red from the cold, half wrapped up in old linen, were thrust into wooden
shoes.

This man, named Fortune Gobert, nick-named Pique-Vinaigre (Sharp Vinegar,
to prevent mistakes), formerly a juggler, and a prisoner for the crime of
passing counterfeit money, was accused of breaking the terms of his
ticket-of-leave, and of burglary.

Confined but for a few days at La Force, already Pique-Vinaigre filled, to
the general satisfaction of his prison companions, the post of
story-teller. At the present day these are rare, but formerly each ward
generally had, at the expense of a light, individual contribution, its
tale-teller, who, by his improvisations, made the interminable winter
evenings appear less long, the prisoners retiring to rest at nightfall.

Pique-Vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic recital where weakness,
after a thousand crosses, finishes by triumphing over its persecutors.
Pique-Vinaigre possessed, besides, an immense fund of irony, which had
given him his nickname. He had just entered the room.

Opposite him, on the other side of the railing, was a woman of about
thirty-five, with a pale, sweet, and interesting face, poorly but neatly
clad; she wept bitterly, and kept her handkerchief to her eyes.
Pique-Vinaigre looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection.

"Come now, Jeanne," said he, "do not be a child; it is sixteen years since
we have met; if you keep your handkerchief over your eyes, we won't know
each other."

"My brother, my poor Fortune--I suffocate--I cannot speak."