The Merrie Tales of Jacques Tournebroche — John Shaqi
The Merrie Tales of Jacques TournebrocheFrance, Anatole
General
The Merrie Tales of Jacques Tournebroche
France, Anatole
France -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English
“There might be much to say,” sighed my good master, “on this justice of
the civilized nations, the punishments whereof in retaliation are often
more cruel than the crime itself I cannot believe that these tortures
and penalties that men inflict on their fellows are necessary for the
safeguarding of States, seeing how from time to time one and another
legal cruelty is done away with without hurt to the commonweal. And I
hold it likely that the severities they still maintain are no whit more
useful than those they have abolished. But men are cruel. Come away,
Tournebroche, my dear lad; it grieves me to think how unhappy prisoners
are even now lying awake behind those walls in anguish and despair. I
know they have done faultily, but this doth not hinder me from pitying
them. Which of us is without offence?”
We went on our way. The bridge was deserted save for a beggarman and
woman, who met on the causeway. The pair drew stealthily into one of the
recesses over the piers, where they lurked together on the door-step
of a hucksters booth. They seemed well enough content, both of them, to
mingle their joint wretchedness, and when we went by were thinking
of quite other things than craving our charity. Nevertheless my good
master, who was the most compassionate of men, threw them a half
farthing, the last piece of money left in his breeches pocket.
“They will pick up our obol,” he said, “when they have come back to the
consciousness of their misery. I pray they may not quarrel then over
fiercely for possession of the coin.”
We passed on without further rencounter till on the Quai des Oiseleurs
we espied a young damsel striding along with a notable air of
resolution. Hastening our pace to get a nearer view, we saw she had a
slim waist and fair hair in which the moonbeams played prettily. She was
dressed like a citizen’s wife or daughter.
“There goes a pretty girl,” said the Abbé; “how comes it she is out of
doors alone at this hour of night?”
“Truly,” I agreed, “‘tis not the sort one generally encounters on the
bridges after curfew.”
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