subjected to a course of infernal tuition
elsewhere—what are his father and mother to do
with him? They must do the best they can—
which was exactly what Poulailler and his wife
did with the hero of these pages.

In the first place, they had him christened
instantly. It was observed with horror that his
infant face was distorted with grimaces, and
that his infant voice roared with a preternatural
lustiness of tone the moment the priest touched
him. The first thing he asked for, when he
learnt to speak, was "fried fish;" and the first
place he wanted to go to, when he learnt to
walk, was the diabolical Tower on the rock.
"He won't learn anything," said the master,
when he was old enough to go to school.
"Thrash him," said Poulailler—and the master
thrashed him. "He won't come to his first
communion," said the priest. "Thrash him,"
said Poulailler—and the priest thrashed him.
The farmers' orchards were robbed; the
neighbouring rabbit-warrens were depopulated; linen
was stolen from the gardens, and nets were torn
on the beach. "The deuce take Poulailler's
boy," was the general cry. "The deuce has
got him," was Poulailler's answer. "And yet
he is a nice-looking boy," said Madame
Poulailler. And he was—as tall, as strong, as
handsome a young fellow, as could be seen in all
France. "Let us pray for him," said Madame
Poulailler. "Let us thrash him," said her
husband. "Our son has been thrashed till all the
sticks in the neighbourhood are broken," pleaded
his mother. "We will try him with the rope's-end
next," retorted his father; "he shall go to sea
and live in an atmosphere of thrashing. Our
son shall be a cabin-boy." It was all one to
Poulailler Junior—he knew as well as his father
who had adopted  him—he had been instinctively
conscious from infancy of the Fiend-Fisherman's
interest in his welfare—he cared for no earthly
discipline—and a cabin-boy he became at ten
years old.

After two years of the rope's-end (applied
quite ineffectually), the subject of this Memoir
robbed his captain, and ran away in an English
port. London became the next scene of his
adventures. At twelve years old, he persuaded
society in the Metropolis that he was the forsaken
natural son of a French duke. British benevolence,
after blindly providing for him for four
years, opened its eyes and found him out at the
age of sixteen; upon which he returned to
France, and entered the army in the capacity of
drummer. At eighteen, he deserted, and had
a turn with the gipsies. He told fortunes, he
conjured, he danced on the tight-rope, he acted,
he sold quack medicines, he altered his mind
again, and returned to the army. Here he fell
in love with the vivandière of his new regiment.
The sergeant-major of the company, touched by
the same amiable weakness, naturally resented
his attentions to the lady.  Poulailler (perhaps
unjustifiably) asserted himself by boxing his
officer's ears. Out flashed the swords on both
sides, and in went Poulailler's blade through
and through the tender heart of the sergeant-
major. The frontier was close at hand.
Poulailler wiped his sword, and crossed it.

Sentence of death was recorded against him
in his absence. When society has condemned
us to die, if we are men of any spirit how are we
to return the compliment? By condemning
society to keep us alive—or, in other words, by
robbing right and left for a living. Poulailler's
destiny was now accomplished. He was picked
out to be the Greatest Thief of his age; and
when Fate summoned him to his place in the
world, he stepped forward and took it. His life
hitherto had been merely the life of a young
scamp—he was now to do justice to the
diabolical father who had adopted him, and to
expand to the proportions of a full-grown Robber.

His first exploits were performed in Germany.
They showed such novelty of combination, such
daring, such dexterity, and, even in his most
homicidal moments, such irresistible gaiety and
good humour, that a band of congenial spirits
gathered about him in no time. As commander-
in-chief of the Thieves' army, his popularity
never wavered. His weaknesses—and what
illustrious man is without them?—were three in
number. First weakness—he was extravagantly
susceptible to the charms of the fair sex. Second
weakness—he was perilously fond of practical
jokes. Third weakness (inherited from his
adopted parent)—his appetite was insatiable in
the matter of fried fish. As for the merits to
set against these defects, some have been noticed
already, and others will appear immediately.
Let it merely be premised, in this place, that he
was one of the handsomest men of his time,
that he dressed superbly, and that he was
capable of the most exalted acts of generosity
wherever a handsome woman was concerned—
let this be understood, to begin with; and let
us now enter on the narrative of his last exploit
in Germany before he returned to France. This
adventure is something more than a mere
specimen of his method of workmanship—it proved,
in the future, to be the fatal event of his life.

On a Monday in the week, he had stopped on
the highway, and robbed of all his valuables and
all his papers, an Italian nobleman—the Marquis
Petrucci of Sienna. On Tuesday, he was ready
for another stroke of business. Posted on the
top of a steep hill, he watched the road which
wound up to the summit on one side, while his
followers were ensconced on the road which led
down from it on the other. The prize expected,
in this case, was the travelling carriage (with a
large sum of money inside) of the Baron de
Kirbergen.

Before long, Poulailler discerned the carriage
afar off, at the bottom of the hill, and in advance
of it, ascending the eminence, two ladies on foot.
They were the Baron's daughters—Wilhelmina,
a fair beauty; Frederica, a brunette—both
lovely, both accomplished, both susceptible,
both young. Poulailler sauntered down the
hill to meet the fascinating travellers. He
looked—bowed—introduced himself—and fell
in love with Wilhelmina on the spot. Both the
charming girls acknowledged in the most artless