Chapter 1

The Old and the New Régime divided by the Revolution--Changes
in prison system introduced by the Legislative
Assembly--Napoleon’s State prisons which replaced the
Bastile--Common gaols which still survived--Bicêtre--St.
Pélagie--Saint Lazare--The Conciergerie and La Force--Account
of La Force from contemporary records--Béranger
in La Force--Chenu--His experiences--St. Pélagie
described--Wallerand, the infamous governor--Origin of
Bicêtre--As John Howard saw it--Inconceivably bad under the
Empire--Vidocq’s account of Bicêtre--The Conciergerie--Marie
Antoinette--Political prisoners in the Conciergerie--Marshal
Ney and Le Comte de La Valette--His wonderful escape.

The Revolution may be considered the dividing line between the
ancient and modern régime in France. Many of the horrors of the first
period, however, survived far into the second, and although with a
more settled government the worst features of the Terror disappeared,
prisons remained in character much the same. The Convention no doubt
desired to avoid the evils of arbitrary imprisonment, so long the
custom with the long line of despotic rulers of France, and would
have established, had it survived, a regular punitive system by which
prisons should serve for more than mere detention and deprivation of
liberty, intending them for the infliction of penalties graduated to
the nature and extent of offences. It was decreed in 1791 that the
needs of justice should be supported by classifying all prisons in
four categories, namely: Houses of detention for accused but untried
prisoners; penal prisons for convicted prisoners; correctional prisons
for less heinous offenders; houses of correction for juveniles of fewer
than sixteen years, and for the detention of ill-conducted minors at
the request of their relatives and friends.

The scheme thus sketched out was excellent in theory, but it was not
adopted in practice until many years later. France again came into the
grip of a despotism more grinding than any in previous days. It was
choked and strangled by an autocrat of unlimited ambitions backed by
splendid genius and an unshakable will. Napoleon, even more than his
predecessors, needed prisons to support his authority, and he filled
them, in the good old-fashioned way, with all who dared to question his
judgment or attack his power. He threw hundreds of State prisoners into
the criminal gaols, where they languished side by side with the thieves
and depredators whose malpractices never slackened; and he created
or re-opened no less than eight civil prisons on the line of the
Bastile of infamous memory. These were the old castles of Saumur, Ham,
D’If, Landskrown, Pierrechâtel, Forestelle, Campiano and Vincennes.
Here conspirators, avowed or suspected, too outspoken journalists and
writers with independent opinions were lodged for indefinite periods
and often without process of law. It had been taken as an accepted
principle that the Emperor of his own motion with no show of right,
undeterred and unchallenged, could at any moment throw any one he
pleased into prison and detain them in custody as long as he pleased.

Such common gaols as still survived the shock of the Revolution
were pressed into service: Bicêtre, St. Pélagie, Saint Lazare, the
Conciergerie and La Force. The last named was of more recent date, and
really owed its existence to the mild-mannered and unfortunate Louis
XVI, who in 1780 desired to construct a prison to separate the purely
criminal prisoners from those detained simply for debt. A site was
found where the rue St. Antoine ends in the Marais. The ground had been
bought thirty years before for the erection of a military school, but
nothing had come of the project. New buildings were erected upon the
ground formerly occupied by the gardens of the Ducs de la Force, as
had been done in the case of the Hotel St. Pol which had belonged to
Charles of Naples, brother of the king known as St. Louis in French
history. The new prison of La Force was to be established under good
auspices. It was to include rooms for habitation, hospital, and yards
for the separate exercise of various classes of prisoners, the whole
to cover a space ten times as large as the For-l’Évêque and Petit
Châtelet combined. It was to be interiorly divided into five sections
(afterwards increased to eight), with names describing each section.

There was the “Milk Walk,” for those who had failed to pay for the
children they put out to nurse; the “Debtors’ Side,” in the centre
of the prison, where non-criminals were lodged; the “Lions’ Pit,”
described by a contemporary as the most horrible place conceivable,
where the worst classes of criminals were herded together. Next came
the “Sainte Madeleine,” then the “Quarter of the Niômes,” after that
the “Court of Fowls,” again the “Court of Sainte Anne,” for old men
and worn-out vagabonds, and lastly, the “Court of Sainte Marie of the
Egyptians,” a hateful place, being a deep well between high, damp
walls which the sun’s rays never reached, and in which were thrown
prisoners whom it was desired to isolate entirely. This prison of La
Force, from the first a very ruinous place, was in use down to the
middle of the nineteenth century and received in its turn a large
proportion of French criminality, criminal convicts being confined with
political offenders and persons at variance with the government of the
hour. On the same register might be read the names of Papavoine, the
child slayer, and the poet, Béranger; Lacenaire, notorious for his
bloodthirsty murders, and Paul-Louis Courier, the socialist.

An interesting contemporary account of La Force and other prisons of
Paris in Napoleonic days has been preserved. M. Paul Corneille, Mayor
of Gournay-en-Bray, has published in the _Revue Penitentiaire_ the
journal of his grandfather, who was an involuntary guest of La Force.
The régime in the prison was abominable. Discipline was all a matter of
money. Such comfort as the prison afforded was reserved for those only
who could pay for it. There were thirty-seven rooms in all. Thirty-four
were occupied by those who could pay the rent. The remaining three were
for the impecunious. In one case forty-two individuals were crowded
into nineteen beds, and in another nineteen persons used eleven beds.
The ordinary bedding issued consisted of a mattress, a woollen blanket
and a counterpane. A second mattress and sheets might be had for nine
francs a month. Prisoners on the “simple pistole” were lodged in the
back premises and excluded from the first court. Prisoners on the
“double pistole” were somewhat better lodged and served. The “pistole”
was the name given to the mode of prison life the prisoner was able to
ensure himself by his means, and was so called from the coin of that
name. Special small rooms were provided at exorbitant rates; and the
gaolers’ fees were considerable from all sources, and, when the prison
was full, enormous--each prisoner being good for at least a dozen
francs the month.

The prison rations were of the most meagre character. A daily loaf of a
pound and half of ammunition bread and a spoonful of unpalatable soup
would barely have saved the prisoners from starvation, had they not
been permitted to buy extra articles at the canteen. The insufficient
nourishment and the unsanitary conditions produced many deaths from
disease. An abbé, Binet by name, who had been imprisoned for four years
as a refractory priest, succumbed, and another was driven by misery to
poison himself, which he did by soaking copper covered with verdigris
in a liquid, to which he added some mercurial ointment, and then
swallowed this disgusting mixture. Prisoners were entirely at the mercy
of the gaolers, who had the monopoly of supplies and charged exorbitant
prices. Nothing could be sold except at their shops, where a small fowl
cost five francs, three eggs, twelve sous, five small potatoes, fifteen
sous. It was the same with drink, the prices of which were excessive
and the fluid bad. Many small devices were in force to increase the
gains of the gaolers, prisoners being allowed to pay twenty sous for
the privilege of sitting up two or three hours later than the regular
hour of closing. With all this, the police were constantly in the
prisons, seeking information against suspected persons or working up
proofs to support a new trial. The most rigorous rules existed as to
letter writing; prisoners were allowed to write complaints to the
ministers and even to the Emperor himself, but their correspondence
passed through the gaoler’s hands to the Prefecture of Police, where it
was generally lost.

The worst feature of La Force was that children of tender years, often
no more than seven years of age, were committed to it for the most
trifling misdeeds. They were cruelly ill-used by the gaolers, whip in
hand, and they passed their time in idleness, associating with the
worst criminals with the result that they grew up thoroughly corrupt.

We have a glimpse of La Force from the record of the imprisonment
of the poet, Béranger. The French governments after the Restoration
continued to be very sensitive, and frequently prosecuted their
critics, even versifiers of such genius as Béranger. They desired to
make people good, religious and submissive by law, and invoked it
pitilessly against the poet who dared to encourage free-thinking in
politics and religion. They were resolved to put down what they deemed
the abuse of letters, and to punish not only the preaching of sedition
but the open expression of impiety. So, as the persecuted said at the
time, poetry was brought into court, and songs, gay and light-hearted,
written to amuse and interest, were held to be mischievous, and their
writers were sent to prison. Béranger was tried at the assizes in 1822
for having exercised a pernicious influence upon the people, and he
was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment which he endured at St.
Pélagie. He was again arraigned in 1829 on charges akin to the first,
and now found himself sentenced to La Force for nine months, and to
pay a fine of 10,000 francs, greatly to the indignation of the general
public. It was considered a shameful perversion of the law to send the
joyous singer to herd with criminals, and he was visited by crowds
of right-thinking people from outside, eager to show their sympathy.
While in La Force, Béranger devoted himself to exposing some of the
worst evils of the régime, especially the improper treatment of the
juvenile offenders. On the day of his arrival, when the gate was opened
to admit him, he heard a childish voice exclaim, “Look at the street;
how beautiful!” The view within must have been dreary enough to force
the contrast with that without--the muddy, dirty side-street with its
poor shop-fronts and ugly, commonplace passers-by. He was still more
disgusted when they brought the daily rations for these poor little
ones: a coarse vegetable soup in great tin cans, which was distributed
in rations to each child to be eaten anyhow, without knife, fork or
spoon, very much like dogs from a trough. The poet made a vigorous
protest to the governor, adding that he wondered these human beings
were not obliged to walk like beasts on all fours. The answer he got
was that it would cost money to supply utensils; whereupon Béranger
took all the expense on himself. He was in fact continually employed
in charitable deeds. While in prison he visited all parts of it: the
various courts, the “Milk Walk” the “Debtors’ Side” and the “Lions’
Pit,” distributing food and small luxuries, wine, tobacco and bread to
the inmates. He listened patiently to all complaints, the injustice
of their punishment being, as ever with prisoners, the chief burden
of their song. “I see how it is,” he once replied, “the only guilty
one here is myself.” But he was always overwhelmed with grateful
thanks, and one inmate of the prison composed a poem in his honor. When
Béranger received it, he was eager to ascertain the name of his brother
songster. He learned that it was the work of Lacenaire, the murderer,
then awaiting sentence for his many atrocious crimes.

Another literary prisoner was thrown into La Force about the same
time. This was A. Chenu, who afterward published his experiences in a
small book entitled “Malefactors.” The first sight that met his eyes
on arrival, according to Coquers, was the words, written large upon
the wall, “Death to tell-tales.” He was at once approached by the
provost, the prisoner who wielded supreme power in the room and whose
business it was to collect the sums demanded from new arrivals, who
promised protection and help. The provost provided writing materials
and arranged the secret conveyance of letters for prisoners, and when
one of their frequent quarrels broke out he settled the preliminaries
of the duel, which was the only possible end. They were strange
fights, as often as not conducted with one knife, the only weapon to be
obtained, which the combatants used in turn, after drawing lots for the
first stab. Numerous wounds were frequently inflicted on each side with
fatal result before honor was satisfied.

St. Pélagie was used as a prison pure and simple during the
revolutionary epoch and afterwards, like La Force, received debtors,
convicted prisoners and prisoners of State. It was notorious in the
Napoleonic régime for having as governor one Wallerand, who deserved to
have been dismissed fifty times over, and was finally proceeded against
at law. He had powerful protectors, having married into the family
of the Prefect of Police, and was greatly feared for his vindictive
temper, which never spared any one who dared to protest against or to
complain of their treatment. This governor practised all the exactions
already described as prevailing at La Force, and raised the charges of
the “pistole” till the prisoners were completely fleeced and ruined.

Instances of Wallerand’s barbarous treatment may be quoted. A prisoner
named Thomas was employed by him as a groom, and escaped through an
unbarred window in the stable, but was recaptured. Wallerand, furiously
angry, threw him into a cell, and ordered that he should be flogged
three times a day. Death would probably have been his portion, had not
two other prisoners informed an inspector of police, who was visiting
the prison and who saved the victim from his keeper’s rage. Wallerand
avenged himself by lodging the two informers in the cell just vacated.
An ancient priest, after much cruel suffering, fell ill and begged hard
that he might be attended by another doctor than the medical attendant
of the prison. Wallerand obstinately refused to give his consent, and
the old man died. He got into trouble once by entertaining a great
party of some hundred and fifty friends in the prison on his fête day.
The largest hall in the prison was splendidly decorated and lighted by
five hundred candles. The entertainment consisted of the performance
of an opera and a grand display of fireworks in the prison court, a
great ball and a splendid supper. The police authorities, although well
disposed to Wallerand, could not tolerate this impudence, and he was
suspended for a time, but received no other punishment.

Among the many foul prisons of the Capital Bicêtre was quite the worst
of all, and it was said of it that nowhere else could such horrors
be witnessed. At once a prison, a madhouse and refuge for paupers,
wretchedness and insanity existed along with vice and crime. John
Howard, the English philanthropist, who visited it in 1775, draws a
terrible picture of it, which will best be realised by transcribing
his own words: “Bicêtre is upon a small eminence about two miles from
Paris; if it were only a prison, I should call it an enormous one. But
this for men, like the ‘Hopital General’ for women, is indeed a kind
of general hospital. Of about four thousand men within its walls, not
one-half are prisoners. The majority are the poor, who wear a coarse
brown uniform, and seem as miserable as the poor in some of our own
country workhouses; the insane; and men that have foul diseases. Each
sort is in a court and apartments totally separate from the other and
from criminals. These last are confined, some in little rooms about
eight feet square, windows three and one-half feet by two, with a
grate, but not many glazed. By counting the windows on one side of
the house I reckoned there must be five hundred of those rooms. There
is but one prisoner in each. These pay two hundred livres a year for
their board. There are others in two large rooms called La Force, on
the other side of the courtyard, La Cour Royale, which are crowded with
prisoners. Over these two rooms is a general infirmary; and over that
an infirmary for the scurvy, a distemper very common and fatal among
them.

“In the middle of La Cour Royale are eight dreadful dungeons down
sixteen steps; each about thirteen feet by nine, with two strong doors;
three chains fastened to the wall and a stone funnel, at one corner
of each cell, for air. From the situation of these dreary caverns and
the difficulty I found in procuring admittance, I conclude hardly any
other stranger ever saw them. That is my reason, and I hope will be my
apology, for mentioning the particulars.

“Prisoners make straw boxes, toothpicks, etc., and sell them to
visitants. I viewed the men with some attention and observed in the
looks of many a settled melancholy; many others looked very sickly.
This prison seems not so well managed as those in the city; it is very
dirty; no fireplace in any of the rooms, and in the severe cold last
winter several hundred perished.”

The condition of Bicêtre during the Napoleonic epoch was almost
inconceivably bad. It was very convenient for the officials of the
Prefecture, who committed to it almost every one who came into their
hands. Disastrous overcrowding was the natural result. When so many
were herded together within its narrow limits, fevers and scurvy were
epidemic; diseases were particularly engendered by the waters of the
wells, which were charged with deleterious constituents. All classes
were associated together pell-mell. Prisoners of State, of good
character and cleanly life, lived constantly with the dregs of Paris
society. The interior régime was regulated upon the same lines as
those of the prisons already described. The same tyrannical treatment
prevailed, the same extortion, the same lack of even the smallest
physical comforts. It might well be styled the new sewer of Paris, and
the word Bicêtre was rightly adopted into the current _argot_ as a
pseudonym for misery and misfortune.

In corroborative testimony of the horrors of Bicêtre I will quote
here the description given of it by another witness, who had personal
experience of the prison. We shall hear more of Vidocq on a later page,
the well-known ex-convict who turned thief catcher and, in a measure,
originated the French detective police system.

“The prison of the Bicêtre,” says Vidocq in his “Memoirs,” “is a
neat quadrangular building, enclosing many other structures and many
courts, which have each a different name. There is the _grand cour_
(great court) where the prisoners walk; the _cour de cuisine_ (or
kitchen court); the _cour des chiens_ (or dogs’ court); the _cour de
correction_ (or the court of punishment) and the _cour des fers_ (or
court of irons). In this last court is a new building five stories
high. Each story contains forty cells, each capable of holding four
prisoners. On the platform, which takes the place of a roof, was night
and day a dog named Dragon, who for a time passed in the prison for the
most watchful and incorruptible of its kind. Some prisoners managed, at
a subsequent period, to corrupt him through the medium of a roasted leg
of mutton, which he had the culpable weakness to accept; so true is it
that there are no seductions more potent than those of gluttony, since
they operate indifferently on all organised beings.

“Near by is the old building, arranged in nearly the same way. Under
this were dungeons of safety, in which were enclosed the troublesome
and condemned prisoners. It was in one of these dungeons that for
forty-three years lived the accomplice of Cartouche, who betrayed
him to procure this commutation. To obtain a moment’s sunshine he
frequently counterfeited death, and so well did he do this that when he
had actually breathed his last sigh, two days passed before they took
off his iron collar. A third part of the building, called La Force,
comprised various rooms, in which were placed prisoners who arrived
from the provinces and were destined like ourselves to the chain.

“At this period the prison of Bicêtre, which is only strong from the
strict guard kept up there, could accommodate twelve hundred prisoners;
but they were piled on each other, and the conduct of the jailers in
no way assuaged the discomforts of the place. A sullen air, a rough
tone and brutal manners were exhibited to the prisoners, and keepers
were in no way to be softened but through the medium of a bottle of
wine or a pecuniary bribe. Besides, they never attempted to repress any
excess or any crime; and provided that no one sought to escape, one
might do whatever one pleased in the prison, without being restrained
or prevented; whilst men, condemned for those crimes which modesty
shrinks from naming, openly practised their detestable libertinism, and
robbers exercised their industry inside the prison without any person
attempting to check the crime or prevent the bestiality.

“If any man arrived from the country well clad and condemned for a
first offence, who was not as yet initiated into the customs and usage
of prisons, in a twinkling he was stripped of his clothes, which
were sold in his presence to the highest bidder. If he had jewels or
money, they were alike confiscated to the profit of the society, and
if he were too long in taking out his earrings, they were snatched out
without the sufferer daring to complain. He was previously warned that
if he spoke of it, they would hang him in the night to the bars of his
cell and afterwards say that he had committed suicide. If a prisoner,
out of precaution when going to sleep, placed his clothes under his
head, they waited until he was in his first sleep, and then tied to his
foot a stone, which they balanced at the side of his bed. At the least
motion the stone fell and, aroused by the noise, the sleeper jumped up;
and before he could discover what had occurred, his packet, hoisted by
a cord, went through the iron bars to the floor above. I have seen in
the depths of winter these poor devils, having been deprived of their
property in this way, remain in the court in their shirts until some
one threw them some rags to cover their nakedness. As long as they
remained at Bicêtre, by burying themselves, as we may say, in their
straw, they could defy the rigor of the weather, but at the departure
of the chain, when they had no other covering than frock and trousers
made of packing cloth, they often sank exhausted and frozen before they
reached the first halting place.”

The origin and early history of the Conciergerie has been given in
a previous volume, but its records are not yet closed, for it still
stands on the Island of the City in close proximity to the Palace
of Justice. It has many painful memories associated with its later
history, and is more particularly notable as having been the last
place of durance of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. The cell she
occupied is still preserved and is decorated nowadays with pictures and
memorial inscriptions. Through all the changes that have come over the
old prison, the cell in which the Queen of France awaited execution
has always been kept religiously intact, although many right-thinking
people are ashamed of this hideous relic of an atrocious national
crime. The order for the Queen’s execution is still preserved in the
archives and runs as follows:--“On the 25th day of the first month of
the second year of the French Republic one and indivisible, the woman
named Marie Antoinette, commonly called of Lorraine and Austria, wife
of Louis Capet, has been removed from this house at the request of
the public accuser of the Revolutionary Tribune and handed over to
the executioner to be taken to the Place de la Revolution there to
suffer death.” The fate that overtook her contrasts painfully with the
good intentions of the mild and humane Louis XVI, who soon after his
accession sought to improve the Conciergerie prison. “We have given all
our care,” he announced in a decree in 1780, “to mend the prison, to
build new and airy infirmaries and provide for the sick prisoners.” A
separate quarter was provided for males and females, no one henceforth
was consigned to the underground dungeons, the great central court
was provided with a shelter from rain, the interior was heated. But
these reforms were short-lived. At the outbreak of the Revolution,
the worst horrors were revived. An account of the sufferings in this
prison are given by Baron Riouffe in his “Memoirs”: “I was thrown,”
says he, “into the deepest and foulest dungeon, entirely deprived of
light, the atmosphere poisonous, and inconceivable dirtiness around.
Seven of us were crowded in this small space, some of them robbers,
one a convict condemned to death. We were inspected daily by stalwart
warders accompanied by fierce dogs.” This description was confirmed by
the author of the “Almanac of Prisons” during the period. The cells
were never opened to be brushed out, but occasionally they changed the
straw; yet an exorbitant sum was demanded for rent, and it was often
said that the Conciergerie was the most profitable hotel in Paris
having regard to its charges.

Throughout the Napoleonic epoch the Conciergerie was appropriated
largely to political prisoners; and at the Restoration it was the last
resting-place of Marshal Ney, who left it only to be shot. Comte
de La Valette, who had been one of Napoleon’s aides-de-camp, and who
was arrested after Waterloo on no other charge than that of loyalty to
his old master, was sent also to the Conciergerie, and detained there
under sentence of death. The story of his escape, through the devotion
of his wife and the friendly assistance of three English gentlemen, two
of them officers of the army, is told in his own “Memoirs.” When he
was taken to the Conciergerie he was lodged in the cell which had been
occupied by Marshal Ney, a long, narrow room, terminated by a window
with a shutter that made reading impossible except for a short period
on the brightest days. He lay here for some weeks, sustaining himself
with the hope of escaping the scaffold, being told that his punishment
would be limited to a few years of imprisonment. The cell he occupied
was just over the woman’s ward, and this neighborhood irritated and
annoyed him greatly; for all day long he could hear their voices
chattering continually and using the most abominable language. The two
windows of the Queen’s prison had also looked upon this courtyard,
and she had been subjected to the same annoyance. It was a dark den
at the end of a blind corridor, and during her occupancy had held
only a common bedstead, a table and two chairs. The room was divided
by a heavy portière, and on the far side a gendarme and gaoler were
constantly on duty. When La Valette was most depressed he comforted
himself by the thought that he did not suffer as much as this high-born
daughter of a long line of emperors. Close alongside his quarters was
the condemned cell, but no one was executed while he was there. One
man, who had murdered his wife under horrible circumstances, seemed
certain to lose his life; but the violent hysterics, into which he fell
on returning from court, and which La Valette concluded were caused by
his sentence to death, were really the result of joy at his acquittal.

La Valette was not entirely forbidden to see his friends, and many
came, bringing him consolation and the more tangible benefits of
louis d’or, which came in most fortunately in his subsequent escape.
At last his trial came on, and although he was admirably defended he
was sentenced to death. Passion still ran high, and it was impossible
to extend mercy to an ex-aide-de-camp of the fallen emperor. Madame
de La Valette pleaded hard for her husband’s life, and she gained an
audience with the King himself. He briefly told her that he must do
his duty as he had already done it in executing Marshal Ney. Madame de
La Valette was one of the Beauharnais family, the niece of the Empress
Josephine, who had been given to La Valette as his bride by Napoleon
himself. She was possessed of great beauty and great strength of mind.
After sentence had been passed she was permitted to visit her husband
and to communicate to him the failure of her intercession. When alone
with him she apprised him of the plan formed to compass his escape. “I
shall come to-morrow evening, bringing with me some of my own clothes.
You shall wear them, and, mounting my sedan chair, shall leave the
prison in my place. You will be taken to the rue des Saints Pères where
M. Baudus will be in waiting, and you will be conducted to a safe
hiding-place, where you will wait until the danger is over and you can
leave France.”

La Valette at first stoutly refused to accept this proposal, which
seemed to him far-fetched, and threatened to expose Madame de La
Valette to insult and ill-usage when the escape was discovered. A brief
struggle between them ended in La Valette at last giving his consent,
and the details were arranged. Next evening Madame de La Valette
arrived dressed in a long merino mantle lined with fur, and in a small
bag she carried a petticoat of black taffeta. She was accompanied by
their daughter, a child of twelve or thirteen, and it was arranged that
at seven o’clock, La Valette, having disguised himself, should walk
out, taking his young daughter by the hand and being careful to conceal
his face as he passed out. It would have been safer to wear a veil,
but Madame de La Valette had never done so in her previous visits, and
it might cause suspicion. “Also,” she said, “be particularly careful
as you go out; any awkwardness would betray you. The doors are very
low, and you may catch the feathers of my bonnet. If everything goes
well, you will find the gatekeeper will give you his hand politely and
see you to the sedan chair.” The child was to follow closely at his
heels, and to take her place on her father’s left, so as to prevent the
gatekeeper from giving his arm to the fugitive, in which there was a
possible danger. After they had dined together, a small family party,
the disguise was put on. As La Valette was about to make his attempt
he begged his wife to step behind a screen in the room, and remain
there as long as possible so as to postpone discovery. “The gatekeeper
always comes in as soon as I ring a bell, giving him notice that I am
alone,” writes La Valette, “and if you will cough and make a movement
behind, showing some one is there, he will wait patiently for a time.
The longer this detention the more time I shall have had to get away.”
La Valette then went out into the great lodge, where half a dozen
officials lounged idly or were seated, watching the lady pass. The
gatekeeper only made the remark: “You are leaving earlier than usual,
Madame. It is a sad occasion.” He thought she had taken a last farewell
of her husband, for the execution was fixed for the following day. The
disguised La Valette counterfeited poignant grief extraordinarily well,
with handkerchief to eyes and heart-rending expressions of sorrow.

They reached the outer gate at length, where the last guardian sat,
keys in hand, one for the iron grating, the other for the wicket
beyond, and La Valette was soon outside but not yet free. The sedan
chair was there, but no chairmen, no servants. The fugitive got inside
under the sentry’s eyes, and shrunk back behind the curtains to avoid
observation, but still a prey to the keenest anxiety and ready for
any desperate act. Two minutes passed, and seemed a whole year. Then
a voice cried, “The fellow has disappeared, but I have got another
chairman,” and the sedan was now lifted from the ground and carried
across the street, to where a carriage was in waiting on the Quai des
Orfevrés. The transfer was quickly effected, the horses whipped up
and started at a rapid trot across the Saint Michel Bridge, and so by
the rue de la Harpe to the rue Vaugirard behind the Odéon. La Valette
began at last to have hope of liberty, which grew when he recognised
in the coachman a devoted friend, the Comte de Chasseuon, who spoke to
him encouragingly, saying there were pistols in the carriage and that
they must be used if required. As the carriage drove on, La Valette
exchanged his woman’s clothes for a groom’s suit, and when it stopped
he jumped out at the bidding of his friend, M. Baudus, who was to act
as his new master.

It was now eight in the evening, pitch dark and the rain falling in
torrents; the neighborhood was deserted and silent save when the sound
of galloping horses’ hoofs were heard, and several gensdarmes passed
at a hard gallop. No doubt the escape had been discovered, and pursuit
had begun. La Valette, wearied and agitated, having lost one shoe,
walked on as best he could, through the mud, following his master into
the door of a house in the rue de Grenelle, which was actually the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the residence of the Duc de Richelieu.
M. Baudus stopped to speak a few words to the Swiss after bidding La
Valette to run up-stairs. “Who is that?” asked the Swiss. “My servant,”
replied M. Baudus, “going up to his own room.” This was enough for La
Valette, who hastened to the third floor, where some one met him, and
without speaking led him into a room, the door of which was immediately
closed on him. There was a stove alight, giving out heat and flame,
and La Valette, stretching out his hands to warm them, touched a match
box and a candle. He at once accepted this as permission to light
up. He found himself in a good sized garret, furnished comfortably
with bed, chest of drawers and a table, on which was a scrap of paper
with a few words. “Make no noise, only open the window at night time,
put on slippers and have patience.” On this table was also a bottle
of excellent Burgundy, several books and a basket containing toilet
appliances. He had fallen among friends certainly, but why in this
house, under the same roof as a department of State, presided over by a
perfect stranger, the Duc de Richelieu? But M. Baudus was an employee
in the office, and he remembered perhaps the Eastern proverb that
“the thief in hiding is safest under the walls of the King’s castle.”
It seemed, however, that a certain Madame Bresson, whose husband was
cashier in the Foreign Office, had resolved to help the first fugitive
seeking safety, in gratitude for the escape of M. Bresson on a previous
occasion. The two were now moved to pity and indignation at the ignoble
spite vented by the government, and their cruel treatment of political
enemies.

La Valette’s escape from the Conciergerie spread fear and dismay among
the adherents of Louis XVIII. No one went to bed that night in the
Tuileries. Reports were circulated that a vast conspiracy had been
formed, and the escape was to be a signal for the storm to burst.
Some time elapsed before the alarm was given from within the prison.
The warder attendant had entered the prisoner’s room as usual, but,
deceived by the noise made behind the screen, had again withdrawn,
to return five minutes later and make closer investigation. He saw
Madame de La Valette standing there alone, and the truth broke in upon
him. He turned to run out, but the devoted wife clung to him crying,
“Wait, wait, give my husband time, let him get further away.” “Leave
go, leave go,” he replied, roughly shaking her off, “I am a lost man;”
and he rushed away shouting, “He is gone; the prisoner has escaped!”
Dismay and confusion prevailed on all sides. Gaolers, attendants and
gensdarmes ran here and there. One or two hurried after the sedan
chair, which was still in sight, jogging along the quay, and fell upon
it savagely. It was empty, as we know, and his carriage had already
removed the fugitive to a distance.

A certain calm now fell upon the bewildered keepers, and more
systematic pursuit was organised. Visits were forthwith paid to all La
Valette’s friends and acquaintances. Orders were issued to close and
watch the barriers, hand-bills were hastily printed, giving particulars
of the escape. For half an hour Madame de La Valette was consumed
with the liveliest anxiety, but as her husband was not brought back
she was satisfied he had not been recaptured. But her situation was
painful in the extreme, for the gaolers bitterly reproached her, using
threats and curses. Then a high official appeared upon the scene, and,
interrogating her rudely, upbraided her angrily for the part she had
played. She was plainly told not to look for release and was committed
to a room, which she knew had been Marshal Ney’s last resting-place,
and was full of the saddest memories. Directly under her windows was
the courtyard of the female prison, and she was within earshot of the
conversation of the lowest of her own sex. There they kept her in the
strictest seclusion, her lady’s maid was not permitted to join her, and
she was waited upon by one of the female gaolers. She was not allowed
to write or receive letters, or see visitors. Not a syllable of news
reached her, and she was left in such increasing anxiety and agitation
of mind that she did not sleep for nearly three weeks. La Valette’s
little daughter had been received into a convent, where she was not
unkindly treated, although the mothers of other inmates objected to
their association with the child of a condemned and prosecuted man.

Meanwhile the fugitive had found safety and comparative comfort in the
hands of his loyal and devoted friend. He spent the first night at his
window, breathing the free air; then towards the small hours slept
the sleep of the just. When he woke he found a servant sweeping out
his room, and was visited by his host, who assured him he had nothing
whatever to fear. Neither the threats launched against those who gave
him an asylum nor the rewards promised to those who would betray had
the slightest weight with Madame Bresson, who was prepared to watch
over him with the most scrupulous fidelity--so much so, that when he
asked for small beer to quench his incurable thirst, he was refused.
“We are not in the habit of drinking beer here, and if it is ordered
it may suggest that we have some new lodger in the place.” M. Bresson
emphasised his caution by the story of a M. de Saint Morin, who was
betrayed and perished on the scaffold during the Terror because he
would eat a fowl, the bones of which he picked and threw out of the
window. They were seen by a neighbor, who knew that the old woman who
owned the house could not afford to eat fowls, and it was concluded
that she was giving shelter to some one of better class. This led
to the discovery and arrest of M. de Saint Morin. “No, no,” said M.
Bresson, “you can have as much drink as you please,--syrups and _eau
sucré_--but no beer.”

The days passed, the excitement in Paris did not diminish, the police
were increasingly active, and it became more and more necessary to
smuggle La Valette away. Various plans were suggested, one that he
should escape in the carriage of a Russian general, who would pass the
barrier, having La Valette concealed in the bottom of the coach. A
condition was that the general’s debts to the amount of 8,000 francs
should be paid, and the money would have been forthcoming, but he would
not move without knowing the name of the fugitive, and this was deemed
dangerous to divulge. Another plan was that La Valette should march
out of Paris, incorporated with a Bavarian Battalion on its way home.
The officer in command readily agreed, and the King of Bavaria, a warm
friend of La Valette’s, heartily approved. But the notion became known
to the police, and the Bavarian regiment was constantly surrounded by
spies enough to arrest the whole battalion.

At last, after waiting eighteen days, Baudus came with the joyful news
that certain Englishmen in Paris were willing to give their help in
furthering the escape. A Mr. Michael Bruce was the first to move in the
business. He was well received in the best French society, and he was
approached by certain great ladies, chief among them the Princesse de
Vaudémont. Bruce was delighted when invited to assist a distinguished
but unfortunate person, unjustly condemned to death, and he at once
took into his confidence a British general, Sir Robert Wilson, who
had already chivalrously essayed to save the life of Marshal Ney. In
common with many of his countrymen he had felt that the hard fate meted
out to Napoleon’s chief adherents was a disgrace to the country which
had played so large a part in the Emperor’s overthrow. Wilson readily
agreed, and took upon himself to make the necessary arrangements. Bruce
did not appear; his known sympathy for Ney would have laid him open to
suspicion, and he might have drawn the attention of the police to his
movements and exposed La Valette to detection. Sir Robert Wilson sought
assistants among the younger officers of the Army of Occupation, and
finally chose Captain Allister of the Fifth Dragoon Guards and Captain
Hely-Hutchinson of the Grenadier Guards, afterwards the third Earl of
Donoughmae. After some discussion it was settled that La Valette should
assume the disguise of a British officer, and as such should travel to
the frontier by the Valenciennes road to Belgium, that generally taken
by the English officers then in Paris. Some little difficulty was
found in obtaining the necessary uniform, but it was at last made to La
Valette’s measure by the master tailors of his Majesty’s guards.

On the evening of the ninth of January, 1816, La Valette bade farewell
to the hosts, who had so nobly protected him and walked as far as the
rue de Grenelle, where he found a cabriolet awaiting him, driven by
the same faithful friend, the Comte de Chasseuon, by whose aid he had
escaped from the Conciergerie. They passed the tall railings of the
Tuileries gardens, and laughed at the long series of sentinels, any one
of whom would have gladly checked their progress, and at length reached
the rue du Hilder, where Captain Hely-Hutchinson had an apartment. His
three English friends, Sir Robert Wilson, Hely-Hutchinson and Michael
Bruce, were there to welcome him, and they all sat down to talk rapidly
over the important adventure fixed for the following day. The general
was very precise in his instructions. They must be moving early, awake
and up at 6 o’clock. La Valette was as spruce and smart as became a
captain in the guards. “I shall call for you at 8 A. M. in my own open
cabriolet, as I mean to drive you myself as far as Compiègne,” said he.
“Hutchinson, here, will accompany us on horseback.”

All happened as planned. Although some surprise was expressed at the
sight of a general officer in full uniform, driving in a gig, no
questions could be addressed to a person of his rank. The guards
turned out and saluted, and the barrier of Clichy was reached without
accident; then the first post-house at La Chapelle, where the horse was
changed. Here a party of gensdarmes seemed disposed to be inquisitive,
but Captain Hely-Hutchinson dismounted and gossiped with them on the
coming arrival of troops. More gensdarmes were encountered along the
road, but none accosted them, and La Valette hugged his pistol close
and would have resisted recapture. There was a long halt at Compiègne
awaiting the general’s large carriage, which Captain Ellister was
bringing after them from Paris. It was during this half that Sir Robert
Wilson, having caught sight of some straggling gray hairs beneath La
Valette’s wig, produced a pair of scissors and deftly acted as barber
in removing them. Taking the road in the new carriage they sped along
rapidly through the night, and reached Valenciennes, the last French
town, at 7 o’clock in the morning. Here the captain of gendarmerie
on duty summoned them to his presence to exhibit their passports,
but Sir Robert Wilson refused haughtily. “Let him come to me. It is
not the custom for a general officer to wait on captains. There are
the passports; he can do as he pleases.” It was bitterly cold, the
officer was abed and did not care to turn out, but gave the passports
his _visé_ without more ado. A last obstacle offered in the person
of an officious custom-house officer, but he was quickly satisfied,
and the frontier was passed in safety. Some close chances had been
surmounted on the way. They ran the risk of detection at the various
post-houses, where the carriage was examined closely and the passengers
interrogated. Once the identity of La Valette was questioned; he was
travelling under the assumed name of Colonel Losack, and no such name
could be found in the British army list, but Sir Robert Wilson carried
it off with a high hand. A nearer danger was that La Valette had very
marked features, and he was well known to many officials, having been
Napoleon’s Postmaster General, while the hand-bills notifying the
escape and describing him in detail had been very widely distributed.
At one town, Cambray, a dangerous delay occurred through the obstinacy
of the English sentry at the gate, who refused to call up the guardian
to pass them through during the night. He had received no orders to
that effect and was deaf to all entreaties, although they came from a
general officer.

From Valenciennes the carriage proceeded to Mons, and arrived there in
time to dine. La Valette then continued his journey towards Munich,
where he was most hospitably received by the Elector of Bavaria.
Sir Robert Wilson made the best of his way back to Paris by another
road, and arrived in the capital after an absence of no more than
sixty hours. Now misfortune came upon him, and the three generous and
disinterested friends fell into the hands of the police. One of the
innumerable spies on the lookout for La Valette came upon Sir Robert
Wilson’s carriage, covered with mud in the stable, and learned that
the general had just returned after a long journey to the North. The
general’s servant was found, and, being questioned, admitted that
the general had just been to Mons with an officer of the guards who
could not speak English. A watch was set on this servant, who was the
general’s messenger when communicating with the British Embassy. The
servant was suborned, and for a price promised to bring any letters
written by Sir Robert first to the Préfet of Police. One was addressed
to Earl Grey in London, and it contained a full and particular account
of the escape. On the strength of the evidence thus unfairly obtained,
the three Englishmen, Wilson, Hely-Hutchinson and Bruce, were arrested.

The English ambassador, Sir Charles Stuart, declined to interfere on
behalf of his compatriots. His answer was that these gentlemen had
broken the law by interfering with the course of French justice, and
they must abide by their acts. Accordingly, they were lodged in the
prison of La Force, and in due time brought to trial at the Assize
Court. Sir Robert Wilson appeared in the dock in the full uniform of
a general officer, his breast covered with decorations and orders,
for he had served with great distinction, and was especially favored
by the continental sovereigns, whose troops he had often led on the
field. Captain Hely-Hutchinson wore the uniform of an officer of the
British guards. Mr. Michael Bruce appeared as a private gentleman. All
admitted the truth of the charge, and it was not thought necessary to
advance proof, but Madame de La Valette (who had been detained six
weeks in prison) was brought into court and questioned. She evoked much
respectful sympathy, and was overcome with deep emotion at the sight
of her husband’s chivalrous preservers. “I have never seen any of them
before, but I shall never forget them and all that I owe to them so
long as I live,” was her cry.

When put upon their defence, the prisoners all boldly justified their
conduct. “The appeal made to our humanity and national generosity,”
declared Sir Robert Wilson, “was irresistible. We would have done as
much for the most obscure person in the same dread situation. Perhaps
we were imprudent, but we would rather incur that reproach than that
of having abandoned a man in sore straits, who threw himself into
our arms.” “Whatever respect I owe this tribunal,” added Mr. Bruce,
“I owe it also to myself to affirm that I do not feel the slightest
compunction for what I have done.” The judge summed up impartially,
but declared that the law must be vindicated, and a verdict of guilty
was returned, followed by the minimum sentence of three months’
imprisonment. The large verdict of public opinion was and still is
entirely in their favor. Even the outraged majesty of the French
law was soon soothed, for the Government repented of its vindictive
treatment of men, whose chief offence was loyalty to a fallen master,
and, although unhappily they could not bring the gallant Marshal
Ney to life, they pardoned La Valette and suffered him to return to
France. The hardest measure meted out to the two officers came from
their military superiors. The Duke of York, Commander-in-Chief of the
British army, forfeited their commissions with a scathing reprimand.
The infraction of discipline was soon condoned by the nobility of the
action, and ere long the offenders were reinstated in their commands.