he himself recorded; the good old Cure Le Grand, who was a great friend of mine, also contributed some queer incidents of Francois's life; and thus it was that, when years had gone by, and I became dependent on my pen, I found myself able to write fully of this interesting product of Parisian life.

After considering the material in my possession, I soon discovered that it would not answer my purpose to let Francois's broken memoirs tell his story. There were names and circumstances in them which it were still unwise to print. Much of what I may call the scenery of his somewhat dramatic adventures was supplied by the singular knowledge of the Revolution which the cure delighted to furnish. The good priest was by far the most aged of this group, and yet to the last the most clear as to memories of a tragic past. Thus it came that I was led to write my story of Francois in the third person, with such enlightening aid as I obtained from those who knew him better than I.

In his defense I may be permitted to quote the cure's cautiously worded opinion:

"Oh, monsieur, no man knows another, and every man is ever another to himself. For you Francois is a thief, strangely proud of an exceptional career and of his victories over the precautions of those from whom he stole. Is it not so, monsieur?" I said it was. "But the _bon Dieu_ alone knows all of a man. I was not a priest until after the great wars. God pardon me, but I like still to tell tales of Jena and Austerlitz, and of what we did in those days of victory. To kill men! The idea now fills me with horror, and yet I like nothing better, as monsieur well knows, than to talk of those days of battle. And Francois--'t is much the same. How could one live with these dear people, and get no lesson from their lives? Our gay, merry-minded Francois loved to surprise the staid folks who came hither to visit us; but I know that--ah, well, well, priests know many things."

I thanked him, but still had doubts as to whether the moral code of our friend Francois was ever materially altered by precept, example, or by the lack of necessity to carry on his interesting branch of industry.

Before telling his story I like to let him say for himself the only apologetic words I could discover in this memoir:

"I have no wish to write my whole life. I want to put down some things I saw and some scenes in which I was an actor. I am now old. I suppose, from what I am told, that I was wicked when I was young. But if one cannot see that he was a sinner, what then? The good God who made me knows that I was but a little Ishmaelite cast adrift on the streets to feed as I might. I defend not myself. I blame not the chances of life, nor yet the education which fate gave me. It was made to tempt one in need of food and shelter. 'T is a great thing to be able to laugh easily and often, and this good gift I had; and so, whether in safety or in peril, whether homeless or housed, I have gone through life merry. I had thought more, says M. le Cure, had I been less light of heart. But thus was I made, and, after all, it has its good side. I have always liked better the sun than the shadow; and as to relieving my wants, are the birds thieves?"

I noticed on the margins of Francois's memoirs remarks in a neat female handwriting, which he told me were made by Mme. des Illes, who alone had read his story.

At the end I found written: "If ever another should read what is set down in these pages, let them have the comment of charity. He who wrote them was by nature gifted with affection, good sense, and courage. He had many delicacies of character, but that of which nature meant to make a gentleman and a man of refinement, desertion and evil fortune made a thief and a reprobate. She who wrote this knew him as no one else did, and, with God's help, drew him out of the slough of crime and into a long life of honest ways. CLAIRE DES ILLES."