The History and Romance of Crime 13

The History and Romance of Crime 13

The treacherous business of provocation is said to have been carried

further in the troublous times of the second Revolution. The police

were then directly charged with having invented a serious disturbance

in order to make short work of a number of political prisoners. In 1832

St. Pélagie was full of such prisoners. There was great unrest within

the prison, mutiny was constantly imminent, and the discontent was

encouraged by an absurd rumor circulated that they were being poisoned

by the authorities. It was a period of great effervescence in

Paris, for the cholera, then a new and fearful epidemic, was raging,

and the story was spread that the government was actually propagating

it in order to reduce the number of its political foes. At last the

disturbance came to a head, and there was a serious outbreak. The

prisoners rose in revolt, smashed the furniture, ill-used their keepers

and by degrees gained possession of the inner gates. At the same time

an insurgent band, consisting of a couple of hundred Republicans,

had assembled and were bent upon breaking open the prison to release

their friends. It was believed to be a concerted movement, and was

on the point of success, when the troops arrived. A large body of

the municipal guard advanced, and, dispersing the crowd, entered

the prison, where their attack was violently resisted. The revolted

prisoners were formally ordered to surrender, but sturdily refused.

The troops felt compelled to open fire, and many casualties resulted.

When peace was restored, the ringleaders were arrested and removed, and

brought to trial at the Assizes, where many were sentenced to _travaux

forcés_. The authorities were then charged, as has been said, with

having instigated the disturbance, but no proof of this accusation was

ever produced, and the Prefect of Police indignantly repudiated the

charge.

 

[Illustration: _Sainte Pélagie_

 

Famous as a place of detention in Paris for political prisoners on

their way to the guillotine during the French Revolution, holding at

one time as many as three hundred and sixty persons.]

 

The business of the _mouton_ is one of great danger, and calls for

considerable address. Detection or even suspicion that a man is

so employed enforces him to vindictive retaliation. He may expect

sooner or later to be roughly handled, probably murdered. These are

the individuals who share the cell of the accused on purpose and

draw him into conversation and unguarded admissions, which will be

brought in evidence against him, or they help the judge in his line of

interrogatories, the French method of prosecution. There is a larger

class of _moutons_ known in prisons as the _musique_, composed of all

who from the moment of arrest are prepared to confess their evil deeds,

name their associates and reveal their whereabouts and how they might

be taken. Often the _musiciens_ are retained on the service of the

police, and inhabit a prison for months together, or so long as they

can be useful during a protracted trial.

 

The baseness of the average _mouton_ is almost inconceivable. No ties

of blood or association are respected. Brother will denounce brother, a

father his son. Cauler tells a story of a young thief, who interested

him and whom, after receiving much valuable information from him, he

permanently engaged as a _musicien_. One day another prisoner came to

the chief of police to give him some facts about his young protégé. The

latter had confided to him that he knew a certain way to effect his

escape, if he could only lay his hands on a substantial sum of money.

“You can get it for me, if you choose. When you are released go to the

banking house of Monsieur ----. My father is the cashier, and keeps

his safe on the entresol, first door to the right. He is always alone

between four and five of an afternoon, making up his accounts. Ring the

bell, and when he opens the window say you came from me, and have a

particular message for him. He will be sure to admit you, and directly

you enter stab him in the heart. You will find his keys in his inner

breast pocket. Open the safe, take out all the cash, keep half, and let

me have the rest when next we meet.” M. Cauler was greatly horrified,

and sent at once for his _musicien_, whom he taxed with this supposed

crime. The lad tried to deny it, but was confronted with his intended

accomplice, and confessed. “Take him away,” cried the indignant police

officer, “never let me see him again.”

 

Another story is told that may well be placed along with the above, in

proof of the base ingratitude of which a convict may be guilty. A man

had been sentenced to death, and was awaiting execution with horror,

not so much from dread of the guillotine as of the disgrace that would

fall upon his family from such a case in its records. A fellow convict

also sentenced to death sought to console him. “You dread the dishonor

of the public execution,” said he. “I’ll tell you how you can avoid it,

and die in another way.” “Suicide, do you mean?” “Not at all,” was the

reply. “Listen to me. I have not the smallest hope of a reprieve; the

proofs are overwhelming. Now, no one can be executed twice, so I may

safely kill as many people as I choose. I will tell you what I will

do for you. I have a knife concealed in a safe place, and some night

when you are sound asleep, I will come and make short work of you. It

need not hurt you, for I will do it with one blow.” Strange to say the

man, over whom death hung with absolute certainty, disliked the idea

of losing his life a day or two before the inevitable time. He went at

once to the governor of the Conciergerie, where he was lodged at that

time, and told the whole story, saying he went in fear of his life, and

wished to be put in another part of the prison. The friendly murderer

was highly indignant when he heard of this treachery, and next time a

man complained to him of his impending disgraceful death, advised him

to throw himself over the staircase and take his own life.

 

The origin of the word _musique_ may interest the curious reader. It

arose from the practice of collecting together all the _coqueurs_ and

spies having secret information in a circle, when the recognition of

some unknown new arrival was considered essential. The latter was then

placed in the middle of the circle, very much as a bandmaster stands

when surrounded by the musicians. An objection to this custom was that

the quality of these informers was thus revealed, and exposed them all

to the vengeance of their victims and their friends. Strange means were

adopted for circulating the news. The same Chenu mentioned above tells

us how, when he was in the exercising yard, a projectile dropped at his

feet, launched by some hand beyond the walls. When picked up it proved

to be a small pellet made of chewed bread. “_Un postillon_,” cried

someone, and all gathered round in a group to hear the message, which

was known by that name, contained in the piece of bread: “Avril, who is

now in Bicêtre through the treachery of Lacenaire, wishes all friends

to know.”

 

The revelations of an ancient comrade served in a rather remarkable

case to bring home a great crime, which for nearly thirteen years had

remained undiscovered. An old convict, named C----, in 1833, came

to the police, and offered at the price of 500 francs to give them

full information concerning the murder of the Widow Houet, and to

indicate how the body might still be found. This murder had occurred

in 1821, in the rue Saint Jacques, and was that of an aged woman of

seventy, possessed of a considerable fortune. She was the mother of two

children, a boy and a girl. The latter was married to a certain Robert,

who had been a wine merchant, and who was not on the best of terms with

his mother-in-law. One day a stranger, whose identity was not fixed

till much later, called on the Widow Houet, who was alone, having sent

her servant out some distance. The visitor after a short parley left,

taking the old woman with him, and she was never seen again. After

this disappearance suspicion fixed on the son-in-law, Robert, who

was arrested, and with him a friend named Bastien, who had also been

in the wine trade. Nothing came of the inquiry which followed, and

both the accused men were released. Three years later they were again

arrested on supposed fresh evidence, but were again released. At last

the man C---- came forward with full particulars. Robert, it appeared,

had approached Bastien with proposals to murder the old woman, whom

he hated. As Robert had never paid over the share promised, Bastien

confided the whole story to C----, and showed him the copy of a letter

he had written his accomplice, in which were the following words:

 

“Do not forget the garden of the rue de Vaugirard 81, you know. Fifteen

feet from the end wall and fourteen from the side one. The dead

sometimes come back.” Bastien had carefully preserved the plan of the

garden, on which was marked the spot where the corpse had been buried.

This garden belonged to an isolated house, which had been rented by

Robert, and Bastien was engaged in digging a deep pit in it. He bought

a cord, provided himself with quicklime; then one Sunday morning he

called upon the Widow Houet, with a message from her daughter and

son-in-law, that they expected her to lunch in the new house. Here let

Bastien speak for himself: “The old woman knew me well as a friend of

her children, and accompanied me in a cart to the rue de Vaugirard. On

entering the garden and reaching a quiet corner, I slipped my rope

round her neck and strangled her. When certainly dead I buried her,

threw in quicklime, covered up the grave and went to breakfast. There

was one guest short, but Robert asked no questions. I knew he was

satisfied with me. I had done my part in the business, but he would

not perform his, and never yet has he paid me my price, the half share

of the widow’s fortune. After waiting patiently all these years and

finding him ever after deaf to my demand and unmindful of my threats, I

resolved to denounce him, through you.”

 

This was the message brought by C----, and in response, warrants

to arrest the Roberts, man and wife, were issued by the police.

The culprits had already left Paris, but were followed and brought

back. Meanwhile Bastien was taken into custody after a hand to hand

encounter. He was searched, and in a pocketbook found upon him were the

plan of the garden and the compromising papers relating to the Widow

Houet’s estate. The case was clear. Nothing remained but to verify

the facts by disinterring the corpse. It was necessary to proceed

with great caution, lest the body should be removed by friends of

the accused. A watch was set upon the house now occupied by a master

pavier, and his sympathies were enlisted by warning him that he was

to be the victim of a midnight robbery. He consented to allow two

agents of the police to be stationed in the garden, and they took post

there for several nights in succession, but nothing happened. At last

after careful examination the position of the buried body was fixed

by Bastien’s plan, and a party of diggers from the great cemetery of

Père La Chaise came, accompanied by a doctor, to open the ground.

The body of a woman was come upon at considerable depth, in fair

preservation thanks to the quicklime. The rope was still around her

neck, and she still wore a gold ring. The evidence was conclusive as to

the murder, but the criminals were allowed the benefit of extenuating

circumstances, and the capital sentence was commuted to _travaux forcés_ for life.