A Scandal in Paris

I first saw the light of day

through the iron bars of a prison

in a small town some 50 miles from Paris.

When the prison matron, who was also the prison midwife,

filled in my birth certificate,

she caused what may be regarded as the one blot

on my family escutcheon,

and as a result I never knew my father's name.

In my zeal to correct this omission,

I was to borrow many names for many occasions,

until I hit upon the one that France will long remember.

Eugene Francois Vidocq.

Like most great mean, I came of a poor but honest family,

a little poorer than honest.

The difference accounted for my being born in prison.

Whenever poor Mama expected another baby,

and consequently needed shelter,

it was her custom to steal a loaf of bread and go to prison.

She had stolen 11 loaves, served 11 sentences,

and had 11 children when to her misfortunes

were added a twelfth loaf, a twelfth sentence,

and my humble self.

When poor Mama went to a better world,

leaving me to make the best of this one,

what is more natural than that I should often return

to the happy scene of my earliest childhood?

And so after many years, again I find myself

among those dear familiar sights and smells,

spending another birthday at home.

My monastic seclusion was devoted to

a study of the classics, particularly one

from which I acquired my style,

not only in literature but in my brilliant career

of love and crime.

My modest apartment was shared by a sympathetic

companion into whose company the authorities

had happily thrown me.

He was a cutpurse whose knife could rip a pocket

most profitably, 'til one day his knife

had gone a little deeper and Emile was sent to jail

a little longer than usual.

He may have had his faults, but his care for my wardrobe

and for me was truly touching.

He never woke me before ten.

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday!

Jailor's daughter.

Oh.

Well, tell her that I'm not at home.

All right.

My father does...

Shh, he's still asleep.

My father doesn't know I'm here,

but a sweet old lady came all the way from Paris

to bring this birthday gift, and I thought...

That's from my Aunt Ernestine.

Thank you.

Thank you, Jeanette.

Present from my Aunt Ernestine to you.

Such a good woman.

She, she knows how bad the food is in jail.

She ought to, she spent the best years

of her life in them.

Oh, no, no.

She didn't, you're mixing my Aunt Ernestine

with my Uncle Hugo.

He got 15 years.

Oh yes, for lifting watches.

Oh, you get everything wrong.

That's my cousin Pierre, he's the pickpocket of our family.

How often have I told you?

Now look, my Uncle Hugo...

He is the burglar.

And what a burglar.

His case was in all the papers.

Oh, sure.

He robbed the palace of the Duke d'Orleans.

Let's get on with Aunt Ernestine's cake.

Oh, yes, the cake.

I'm sure she lifted it from the best pastry shop in Paris.

Oh, Aunt Ernestine only deals with the best shops.

And you know, Uncle Hugo says it's always cheaper

to steal in the most expensive places.

Here.

Oh, wait, wait.

It's your birthday, make a wish.

Made.

My wish!

A file!

How very thoughtful of Aunt Ernestine.

And it works, too.

We must remember to thank her when we get to Paris.

There, see?

The town of Neuilly, and Saint George's Church.

Only a few more hours to Paris.

Emile was that grimmest of characters,

an early morning optimist.

All through the rainy night he had added to my misery

with his unfailing cheerfulness and family stories

while we'd been running, dodging, jumping fences,

soaked to the skins we were trying to save.

At last, it was the porch of the kindly church of St. George

that offered us shelter from the rain, and from the police.

You've got two legs and I've got two legs,

but together they don't add up to the four legs of a horse.

A horse?

No, they don't.

At last, the rain had stopped.

Timidly, the sun came out and the little town

awakened to its sleepy day.

On the church steps the pigeons were cooing

and fluttering about, but we snored on.

'Til our dreams were disturbed by the sound of voices.

Father, did you ever see such a

contrast between two faces?

Such innocence on one.

Such evil on the other.

Monsieur, would you object to making a little money?

Money?

If I could only catch that soulless animal look,

oh what a dragon!

And there, the very image of a saint.

Your face, my dear monsieur, expresses the essence

of that purity for which Saint George lived,

fought, and conquered.

What the wind and weather of 400 years have obliterated

could only have been restored by the faith to will it,

the art to execute it, and Providence's gift of models

to pose for it.

Ah, please don't move, Monsieur Dragon.

Ease your paw a little lower,

and if you could just recapture that avid expression.

The one you had when I offered you the money.

Oh yes!

How about the money?

That's good, that's good.

Now look up.

Thank you.

What a wonderfully horrible thing.

Master, I congratulate you.

Saint George is divine.

The dragon will excite horror in every prior's heart.

But your horse... what a horse.

It's even better than your saint.

A horse to the life.

A horse that could take you to Nievre,

to Lyon, to Marseille.

It could even be sold.

What are you waiting for?

Please don't move Monsieur!

But Monsieur!

But Monsieur my horse!

Monsieur!

I'm not finished!

My horse!

Meet my family.

This is my Aunt Ernestine.

Enchanted, Mademoiselle.

Your cake, and especially its filling, were a revelation.

A revelation, Auntie.

And this must be Uncle Hugo, the head of the family.

Sorry that you find me in my foot bath,

but I caught rheumatism from being out late at night.

Oh, may I suggest that you add a spoonful of mustard

to the water?

Eh?

Mustard.

My mother used to suffer from the same occupational disease,

and mustard never failed her.

Uncle is stubborn.

Uncle won't wear a shawl when he goes stealing.

Hush!

What language.

Our little Louis.

Only 12 years old, but such busy fingers.

And this is Cousin Pierre.

Honored.

And this is Gabriel, the artist of our family.

Honored, Monsieur.

Charmed.

Only this morning we had a most gratifying encounter

with an artist.

My dear monsieur, my dear nephew.

I, that is, the family council,

have debated your difficult and delicate situation,

and what should be done about it.

I, uh, that is, the family, have decided

you must leave Paris this very night.

Leave home?

Tonight?

Your family is convinced that for both of you,

the safest place is in the army.

Army?

Safe?

You will join General Bonaparte's glorious troops

at Marseilles, where they are assembling now

for the campaign in, um...

Where is it?

Egypt.

Oh, yes, Egypt.