A LIFE OF CRIME.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 2403, 3 December 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

A LIFE OF CRIME.

Jean Golmon was the son of a labourer employed in the conservatory of Peru La Chaise, Paris. He had never known his mother and had grown tip a street gamin. In 1835, as a Jewish funeral was entering the cemetery by Rue St. Andre, Jean Goujon, then in his fifteenth year, stole a watch from one of the mourners. He was captured and sent to prison. In 1838 he was again free and ready for almost any crime. He professed to help his father in decorating graves. A wealthy Spaniard named Diaz had recently lost his only daughter, ami before quitting Paris he paid a visit to her grave in Pete La Chaise. Jean Goujon saw him arranging for the decoration of the grave of his child and observed the well-filled pocket-book which he carried. He seized a pruning knife and followed the .Spaniard until he reached a convenient spot, well shrouded with foliage. Hu plunged the deadly weapon into the stomach of the unsuspecting stranger, tore the pockethook from his vest and decamped, leaving a corpse behind him. Three days later, when he was spending the money like a prince, in Mother Tare ratan s den in the Rue Serpente, a companion said to him,— “ Where did you get your money ? What man did you plunder? Was it yon who carved tin Spaniard in Pern La Chaise f” Jean Goujon laughed and appeared gratified, as though a compliment had been paid him. When it was dark he wished Ids companion to go forth and enjoy the night. On the pout Nouf, just before reaching Quai du Louvre, Jean stabbed hi.s friend in the back and ran. Fortunately for the young man, whose name was Jacques Kivirin, the thick leather suspenders which he wore turned the blade, and although badly wounded he recovered. Jean was captured, but he got rid of all tho money ho stole from the Spaniard, and there was nothing that connected him with that crime. For stabbing Rivirin, however, he was sent to tho galleys for six years. In 1811 Jean was once more at liberty. He went to the conservatory at Pere la Chaise, where his father still worked, and removing two bricks from the rear of tile furnace, hauled out a pockethook containing several thou-and francs. He put the money in his pocket and restored the book to its hiding place. “Nothinglike a cemetery,” ho said to his father, “ for either acquiring wealth or safely depositing it.” Jean was now twenty-three years of ago, was tall, well-built, with a full, oval face, dark complexion, dark eyes and black hair, which curled all over his head. Tho first joint of the third finger on the right hand was missing. There was a long white scar on hi.s forehead close to his hair, which he drew over it to hide it. As he was leaving the place where his father was at work someone darkened the entrance. Joan stared back when she saw Jacques Riverin, the man whom he had stabbed six years before. Jean suspected that something was wrong, and stopped back into the furnace room. “ Here, father, take care of litis money for mo,” he said. He handed him all the notes lie had just taken from the hiding place in the rear of the furnace. Then he faced the newcomer. Old Goujon took the notes and put themTn his pocket. Then lie hesitated. On the wall was a strongly bound box, with a lid which was fastened with a padlock. In the lid was a slit into which orders were dropped for the employes. Old Goujon drew forth the notes, folder) them in convenient form, and thrust them 1 into the slit. He knew how to recover I them at the night time. It was none too j soon for Riverin was, a-eompanied, or ! rather, followed by three officers, who at a word from him, laid hands upon Jean Goujon. “Ah, Monsieur Jean,” said Riverin, rubbing iiis hands, “wc have got you this time for good ; you are wanted for the murder of Senor Diaz a litt'c before you tried to put me out of the world. Madame Tarrataa, that charming old lady who you know, has revealed all that she knows about it, and—gentlemen, j right, here, hack of this furnace, must he j the spot where tho proofs of the crime are to he found.” Without much difficulty the hidingplace in tho rear of the furnace was reached, and the empty pocket-book produced. It bore part of -Senor Diaz’s name in gilt letters on the flap. The rest of the flap was missing. “ That clear old lady, Madame Tarratan,” said Riverin, “has the rest of the flap in safe keeping. Jean was tried for the murder of Ramon Diaz. He had confessed the crime to Mother Tarratan and given her the pocket-book to keep for him Then ho had quarrelled with her and snatched it out of her hands, leaving part of the flap in her grasp. Afterwards they had made it up, and Jean had told Mother Tarratan where he had deposited the hook ami the money. She had remained faithful to him all during his imprisonment, but when he came out of prison, and, instead of returning to his old friend, went to the establishment of a hated rival, Mother Tarratan’s wrath was roused, and she made a confident of Riverin, Jean’s deadliest foe. Now, strange as it may appear, the* greatest affection existed between Jean and his father, and but for this fact Jean would never have been convicted for the murder of Senor Diaz. “It is clear,” said the judge, “that your father knew of your crimes.” “ What crimes ?” asked Jean. “ Don’t question me, sir,” replied the judge; “ your father must have had his suspicions aroused when he saw you take his pruniug-knife from his side.” “I did not take his pruning-knife,” said Jean in hot anger; “ I picked the knife from the grass, and had no thought of—” Then he saw that he had fatally committed himself, ami would say no more. He was convicted and sentenced for life. As he parted with Lis father he said : “You have the money safe?” “ Aye. that I have,” was the answer. “Take good care of it,” Jean said, “and when you receive a letter or a message, get the money and come where the letter or message bids you. You understand ?” “ I understand. How long first ?” the old man said. “That depends—certainly within the year,” was the answer. Then the father and son separated. Goujon, the elder, worked early and late at his earth ami manure and plants. He had stowed his money away it.' a safe plane, and he had no fear of any one but hi.s son getting it. Old Goujon lived in the rear of the sausage shop on tho Rue St Mattr, and kept a big black dog in his room all day. The dog sat at the window and showed his misshapen teeth at the children who ventured near. When he was tired he went and lay down on an old coat which his master flung on the floor for him every morning and told him to watch. In the lining of that old garment was Jean Goujon’s money, and no one would have a chance of getting it so long as life was left in the dog. Months went by. At 1-ngth, one evening in March, 1815. when Goujon, the elder, came home, he saw a scrap of paper lying on the floor, evidently having been thrust under the door. He took it up and read it. This is what it contained :

“An old friend wishes to sec you this evening at Tinguetonne’s, Rue dc Giuronne, near Rue St. Marguerite. Dmt come empty-handed. Just before nine o’clock Goujon was at Tigiietonne’s wine shop, and found therea woman eating blood pudding and drink rug wine. Presently a prh-st came it. ami ordered some chops and a small bottle of red wino. The priest leaned hack while he waited ami said, — “ It is nine o’clock, and no news from Pore la Choree.” The landlord, who was drawing a cork, stopped in the act and scowled at. the speaker. Goujon drew out of bis pocket a roil of bank nolo- and looked at them. 11 Poor Jean, poor Joan, ’ said the priest, as if musing aloud I “ his own father has forgotten.” Here Goujon made a sign to the priest, and patted the roll of bills. Tbe priest took no notice, but ate bis chops and drank his wine. Then he got up, paid Ms score, and quilted the place. Goujon followed, and was almost startled out of his wits when the priest seized him, gave him a hug and bade him come along. Then he knew it was Jean, who said, — I made my escape yesterday week from Cherbourg, and found it hard work to get to Paris, and then get word to you Yon remember Father Berncval, who buried the faithful at the cemetery, until he scandalized the place and his profession by getting drunk? Well, I found him out, and he remembered how I used to smuggle the cognac to him, and was grateful. He put the note under your door, and fixed me up in this guise to meet yon. Come right with me to his ab ide in tbe Kuo Simon le Franc, and we will have a talk. I have a proposition to make to you.” Tie l father end son w.-dkel together to the place named and remained in close conversation until a late hour. When they separated -lean said “ And now for u new life.” In tofiO Monsieur t'hr.-roud was one of the richest and most honourable citizens of Strashurg. For twenty four years be had resided there, and by industry and ability acquired a large fortune. Soon after his arrival, in 18!'), lie went into business for himself. Then be got married and brought his old father to reside with him. Seven children were born, all of whom (lied except the oldest, Henri. Monsieur Therottd was a great railroad man, and he mads himself a name. He had just been chosen president of a scientific society, and his portrait had been published in several periodicals. He hud built himself a line dwelling near Strasburg, and his only son was following in his steps, and gave promise of a brilliant career as a civil engineer. Now it so happened that a gentleman natm-d Riverin, who has already figured in this narrative, had amended his ways, and was engaged in selling periodicals and newspapers in the Rue -St. L iz ire, Paris, near the entrance to a large railroad station of the West. Amusing himself in a leisure moment with looking over some pietoral papers, his eyes fell upon a portrait which greatly attracted his attention. He examined it closely. It was the likeness of M. Theophile Theroud, the railroad magnate of .Strasburg, recently chosen president of a scientific society. “ What a likeness !” exclaimed Monsieur Riverin ; “ I could swear it was Jean Goujon.” Theu he rend the half column of letterpress that described Theroud’s career. “ 1 He first settled in Stra-burg in ISI-V—the very year Jean escape 1 from Cherbourg, and passed out of sight. For many years Lis father re-id- d with him’ —old Goujon disippeared from Pore la Chaise at the same time ; and up to the elo-e of his life, three years ago, it was the great delight of the vonerihL 1 gentleman to cultivate 11 iwers’—tiiat was old Goujon’s Mretiie-re in a fi-hion -at the cemetery. This is a very singul ir thing. ! I could .-wear this was a likeness of .U-m Goujon.” So Monsieur Riverin read and com- ! ment-d, At Imm • that night he thought the matter over and said to himself, — “ If this is Jean my fortune is made. If I go and identify him he will pay me handsomely to keep his secret, for if is,; despite all his weilth and high position, only an escaped convict, and liahl- to he re turno 1 to lit-; gilh ys to sem; out his tim- 1 . I will pay him a vi-it. Monsieur Riverin next dty gave Ms hook and newspaper stand :»to the care of a friend, and journeyed to Strasburg. Once there If. found no difficulty in getting a good look at Monsieur Theophile Theroud. “Ho is my man! The top of the third linger of the right hand is gone. He is Jean Goujon, the escaped convict!” exclaimed Monsieur Riverin. “ My fortune is secure. I will change my name. My identity ceases from this time. I am —who am 1 ? Let me think. Ah ! I am Monsieur Paul Desmoulins : that is a great name. He will pay handsomely—at least two hundred thousand francs. I will never return to Paris. I will wipe out my past life. I will retire to a quiet place and marry Why not ? I am only forty-eight. Where shall it he. Monsieur Paul Desmoulins? Time enough lor that. Now I will get my cards engraved, and prepare for a career.” His cants were engraved, and he took eare that those with whom he came in contact at the hotel where he was staying should know that he was Monsieur Paul Desmoulins. He called on Monsieur Theroud at his private office and had an interview. He brazenly disclosed his mission, and Monsieur Theroud made no denial of his having been formerly known as .lean Goujon. That evening—it was November '23, ISC!)—Monsieur Theroud quilted his house and did not return tinttl late His son sat up for him and observed that he was excited and wandering. The son heard the father walking his rooms all night long; nevertheless he went to his business -is usual the next day. That evening—November 21—he again quitted the house. The son followed flint. Mon-iettr Theroud crossed the small park in which his dwelling stood, and entered a wood at the right hand. There he met a man. Henri, the son. secreted himself and watched. His father and the stranger talked long and excitedly. Presently there was an outcry and Henri started up. He saw his father strike three or four blows in quick succession at the other man who staggered and fell. Then Monsieur Theroud stood over the prostrate man and struck once, twice more. Then Monsieur Theroud turned away, rushed toward the park and hastened homeward. The son, astonished and terror-stricken, watched his father depart. Theu he entered the wood ami went toward the fallen man There was just light enough to enable the son to see that the man was dead, and that blood flowed from wounds in his neck and breast. The coroner, known as In jug.-d’instruc-tion, made a very satisfactory investigation. When Mon-iettr Theophile Theroud was examined he was greatly moved, and even the strongest man wept. “ I know who this man is,” he said, i “ He had private business with my sun, ■ and several nights in succession my son i left the house evidently to meet him. On ‘ this night of November twenty-fourth ■! my.son quitted the hj ureo, and I did null see him again until next morning, lie ' c tiny to tny room early and said, ‘ I have killed -a man. He is my en -niy, and pur- , sued me. V- a wil! find lit- hj dy not far : from here.’ He then departed, I know j

not wbitb-r, and I have never seen or heard of him dni*e.“ A hun'ing-knif*'. which it shown had ofi'-n h.-fjn u-<d by the ?on was found n«*ar th * body. The doctor** testified that his wounds had b»*rn inflicted with it. »r-h wis made for young Theroud, hut no clu** to his whereabouts was dia-•■.,v»-r'd. Neither was M<>i]*i<*ur I’anl I iini. utific<l by and friends beyi.nd tb.- }»■ -Hi the h>-tel. I-irV'-ir> M-iimoui- Th'-r'iU'l lived OP, 'iMiL.nn-d :md r.-p<-»;ted and with the -Vinjdlby of all who ;li<m"lit they kne’.v the irr--i T -■tirow that weighed iiim don-ii. In Is>o b- died, a prematur ly old rn tn. Hit before his death ho made a confession of the crime, the irnilt of which his son had assumed. In that confession all his former dissls were enumerated as here rs'orded. and then Cline a full account of th- killin'; of I’m! Desmoulins, other* wise .la (jm - R it rin. “ I promised him fifteen thousand francs for his silence and absence forever from France. Rut be irrew npacious and demanded more. Fmaliv.ho demanded half my fortune, and to become a perpetual resident in my abwie. His demands and threats drove me mid. On mv first roc-ctim; with him near my dwelling he s"i/.ed me by the throat and threatened violence. The next evenin'* I took the knife for protection. I had no intention of killin'* him unless he a-sailed me, but when he threatened me with exposure on the mot row unless I agreed at once to his demands, I 10-t my reason and slew him. “ My son sacrificed himself for me, and now, when the end is come, like a coward, not until then, I make this con-fes-iou. Af:< r Mon-ieur Th road's d-ath his sou ret nine 1 hum". II" had really never b— n blither than Switzerland, and bad repeatedly visit's! bis father and received visits froai him without the slightest sus. picion bein'.* • x 1. A MAX WITH HIS SCALP IX HIS DOCKET. THE DAXCERS OF THE FAR WEST. Tiik IMroit Tribuu**of I say? A few days since jui Knglishman named William Thompson arrived herefrom the \Y e-f, on his w »v t«* U ifl ilo, wb**re be bin friends living. If-.* was in d«—titu*e circumstances, but through the kindness of many of our citizens bis immediate wants were fully supplied, and his pockets were well filled with money to enable bira to cm* for hi f n«elf in tb* future. This man is indeed a living wonder. He has boon fearfully wounded in several place? by tbo Indian*, and scalped, and the fact tint be came* bis scalp in hi> pocket is tbo be*t possible evidence of th** truth of bis statement. He Ins furnished us with some facts counted with bis recen* hi-torr, which we append substantially ic bis own words : I came t-» this country in l£ol, and went west in tb*' employ «*f the Union Pacific Railway Uompany, where I remained nntil August fi, IS*.»7, at which time 1 had charge of a gang of laborers. One day nows came to the telegraph operator that the wire was i*u? mi the line of the road. At about 1* p.u». I was ordered with a detachment of six men, including the operator, to go and repair tbo wire. I had proceeded about -ix miles from the station to a place c ilb-d pi«m Creek, then the band car in which we were riding was thrown from the trick and nswrt. Then catne a v*dl and a v.dlcy «*f *.b*»t«. \V«* wf-r** *»»r----roumb-d by at ba>t*-n»* hundred Indians of a tribe known as Cheyennes. Fount my comrades fl *d, leaving :m Irishman and my-elf t’* tin* best we ooiibl. \W fought until bo wa- k; i- 1, H w.»s fimnd in th* morning with his tongm* cist out. hi< eyes torn fr**m th dr so-*keN, and <ix arrows stu**k in !:'** b . ly. was ss alp ( -d al-o. Abau: tb** tiin<* tnrcTri'b w is killed, mv aiirau!i;no:j give out, and I felt, a* though no chan*'*.- f r mv life was left. I re. chvd ab|-v on tb- h--*d and fell. I hid r*r--*vi-.»iriy !*• • a -bo? in tbr*t* places. a run-h v wot.: in th*-* ri,-bt ar.n, fracturing fh** hoiabiivc tb** ilbow. an arrow -}»; ■ mv s: < and another in the small of my bark Tb** I dims were up'*n me in an in-r nt, and tie* «*nlv boj*e h-ft was to f. i.'ii d-*irii, «hi*-h I did. They kicked no*, slriv k m«‘ on t!.*' bead with whip* k**. ilpvi in*-, tvm ih tvrk***! me atid 1. ft in** f..rd* id. About riii<li-n* tb**fnigbt trrin ram*» along, uhhh attracted their attention- I got up and mi the distance of a mile or thereabouts, when I became e*hiiist**d and lay down, bleeding very freely. Then came a crash. The engine and several «»f the cars w<*r? thrown from the track, the cng:nc**.*r and firemen were kilW, st*alpcd and thrown into tbo fire box and burned to ashrs The al acking Indians plundered the train, carried the freight to a river, a dis* nice two miles from the cars, and dUapjc* ired about noon the next day. Ah this tim * I lay in the griss, not h- ing able i.» h* Ip myself. Fortunately aid cini** so-ei aft* r, in th * shape of a Governm*nt train, ace mpmied by a band of Paw-ii-vs. Tbrv-dust’d the party that bad done so much drnag**, overtook and killed ten of tfie*n, and t'*-jk a number of prisoners. Mv scalp, whi-h had been dropped in the flight, wa*. recovered. 1 was taken ! s Omaha, cared for by the Union Pe-ifr; Railroad Company, and ronuinrd in the b*»s:dtHl there two years, .Vina.* I wrtss r “ilp«*d, however, the road his changed hands, and I am now thrown upon the ch irity ot the world. My bead is n-»t healed up and I have no means of earning a livelihood. Thompson desires u< to tender bis most boirtfelt thanks f-» the m-'mbers of the Metropolitan police, who very kindly did all in their power to make him comfortable, and collected a handsome sum for him. T« the people of our city who contributed money to his relief, he says ** («ud bless you.'*