lady was concerned, not to send them back
again, under those circumstances. Accordingly,
Madame de Brienne received her warrants wiih
a note of apology from the polite thief. "Pray
excuse my visit to your charming boudoir,"
wrote Poulailler, "in consideration of the false
reports of your wealth, which alone induced me
to enter It. If I had known what your pecuniary
circumstances really were, on the honour of a
gentleman, Madam, I should have been incapable
of robbing you. I cannot return your two
thousand louis d'ors by post, as I return your
warrants.  But if you are at all pressed for
money in future, I shall be proud to assist so
distinguished a lady by lending her, from my own
ample resources, the sum of which
I regret to have deprived her on the present
occasion."  This letter was shown to royalty at
Versailles. It excited the highest admiration of
the Court—especially of the ladies. Whenever
the robber's name was mentioned, they
indulgently referred to him as the Chevalier
de Poulailler. Ah! that was the age of politeness,
when good-breeding was recognised, even
in a thief. Under similar circumstances, who
would recognise it now?  O tempera!  O
mores!

On another occasion, Poulailler was out, one
night, taking the air and watching his
opportunities on the roofs of the houses; a member
of the band being posted in the street below to
assist him in case of necessity. While in this
position, sobs and groans proceeding from an
open back-garret window caught his ear. A
parapet rose before the window, which enabled
him to climb down and look in. Starving
children surrounding a helpless mother, and
clamouring for food, was the picture that met his
eye.  The mother was young and beautiful; and
Poulailler's hand impulsively clutched his purse,
as a necessary consequence. Before the
charitable thief could enter by the window, a man
rushed in by the door, with a face of horror;
and cast a handful of gold into the lovely
mother's lap. "My honour is gone!"  he cried;
"but our children are saved!  Listen to the
circumstances. I met a man in the street
below; he was tall and thin; he had a green
patch over one eye; he was looking up
suspiciously at this house, apparently waiting for
somebody. I thought of you—I thought of the
children—I seized the suspicious stranger by
the collar. Terror overwhelmed him on the
spot. 'Take my watch, my money, and my two
valuable gold snuff-boxes,' he said—' but spare
my life.' I took them."   "Noble-hearted man!"
cried Poulailler, appearing at the window. The
husband started; the wife screamed; the
children hid themselves. "Let me entreat you to
be composed," continued Poulailler. " Sir!  I
enter on the scene, for the purpose of soothing
your uneasy conscience. From your vivid
description, I recognise the man whose property is
now in your wife's lap. Resume your mental
tranquillity. You have robbed a robber—in
other words, you have vindicated society.
Accept my congratulations on your restored innocence.
The miserable coward whose collar you
seized is one of Poulailler's band. He has lost
his stolen property, as the fit punishment, for his
disgraceful want of spirit."  "Who are you?"
exclaimed the husband. "I am Poulailler,"
replied the illustrious man, with the simplicity of
an ancient hero. "Take this purse; and set
up in business with the contents. There is a
prejudice, sir, in favour of honesty. Give
prejudice a chance. There was a time when I
felt it myself; I regret to feel it no longer.
Under all varieties of misfortune, an honest
man has his consolation still left. Where is it
left? Here!"  He struck his heart—and the
family fell on their knees before him.
"Benefactor of your species!"  cried the husband—
"how can I show my gratitude?"  "You can
permit me to kiss the hand of madame,"
answered Poulailler. Madame started to her feet,
and embraced the generous stranger. "What
else can I do?" exclaimed this lovely woman
eagerly—" Oh, Heavens! what else?"  "You
can beg your husband to light me down stairs,"
replied Poulailler. He spoke, pressed their
hands, dropped a generous tear, and departed.
At that touching moment, his own adopted
father would not have known him.

This last anecdote closes the record of
Poulailler's career in Paris. The lighter and more
agreeable aspects of that career have hitherto
been designedly presented, in discreet
remembrance of the contrast which the tragic side of
the picture must now present. Comedy and
Sentiment, twin sisters of French extraction,
farewell!  Horror enters next on the stage—
and enters welcome, in the name of the Fiend-
Fisherman's Adopted Son.

                              IV.

          HIS EXIT FROM THE SCENE.

THE nature of Poulailler's more serious achievements
in the art of robbery may be realised by
reference to one terrible fact. In the police
records of the period, more than one hundred and
fifty men and women are reckoned up as having
met their deaths at the hands of Poulailler and
his band. It was not the practice of this
formidable robber to take life as well as property,
unless life happened to stand directly in his way
—in which case, he immediately swept off the
obstacle without hesitation and without remorse.
His deadly determination to rob, which was thus
felt by the population in general, was matched
by his deadly determination to be obeyed, which
was felt by his followers in particular. One of
their number, for example, having withdrawn
from his allegiance, and having afterwards
attempted to betray his leader, was tracked to his
hiding-place in a cellar, and was there walled up
alive in Poulailler's presence; the robber
composing the unfortunate wretch's epitaph, and
scratching it on the wet plaster with his own hand.
Years afterwards, the inscription was noticed,
when the house fell into the possession of a new
tenant, and was supposed to be nothing more
than one of the many jests which the famous