The French Police, No II [pp. 156-157]

156 APPLETONS' JO (IRNAL OF POPULAR [AUGUST 6
A man does not get ties about him for nothing. If I had the chance
of a home for Alice and the little ones, even if it were not a home
like this, by Jove! it would be an awful temptation-a temptation
one would scarcely know how to resist."
"Then it is to be hoped it will never come," said Laurie. "I
don't see how we could stand in doubt for an instant. I don't speak
of natural justice. But Ben was brought up to be the heir. There
was never a doubt of his being the heir, till my poor father's will had
to be read. Therefore, he must be the heir now. I don't care
whether it falls to you or me. It's as clear as daylight, and I can't
believe you would find the least difficulty in doing what was right."
"I should do it," said Frank; but he made no further protestation. In his heart he could not but say to himself that i~ was easy
for Laurie, a man with nobody dependent on him, with no question
before him such as that of returning or not returning to India, and
with-so far as any one knew-no prospects of future happiness which
depended on this decision. And Ben, too, was unmarried, and like to
be unmarried. "Unless he marries Mary," Frank said to himself.
Of course, if Renton fell to him, he would marry; and they had all
pledged themselves that Renton must fall to him, and Ben accordingly
would sit down in his father's seat, and bring in some stranger to rule
over the place, and Alice and the children would have to go away.
Back to India! If that were the only alternative, Frank felt as if it
would be impossible to do his duty by Ben. The excitement of the
moment, and the fundamental simplicity of his mind, thus brought
him to the strange notion that all secondary justice must have been
set aside, and that it would be a question of every thing or nothing
to the victor. Thus the Rentons awaited, with thoughts often too
deep for words, with a restrained excitement wonderful to behold,
with hopes and sinkings of heart, the revelation of their father's
will; and that was to take place next day.
[To BE CONTINUED.]
THE FRENCH POLICE.
II.
We have said that crime is always stupid. This stupidity helps
greatly in the discovery of concealed criminals, who are very apt, like
the ostrich hiding its head in some low bush, to imagine that they are
not seen, because they do not see the police. Not long ago a murderer, who had been transported to the penal settlement at Cayenne,
escaped, returned to Paris, and worked as a journeyman with a cabinetmaker. The fact became known to the authorities, and an agent was
ordered to arrest him. The agent, disguised, entered the workshop, and
asked the felon if he could go next door with him to make some slight
repairs. He gathered his tools, and, perfectly unsuspecting, left the
house. As soon as he was in the street, he was seized by another
agent, handcuffed, put into a cab, and driven to the central office. He
protested violently, saying that his name was Florent, and that he was
a quiet, orderly workman, with numerous persons to vouch for his
honesty. He repeated the same story when brought before the chief
officer, who quietly replied: "Your name is not Florent, but B;
you were condemned to hard labor for ten years; you escaped through
Dutch Guiana; you went to London and lived there at such and such
a place; you came back to France through Calais; you have a tree
tattooed on your left arm, and a small-pox scar on the right side of
your nose. You gain nothing by denying; you had better confess at
once!" The poor fellow was thunderstruck; for a time he could not
utter a word; then he broke forth, saying: "I cannot imagine how
you have found out all that. But it is so. I am a returned convict! "
If he had seen police-agents in uniform enter the workshop, he
might have endeavored to escape, and given them great trouble.
They no longer resort to disguises, however, as they did in former
days. There used to be at headquarters an immense room filled with
all possible costumes, from which they chose what was required in
each case. This is no longer in existence, but the custom has not
been abolished altogether. The poet Chateaubriand relates that,
when he was arrested inr i832, and kept as a political prisoner in the
yard of the head office, he saw police-agents come in, dressed up as
charcoal-dealers, porters, invalid soldiers, and public criers. Even
now the same man may be seen, in the morning, dressed in a shabby
1-louse and an old cap, distributing ballots at the Dolls. and in the
evening in full dinner-dress at the opera, looking every inch the gentleman.
When an important capture is to be made, the agent is left free to
choose his own way and his own costume. A few months ago, a very
great personage had to be closely watched for some state purpose.
He was staying at a first-class hotel, frequented exclusively by foreigners of distinction. Two clever agents were intrusted with the delicate
duty, and for that purpose appeared, the one as a former ambassador,
and the other as his body-servant. They remained for two weeks unsuspected at the hotel, deceiving the guests, with whom they entered
into a certain intimacy, as well as the shrewd landlord; the one receiving all the respect due to an old excellency with unruffled grandeur,
and the other performing his services with silent humility, and eloquent in the praise of his "good old master." When they had triumphantly succeeded in their difficult mission, both returned to their
humble sphere, but habit had become so strong with the excellency
that, when his valet addressed him for the first time again in the old,
familiar style, he turned round indignantly and said: "What, sir!
How do you dare be so familiar?" Of course he immediately joined
in the Homeric laughter which followed.
It is probably due to a peculiarity of the French people, not found4
in other nations, that the police receives almost as much information
about crimes and criminals from volunteers in the service as from its
official agents. Daily an enormous number of letters pour in at headquarters, offering advice; several clerks are employed exclusively in
"husking " this correspondence, in separating important matters from
trifles, and truth from fiction. There are hundreds of persons in
Paris who can apparently not sleep soundly, unless they have informed the police of all they have seen and heard during the day.
There are as many who, in their want of occupation, look upon a crime
as a godsend, and devote their time and their abilities to the pursuit
of the criminal. Some, no doubt, delight in the importance which this
gives them; others think, candidly, that they are doing society an essential service. Most of these letters are anonymous; but the
authorities take great care never to trouble any of these volunteer
agents, even if they make themselves fully known.
Nor must it be imagined that the police has only to do with criminals: its higher and better purpose, to which it brings its best abilities and most active energies, igs the prevention of crime. The
authorities have seen so much misery, and measured so fully the depth
of human frailty, that they are full of pity, and often even of tenderness,
for unfortunate beings. They admonish those whom they find on the
point of yielding to temptation; they aid the suffering who are liable
to be driven to theft by hunger and want; they bear patiently with
helpless minds as long as they are neither criminal nor incorrigible.
The latter cases are rare, but occur now and then. There is at this
day in the prisons of Paris a man, called Victor Tuleu, who has never
committed a crime, but who is a vagabond by nature. In nine years
he has been fifty-three times arrested. Each time he is examined, admonished, lectured; he promises every thing, but as soon as he is free
he resumes his nomadic life; if it rains at night, or freezes, he goes to
the nearest station, sits down by the stove, and says: "I want to be
arrested. I am Tuleu; I have no home and no occupation." Next
morning he is brought up and sentenced; he suffers his punishment,
and begins his life anew.
A special agent, of high merit and liberally paid, devotes his time
exclusively to "lost" persons. He cannot punish, because the law
requires a trial previous to a sentence; but he has large discretionary'
powers in granting assistance. In his office the nomad life of Paris
passes in strange review. Every morning a crowd is awaiting himv
first come the children, in order to save them from contagion in the
prison. Many have left their home in a moment of passion or spite;
others have followed a youthful impulse of independence-these come
in, sobered by the sad enjoyment of a night's liberty at the station house, and are full of repentance. The agent comforts them speedily
enough, but it is not always so easy to bring the indignant father to
reason, who, being summoned to reclaim the runaway child, at first is
apt to cry out, "Let him run and be hanged!" After a while the
chord of paternal love is made to vibrate, and the runaways are re stored to their families. Some children lose themselves in the streets,
are picked up by the police for their safety's sake, and often give
great trouble before their home can be ascertained. Others-and the
number is larger than one would imagine-are abandoned on purpose
by the wicked parents or Door people who must get rid of "a mouth they
APPLETOXS' JO U-R?AL OF POPULAR
[AUJGUST 6r
156