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.