He next joins a player of Punch, to whose wife he enacts Romeo with better grace, and during one of the representations, the married people break each others heads, and Vidocq runs off during the affray.  He then becomes assistant to a quack doctor, and the favoured swain of an actress; gets into the Bourbon regiment, where he is nicknamed Reckless, and kills two men, and fights fifteen duels in six months.  His other exploits are as a corporal of grenadiers, of course, a deserter, and a prisoner of the revolution.  He then marries, but does not reform.  Of course a wife is but a temporary incumbrance to a man of Vidocq’s dexterity.  In chapter iii, we find him at Brussels, where he joins a set of nefarious gamblers at the Cafes, and has a most romantic adventure with a woman named Rosine.  But we can follow him no further, except to add that his other comrades in Vol.  I, are gipsies, smugglers, players, galley-slaves, drovers, Dutch sailors, and highwaymen.

We must, therefore, confine ourselves to a few detached extracts from the most interesting portion of the volume.  At Lille, Vidocq meets with a chere amie, Francine; he suspects her fidelity, thrashes his rival, gets imprisoned, and is betrayed as an accomplice in a forgery.  His “reflections” during his imprisonment in St. Peter’s Tower, bring on a severe illness.]

I was scarcely convalescent, when, unable to support the state of incertitude in which I found my affairs, I resolved on escaping, and to escape by the door, although that may appear a difficult step.  Some particular observations made me choose this method in preference to any other.  The wicket-keeper at St. Peter’s Tower was a galley-slave from the Bagne (place of confinement) at Brest, sentenced for life.  In a word, I relied on passing by him under the disguise of a superior officer, charged with visiting St. Peter’s Tower, which was used as a military prison, twice a week.

Francine, whom I saw daily, got me the requisite clothing, which she brought me in her muff.  I immediately tried them on, and they suited me exactly.  Some of the prisoners who saw me thus attired assured me that it was impossible to detect me.  I was the same height as the officer whose character I was about to assume, and I made myself appear twenty-five years of age.  At the end of a few days, he made his usual round, and whilst one of my friends occupied his attention, under pretext of examining his food, I disguised myself hastily, and presented myself at the door, which the gaolkeeper, taking off his cap, opened, and I went out into the street.  I ran to a friend of Francine’s, as agreed on in case I should succeed, and she soon joined me there.