Part 2 — THE VAGRANT.

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BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

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A man was lying at the further end of a dismal cell, in the prison of Versailles, when one of the jailors, thrusting a huge key into the lock of a small but massive door, roused him with the unwelcome salutation, “come, get up—the time is come, and the gentlemen are waiting for you.”

“What, already!” replied the unhappy wretch to whom these words were addressed, and stretching his muscular limbs, he added, “what a pity, I was so sound asleep!”

He rose, shook the bits of straw from his hair and beard, and putting on the remains of an old hat, which had once been white, calmly said, “well, I am ready—the sooner it is over the better.”

The executioner, who was waiting with one of his assistants in the outer vestibule of the prison, threw an oblique glance upon the prisoner, then, looking at his watch, exclaimed, “come, make haste! we are already after our time—the market is nearly over.”

“Oh, but you have not far to go,” replied the turnkey; then addressing the prisoner—“old one,” said he, “it will soon be over, and the weather is fine. Here, take this, it will keep up your spirits.” And he handed him a glass of brandy, which the prisoner drank off with evident delight.

“Thanks, good master,” he replied, returning the glass to the good natured turnkey, “I shall never forget your kindness.”

“Well, well,” said the latter, “that is settled. Never mind what I do for you, man—it is little enough, God knows—only behave well—dost hear?”

The executioner’s man drew from his pocket a long and strong cord, with a slip knot at the end, and tightly tied the hands of the convict, who calmly looked at him, and said not a word. The executioner himself carried a board, on which was a sort of notice, partly printed and partly written; and all three proceeded slowly towards the market place, where the prisoner was to be placed in the pillory for one hour, and exposed to the gibes and taunts of an almost ferocious populace.

From the scaffold to which he was fastened, the old mendicant cast a look of pity upon the crowd, and said—

“Well, and what are you looking at? am I an object of such intense curiosity? But you are right; look at me well, for you shall never more behold me. I shall not return from the place to which they are going to take me—not that I fear a dungeon, for I have been too long accustomed to have no other bed than the cold ground. No, I shall return hither no more; and I should have done well had I not returned this time. But I could not help it. I was born here, though I never told any body so; and I love the spot where I first drew breath. ’Tis natural enough; yet why should I love it? I never knew either home or parents—the latter left me, when an infant, upon the steps of the church of St. Louis.”

Here the sun-burnt countenance of the old mendicant assumed an expression of bitterness.

“Who knows,” he continued, “but I may have among you some uncles or cousins—perhaps even nearer relatives.”

The crowd gathered round the scaffold, listening to the words of the mendicant.

“And my excellent father,” said the latter, “what a pity he is not here to own me! Perhaps he would be delighted at the elevation to which I have attained. For my own part, I never had a son; but if I had, I could not have deserted him. He should never have been able to reproach me with being the author of his misery. The other day I was hungry—I asked for a morsel of bread—everybody refused to give it me; and that is the reason why I am here.”

As the old man uttered the last sentence, his head fell upon his chest, and he wept.

At length the executioner returned, accompanied by his assistant, who carried upon his shoulders a furnace, in which was an iron instrument, with a long wooden handle. Both ascended the scaffold, and placed themselves behind the mendicant. The crowd drew nearer. The executioner’s man laid the mendicant’s shoulder bare, whilst the executioner himself stooped and took up the instrument. The poor convict shuddered, uttered a plaintive cry, a light smoke arose, and the ignominious letter was imprinted for ever.

The poor man, scarcely able to stand, was helped from the scaffold, and conveyed back to his prison through the crowd, who pressed upon his passage to glut upon his sufferings.

Old Philippe—such was the mendicant’s name, was well known in the department of Seine and Oise; but nobody could tell who he was, whence he came, or who his parents were. About fifteen years previous, just after the restoration, he had appeared in the country for the first time. He then asked questions, and seemed in pursuit of information on secret matters, of which nobody could penetrate the motive. After some time, he appeared to suffer much, as if from disappointment, and then disappeared. About two years before the period of our narrative, he again made his appearance at Versailles, very much altered, and looking much older. Fortune had not smiled upon him during his absence, for he went away a poor man, and returned a mendicant.

No one knew where he had been, or how he had lived during this interval. It was supposed, that, previous to his first appearance at Versailles, he had travelled a great deal, and even borne arms; for of late years, whenever he obtained the favor of a night’s lodging in a barn, he would repay this hospitality by descriptions of foreign countries, and accounts of bloody conflicts.

On the day after his exposure in the pillory, as above related, the following particulars concerning him were made known:—

One evening, faint with hunger and fatigue, after having begged through the environs of Versailles, without once obtaining alms, and his wallet having been empty for the two preceding days, he had stopped at the door of one of those elegant habitations which overlook the heights of Rocquencourt.

He begged a shelter for the night, and a morsel of bread, but both were refused him, and he was rudely driven from the door. Leaning upon his stick, he slowly quitted the inhospitable mansion, and with difficulty gained a part of the demesne laid out in the English style of landscape gardening. Taking shelter under a thick clump of trees, he laid himself upon the grass, to die with the least possible pain.

The autumn had already begun. The grass was wet—the wind whistled through the trees, already in part stripped of their leaves—all around was pitchy dark, and every thing seemed to announce an inclement night. Cramped with cold, he felt the most unconquerable gnawings of hunger. Could he but sleep, he thought, perhaps the next day might prove less unfavorable than the two preceding ones. But sleep refused the call, and the poor mendicant suffered the most cruel pangs. Unable to bear them any longer, he rose, took his stick, and returned to the mansion.

He had observed an angle of the wall which could be easily escaladed, and a window badly closed. It was late, the night was dark, and he might perhaps find a bit of bread. At least, he determined to try.

The house was inhabited by an old man of more than eighty—a rich miser, who lived alone, like many of those who go to spend their last days at Versailles. He had perceived the mendicant, and had seen him take refuge under the clump of trees. He ordered his servants to watch him, and scarcely had poor Philippe opened the window, when he was seized, handcuffed, and taken to Versailles, where he was thrown into prison. There, at least, he found shelter, and a bit of bread to eat, which the turnkey gave him from humanity.

At the expiration of six months, the mendicant was convicted at the assizes of the department of Seine et Oise. His sentence was the gallies for fifteen years, and to be previously exposed and branded. He had entered a house at night for the purpose of theft, and with deadly weapons—the possession of the knife, which he usually carried in his pocket, and was found there, being thus interpreted.

A month had already elapsed since he had been publicly branded, and poor Philippe seemed patiently waiting for the time when he was to be sent to his destination at Toulon. He always said that he would not go, and the turnkey did not contradict him.

One evening a small iron lamp upon a shelf, suspended from the wall by a cord on each side, threw a weak and vacillating light upon the gloom of a cell in the prison of Versailles.

Upon a straw matress, half covered with an old patched blanket, lay a man apparently overcome with weakness and despair. His face was turned towards the wall. An earthen jug without a spout was near him, and close to it a wooden bowl filled with soup.

“Poor Philippe will never get over it,” said the turnkey in the corridor, speaking to some one to whom he was showing the way. “But it is his own fault; he would not remain in the infirmary. The fact is, Monsieur le Curé, ever since he exhibited upon the little stage, about a month ago—curse this lock, it would sprain the wrist of the devil himself—”

“Peace my friend,” replied a mild voice, “do not swear—it is an offence against God.”

The door of the prison was at length opened, and the turnkey ushered in a venerable priest, the chaplain of the prison.

“Hollo, old one!” cried the jailor, “take heart, man, here is a visitor. Here is Monsieur le Curé come to see you.”

The mendicant made no reply.

“My friend,” said the minister of the Gospel, “I am one of your brethren in Christ, and I bring you words of peace and consolation. Hear me, in the name of our Lord Jesus, who died on the cross to atone for our sins—He suffered more than you; and it depends upon yourself to be one day happy, and to dwell with him in eternal life.”

Still the prisoner spoke not.

“He sleeps,” said the kind-hearted turnkey. “If your reverence will but wait a moment I will awake him.” And he shook the mendicant, but in vain—the latter stirred not. “Oh! oh!” said the jailor, leaning over him; “but it is all over with him; he has slipped his wind—the poor fellow’s as dead as a door post.”

And, in fact, the unfortunate Philippe had ceased to live a few moments after he had been removed, that very morning, at his own request, from the infirmary to his old cell.

“Is the poor man really dead?” inquired the priest.

“Dead as a pickled herring, your reverence.”

“And without confession!—unhappy man!”

And the good priest knelt upon the cold flag stones and prayed with fervour for the soul of the deceased mendicant.

Next day the wealthy owner of the mansion was reclining in an easy chair, his tortured limbs writhing with agony on the cushions of down by which they were supported. His physician in attendance was seated near him.

“I find myself worse to-day, doctor: I am weaker than I have yet been, and I feel something which I cannot well define.”

“At your age, my dear sir, and in your state of health,” the physician replied, “you must seek amusement for your mind. I have always told you that solitude is baneful to you. You should send for some members of your own family, or get some devoted friend to come and live with you.”

“Family! devoted friend! Why, you well know, doctor, that collaterals are mere heirs; you are in their way whilst you live: they only wait to prey upon your soil after your death.”

“But had you never any children?” the doctor asked.

“Never,” replied his patient, after some hesitation. “And I have no relations.”

Here the unhappy old man sighed, his brow became clouded, and he seemed to writhe in mental agony. Suddenly, by an apparent effort, changing the conversation, and assuming a tone of unconcern—

“Well, doctor,” he said, “and so this scoundrel of a mendicant, who, you may be assured, wanted to murder, and afterwards rob me, died yesterday in the prison hospital.”

“No, not in the hospital,” replied the physician. “I did all I could to induce him to remain in the infirmary; but he refused, and even solicited, as a favour, to be taken back to the cell he occupied before his trial.”

“You see then, doctor, what a villain he was. I suppose he felt remorse for the crime he intended to commit in this house. Did he make any avowal? Is any thing known of his family?”

“Nothing, except that he was an illegitimate child, and was found, shortly after his birth, under the peristyle of St. Louis’ church.”

“St. Louis’ church?”

“Yes: and he was taken to the Foundling Hospital in the Rue du Plessis.”

“The Rue du Plessis?”

“Yes: he told me the whole story the day before yesterday, at my evening visit to the prison infirmary. He had carefully preserved an old card, upon which were traced some strange characters, and an engraved stone belonging to a seal. He requested me to take charge of them. I believe they are still in my pocket-book. Yes, here they are. This stone must have belonged to a valuable trinket—he probably sold the setting. Here is the card.”

The old invalid, whose increasing agitation had not been observed by the doctor, threw a rapid glance over these objects,—then, with a shriek of horror, sunk back upon his chair.

“Great God,” he exclaimed, “the mendicant was my son!”

A few minutes after, this unnatural parent had ceased to breathe.