Chapter VII.

"Soon, like captives, shall ye learn Ways less wild and laws more stern." Anon.

Days and weeks and months had passed away in this kind of life, when one morning, while Marcel and Polycarpe were still yawning and stretching themselves in their dirty bed, Loulou, who had gone round the corner to fetch some ready-made hot coffee and milk, for their breakfast, rushed back again with cheeks as white as it was possible for her rarely washed face to show.

"Get up quick and run!" cried she as she burst into the room, "the police are coming this way; I'm sure they're coming here to look for father, and, if they find you, they'll grab you too."

The two boys needed no further calling; indeed, they were out of bed before Loulou had ended her cry of danger. Old Poquet had become a marked man at the Prefecture of Police, and his reputation was very bad among his neighbors. He had been fearing a visit of this kind during the last eight days, and had taken himself off no one knew whither. So the boys, knowing this, would not have been so much afraid for their own safety, had they not done the preceding day what they called "good business," and had in their possession this morning more money and a greater variety of purses than they could well have accounted for.

So they jumped out of bed at the first word of alarm, and huddled on their clothes in less time than it takes to write the fact; and precipitating themselves down the stairs, were out of the house and out of sight, just as two policemen turned into the street. It was not until they had threaded many narrow, dirty streets behind the Pantheon, diving into dark passages, and passing through houses which were thoroughfares, as there are many in the great city, and at last found themselves near the Barrière of St. Jacques, that they felt secure enough to walk slowly and take time to ask each other where they should go.

"Parbleu!" cried Polycarpe, who was the first to break silence, "at any rate our pockets are not empty! Liberty for ever! Hurrah for pleasure and potatoes! Never say die, old fellow!" And he clapped his friend on the back and laughed as if it were the pleasantest thing in life to be running away from the police.

Marcel was not so gay: the boy's instincts, perverted as they were by the depraved influences that surrounded him, became restive at times; mysterious aspirations, and disgust of he knew not what, agitated strangely the poor child's aching heart, and gave him sometimes an appearance of timidity that had acquired for him among his profligate companions the _sobriquet_ of "_la demoiselle_" the young lady. He was now more moved than usual, his cheek was very pale, and his large blue eyes wore a more thoughtful expression than ever before.

Making a violent effort over himself, he at length replied to his companion's vivacity by asking what would become of Loulou.

"Loulou!" cried Polycarpe, "why, she's safe enough; she'll get out of the scrape, and there's nothing against her and mother. You needn't think of her, but of us, I can tell you. Now, what do you think I'm thinking of, eh?"

"I suppose of where we must go to-night."

"Exactly so, mademoiselle, and can you guess? No, that you can't, so you needn't try. Well, we must go hide in the quarries at Issy; we shall be safe there, and we won't come back to Paris before two months."

"The quarries!" cried Marcel, "How dreadful!"

"Not so dreadful as Mazas," replied Polycarpe, "as you'll know one of these days."

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"I hope not," ejaculated Marcel, shuddering.

"You hope not, you idiot!" said Polycarpe angrily, "why, how can it be otherwise? One can't be always in luck. Don't you know that every one gets to prison at last? Every one that I know has been there, and why should I escape, I should like to know? Of course my time will come, and your time will come, and what we have to do then is to show game. No cry-baby goings on then, if you please, Master Marcel, or you and I'll part company when we come out!"

Marcel did not answer, and they continued silently their way until they had passed the fortifications.

"Now," said Polycarpe at last, "we must try to kill time as pleasantly as possible until the night, and then we'll go straight to the quarries; we can't go there during the day, for there is always danger from spies."

"I'm very hungry," remarked Marcel.

"And so am I," answered his friend, "my inside has let me know for a long time that it didn't get any coffee this morning."

It was not long before the two boys found a kind of nondescript _cabaret_ and restaurant--one of those drinking and eating houses that do most business with Sunday-breakers and holiday-makers, if not with worse gentry. They were soon seated before a smoking omelette, which, with a great loaf of bread and a bottle of sour claret, they pronounced to be a first-rate breakfast. The meal finished and paid for, they bought a couple of bottles of brandy, and then strolled off again to the fortifications, where, choosing a sunny spot on the grassy side of the deep, dry moat that surrounds the massive walls, they snoozed away the rest of the day.

The quarries of Issy had long been the rendezvous of all sorts of young scamps. Idle, vicious boys who had run away from home; unfaithful apprentices who had robbed their master's tills; pickpockets whose successful operations had rendered their absence from the scene of their labors desirable for a period; hardened vagabonds waiting an opportunity to rob or murder, as the case might be--all found there a hiding-place and congenial society. Carefully concealed from any passers-by or workmen, they slept the daylight away, but as soon as darkness had rendered the place secure, the wretched youths commenced their orgies. Gorging on the provisions provided by two or three of their number in turn, and bought or stolen in the neighboring villages of Issy, Clamart, and Meudon; guzzling, singing, and swearing; boasting of their skill in every cunning and thieving art; teaching and learning all manner of vice--thus passed they their turbulent night, while outside the stifling hole that screened their wickedness the starry sky spread cool and calm over the sleeping village and peaceful fields and woods.

How the contrast between the within and the without struck Marcel a few hours after he had entered that ignoble hiding-place! He and Polycarpe had quitted the moat at nightfall and had found themselves about ten o'clock at the rendezvous. The place was well-known to the cobbler's son; many and many a time had he come hither to see some friend in hiding, and he now advanced without hesitation. At a certain distance from the entrance, he put his fingers to his lips and uttered a shrill, peculiar cry, then seizing his companion's arm hurried in. They were met by Guguste, and received an enthusiastic welcome, not only from that young rascal, but also from the rest of the band, which contained a great many at that moment, and consisted almost entirely of old acquaintances. The two bottles of brandy were hailed with acclamations, and the donors invited to take part in the eating and drinking that was about to commence.

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Used as our young hero was to all kinds of wickedness, he at first listened with fear to what he heard around him now; but the brandy and the example of his companions soon acted on his impressionable nature, the revolting instincts were stifled as usual, and Marcel quickly became one of the noisiest and most cynical of those wretched children.

One half of the company was already nearly drunk, and the other half at the height of its revelry, when a sound of many feet marching in step and close at hand silenced each and all in an instant. The lights were suddenly extinguished, pistols cocked--for most of the young miscreants were armed; then came a rush from the outside, a struggle, several shots, smothered groans, oaths, and all was over. Law had conquered, and the whole band was in the power of a _posse_ of gendarmes under the command of an officer.

To handcuff the young ruffians and lead them one by one out of their den was soon accomplished; and it was then that Marcel, emerging into the tranquil night, was struck by the contrast. Within, drunkenness and crime, false, feverish merriment ending in bloody strife; without, the cool, fresh air of early morn, the first streak of breaking day in the far east, the market-carts wending their plodding way to the great metropolis--all telling of peace, all so quiet! Beautiful nature and humble toil!

Poor Marcel! he could not understand his feelings, for his intelligence was warped and dwarfed with his conscience; but his young heart ached with vague aspirations and regrets, and he wept bitterly.