torn and patched in a thousand places; his feet,
half wrapped up in pieces of old linen, were thrust into wooden shoes.

This man, Fortune Gobert, called Pique-Vinaigre, formerly a juggler, a
convict freed after condemnation for the crime of uttering false money,
was charged with having broken from gaol and committed violent burglary.
Having been confined but very few days in La Force, Pique-Vinaigre
already filled the office of story-teller, to the general satisfaction
of his fellow prisoners. Now story-tellers have become very rare, but
formerly each ward had usually, for a slight general subscription, its
official story-teller, who, by his narrations, made the long winter
evenings appear less tedious when the prisoners went to bed at sunset.

If it be curious to note the desire for these fictions which these
outcasts display, it is yet a more singular thing to reflect upon the
hearing of these recitals. Men corrupted to the very marrow, thieves,
and murderers, prefer especially the histories in which are expressed
generous, heroic sentiments, recitals in which weakness and goodness are
avenged in fierce retribution. It is the same thing with women of lost
reputation; they are singularly fond of simple, touching, and
sentimental details, and almost invariably refuse to read obscene books.

Pique-Vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic tales in which weakness,
after a thousand trials, concludes by triumphing over persecution. He
possessed, besides, a deep fund of satire, which had procured for him
his name, his repartees being very frequently ironical or merry. He had
just entered the reception-room. Opposite to him, on the other side of
the grating, was a female of about thirty-five years of age, of pale,
mild, and interesting countenance, meanly but cleanly clad. She was
weeping bitterly, and held a handkerchief to her eyes. Pique-Vinaigre
looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection.

"Come, Jeanne," he said, "do not play the child. It is sixteen years
since we met, and to keep your handkerchief up to your eyes is not the
way for us to know each other again."

"Brother--my poor, dear Fortune! I am choking--I cannot speak."

"Ah, nonsense! What ails you?"

His sister repressed her sobs, wiped her eyes, and, looking at him with
astonishment, replied, "What ails me? What, when I find you again in
prison, where you have already been fifteen years!"

"True. It is six months to-day since I left Melun;