With Henrietta condemned to the cruel fate of immurement in a prison for the fallen, the Chevalier trussed up in royal Caen, and his aunt the Countess prostrated by the hag’s recapture of and disappearance with the noblewoman’s long-lost daughter, blind Louise, ’twould seem as if our characters faced indeed blank walls of ruin, misery and despair, from which no power could rescue them.

In those times, the utter vanishing of persons who incurred police disfavor was no uncommon incident. Often no public charge was made; merely the gossiped whisper that So-and-So lay in Bastille or La Salpetriere “at the royal pleasure,” kept the unfortunate faintly in memory till the lapse of years caused him or her to be forgotten. And, sometimes, even, at the prison gate, identity vanished. Did not the celebrated and mysterious Man in the Iron 85 Mask carry his baffling secret through decades of dungeon death-in-life to the prisoner’s dark grave?

Others were silently transported to exile overseas. As England had her Botany Bay, so France had Louisiana. Let us take a glance at La Salpetriere (as Henriette is being dragged there by Count de Linieres’ troopers) to look at the sights and scenes of the famous female prison, and contemplate what the inmates had in store.

There was no interesting toil to relieve their unhappy lot, and no distinction was made of the insane, the law-breaking criminal, and the wretched streetwalker or demimondaine. In the courtyard, during the exercise periods, the only talk was of the terms of imprisonment and of the chances of Louisiana. In that gray monotony the ministrations of the charitable Sisters, headed by the saintly Sister Genevieve (who had been born within the walls of the prison), furnished the one bright spot.

“Do not grieve so!” said one of the older inmates who had begged a little needlework, to a novice who was seated on a bench, weeping convulsively with her head in her arms.

“Oh, I can never live such a life as this!” replied the poor girl, giving way to new grief.

“Try to do something or other, ’twill make you forget your troubles.”

“I’ve never done anything in my life––except amuse myself!” replied the ex-grisette.

“That would be precious hard work in this place,” said a third speaker, who had passed several years of the dreary inactions of prison life.

“Well, anyhow, I’ve had my fling!” remarked the newcomer, drying her eyes. “Scores of admirers crowded around me, willing to ruin themselves for my amusement––” she said in a vivacious manner, as she recalled her past triumphs.

“And it all peters down to prison, eating gruel with a wooden spoon,” said the cynical old-timer; “then, some day, we shall be treated as those poor creatures were yesterday––hurried off with a guard of soldiers to see us safe on our weary exile––”

“Does the idea of exile frighten you?”

“Who would not be frightened at the idea of being led off amid insults and jeers––condemned to a two months’ voyage in the vilest company––and at the end of it be landed in a wild country to face the alternatives of slavery or a runaway into the savage swamps?”

“Plenty of work to relieve monotony––”

“They say women are scarce out there in Louisiana. Perhaps I shall get a husband, and revenge myself on the male creation that way––”

Their speculations were cut short by the entry of a squad of troopers literally dragging tiny Henriette Girard within the prison walls. Cold and unfeeling at best, these men had no sympathy with their young charge whom they naturally believed to be one of the harpies or half-wits caught in the police dragnet. They thrust her mid the crowd in the courtyard and departed. The great iron doors clanged shut. The gatekeeper turned the massive key. Henriette––without a friend in the world to appeal to––was an inmate of dread La Salpetriere!

Like a flock of magpies the imprisoned demi-mondaines, petty thieves, and grosser criminals for love or for hate, crowded around the girl, inquiring what offence had brought her amongst them.

“I am innocent!”

Her little sobbing cry of self-justification was received with jibes and winks. Was not such the formula of every prisoner? They pressed her for her story. Looking at these ignoble spirits, the girl could not bear to acquaint them with her pure and holy romance.

As she turned away, a new shock met her gaze.

Faugh! What was this physical weakness, this nausea-like repulsion, but the bodily reaction from the tense spiritual agony she had suffered?

Courage! She must look again. That wild woman––hair down, breath gasping, arms weaving threateningly––was coming at her like a murderess. Momentarily Henriette expected the long arms to seize her, the steel-like hands and wrists to choke her.

She looked yet a third time. The crazy “murderess” had veered her course, but what was that other object nearby? A Niobe weeping for her own and the world’s sorrows! Or this one over here––a shrieking maniac calling on all Hell’s legions for vengeance on fancied enemies! Beyond, gibbering victims of paresis, white-haired 89 idiots, wasted sufferers from senile dementia.

Not a friendly face, not a kind look nor an understanding eye! Crime, passion, foulness, insanity. The sheer horror of her situation mercifully blotted out consciousness. She sank, a crumpled heap to the floor.

“The girl is sick,” said Sister Genevieve, who had entered at this moment and was presently bending over her. “Here, two of you lift her and carry her into the hospital––we shall have the good Doctor from La Force attend her!” Two of the sturdier prisoners bore her away....

Beautiful, pitiful Henriette!

The horrors of the madwomen thou facest in Salpetriere; the obscene shouts and curses of the fallen; the fury of the female criminal; the misery of the poor distracted half-wits, where mad and sane are given the same cell:––these shall be but confused phantasmagoria projected on thy sick brain during this prison time before the awful Storm breaks––the lightning strikes––the thunder crashes, and the sharp female called La Guillotine holds thee in its embrace.

From the tumbril shalt thou find and kiss the blind girl, and Maurice de Vaudrey shall accompany thee into the Valley of the Shadow!