The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn

Suddenly the cry: "Stop thief!" "Stop thief!" resounded in the middle of the road, and a man who was running away as fast as his legs could carry him was seized by four or five workingmen in blouses and armed with guns. Among these a ragpicker with a long white beard, but still strong, was conspicuous. His clothes were in tatters, and, although he carried a musket under his arm he did not remove his pack from his shoulder. He was one of the first to seize the runaway, and now held him firmly by the collar, while a woman, running toward the group and panting for breath, cried:

"Stop thief! Stop thief!"

"Did this fellow rob you, my good woman?" asked the ragpicker.

"Yes, my good man," she answered. "I was standing at my door. This man ran up and said to me: 'The people are rising; we must have arms.' 'Monsieur, I haven't any,' I answered him. Thereupon he pushed me aside and went into my shop, despite all I could do, saying: 'Well, if you have no arms, I shall take money to buy some.' So saying, he opened my till, took out of it thirty-two francs that I had there, and a gold watch. I tried to hold him, but he drew a knife upon me – fortunately I parried the blow with my hand – here, see the cut I got. I cried for help, and he fled!"

The culprit was a good sized, robust, and well clad man, but of ignoble countenance. Hardened vice had left its indelible impress upon his wasted features.

"It is not true! I stole nothing!" he cried in a husky voice, struggling to avoid being searched. "Let me go! What does it concern you, anyhow?"

"That may concern us considerably, my young fellow!" answered the ragpicker, holding firm to his collar. "You stabbed this poor woman after robbing her of her money and a watch in the name of the people. Keep still! This demands an explanation."

"Here is the watch, for one thing," said a workingman after searching the thief.

"Can you identify it, madam?"

"I should think so, monsieur! It is old and heavy."

"Correct!" replied the workingman. "Here it is, madam."

"And in his vest," said another workingman after searching another of the thief's pockets, "six hundred-sou pieces and one forty-sou piece."

"My thirty-two francs!" cried the tradeswoman. "Thank you, my dear men, thank you!"

"That part being settled, my young fellow, you must now settle scores with us," proceeded the ragpicker. "You stole and meant to commit murder in the name of the people, did you not? Answer!"

"What is all this pother about, my friends, are we engaged in a revolution, or are we not?" answered the thief in a hoarse voice and affecting a cynical laugh. "Well, then, let us break into the money boxes!"

"Is that what you understand by a revolution?" asked the ragpicker. "To break into the money boxes?"

"Well?"

"Accordingly, you believe the people rise in revolt for the purpose of stealing – brigand that you are?"

"What other purpose have you, then, in insurrecting, you pack of hypocrites? Is it, perhaps, for honor's sake?" replied the thief brazenly.

The group of armed men, the ragpicker excepted, who stood around the thief, consulted for a moment in a low voice. One of them, noticing the door of a grocery store standing ajar went thither; two others went in another direction, saying:

"I think we would better tell Monsieur Lebrenn of this affair, and ask his opinion."

Still a fourth whispered a few words in the ear of the ragpicker, who answered:

"I think so, too. It would be no more than he deserves. It may be a wholesome example. But while we wait, send me Flameche to help me mount guard over this bad Parisian."

"Halloa, Flameche!" called a voice. "Come and help father Bribri hold a thief."

Flameche ran to the ragpicker. He was a true Parisian gamin. Wan, frail, wasted away by want, the lad, who was gifted with an intelligent and bold face, was sixteen years of age, but looked only twelve. He wore a dilapidated pair of trousers, and old shoes to match, and a blue sack coat that hung in shreds from his shoulders; for weapon he carried a saddle-pistol. Flameche arrived jumping and leaping.

"Flameche," said the ragpicker, "is your pistol loaded?"

"Yes, father Bribri. It is loaded with two marbles, three nails and a knuckle-bone – I rammed all my toggery into it."

"That will do to settle the gentleman if he but budges. Listen, my friend Flameche – finger on trigger, and barrel in vest."

"'Tis done, father Bribri."

With these words Flameche neatly inserted the muzzle of his pistol between the shirt and the skin of the thief. Seeing that the latter tried to resist, Flameche added:

"Don't fidget; don't fidget; if you do you may cause Azor to go off."

"Flameche means his dog of a pistol," added father Bribri by way of translation.

"Frauds that you are!" cried the thief, carefully abstaining from moving, but beginning to tremble, although he made an effort to smile. "What do you propose to do? Come, now, be done with your fooling! I have had enough of it."

"Wait a minute!" interjected the ragpicker. "Let us converse a spell. You asked me why we are in insurrection. I shall satisfy your curiosity. First of all, it is not to break into money boxes and loot shops. Mercy! A shop is to a merchant what a sack is to me. Each to his trade and his tools. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it annoys us to see old folks like myself die of hunger on the street like a stray dog when our strength to work is no more. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it is a torment to us to hear ourselves repeat the fact that, out of every hundred young girls who walk the streets at night, ninety-five are driven thereto by misery. We are in insurrection, my young fellow, because it riles us to see thousands of ragamuffins like Flameche, children of the Paris pavements, without hearth or home, father or mother, abandoned to the mercy of the devil, and exposed to become, some day or other, out of lack for a crust of bread, thieves and assassins, like yourself, my young fellow!"

"You need not fear, father Bribri," put in Flameche; "you need not fear – I shall never need to steal. I help you and other traders in old duds to pack your sacks and dispose of your pickings. I treat myself to the best that the dogs have left over. I make my burrow in your bundle of old clothes, and sleep there like a dormouse. No fear, I tell you, father Bribri, I need not steal. As to me, when I insurrect, by the honor of my name! it is because it finally rasps upon me not to be allowed to angle for red fish in the large pond of the Tuileries – and I have made up my mind, in case we come out victors, to fish myself to death. Each one after his own fancy. Long live the Reform! Down with Louis Philippe!"

And turning to the thief who, seeing the five or six armed workingmen coming back, made an effort to slip away:

"Do not budge, mister! Or, if you do, I shall let Azor loose upon you." Saying which he tightened his finger again on the trigger of his pistol.

"But what is it you have in mind to do with me?" cried the thief, turning pale at the sight of three of the workingmen, who were getting their guns ready, while another, coming out of the grocery that he had just before stepped into, brought with him a poster made of brown paper on which some lettering had been freshly traced with a brush dipped in blacking.

A dismal presentiment assailed the thief. He straggled to disengage himself and cried out:

"If you charge me with theft – take me before the magistrate."

"Can not be done. The magistrate is just engaged marrying his daughter," explained father Bribri calmly. "He is now at the wedding."

"Besides, he has the toothache," added Flameche; "he is at the dentist's."

"Take the thief to the lamp-post," said a voice.

"I tell you that I demand to be taken to the magistrate!" repeated the wretch, struggling violently to free himself, and he began to shout:

"Help! Help!"

"If you can read, read this," said one of the workingmen, holding up the poster before the thief. "If you can not read, I shall read it for you:

"SHOT AS A THIEF."

"Shot?" stammered the fellow growing livid. "Shot? Mercy! Help! Assassins! Murder! Watchmen, murder!"

"An example must be set for the likes of you, in order that they may not dishonor the Revolution!" explained father Bribri.

"Now, down on your knees, you scoundrel!" ordered a blacksmith who still had his leathern apron on. "And all of you, my friends, get your guns ready! Down on your knees!" he repeated to the thief, throwing him down on the ground.