Читать книгу Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI, November 1850, Vol. I - Various - Страница 9

The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and peculiar humor occurs in the Police tribuneaux of Paris. We will proceed to give the reader a "taste of their quality."

An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in the streets, and the Police having good-naturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took place between the President and the old woman.

President.– Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging.

Old Woman (in a humble, quavering tone). – Ah, Monsieur le President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very old woman.

Pres.– Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged to punish you.

Old W.– But, Monsieur le President, I can not live without – I must beg – pardon me, Monsieur – I am obliged to beg.

Pres.– But I say you must not. Can you do no work?

Old W.– Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.

Pres.– Can't you sell something – little cakes – bonbons?

Old W.– No, Monsieur, I can't get any little stock to begin with; and, if I could, I should be robbed by the gamins, or the little girls, for I'm not very quick, and can't see well.

Pres.– Your relations must support you, then. You can not be allowed to beg. Have you no son – no daughter – no grandchildren?

Old W.– No, Monsieur; none – none – all my relations are dead.

Pres.– Well then, your friends must give you assistance.

Old W.– Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone.

Pres.– And who was he?

Old W.– Monsieur de Robespierre —le pauvre, cher homme! (The poor, dear man!)

Pres.– Robespierre! – why what did you know of him?

Old W.– Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the tricoteurs (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) la belle Marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme!

We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the tricoteurs, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the "Furies;" but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the spectacle.

Pres.– Well, Goody; finish your history.

Old W.– I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat as a tricoteur among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me —le pauvre, cher homme. I used then to be called la belle tricoteuse, but now – now, I am called la vielle radoteuse (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all come to!

The old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at the President, which completely involved him in the we, thus presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged heart.

Pres.– Ahem! – silence! You seem to have a very tender recollection of Monsieur Robespierre. I suppose you had reason to be grateful to him?

Old W.– No, Monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined my husband.

Pres.– Certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory.

Old W.– Ah, Monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. Monsieur de Robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband – he had him executed by mistake for somebody else —le pauvre, cher homme!

Thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the "poor dear man" referred to her husband, or to Monsieur de Robespierre; or whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]