Chapter 2

The _bagnes_, the survival of the old galleys at Brest,
Rochefort and Toulon--Character and condition of the
convicts--Day and night at the galleys--Forgery of official
documents and bank notes--Robberies cleverly effected
by expert thieves--Severe discipline enforced--The
_bastonnade_--Cruelties of the warders--Escapes very
frequent--Petit, a man impossible to hold--Hautdebont--The
_payole_ or letter-writer, a post of great profit--Usury at the
_bagne_--Wanglan an ex-banker does a large business in money
lending, and creates a paper currency--Some convicts always
in funds--Collet lives in clover--Sharp measures taken with
usurers.

Some attempt was made in 1810 to improve the French prison system,
and the _maisons centrales_, or district prisons, were instituted;
but no great progress was made with them. At that time the principal
punishment inflicted was labor in chains at the seaports in the
so-called _bagnes_ of Brest, Rochefort and Toulon, or the _travaux
forcés_, the survival of the old galleys, the population of which found
a permanent home ashore, when the warships ceased to be propelled by
human power. These _bagnes_ will now be described. The earlier records
have already been given in the volume immediately preceding.

The name _bagnes_, which was at one time in general use to express
these hard labor prisons, is derived from _bagnio_, the bath attached
to the Seraglio at Constantinople, which was the Turkish establishment
for galley slaves. The _bagnes_ were sometimes known as _prisons
mouillés_, or floating prisons, because the prisoners were for a long
time housed in hulks; but as their numbers increased, buildings were at
length erected on the shore, containing vast dormitories, each capable
of holding five or six hundred prisoners. The grand total at the
Naval Arsenal often exceeded several thousand men. The régime was not
exactly severe. The labor was easy, and consisted of little more than
rough jobs about the wharves, moving guns to and fro, storing shot and
shell, occasionally excavating for new buildings. As described by an
eye-witness, penal labor was a mere farce. “The bulk of the convicts,”
wrote the Director of Naval Arsenals, in 1838, “do no more than doze.
They may be seen, eight or ten of them, following a light cart, not
half laden, which they pull in turn, two and two. The hospital is full
of them as invalids or nurses. They are to be found in private houses
and hotels, engaged as private servants.” In earlier days things had
been much worse.

Under the Directory and under the First Empire many who possessed
private means were allowed to purchase improper privileges. A certain
old convict at Rochefort was allowed to go at large in the town, where
he was admitted into society and welcomed for his affable manners. He
went so far as to make overtures to the authorities to purchase his
release, by building and equipping a ship-of-war at his own expense. It
was said in those days that Napoleon I was willing to forgive crimes
at a price; that big robberies were sometimes condoned by a gift to
the State. One convict, Delage, sentenced for embezzlement, was a
man of large private fortune, which he was allowed to spend freely
in ameliorating his condition. He arrived at Rochefort in a carriage
and pair, escorted by two gensdarmes. He was located in a separate
room at the Hospital, which he furnished comfortably, and later his
wife and children joined him at the _bagnes_. He was in the habit of
leaving the prison every morning at gun-fire to spend the day with
his family, and return in the evening, on the excuse that he had a
situation in the port, and must sleep on board the ship. This man was
known as _le joli forçat_ on account of his good looks and pleasant
demeanor. Others of the same class were to be seen parading the town
in fashionable garb, bearing the badge of their real position only in
the basil, or ankle-iron, which all were obliged to wear. Criminals
with accomplishments or skill in trades could always find remunerative
employment. Private families found tutors for their children and music
or dancing masters in the _bagnes_, while all high officials might
employ convict coachmen, grooms and cooks.

For the rest, life was irksome. The progress of the ordinary prisoner
has been well described by Maurice Alhoy, who paid many visits of
inspection to the various _bagnes_. The journey to the coast was made
in the cellular carriage, which came into use in 1830, in substitution
for the abominable chain gang, by which the wretched _forçats_ marched
through France. The way was long, the coach moved at a foot pace,
there was no rest or ease on the road. On arrival the passengers,
broken with fatigue, were carried to the reception ward, identified,
examined, stripped of their clothes and dressed in the uniform of the
_bagne_,--a crimson blouse, yellow pantaloons and a coarse canvas
shirt. These clothes were covered with marks, the first syllable of
the word _galérien_, “GAL,” in black letters. A woollen cap of red
or green, according to the term of sentence, covered the head. When
dressed and passed fit for full labor (_grande fatigue_), the coupling
took place. For long years French _forçats_ were chained together in
pairs, and the merest chance decided upon the chain companionship. The
pair, thus indissolubly joined for a term of years, might begin as
perfect strangers to each other, having nothing in common, neither ways
nor tastes, not even language. The coupling was accomplished by first
riveting an iron ring above the ankle, to which one end of the chain
was attached, the other end being riveted to the ankle of his fellow.
The whole chain measured nine feet, half of it belonging of right to
each. But if each had different ideas and intentions, they naturally
pulled in opposite directions, the limit of difference being reached
at nine feet. Sometimes, as at the hour of mid-day rest, there was a
difference of opinion between the partners. One might wish to walk, the
other to be quiet; but the to and fro movement of the first dragging at
the chain would disturb the second, and then the matter could only be
settled by a fight or a compromise. To quarrel was to risk punishment,
so the usual course was for one to take out a pack of cards and cry:
“_Je te joue tes maillons_,” “I will play you for your half of the
chain.” The game would proceed calmly while the stake, the disputed
chain, lay coiled between the players; and in the end, according to
the issue, both would walk, or both would lie down to sleep. Often
enough one of a couple was quite indifferent as to the behavior of his
chain-companion. A case was known where a fight was started between
a _chaussette_, or convict, permitted to go about singly, and one of
a chain couple. In the course of the struggle the second and passive
member of the twins, who had watched it quite unconcernedly, was
dragged nearer to the edge of a deep ditch by his companion, into which
both were nearly precipitated. Had not the conflict ceased both would
probably have been drowned.

The first three days after arrival were allowed for rest and recovery.
On the fourth day at gun-fire (6 A. M. in winter and 5 A. M. in
summer) the new arrival’s chain was released from the bar, which ran
the length of the wooden guard bed, the night’s resting-place for all,
and he was marched out with his fellow convict to labor. On passing
through the great gates a blacksmith struck with a hammer upon the leg
iron to test its solidity. A short pause followed for the issue of
a ration of sour wine, and the parties were then distributed to the
various works in hand. It was for the most part unskilled labor, mere
brute force applied to moving heavy burdens. They were harnessed like
beasts to carts, laden with stone, or set to work in gangs at raising
the great weight of the pile driver, or operating the steel drill,
driven down into the solid rock. But work was continued incessantly and
in all weathers, “rain or shine,” in the pelting storm and under the
fierce rays of the summer sun, with a short rest at mid-day; bodies
thrown down anywhere they stood, when the signal was given. Work went
on for ten hours daily until the hour of return to the _bagne_, where
the evening meal, the common feed at the trough, awaited them. Each
squad, a dozen or more, gathered round the same _gamelle_, or great
tub, filled with a mess of bean soup, into which they dipped their
wooden spoons, fighting like dogs over a bone, each for his portion.
The weakest fared worst, and the strongest and greediest carried off
the lion’s share. The same vessel was passed from hand to hand, and
they drank foul water with dirty mouths. After the sorry feast an hour
or two of idleness followed, and the convicts lay on the great wooden
bed (_rama_), conversing with one another. At last the whistle for all
to “turn in” was heard, when every one, without undressing, rolled
himself in his grass blanket, and sought oblivion, often vainly, in
sleep. Nothing now broke the silence but the footsteps of the night
watchman going his rounds under the dim light of the oil lamps, and the
occasional falling of his hammer as he struck the bars and chains to be
certain that they had not been tampered with. When this was done just
before the rising hour it was called “morning prayer.”

Use becomes second nature, and many _forçats_ could bring themselves to
endure the miseries and discomforts of the life at the _bagne_. They
had their hours of relaxation, which they spent in the manufacture of
fancy articles, to be sold for the few francs that helped to increase
and improve their daily rations according to their taste. Some kept
and trained dogs to perform marvellous tricks or taught mice to draw a
carriage. A convict well known in his time, nicknamed Grand Doyen, who
had done forty out of sixty years in various prisons, is remembered
for his extraordinary power of taming rats. By a strange contrast this
Grand Doyen was a man of cruel character and abominable temper, who
was ever at enmity with his fellows. He was constantly in gaol, now
for fraud, now for robbery with violence, at last for murder, with
extenuating circumstances. He spent all his life, from the age
of nineteen, in detention of some sort. No one liked him, and in his
loneliness he captured a young rat, and trained it to live with him.
He began by drawing its teeth and shortening its tail. He taught it
all kinds of tricks, harnessed it to a cart, and secured it with a
collar and chain, which he fastened to a waistcoat button, leaving
sufficient length to the chain to allow the vermin to shelter in his
waistcoat pocket. Once, when at Bicêtre waiting for a chain, Grand
Doyen let the rat loose to run about the yard, where it was pounced
upon by the prison cat. Grand Doyen, in defence of his pet, promptly
killed the cat with his wooden sabot. Then the rat got into trouble by
gnawing a hole in a convict’s clothes, and an order for his execution
was forthwith issued. Grand Doyen, in despair, saved his friend by
substituting another rat, which he had caught on purpose, and decorated
with the chain of his favorite before handing it up to justice. The
warder asked why he had not killed the rat as ordered, and was put off
by the excuse that he had not the heart, so he brought it now to the
warder, who was not so sensitive, and hammered it on the head with his
key. The pet rat was still alive, safely hidden by Grand Doyen, who was
on the point of removal from Bicêtre. How was he to get it past the
gates? Inventiveness was stimulated by the difficulty, and Grand Doyen,
being in possession of one of those enormous loaves in which French
ration bread is baked, tore out the crumb in the centre, and made a
comfortable hole for his pet. Then, carrying his loaf under his arm, he
took his place on the chain, and passed safely through the gates.

The ingenuity of the prisoners was equalled by their industry. The most
unpromising materials and the rudest tools served to produce the most
artistic pieces. Cocoanut shells, beautifully carved, formed elegant
goblets. Old bones were converted into chessmen or paper knives or
penholders, the tools by which they were shaped being scraps of iron
picked up in the yards. The products of their cleverness were not
always avowable or harmless. The _bagne_ was often the home of false
money makers, and their audacity must have been something marvellous.
That prisoners employed in the workshops should be able to escape
observation and manufacture files, keys and other tools to be employed
in compassing escape, was not so strange; but it was almost incredible,
that, working in the open or under the shelter of a ship’s side, they
could cast metal coins, having first made the molds and melted the
substances, then polish and perfect them so as to deceive any but the
sharpest eye. There were still more marvellous frauds accomplished.
Forgery and all kinds of imitation of signatures, the preparation of
official documents, even the seals to attach to them, were within the
powers of these clever convicts. One case is on record, in which
release was all but secured by means of a forged authority, but at
the last moment one document was missing, and when search was made
for it among the papers in the office, the fraud was discovered. In
this instance several signatures had been imitated, including that of
the Chancellor and the King himself. On another occasion one of the
trade-instructors received a letter, enclosing a note for five hundred
francs, but unhappily found, when rejoicing at his good fortune, that
the bank-note was false, although it had deceived many expert persons.

When a certain tradesman got into money difficulties, and his papers
were seized by a sheriff’s officer, one paper was found amongst
them, which he had been foolish enough to retain. It was a letter
from a convict in the _bagne_ of Rochefort, claiming payment for the
fabrication of a receipt at the instance of the bankrupt. “May I remind
you,” ran the letter, “that at your request I manufactured a receipt,
for which you promised me two louis, if the document served its
purpose. As it was exactly what you wanted I now claim the completion
of your promise. You can pass the two louis in to me by enclosing
them in half a pound of butter, which I can receive at the canteen. I
trust that you will not oblige me to apply to you again.” This letter
was handed over to the police, with the result that the fraudulent
tradesman was arrested and sentenced to ten years for having made use
of the false receipt.

The most adroit thieves were to be met with at the _bagne_.
Extraordinary stories are preserved of the daring ingenuity and
marvellous skill in which the thefts were carried out. The story is
told of a bishop, who visited the _bagne_, and who was moved to great
pity for one unhappy criminal, to whom, after exhortation, he gave his
blessing and his hand to kiss. As usual he carried on his middle finger
his Episcopal ring with a valuable precious stone. When he left the
prison, the ring had disappeared. It is not recorded in what manner it
was abstracted, nor whether Monseigneur recovered his jewel. On another
occasion a convict actually stole a cashmere shawl from the back of
a visiting lady. The victim was Mdlle. Georges, a famous actress,
who, when visiting the _bagne_ of Toulon, spoke kindly to several of
the inmates, and was especially drawn to sympathise with one of good
address, who had once been an actor. This man actually purloined her
shawl, and in triumph started to carry it off, but had the good taste
to bring it back and replace it on her shoulders, exclaiming, “This
is the first time I have ever made voluntary restitution.” At another
time a watch was stolen from one of the visitors, who was examining
the articles which the convicts offered for sale. The chief guardian,
certain that the thief must be among a particular group of convicts,
declared that he would flog them in turn until the watch abstracted
had been given back. The punishment was actually in progress, when
the official received a letter from the visitor who had been robbed,
saying that on his return to his hotel he had been met by a poor
creature, dressed in a ragged old blouse, who approached and handed him
a small parcel containing his watch. It had been passed out, either by
the culprit himself or one of his comrades, and was now surrendered
under threat of the _bastonnade_.

An expert thief known in all the _bagnes_ was Jean Gaspard, who,
although crippled and compelled to walk on crutches, could use his
hands, the only good limbs left him, with wonderful skill. His
ostensible business was that of a wandering beggar, and he relied upon
his infirmities to insinuate himself into crowds of people. He then
worked with ready skill, and managed to pass his plunder to friendly
accomplices, who removed it to a distance. He was a professional thief.
He had inherited his skill from his forbears. His father and mother,
his brothers and sisters, all his relatives, in short, were thieves;
and some of them had suffered the extreme penalty of the law.

Thieving at the _bagne_ was greatly encouraged by the facilities that
offered for getting rid of the plunder. The business of “receiving”
flourished when the gangs marched to and fro, free people hanging
about, who managed to enter into relations with the thieves.

The administration of the _bagnes_ left much to be desired. The
discipline was severe, even cruel, and relied chiefly upon the lash,
the _bastonnade_ as it was called, which might be inflicted for all
sorts of offences. Attempts to escape, extending to sawing through
irons or the assumption of disguises, were punished by the whip; also
a theft of value up to five francs, drunkenness, gambling, smoking
and fighting with comrades. Any convict might be flogged, who made
away with his clothing, wrote clandestine letters, or was found
in possession of a sum of more than ten francs. There were graver
penalties for escape and recapture. In the case of a convict sentenced
for life, the punishment for escape, upon recapture, was three years
of the double chain--that is he was kept in close confinement, and not
allowed to go to work in the open air. An extension of the term of
imprisonment by three years was the punishment for those sentenced to
shorter terms. A theft of more than five francs was met with extension
of term. Last of all the guillotine was the penalty for striking an
officer or killing a comrade, or for entering into any combined plan of
revolt.

Repression and safe custody were the guiding principles of the
_bagnes_. Their supreme rulers, who were always naval officers,
commissaries of the marine ranking with captains, might at times
realise that they had a higher duty than that of keeping a herd of
black sheep, but any idea of amelioration or improvement rarely entered
their heads. They were rough old sailors, of coarse manners, with
little of the milk of human kindness, imposing their authority harshly,
exacting submission with a word and a blow. Some revolting stories are
preserved of the cruelties of the _garde-chiourmes_, the slang name of
the officers of the bagne.

Several couples of convicts were once at work unloading a cargo of
wood. Some sorted out the wood, while others levelled a mound of earth
and piled up the barrows, which were dragged away. One of a chained
couple suddenly struck work, declaring that he could hardly stand,
from fever and weakness. “You shall go to hospital to-morrow,” replied
his officer. “Go on working now. I will give you a dose of medicine
to help,” and with that he applied his stick to the poor creature’s
back. His comrade thereupon charged himself with the whole labor, and
drew the barrow alone, while the sick man staggered along, becoming
worse and worse every moment, and unable even to carry the weight
of the chain. Then his companion lifted him in his arms on to the
barrow, and proceeded to drag it along. The guardian, resenting this
act as defiance of his will, applied his stick to the back of the good
Samaritan, calling forth redoubled effort, which ended in the upset
of the barrow, which dragged over the sick man, who died then and
there. This story is vouched for by an eye-witness of the atrocity. He
rewarded the kindly convict, and would have reported the guardian, but
was afterwards unable to recognise him.

The régime, as we have seen, was tyrannical, but it must often have
been lax, to judge by the frequency of the escapes at the _bagnes_.
The regulations were stringent. Notice of an escape was immediately
proclaimed by three guns, and flags were run up at all commanding
points. At the same time the personal description of the fugitive
was circulated through the neighborhood, and brigades of gensdarmes
were sent in pursuit. Handsome rewards were offered for recapture;
twenty-five francs (five dollars) if it was effected within the
port, double that amount if within the town and one hundred francs
(twenty dollars) for apprehension beyond the walls. In spite of all,
the determination to break prison, a fixed idea with all animals in
captivity, was always present with the inmates of the _bagne_. It has
well been said that the prisoner, in his endeavors to escape, displays
skill and energy enough to win him inevitable success in any reputable
line of life. The stories of the results achieved at the _bagnes_,
the conquest of many difficulties, the triumph over all surveillance,
imperfect, perhaps, but systematic and generally alert, read like a
fairy tale.

One undefeated convict, by name Petit, escaped continually. He was
always getting the better of his gaolers. He took a pride in stating
precisely the hour at which he would arrive at Toulon and the day
upon which he would leave it a free man. The event always came off
exactly. Petit, at one time, when recaptured, after escaping from
Brest, was lodged in the prison at Abbeville. He at once warned the
prison officials that he could not stay in such an unsatisfactory
prison. On the next day he had disappeared. He had broken into a room
where the linen was kept, climbed several high walls, fell at length
into the garden and got out and away, although his two feet were
chained together. He got rid of his irons outside the walls, and had
the audacity to return and sell them openly in the market place of
Abbeville.

Opportunity and good luck usually favored escape. Hautdebont was a
convict tailor employed in the workshops where the guardians’ uniforms
were made up. He caught sight of a new suit hanging on a peg, which he
calculated would fit him, and at a moment when the master-tailor’s eye
was withdrawn, Hautdebont took down the uniform, put it on and walked
out. Unhappily for the fugitive the suit was immediately missed. The
foreman tailor raised an alarm, and Hautdebont was quickly caught and
sentenced, among other penalties, to lose his place in the tailor’s
shop. Excessive bad luck was the portion of the convict who had exactly
calculated that, by surmounting the boundary wall at a particular
point, he would reach a certain retired and solitary street. All went
well till, having surmounted the wall, he lowered himself on the far
side to fall straight into a cart, where a guardian was taking his
mid-day rest. He awoke and snapped greedily at the hundred francs’
reward which had fallen straight into his hands.

Convicts have often to thank their own quick-wittedness and
self-possession for succeeding in attempted escape. One convict at
Brest, helped by a free workman, who had promised him shelter and a
suit of plain clothes, reached the outskirts of the town, where he made
up as a laborer, concealed his closely cropped hair under an old hat,
borrowed a barrow and a pick and started off for Orleans as if he were
in search of a job. His leisurely gait and frequent halts betrayed
no feverish desire to get away. The people gave him _bon jour_ as he
passed, and the gensdarmes whom he met accepted a pinch of snuff; and
he went on his way without interference. He marched thus for a couple
of hundred miles, taking by-roads, still wheeling his barrow before
him, resting by night in the woods, and at last reaching Orleans in
the heart of France, where he found friends, who helped him out of the
country.

Ingenuity and boldness of plan of escape were often equalled by the
limitless patience with which it was pursued. More than once a long
passage was tunnelled underground, leading to liberty beyond the
Arsenal walls, and this in spite of surveillance and the galling
inconvenience of carrying chains. In one case a space had been
contrived at the end, large enough to contain the disguises, into which
the fugitives were to change when the moment arrived, and to store the
food saved up for the journey. The paving stones were taken up, and
places of concealment contrived beneath to hide the intending fugitive
until pursuit had passed on. Once a man got within a heap of stones,
and presently more stones were brought outside to add to the heap. He
narrowly escaped being built in alive. By desperate efforts he broke
through and gained the boundary wall, which he escaladed, and fell into
the arms of a couple of fishermen on the far side, who seized him and
took him back to the _bagne_. The promised reward was generally too
strong a temptation to working men to let a fugitive go free.

There were convicts with no sense of loyalty to their comrades, always
ready to betray an intended escape, eager to gain the reward. Others,
again, had invented a strange business, that of giving assistance to a
comrade, resolved to attempt an escape, by helping him in the work of
excavation, or of standing sentinel to prevent surprise by the guard.
On the arrival of any convict, known to be well furnished with funds,
he was approached by these friends with proposals. Sometimes the kindly
convict made a double coup,--for when he had started to escape he
betrayed the plot and was paid the authorised reward by the other side.
The guards sometimes encouraged an attempt to escape, and then turned
on the would-be fugitive after he had gone so far from the prison to be
worth the full sum of a hundred francs.

Great cleverness in preparing, and promptitude in assuming, a disguise
was frequently shown. One convict manufactured the whole of an
officer’s uniform out of paper, which he painted and completed so as to
escape detection. Petit, who has been mentioned already, whose escapes
were almost miraculous, got away once from the court at Amiens, after
being recaptured, by entering the dressing-room of the advocates, where
he stole a robe and wig, in which he walked out into the street. A
convict named Fichon, at Toulon, disappeared so effectually that it was
concluded he had left for good. But he was still on hand, although the
most minute searches were fruitless. He had hidden under water in the
great basin of the dockyard, and had arranged a leather duct to bring
him air from the surface. At night he emerged from his moist asylum,
landed, ate his food, placed for him by his friends, and at daybreak
took to the water again.

Long brooding on the impossibilities of regaining freedom has been
known to produce mania. An Italian, named Gravioly, at the _bagne_ of
Rochefort, was driven mad by his failures to escape. He was sentenced
for life after three brutal attempts to murder. The hopelessness of his
condition led him to secrete a knife, with which he suddenly wounded
the adjutant of the day, broke his chain and ran amuck through the
prison, brandishing his weapon and attacking all who tried to stop him.
Another adjutant fell before him, and the guard at the gate he killed.
Another murderer, of exemplary prison character, after years of good
behavior in the maritime hospital, struck one of the nursing sisters
a fatal blow, which severed her head. It was supposed that she had
discovered his intention to escape, and he was unable to persuade her
to hold her tongue. In these days we should call this man a homicidal
maniac, but he was executed; and, on mounting the scaffold, smiled
pleasantly at the guillotine.

The disciplinary methods at the _bagnes_ were brutal enough, but the
severity of the system was softened by privileges and concessions,
that would not be tolerated in any modern prison. It was much the same
as in Australia in the early days and at this moment in the Spanish
penal colony at Ceuta. The freedom given to some convicts in service
naturally favored escape, and in one case a high official was robbed of
his full uniform by a convict employé, who, having changed his costume,
mounted his master’s horse and rode off through the principal gate,
after having received the compliments of the sentries and guards at
the grand entrance. When the reins were tightened and these improper
privileges were forbidden, others of a minor and mitigating character
still survived. There were situations in the service of the prison,
as sweepers, barbers, cooks and lamplighters. Some became gardeners,
others coopers, more were nurses and bedmakers in the hospital, and
a few were permitted to act as hucksters in the sale of food and
condiments within the prison buildings. A post of great profit was that
of _payole_ or prison scribe, which was given to an educated convict
who was allowed to write the letters of his comrades. The _payole_
became the confidant of every one, and knew all their most precious
secrets. Often enough he abused his position, and, after eloquently
stating the case to a prisoner’s family, would misappropriate the funds
forwarded by soft-hearted relations. The _payole_ was constantly the
author of the so-called “Jerusalem letters,” the equivalent of the
begging letter or veiled attempts at blackmail, which often issued in
large numbers from the _bagnes_.

Reference has been made already to the ingenious manufacture of
articles for sale, but a less honorable, although more profitable,
trade was that of usury, which long flourished in the _bagnes_. The
business was started by an ex-banker named Wanglen, who was condemned
to _travaux forcés_ in the time of the Empire. He brought with him to
the _bagne_ a certain amount of capital, carefully concealed, and with
the skill acquired in his business he trafficked in usury, and made
advances, like any pawnbroker, upon the goods and valuables secretly
possessed by his fellows as well as upon the _pécule_ or monthly
pittance accorded as wages to the convicts. He had so large a trade
that he created a paper currency to take the place of the specie so
generally short in the prison. But his business suffered seriously
from the competition that might have been expected in such a place;
for after a time his notes were cleverly imitated by forgers, and he
had no redress but to return to cash payments. This man Wanglen is
said to have made a great deal of money by the time he retired from
business, and to have had many successors. When a borrower could offer
no tangible security the good word of a convict reputed to be a man of
substance was accepted instead; and such men were to be found in the
_bagnes_.

A notable one was the celebrated Collet, whose criminal career will
be detailed further on. Collet, strange to say, was always in funds.
According to M. Sers, who wrote at some length on the _bagnes_, from
facts under his own observation, Collet, during the twenty years of
his imprisonment, was never known to hold a single centime more, in
the hands of the official paymaster, than the regulation allowance,
yet he lived luxuriously the whole of these twenty years. He always
wore respectable clothing and the finest underlinen, very different
from that supplied by the prison; he lived on the fat of the land,
despising the mess of pottage, the horrible haricot of beans, that
made up the daily ration. He was supplied always with abundant and
succulent repasts from the best hotel in the town. The source of his
wealth and the means used to bring it to his hand were secrets never
divulged during his long term of imprisonment, although inquiries were
constantly made, and every effort tried to unravel the mystery. The
secret died with him; and even after death nine pieces of gold were
found sewn into his waistcoat pocket.

The authorities in due course set their faces against these convict
usurers, called _capitaines_, whose processes were very properly
condemned as tending to demoralise convicts and aggravate their
miserable condition. A very strict surveillance was instituted, and
when detected the _capitaines_ were severely punished. Sometimes
they were flogged; but other methods were tried, one in particular,
calculated to bring the culprit into ridicule, always a potent weapon
in dealing with Frenchmen. The prison barber was ordered to shave the
culprit’s head, leaving one lock only upon the crown. He was then
dressed as an old woman, and made to sit upon a barrel at the entrance
to the prison, where he was exposed to the jeers of his comrades
on their return from labor. The same measure was meted out to the
_capitaine’s_ assistants, for the big men always employed a number of
agents or canvassers in extending their business.

Thus, it is seen, that ours is a world of worlds, one within the other;
and assuredly the prison world is not less interesting, though much
less inviting than many others held in greater esteem.