We had but one thought--how to upset the
little devil at the Elysee. Among my comrades was a big fellow from my
own city, one Cambier. He was the leader. On the ground floor of the
shop was built a huge oven where the lacquer was baked. At night this
was made hot with charcoal and allowed to cool off in the morning ready
for the finished work of the previous day. It was Cambier's duty to
attend to this oven.
"One night just after all but he and two others had left the shop a
strange man was discovered in a closet where the men kept their working
clothes. He was seized, brought to the light, and instantly recognized
as a member of the secret police.
"At daylight the next morning I was aroused from my bed, and, looking
up, saw Chapot, an inspector of police, standing over me. He had known
me from a boy, and was a friend of my father's.
"'Francois, there is trouble at the shop. A police agent has been
murdered. His body was found in the oven. Cambier is under arrest. I
know what you have been doing, but I also know that in this you have had
no hand. Here are one hundred francs. Leave Paris in an hour.'
"I put the money in my pocket, tied my clothes in a bundle, and that
night was on my way to Havre, and the next week set sail for here."
"And what became of Cambier?" I asked.
"I have never heard from that day to this, so I think they must have
snuffed him out."
Then he drifted into his early life here--the weary tramping of the
streets day after day, the half-starving result, the language and people
unknown.
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