He played the same trick at Rochbeaucourt in the Dordogne. Now posing as the Comte de Gôlo he desired to purchase a chateau. Using the same methods as at Toulouse, he again made himself scarce with the moneys he borrowed. Then he appeared at Le Mans. He acquired property, and was on the point of exchanging land for diamonds at a jeweller’s, when the rumors of former fraud reached the place, and the police were set on his track. He was arrested, tried and convicted, and was sentenced to twenty years at the _bagne_, after exposure for an hour in the _carcan_, or iron collar, on the platform of the guillotine. He was sent first to Brest, but was transferred later to Rochefort, where he died in 1840, having endured his captivity with philosophy, and not, as has been said already, in extreme discomfort. “I have but one grief,” he said in the hospital of the _bagne_, “and that is that I am dying a _forçat_. My money is of no use to me;” for he undoubtedly possessed considerable funds, although the secret of their whereabouts was never disclosed. Collet had no small opinion of himself, and claimed to be an interesting criminal. His head was turned by the attention he attracted, and he actually replied in an open letter to the charges brought against him in the numerous biographies of him published in his lifetime. He sought to correct the severity of the criticisms passed upon him, and protested that the standard of his morality was put too low. “My life has had two sides,” he represented; “and, I am free to confess, presents features I cannot defend; on the other side I can point to many good deeds. I have given largely to the poor when I was in funds, and my conduct in prison has always been irreproachable.”
A few very remarkable convicts contemporary with Collet may well find mention here. One was Salvador, whose real name was Jean Ferey. His prison history includes thirty-two escapes from gaol and nine from the _bagne_. He was originally a respectable man, a tradesman in the north of France, who, on returning from one of his business journeys, found his house deserted. His wife, after pillaging the place, had run away with a young clerk. He fell away at once into evil courses, vowed eternal hatred to society and instantly adopted a life of crime. He was taken in Paris and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbery by means of false keys. He escaped and was recaptured, finished his term and was again sentenced for a new burglary. He had had a violent struggle with the police, in which he was mortally wounded, as it was supposed, and was taken to the infirmary of La Force, where the surgeon bade him prepare for death. His wounds were deep, his strength was waning and hope abandoned. Next morning he had disappeared, and was driving post-haste along the highroad to Switzerland, in company with a woman, who had assisted in his escape. He had got out through a hole in the infirmary wall, and had lowered himself into the street by a rope made out of his blankets. Then followed a fresh offence and a new sentence, this time of death. The night before his execution he volunteered, with every sign of contrition, to make a full avowal of his crimes. A judge came to attest his confession, and, seeing that the prisoner was suffering acute pain from his chains, ordered his leg irons to be removed. The story was prolonged far into the night. The judge, meaning to return the next morning, left Salvador to sleep entirely unfettered. He was still well guarded and kept under eye; yet next day nothing was found of him but his clothes, which he had been compelled to slip off so as to effect his passage through the usual hole in the wall.