EARLY FRENCH PRISONS***


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THE HISTORY AND ROMANCE OF CRIME FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES
TO THE PRESENT DAY

The Grolier Society
London


[Illustration: _An Incident During the Communal Revolts of the Twelfth
Century_

A noble being strangled in his castle by one of the men of the
commune (town) in the twelfth century when the villages at the foot
of the castles revolted and wrested charters from their lords, often
peacefully but more frequently by bloodshed and brutal practices.]


EARLY FRENCH PRISONS

Le Grand and Le Petit Chatelets
Vincennes--The Bastile--Loches
The Galleys
Revolutionary Prisons

by

MAJOR ARTHUR GRIFFITHS

Late Inspector of Prisons in Great Britain

Author of
"The Mysteries of Police and Crime"
"Fifty Years of Public Service," etc.







The Grolier Society

Edition Nationale
Limited to one thousand registered and numbered sets.
Number 307




INTRODUCTION


The judicial administration of France had its origin in the Feudal
System. The great nobles ruled their estates side by side with, and
not under, the King. With him the great barons exercised "high"
justice, extending to life and limb. The seigneurs and great clerics
dispensed "middle" justice and imposed certain corporal penalties,
while the power of "low" justice, extending only to the _amende_ and
imprisonment, was wielded by smaller jurisdictions.

The whole history of France is summed up in the persistent effort of
the King to establish an absolute monarchy, and three centuries were
passed in a struggle between nobles, parliaments and the eventually
supreme ruler. Each jurisdiction was supported by various methods of
enforcing its authority: All, however, had their prisons, which served
many purposes. The prison was first of all a place of detention and
durance where people deemed dangerous might be kept out of the way
of doing harm and law-breakers could be called to account for their
misdeeds. Accused persons were in it held safely until they could be
arraigned before the tribunals, and after conviction by legal process
were sentenced to the various penalties in force.

The prison was _de facto_ the high road to the scaffold on which
the condemned suffered the extreme penalty by one or another of the
forms of capital punishment, and death was dealt out indifferently by
decapitation, the noose, the stake or the wheel. Too often where proof
was weak or wanting, torture was called in to assist in extorting
confession of guilt, and again, the same hideous practice was applied
to the convicted, either to aggravate their pains or to compel the
betrayal of suspected confederates and accomplices. The prison
reflected every phase of passing criminality and was the constant
home of wrong-doers of all categories, heinous and venial. Offenders
against the common law met their just retribution. Many thousands
were committed for sins political and non-criminal, the victims of an
arbitrary monarch and his high-handed, irresponsible ministers.

The prison was the King's castle, his stronghold for the coercion and
safe-keeping of all who conspired against his person or threatened
his peace. It was a social reformatory in which he disciplined the
dissolute and the wastrel, the loose-livers of both sexes, who were
thus obliged to run straight and kept out of mischief by the stringent
curtailment of their liberty. The prison, last of all, played into the
hands of the rich against the poor, active champion of the commercial
code, taking the side of creditors by holding all debtors fast until
they could satisfy the legal, and at times illegal demands made upon
them.

Various types of prisons were to be found in France, the simpler kind
being gradually enlarged and extended, and more and more constantly
utilised as time passed and society became more complex. All had
common features and exercised similar discipline. All were of solid
construction, relying upon bolts and bars, high walls and hard-hearted,
ruthless jailers. The prison regime was alike in all; commonly
starvation, squalor, the sickness of hope deferred, close confinement
protracted to the extreme limits of human endurance in dark dungeons,
poisonous to health and inducing mental breakdown. In all prisons,
penalties followed the same grievous lines. Culprits were subjected to
degradation moral and physical, to the exposure of the _carcan_ and
pillory. They made public reparation by the _amende honorable_, were
flogged, mutilated, branded and tortured.

Prisons were to be met with throughout the length and breadth of
France. The capital had many; every provincial city possessed one or
more. In Paris the principal prisons were the two Chatelets, the gaols
and, as we should say to-day, the police headquarters of the Provost
or chief magistrate of the city. For-l'Eveque was the Bishops' court;
the Conciergerie, the guardroom of the King's palace, kept by the
_concierge_, porter or janitor, really the mayor and custodian of the
royal residence; in the Temple the powerful and arrogant military order
of the Knights Templars had its seat.

The reigning sovereign relied upon the Bastile, at first merely a
rampart against invasion and rebellion, but presently exalted into the
King's prison-house, the royal gaol and penitentiary. He had also the
donjon of Vincennes, which was first a place of defensive usefulness
and next a place of restraint and coercion for State offenders. Other
prisons came into existence later: the Madelonnettes, St. Pelagie,
Bicetre, the Salpetriere and St. Lazare.

All these have historic interest more or less pronounced and notable.
All in their time were the scenes of strange, often terrible episodes
and events. All serve to illustrate various curious epochs of the
world's history, but mark more especially the rise, progress,
aggrandisement and decadence and final fall of the French monarchy.




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                              PAGE

       INTRODUCTION                      5

    I. ORIGINS AND EARLY HISTORY        13

   II. STRUGGLE WITH THE SOVEREIGN      35

  III. VINCENNES AND THE BASTILE        57

   IV. THE RISE OF RICHELIEU            90

    V. THE PEOPLE AND THE BASTILE      121

   VI. THE MAN WITH THE IRON MASK      148

  VII. THE POWER OF THE BASTILE        187

 VIII. THE TERROR OF POISON            210

   IX. THE HORRORS OF THE GALLEYS      232

    X. THE DAWN OF REVOLUTION          263

   XI. LAST DAYS OF THE BASTILE        287




List of Illustrations


 INCIDENT DURING THE COMMUNAL REVOLTS
     OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY               _Frontispiece_

 ISLE ST. MARGUERITE                           _Page_ 54

 THE CASTLE OF ST. ANDRE                         "    82

 THE BASTILE                                     "   190

 CHATEAU D'IF, MARSEILLES                        "   250




EARLY FRENCH PRISONS




CHAPTER I

ORIGINS AND EARLY HISTORY

    The Feudal System--Early prisons--Classes of inmates--Alike in
    aspect, similar in discipline--Variety of penalties--Chief prisons
    of Paris in the Middle Ages--Great and Little Chatelets--History
    and inmates--The Conciergerie still standing--For-l'Eveque,
    the Bishop's prison--The Temple, prison of the Knights
    Templars--Bicetre--Notable prisoners--Salomon de Caus, steam
    inventor--St. Pelagie--St. Lazare.


Let us consider the prisons of Old France in the order of their
antiquity, their size and their general importance in French history.

First of all the two Chatelets, the greater and less, Le Grand and Le
Petit Chatelet, of which the last named was probably the earliest in
date of erection. Antiquarians refer the Petit Chatelet to the Roman
period and state that its original use was to guard the entrance to
Paris when the city was limited to that small island in the Seine
which was the nucleus of the great capital of France. This fortress
and bridge-head was besieged and destroyed by the Normans but was
subsequently rebuilt; and it is mentioned in a deed dated 1222 in which
the king, Philip Augustus, took over the rights of justice, at a price,
from the Bishop of Paris. It stood then on the south bank of the Seine
at the far end of the bridge long afterwards known as the Petit Pont.
Both bridge and castle were swept away in 1296 by an inundation and
half a century elapsed before they were restored on such a firm basis
as to resist any future overflowing of the Seine. At this date its role
as a fortress appears to have ceased and it was appropriated by Charles
V of France to serve as a prison and to overawe the students of the
Quartier Latin. Hugues Aubriot, the same Provost of Paris who built
the Bastile, constructed several cells between the pillars supporting
the Petit Chatelet and employed them for the confinement of turbulent
scholars of the university.

The Grand Chatelet was situated on the opposite, or northern bank of
the river, facing that side of the island of the Cite, or the far
end of the Pont au Change on the same site as the present Place du
Chatelet. Like its smaller namesake it was also thought to have been
a bridge-head or river-gate, although this is based on no authentic
record. The first definite mention of the Grand Chatelet is in the
reign of Philip Augustus after he created the courts of justice and
headquarters of the municipality of Paris.

The Chapel and Confraternity of Notaries was established here in 1270.
The jurisdiction of the Provost of Paris embraced all the functions of
the police of later days. He was responsible for the good order and
security of the city; he checked disturbances and called the riotous
and disorderly to strict account. He was all powerful; all manner
of offenders were haled before the tribunals over which he presided
with fifty-six associate judges and assistants. The Chatelet owned a
King's Procurator and four King's Counsellors, a chief clerk, many
receivers, bailiffs, ushers, gaolers and sixty sworn special experts,
a surgeon and his assistants, including a mid-wife or accoucheuse, and
220 _sergents a cheval_, or outdoor officers and patrols, over whom
the Procurator's authority was supreme. The Procurator was also the
guardian and champion of the helpless and oppressed, of deserted and
neglected children and ill-used wives; he regulated the markets and
supervised the guilds and corporations of trades and their operations,
exposed frauds in buying and selling and saw that accurate weights and
measures were employed in merchandising.

The prisons of the two Chatelets were dark, gruesome receptacles.
Contemporary prints preserve the grim features of the Petit Chatelet,
a square, massive building of stone pierced with a few loopholes
in its towers, a drawbridge with a portcullis giving access to the
bridge. The Grand Chatelet was of more imposing architecture, with an
elevated facade capped by a flat roof and having many "pepper pot"
towers at the angles. The cells and chambers within were dark, dirty,
ill-ventilated dens. Air was admitted only from above and in such
insufficient quantity that the prisoners were in constant danger of
suffocation, while the space was far too limited to accommodate the
numbers confined. The titles given to various parts of the interior
of the Grand Chatelet will serve to illustrate the character of the
accommodation.

There was the _Berceau_ or cradle, so called from its arched roof; the
_Boucherie_, with obvious derivation; the _chaine_ room, otherwise
_chene_, from the fetters used or the oak beams built into it; the _Fin
d'Aise_ or "end of ease," akin to the "Little Ease" of old London's
Newgate, a horrible and putrescent pigsty, described as full of filth
and over-run with reptiles and with air so poisonous that a candle
would not remain alight in it. A chamber especially appropriated to
females was styled _La Grieche_, an old French epithet for a shrew
or vixen; other cells are known as _La Gloriette_, _La Barbarie_,
_La Barcane_ or _Barbacane_, lighted by a small grating in the roof.
The Chatelet had its deep-down, underground dungeon, the familiar
_oubliettes_ of every mediaeval castle and monastery, called also
_in pace_ because the hapless inmates were thrown into them to be
forgotten and left to perish of hunger and anguish, but "in peace." The
worst of these at the Chatelet must have been _La Fosse_, the bottom
of which was knee deep in water, so that the prisoner was constantly
soaked and it was necessary to stand erect to escape drowning; here
death soon brought relief, for "none survived _La Fosse_ for more than
fifteen days."

Monstrous as it must appear, rent on a fixed scale was extorted for
residence in these several apartments. These were in the so-called
"honest" prisons. The _Chaine_ room, mentioned above, _La Beauvoir_,
_La Motte_ and _La Salle_ cost each individual four deniers (the
twelfth part of a sou) for the room and two for a bed. In _La
Boucherie_ and _Grieche_ it was two deniers for the room, but only
one denier for a bed of straw or reeds. Even in _La Fosse_ and the
_oubliettes_ payment was exacted, presumably in advance. Some light
is thrown by the ancient chronicles upon the prison system that
obtained within the Chatelet. The first principle was recognised that
it was a place of detention only and not for the maltreatment of its
involuntary guests. Rules were made by the parliaments, the chief
juridical authorities of Paris, to soften the lot of the prisoners, to
keep order amongst them and protect them from the cupidity of their
gaolers. The governor was permitted to charge gaol fees, but the scale
was strictly regulated and depended upon the status and condition of
the individuals committed. Thus a count or countess paid ten livres
(about fifty francs), a knight banneret was charged twenty sous, a Jew
or Jewess half that amount. Prisoners who lay on the straw paid one
sou. For half a bed the price was three sous and for the privilege of
sleeping alone, five sous. The latest arrivals were obliged to sweep
the floors and keep the prison rooms clean. It was ordered that the
officials should see that the bread issued was of good quality and of
the proper weight, a full pound and a half per head. The officials were
to visit the prisons at least once a week and receive the complaints
made by prisoners out of hearing of their gaolers. The hospitals were
to be regularly visited and attention given to the sick. Various
charities existed to improve the prison diet: the drapers on their
fete day issued bread, meat and wine; the watchmakers gave a dinner on
Easter day when food was seized and forfeited and a portion was issued
to the pauper prisoners.

In all this the little Chatelet served as an annex to the larger
prison. During their lengthened existence both prisons witnessed many
atrocities and were disgraced by many dark deeds. One of the most
frightful episodes was that following the blood-thirsty feuds between
the Armagnacs and the Bourguignons in the early years of the fifteenth
century. These two political parties fought for supreme authority
in the city of Paris, which was long torn by their dissensions.
The Armagnacs held the Bastile but were dispossessed of it by the
Bourguignons, who were guilty of the most terrible excesses. They
slaughtered five hundred and twenty of their foes and swept the
survivors wholesale into the Chatelet and the "threshold of the prison
became the scaffold of 1,500 unfortunate victims." The Bourguignons
were not satisfied and besieged the place in due form; for the
imprisoned Armagnacs organised a defense and threw up a barricade
upon the north side of the fortress, where they held out stoutly. The
assailants at last made a determined attack with scaling ladders, by
which they surmounted the walls sixty feet high, and a fierce and
prolonged conflict ensued. When the attack was failing the Bourguignons
set fire to the prison and fought their way in, driving the besieged
before them. Many of the Armagnacs sought to escape the flames by
flinging themselves over the walls and were caught upon the pikes of
the Bourguignons "who finished them with axe and sword." Among the
victims were many persons of quality, two cardinals, several bishops,
officers of rank, magistrates and respectable citizens.

The garrison of the Chatelet in those early days was entrusted to the
archers of the provost's guard, the little Chatelet being the provost's
official residence. The guard was frequently defied by the turbulent
population and especially by the scholars of the University of Paris,
an institution under the ecclesiastical authority and very jealous
of interference by the secular arm. One provost in the fourteenth
century, having caught a scholar in the act of stealing upon the
highway, forthwith hanged him, whereupon the clergy of Paris went in
procession to the Chatelet and denounced the provost. The King sided
with them and the chief magistrate of the city was sacrificed to their
clamor. Another provost, who hanged two scholars for robbery, was
degraded from his office, led to the gallows and compelled to take
down and kiss the corpses of the men he had executed. The provosts
themselves were sometimes unfaithful to their trust. One of them in
the reign of Philip the Long, by name Henri Chaperel, made a bargain
with a wealthy citizen who was in custody under sentence of death.
The condemned man was allowed to escape and a friendless and obscure
prisoner hanged in his place. It is interesting to note, however,
that this Henri Chaperel finished on the gallows as did another
provost, Hugues de Cruzy, who was caught in dishonest traffic with
his prisoners. Here the King himself had his share in the proceeds. A
famous brigand and highwayman of noble birth, Jourdain de Lisle, the
chief of a great band of robbers, bought the protection of the provost,
and the Chatelet refused to take cognizance of his eight crimes--any
one of which deserved an ignominious death. It was necessary to appoint
a new provost before justice could be meted out to Jourdain de Lisle,
who was at last tied to the tail of a horse and dragged through the
streets of Paris to the public gallows.

In the constant warfare between the provost and the people the latter
did not hesitate to attack the prison fortress of the Chatelet. In
1320 a body of insurgents collected under the leadership of two
apostate priests who promised to meet them across the seas and conquer
the Holy Land. When some of their number were arrested and thrown
into the Chatelet, the rest marched upon the prison, bent on rescue,
and, breaking in, effected a general gaol delivery. This was not
the only occasion in which the Chatelet lost those committed to its
safe-keeping. In the latter end of the sixteenth century the provost
was one Hugues de Bourgueil, a hunch-back with a beautiful wife. Among
his prisoners was a young Italian, named Gonsalvi, who, on the strength
of his nationality, gained the goodwill of Catherine de Medicis, the
Queen Mother. The Queen commended him to the provost, who lodged him in
his own house, and Gonsalvi repaid this kindness by running away with
de Bourgueil's wife. Madame de Bourgueil, on the eve of her elopement,
gained possession of the prison keys and released the whole of the
three hundred prisoners in custody, thus diverting the attention from
her own escapade. The provost, preferring his duty to his wife, turned
out with horse and foot, and pursued and recaptured the fugitive
prisoners, while Madame de Bourgueil and her lover were allowed to go
their own way. After this affair the King moved the provost's residence
from the Chatelet to the Hotel de Hercule.

References are found in the earlier records of the various prisoners
confined in the Chatelet. One of the earliest is a list of Jews
imprisoned for reasons not given. But protection was also afforded to
this much wronged race, and once, towards the end of the fourteenth
century, when the populace rose to rob and slaughter the Jews, asylum
was given to the unfortunates by opening to them the gates of the
Chatelet. About the same time a Spanish Jew and an habitual thief, one
Salmon of Barcelona, were taken to the Chatelet and condemned to be
hanged by the heels between two large dogs. Salmon, to save himself,
offered to turn Christian, and was duly baptised, the gaoler's wife
being his godmother. Nevertheless, within a week he was hanged "like a
Christian" (_chretiennement_), under his baptismal name of Nicholas.

The Jews themselves resented the apostasy of a co-religionist and it is
recorded that four were detained in the Chatelet for having attacked
and maltreated Salmon for espousing Christianity. For this they were
condemned to be flogged at all the street corners on four successive
Sundays; but when a part of the punishment had been inflicted they were
allowed to buy off the rest by a payment of 18,000 francs in gold. The
money was applied to the rebuilding of the Petit Pont. Prisoners of
war were confined there. Eleven gentlemen accused of assassination were
"long detained" in the Chatelet and in the end executed. It continually
received sorcerers and magicians in the days when many were accused of
commerce with the Devil. Idle vagabonds who would not work were lodged
in it.

At this period Paris and the provinces were terrorised by bands of
brigands. Some of the chief leaders were captured and carried to
the Chatelet, where they suffered the extreme penalty. The crime of
poisoning, always so much in evidence in French criminal annals, was
early recorded at the Chatelet. In 1390 payment was authorised for
three mounted sergeants of police who escorted from the prison at
Angers and Le Mans to the Chatelet, two priests charged with having
thrown poison into the wells, fountains and rivers of the neighborhood.
One Honore Paulard, a bourgeois of Paris, was in 1402 thrown into the
_Fin d'Aise_ dungeon of the Chatelet for having poisoned his father,
mother, two sisters and three other persons in order to succeed to
their inheritance. Out of consideration for his family connections
he was not publicly executed but left to the tender mercies of the
_Fin d'Aise_, where he died at the end of a month. The procureur of
parliament was condemned to death with his wife Ysabelete, a prisoner
in the Chatelet, whose former husband, also a procureur, they were
suspected of having poisoned. On no better evidence than suspicion
they were both sentenced to death--the husband to be hanged and the
wife burned alive. Offenders of other categories were brought to the
Chatelet. A superintendent of finances, prototype of Fouquet, arrested
by the Provost Pierre des Fessarts, and convicted of embezzlement,
met his fate in the Chatelet. Strange to say, Des Fessarts himself
was arrested four years later and suffered on the same charge. Great
numbers of robbers taken red-handed were imprisoned--at one time two
hundred thieves, murderers and highwaymen (_epieurs de grand chemin_).
An auditor of the Palace was condemned to make the _amende honorable_
in effigy; a figure of his body in wax being shown at the door of
the chapel and then dragged to the pillory to be publicly exposed.
Clement Marot, the renowned poet, was committed to the Chatelet at the
instance of the beautiful Diane de Poitiers for continually inditing
fulsome verses in her praise. Weary at last of her contemptuous silence
he penned a bitter satire which Diane resented by accusing him of
Lutheranism and of eating bacon in Lent. Marot's confinement in the
Chatelet inspired his famous poem _L'Enfer_, wherein he compared the
Chatelet to the infernal regions and cursed the whole French penal
system--prisoners, judges, lawyers and the cruelties of the "question."

Never from the advent of the Reformation did Protestants find much
favor in France. In 1557 four hundred Huguenots assembled for service
in a house of the Rue St. Jacques and were attacked on leaving it by
a number of the neighbors. They fought in self-defense and many made
good their escape, but the remainder--one hundred and twenty persons,
several among them being ladies of the Court--were arrested by the
_lieutenant criminel_ and carried to the Chatelet. They were accused
of infamous conduct and although they complained to the King they were
sent to trial, and within a fortnight nearly all the number were burnt
at the stake. Another story runs that the _lieutenant criminel_ forced
his way into a house in the Marais where a number of Huguenots were at
table. They fled, but the hotel keeper was arrested and charged with
having supplied meat in the daily bill of fare on a Friday. For this
he was conducted to the Chatelet with his wife and children, a larded
capon being carried before them to hold them up to the derision of the
bystanders. The incident ended seriously, for the wretched inn-keeper
was thrown into a dungeon and died there in misery.

Precedence has been given to the two Chatelets in the list of ancient
prisons in Paris, but no doubt the Conciergerie runs them close in
point of date and was equally formidable. It originally was part of
the Royal Palace of the old Kings of France and still preserves as to
site, and in some respects as to form, in the Palais de Justice one
of the most interesting monuments in modern Paris. "There survives a
sense of suffocation in these buildings," writes Philarete Chasles.
"Here are the oldest dungeons of France. Paris had scarcely begun when
they were first opened." "These towers," says another Frenchman, "the
courtyard and the dim passage along which prisoners are still admitted,
have tears in their very aspect." One of the greatest tragedies in
history was played out in the Conciergerie almost in our own days, thus
bringing down the sad record of bitter sufferings inflicted by man upon
man from the Dark Ages to the day of our much vaunted enlightenment.
The Conciergerie was the last resting place, before execution, of the
hapless Queen Marie Antoinette.

When Louis IX, commonly called Saint Louis, rebuilt his palace in
the thirteenth century he constructed also his dungeons hard by. The
_concierge_ was trusted by the kings with the safe-keeping of their
enemies and was the governor of the royal prison. In 1348 he took the
title of _bailli_ and the office lasted, with its wide powers often
sadly abused, until the collapse of the monarchical regime. A portion
of the original Conciergerie as built in the garden of Concierge is
still extant. Three of the five old towers, circular in shape and with
pepper pot roofs, are standing. Of the first, that of Queen Blanche
was pulled down in 1853 and that of the Inquisition in 1871. The three
now remaining are Caesar's Tower, where the reception ward is situated
on the very spot where Damiens, the attempted regicide of Louis XV,
was interrogated while strapped to the floor; the tower of Silver, the
actual residence of "Reine Blanche" and the visiting room where legal
advisers confer with their clients among the accused prisoners; and
lastly the Bon Bec tower, once the torture chamber and now the hospital
and dispensary of the prison.

The cells and dungeons of the Conciergerie, some of which might be seen
and inspected as late as 1835, were horrible beyond belief. Clement
Marot said of it in his verse that it was impossible to conceive a
place that more nearly approached a hell upon earth. The loathsomeness
of its underground receptacles was inconceivable. It contained some
of the worst specimens of the ill-famed _oubliettes_. An attempt
has been made by some modern writers to deny the existence of these
_oubliettes_, but all doubt was removed by discoveries revealed
when opening the foundations of the Bon Bec tower. Two subterranean
pits were found below the ordinary level of the river Seine and the
remains of sharpened iron points protruded from their walls obviously
intended to catch the bodies and tear the flesh of those flung into
these cavernous depths. Certain of these dungeons were close to the
royal kitchens and were long preserved. They are still remembered by
the quaint name of the mousetraps (or _souricieres_) in which the
inmates were caught and kept _au secret_, entirely separate and unable
to communicate with a single soul but their immediate guardians and
gaolers.

The torture chamber and the whole paraphernalia for inflicting the
"question" were part and parcel of every ancient prison. But the most
complete and perfect methods were to be found in the Conciergerie. As
a rule, therefore, in the most heinous cases, when the most shocking
crimes were under investigation, the accused was relegated to the
Conciergerie to undergo treatment by torture. It was so in the case of
Ravaillac who murdered Henry IV; also the Marchioness of Brinvilliers
and the poisoners; and yet again, of Damiens who attempted the life of
Louis XV, and many more: to whom detailed references will be found in
later pages.

The For-l'Eveque, the Bishop's prison, was situated in the rue
St. Germain-l'Auxerrois, and is described in similar terms as the
foregoing: "dark, unwholesome and over-crowded." In the court or
principal yard, thirty feet long by eighteen feet wide, some four or
five hundred prisoners were constantly confined. The outer walls were
of such a height as to forbid the circulation of fresh air and there
was not enough to breathe. The cells were more dog-holes than human
habitations. In some only six feet square, five prisoners were often
lodged at one and the same time. Others were too low in the ceiling for
a man to stand upright and few had anything but borrowed light from the
yard. Many cells were below the ground level and that of the river
bed, so that water filtered in through the arches all the year round,
and even in the height of summer the only ventilation was by a slight
slit in the door three inches wide. "To pass by an open cell door one
felt as if smitten by fire from within," says a contemporary writer.
Access to these cells was by dark, narrow galleries. For long years the
whole prison was in such a state of dilapidation that ruin and collapse
were imminent.

Later For-l'Eveque received insolvent debtors--those against whom
_lettres de cachet_ were issued, and actors who were evil livers. It
was the curious custom to set these last free for a few hours nightly
in order to play their parts at the theatres; but they were still in
the custody of the officer of the watch and were returned to gaol after
the performance. Many minor offenders guilty of small infractions of
the law, found lodging in the For-l'Eveque. Side by side with thieves
and roysterers were dishonest usurers who lent trifling sums. All
jurisdictions, all authorities could commit to the For-l'Eveque, the
judges of inferior tribunals, ministers of state, auditors, grand
seigneurs. The prison regime varied for this various population, but
poor fare and poorer lodgings were the fate of the larger number. Those
who could pay found chambers more comfortable, decently furnished,
and palatable food. Order was not always maintained. More than once
mutinies broke out, generally on account of the villainous ration
of bread issued, and it was often found necessary to fire upon the
prisoners to subdue them.

When the Knights Templars received permission to settle in Paris in
the twelfth century, they gradually consolidated their power in the
Marais, the marshy ground to the eastward of the Seine, and there
laid the foundations of a great stronghold on which the Temple prison
was a prominent feature. The knights wielded sovereign power with the
rights of high justice and the very kings of France themselves bent
before them. At length the arrogance of the order brought it the bitter
hostility of Philippe le Bel who, in 1307, broke the power of the order
in France. They were pursued and persecuted. Their Grand Master was
tortured and executed while the King administered their estate. The
prison of the Temple with its great towers and wide encircling walls
became a state prison, the forerunner of Vincennes and the Bastile. It
received, as a rule, the most illustrious prisoners only, dukes and
counts and sovereign lords, and in the Revolutionary period it gained
baleful distinction as the condemned cell, so to speak, of Louis XVI
and Marie Antoinette.

The prison of Bicetre, originally a bishop's residence and then
successively a house of detention for sturdy beggars and a lunatic
asylum, was first built at the beginning of the thirteenth century. It
was owned by John, Bishop of Winchester in England, and its name was
a corruption of the word Winchester--"Vinchester" and so "Bichestre"
and, eventually, "Bicetre." It was confiscated to the King in the
fourteenth century and Charles VI dated his letters from that castle.
It fell into a ruinous state in the following years and nothing was
done to it until it was rebuilt by Louis XIII as a hospital for invalid
soldiers and became, with the Salpetriere, the abode of the paupers
who so largely infested Paris. The hospital branch of the prison was
used for the treatment of certain discreditable disorders, sufferers
from which were regularly flogged at the time of their treatment by the
surgeons. An old writer stigmatised the prison as a terrible ulcer that
no one dared look at and which poisoned the air for four hundred yards
around. Bicetre was the home for all vagabonds and masterless men, the
sturdy beggars who demanded alms sword in hand, and soldiers who, when
their pay was in arrears, robbed upon the highway. Epileptics and the
supposed mentally diseased, whether they were actually proved so or
not, were committed to Bicetre and after reception soon degenerated
into imbeciles and raging lunatics. The terrors of underground Bicetre
have been graphically described by Masers-Latude, who had personal
experience of them. This man, Danry or Latude, has been called a
fictitious character, but the memoirs attributed to him are full of
realism and cannot be entirely neglected. He says of Bicetre:

"In wet weather or when it thawed in winter, water streamed from
all parts of our cell. I was crippled with rheumatism and the pains
were such that I was sometimes whole weeks without getting up. The
window-sill guarded by an iron grating gave on to a corridor, the wall
of which was placed exactly opposite at a height of ten feet. A glimmer
of light came through this aperture and was accompanied by snow and
rain. I had neither fire nor artificial light and prison rags were
my only clothing. To quench my thirst I sucked morsels of ice broken
off with the heel of my wooden shoe. If I stopped up the window I was
nearly choked by the effluvium from the cellars. Insects stung me
in the eyes. I had always a bad taste in my mouth and my lungs were
horribly oppressed. I was detained in that cell for thirty-eight months
enduring the pangs of hunger, cold and damp. I was attacked by scurvy
and was presently unable to sit or rise. In ten days my legs and thighs
were swollen to twice their ordinary size. My body turned black. My
teeth loosened in their sockets and I could no longer masticate. I
could not speak and was thought to be dead. Then the surgeon came, and
seeing my state ordered me to be removed to the infirmary."

An early victim of Bicetre was the Protestant Frenchman, Salomon de
Caus, who had lived much in England and Germany and had already, at the
age of twenty, gained repute as an architect, painter and engineer. One
of his inventions was an apparatus for forcing up water by a steam
fountain; and that eminent scientist, Arago, declares that De Caus
preceded Watt as an inventor of steam mechanisms. It was De Caus's
misfortune to fall desperately in love with the notorious Marion
Delorme. When his attentions became too demonstrative this fiendish
creature applied for a _lettre de cachet_ from Richelieu. De Caus was
invited to call upon the Cardinal, whom he startled with his marvellous
schemes. Richelieu thought himself in the presence of a madman and
forthwith ordered De Caus to Bicetre. Two years later Marion Delorme
visited Bicetre and was recognised by De Caus as she passed his cell.
He called upon her piteously by name, and her companion, the English
Marquis of Worcester, asked if she knew him, but she repudiated the
acquaintance. Lord Worcester was, however, attracted by the man and his
inventions, and afterwards privately visited him, giving his opinion
later that a great genius had run to waste in this mad-house.

Bicetre was subsequently associated with the galleys and was starting
point of the chain of convicts directed upon the arsenals of Toulon,
Rochefort, Lorient and Brest. A full account of these modern prisons is
reserved for a later chapter.

The prison of Sainte Pelagie was founded in the middle of the
seventeenth century by a charitable lady, Marie l'Hermite, in the
faubourg Sainte Marcel, as a refuge for ill-conducted women, those
who came voluntarily and those who were committed by dissatisfied
fathers or husbands. It became, subsequently, a debtors' prison. The
Madelonnettes were established about the same time and for the same
purpose, by a wine merchant, Robert Montri, devoted to good works. The
prison of St. Lazare, to-day the great female prison of Paris, appears
to have been originally a hospital for lepers, and was at that time
governed by the ecclesiastical authority. It was the home of various
communities, till in 1630 the lepers disappeared, and it became a
kind of seminary or place of detention for weak-minded persons and
youthful members of good position whose families desired to subject
them to discipline and restraint. The distinction between St. Lazare
and the Bastile was well described by a writer who said, "If I had
been a prisoner in the Bastile I should on release have taken my
place among _genres de bien_ (persons of good social position) but on
leaving Lazare I should have ranked with the _mauvais sujets_ (ne'er do
weels)." A good deal remains to be said about St. Lazare in its modern
aspects.




CHAPTER II

STRUGGLE WITH THE SOVEREIGN

    Provincial prisons--Loches, in Touraine, still standing--Favorite
    gaol of Louis XI--The iron cage--Cardinal La Balue, the
    Duc d'Alencon, Comines, the Bishops--Ludovico Sforza,
    Duke of Milan, and his mournful inscriptions--Diane
    de Poitiers and her father--Mont St. Michel--Louis
    Napoleon--Count St. Pol--Strongholds of Touraine--Catherine
    de Medicis--Massacre of St Bartholomew--Murder of Duc de
    Guise--Chambord--Amboise--Angers--Pignerol--Exiles and the Isle St.
    Marguerite.


The early history of France is made up of the continuous struggle
between the sovereign and the people. The power of the king, though
constantly opposed by the great vassals and feudal lords, steadily grew
and gained strength. The state was meanwhile torn with dissensions and
passed through many succeeding periods of anarchy and great disorders.
The king's power was repeatedly challenged by rivals and pretenders.
It was weakened, and at times eclipsed, but in the long run it always
triumphed. The king always vindicated his right to the supreme
authority and, when he could, ruled arbitrarily and imperiously, backed
and supported by attributes of autocracy which gradually overcame all
opposition and finally established a despotic absolutism.

The principal prisons of France were royal institutions. Two in
particular, the chief and most celebrated, Vincennes and the Bastile,
were seated in the capital. With these I shall deal presently at
considerable length. Many others, provincial strongholds and castles,
were little less conspicuous and mostly of evil reputation. I shall
deal with those first.

Loches in the Touraine, some twenty-five miles from Tours, will go down
in history as one of the most famous, or more exactly, infamous castles
in mediaeval France. It was long a favored royal palace, a popular
residence with the Plantagenet and other kings, but degenerated at
length under Louis XI into a cruel and hideous gaol. It stands to-day
in elevated isolation dominating a flat, verdant country, just as the
well-known Mont St. Michel rises above the sands on the Normandy coast.
The most prominent object is the colossal white donjon, or central
keep, esteemed the finest of its kind in France, said to have been
erected by Fulk Nerra, the celebrated "Black Count," Count of Anjou
in the eleventh century. It is surrounded by a congeries of massive
buildings of later date. Just below it are the round towers of the
Martelet, dating from Louis XI, who placed within them the terrible
dungeons he invariably kept filled. At the other end of the long
lofty plateau is another tower, that of Agnes Sorel, the personage
whose influence over Charles VII, although wrongly acquired, was
always exercised for good, and whose earnest patriotism inspired him
to strenuous attempts to recover France from its English invaders.
Historians have conceded to her a place far above the many kings'
mistresses who have reigned upon the left hand of the monarchs of
France. Agnes was known as the lady of "Beaute-sur-Marne," "a beauty in
character as well as in aspect," and is said to have been poisoned at
Junieges. She was buried at Loches with the inscription, still legible,
"A sweet and simple dove whiter than swans, redder than the flame."
The face, still distinguishable, preserves the "loveliness of flowers
in spring." After the death of Charles VII, the priests of Saint-Ours
desired to expel this tomb. But Louis XI was now on the throne. He had
not hesitated to insult Agnes Sorel while living, upbraiding her openly
and even, one day at court, striking her in the face with his glove,
but he would only grant their request on condition that they surrender
the many rich gifts bestowed upon them at her hands.

It is, however, in its character as a royal gaol and horrible prison
house that Loches concerns us. Louis XI, saturnine and vindictive,
found it exactly suited to his purpose for the infliction of those
barbarous and inhuman penalties upon those who had offended him, that
must ever disgrace his name. The great donjon, already mentioned, built
by Fulk Nerra, the "Black Count," had already been used by him as a
prison and the rooms occupied by the Scottish Guard are still to be
seen. The new tower at the northwest angle of the fortress was the work
of Louis and on the ground floor level is the torture chamber, with
an iron bar recalling its ancient usage. Below are four stories, one
beneath the other. These dungeons, entered by a subterranean door give
access to the vaulted semi-dark interior. Above this gloomy portal is
scratched the jesting welcome, "_Entrez Messieurs--ches le Roi nostre
maistre_,"--"Come in, the King is at home." At this gateway the King
stood frequently with his chosen companions, his barber and the common
hangman, to gloat over the sufferings of his prisoners. In a cell on
the second story from the bottom, the iron cage was established, so
fiendishly contrived for the unending pain of its occupant. Comines,
the "Father of modern historians," gives in his memoirs a full account
of this detestable place of durance.

Comines fell into disgrace with Anne of Beaujeu by fomenting rebellion
against her administration as Regent. He fled and took refuge with
the Duke de Bourbon, whom he persuaded to go to the King, the
infant Charles VIII, to complain of Anne's misgovernment. Comines
was dismissed by the Duke de Bourbon and took service with the Duke
d'Orleans. Their intrigues were secretly favored by the King himself,
who, as he grew older, became impatient of the wise but imperious
control of Anne of Beaujeu. In concert with some other nobles,
Comines plotted to carry off the young King and place him under the
guardianship of the Duke d'Orleans. Although Charles was a party to
the design he punished them when it failed. Comines was arrested at
Amboise and taken to Loches, where he was confined for eight months.
Then by decree of the Paris parliament his property was confiscated and
he was brought to Paris to be imprisoned in the Conciergerie. There
he remained for twenty months, and in March, 1489, was condemned to
banishment to one of his estates for ten years and to give bail for his
good behavior to the amount of 10,000 golden crowns. He was forgiven
long before the end of his term and regained his seat and influence in
the King's Council of State.

"The King," says Comines, "had ordered several cruel prisons to be
made; some were cages of iron and some of wood, but all were covered
with iron plates both within and without, with terrible locks, about
eight feet wide and seven feet high; the first contriver of them was
the Bishop of Verdun (Guillaume d'Haraucourt) who was immediately put
into the first of them, where he continued fourteen years. Many bitter
curses he has had since his invention, and some from me as I lay in
one of them eight months together during the minority of our present
King. He (Louis XI) also ordered heavy and terrible fetters to be made
in Germany and particularly a certain ring for the feet which was
extremely hard to be opened and fitted like an iron collar, with a
thick weighty chain and a great globe of iron at the end of it, most
unreasonably heavy, which engine was called the King's Nets. However,
I have seen many eminent men, deserving persons in these prisons with
these nets about their legs, who afterwards came out with great joy and
honor and received great rewards from the king."

Another occupant beside d'Haraucourt, of this intolerable den, so
limited in size that "no person of average proportions could stand up
comfortably or be at full length within," was Cardinal la Balue,--for
some years after 1469. These two great ecclesiastics had been guilty
of treasonable correspondence with the Duke of Burgundy, then at war
with Louis XI. The treachery was the more base in La Balue, who owed
everything to Louis, who had raised him from a tailor's son to the
highest dignities in the Church and endowed him with immense wealth.
Louis had a strong bias towards low-born men and "made his servants,
heralds and his barbers, ministers of state." Louis would have sent
this traitor to the scaffold, but ever bigoted and superstitious,
he was afraid of the Pope, Paul II, who had protested against the
arrest of a prelate and a prince of the Church. He kept d'Haraucourt,
the Bishop of Verdun, in prison for many years, for the most part
at the Bastile while Cardinal La Balue was moved to and fro: he
began at Loches whence, with intervals at Onzain, Montpaysan, and
Plessis-lez-Tours, he was brought periodically to the Bastile in order
that his tormentor might gloat personally over his sufferings. This was
the servant of whom Louis once thought so well that he wrote of him as
"a good sort of devil of a bishop just now, but there is no saying what
he may grow into by and by." He endured the horrors of imprisonment
until within three years of the death of the King, who, after a long
illness and a paralytic seizure, yielded at last to the solicitations
of the then Pope, Sixtus IV, to release him.

The "Bishops' Prison" is still shown at Loches, a different receptacle
from the cages and dungeons occupied by Cardinal La Balue and the
Bishop of Verdun. These other bishops did their own decorations akin
to Sforza's, but their rude presentment was of an altar and cross
roughly depicted on the wall of their cell. Some confusion exists as to
their identity, but they are said to have been De Pompadour, Bishop of
Peregneux, and De Chaumont, Bishop of Montauban, and their offense was
complicity in the conspiracy for which Comines suffered. If this were
so it must have been after the reign of Louis XI.

Among the many victims condemned by Louis XI to the tender mercies of
Loches, was the Duc d'Alencon, who had already been sentenced to death
in the previous reign for trafficking with the English, but whose life
had been spared by Charles VII, to be again forfeited to Louis XI, for
conspiracy with the Duke of Burgundy. His sentence was commuted to
imprisonment in Loches.

A few more words about Loches. Descending more than a hundred steps
we reach the dungeon occupied by Ludovico Sforza, called "Il Moro,"
Duke of Milan, who had long been in conflict with France. The epithet
applied to him was derived from the mulberry tree, which from the
seasons of its flowers and its fruit was taken as an emblem of
"prudence." The name was wrongly supposed to be due to his dark Moorish
complexion. After many successes the fortune of war went against Sforza
and he was beaten by Trionlzio, commanding the French army, who cast
him into the prison of Novara. Il Moro was carried into France, his
destination being the underground dungeon at Loches.

Much pathos surrounds the memory of this illustrious prisoner, who for
nine years languished in a cell so dark that light entered it only
through a slit in fourteen feet of rock. The only spot ever touched by
daylight is still indicated by a small square scratched on the stone
floor. Ludovico Sforza strove to pass the weary hours by decorating his
room with rough attempts at fresco. The red stars rendered in patterns
upon the wall may still be seen, and among them, twice repeated, a
prodigious helmet giving a glimpse through the casque of the stern,
hard looking face inside. A portrait of Il Moro is extant at the
Certosa, near Pavia, and has been described as that of a man "with the
fat face and fine chin of the elderly Napoleon, the beak-like nose of
Wellington, a small, querulous, neat-lipped mouth and immense eyebrows
stretched like the talons of an eagle across the low forehead."

Ludovico Sforza left his imprint on the walls of this redoubtable gaol
and we may read his daily repinings in the mournful inscriptions he
recorded among the rough red decorations. One runs: "My motto is to
arm myself with patience, to bear the troubles laid upon me." He who
would have faced death eagerly in open fight declares here that he
was "assailed by it and could not die." He found "no pity; gaiety was
banished entirely from his heart." At length, after struggling bravely
for nearly nine years he was removed from the lower dungeons to an
upper floor and was permitted to exercise occasionally in the open air
till death came, with its irresistible order of release. The picture of
his first passage through Paris to his living tomb has been admirably
drawn:--"An old French street surging with an eager mob, through which
there jostles a long line of guards and archers; in their midst a tall
man dressed in black camlet, seated on a mule. In his hands he holds
his biretta and lifts up unshaded his pale, courageous face, showing
in all his bearing a great contempt for death. It is Ludovico, Duke of
Milan, riding to his cage at Loches." It is not to the credit of Louis
XII and his second wife, Anne of Brittany, widow of his predecessor
Charles VIII, that they often occupied Loches as a royal residence
during the incarceration of Ludovico Sforza, and made high festival
upstairs while their wretched prisoner languished below.

The rebellion of the Constable de Bourbon against Francis I, in 1523,
implicated two more bishops, those of Puy and Autun. Bourbon aspired
to create an independent kingdom in the heart of France and was backed
by the Emperor Charles V. The Sieur de Breze, Seneschal of Normandy,
the husband of the famous Diane de Poitiers, revealed the conspiracy
to the King, Francis I, unwittingly implicating Jean de Poitiers, his
father-in-law. Bourbon, flying to one of his fortified castles, sent
the Bishop of Autun to plead for him with the King, who only arrested
the messenger. Bourbon, continuing his flight, stopped a night at Puy
in Auvergne, and this dragged in the second bishop. Jean de Poitiers,
Seigneur de St. Vallier, was also thrown into Loches, whence the
prisoner appealed to his daughter and his son-in-law. "Madame," he
wrote to Diane, "here am I arrived at Loches as badly handled as any
prisoner could be. I beg of you to have so much pity as to come and
visit your poor father." Diane strove hard with the pitiless king, who
only pressed on the trial, urging the judges to elicit promptly all
the particulars and the names of the conspirators, if necessary by
torture. St. Vallier's sentence was commuted to imprisonment, "between
four walls of solid masonry with but one small slit of window."
The Constable de Bourbon made St. Vallier's release a condition of
submission, and Diane de Poitiers, ever earnestly begging for mercy,
won pardon at length, which she took in person to her father's gloomy
cell, where his hair had turned white in the continual darkness.

The wretched inmates of Loches succeeded each other, reign after
reign in an interminable procession. One of the most ill-used was de
Rochechouart, nephew of the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld, who was mixed
up in a court intrigue in 1633 and detained in Loches with no proof
against him in the hopes of extorting a confession.

Mont St. Michel as a State prison is of still greater antiquity than
Loches, far older than the stronghold for which it was admirably suited
by its isolated situation on the barren sea shore. It is still girt
round with mediaeval walls from which rise tall towers proclaiming its
defensive strength. Its church and Benedictine monastery are of ancient
foundation, dating back to the eighth century. It was taken under the
especial protection of Duke Rollo and contributed shipping for the
invading hosts of William the Conqueror. Later, in the long conflict
with the English, when their hosts over-ran Normandy, Mont St. Michel
was the only fortress which held out for the French king. The origin
of its dungeons and _oubliettes_ is lost in antiquity. It had its cage
like Loches, built of metal bars, but for these solid wooden beams
were afterwards substituted.

Modern sentiment hangs about the citadel of Ham near Amiens, as the
prison house of Louis Napoleon and his companions, Generals Cavaignac,
Changarnier and Lamoriciere, after his raid upon Boulogne, in 1830,
when he prematurely attempted to seize supreme power in France and
ignominiously failed. Ham had been a place of durance for political
purposes from the earliest times. There was a castle before the
thirteenth century and one was erected on the same site in 1470 by the
Count St. Pol, whom Louis XI beheaded. The motto of the family "_Mon
mieux_" (my best) may still be read engraved over the gateway. Another
version is to the effect that St. Pol was committed to the Bastile and
suffered within that fortress-gaol. He appears to have been a restless
malcontent forever concerned in the intrigues of his time, serving
many masters and betraying all in turn. He gave allegiance now to
France, now England, now Burgundy and Lorraine, but aimed secretly to
make himself an independent prince trusting to his great wealth, his
ambitious self-seeking activity and his unfailing perfidies. In the end
the indignant sovereigns turned upon him and agreed to punish him. St.
Pol finding himself in jeopardy fled from France after seeking for a
safe conduct through Burgundy. Charles the Bold replied by seizing his
person and handing him over to Louis XI, who had claimed the prisoner.
"I want a head like his to control a certain business in hand; his body
I can do without and you may keep it," was Louis's request. St. Pol,
according to this account, was executed on the Place de la Greve. It
may be recalled that Ham was also for a time the prison of Joan of Arc;
and many more political prisoners, princes, marshals of France, and
ministers of state were lodged there.

The smiling verdant valley of the Loire, which flows through the
historic province of Touraine, is rich in ancient strongholds that
preserve the memories of mediaeval France. It was the home of those
powerful feudal lords, the turbulent vassals who so long contended for
independence with their titular masters, weak sovereigns too often
unable to keep them in subjection. They raised the round towers and
square impregnable donjons, resisting capture in the days before siege
artillery, all of which have their gruesome history, their painful
records showing the base uses which they served, giving effect to the
wicked will of heartless, unprincipled tyrants.

Thus, as we descend the river, we come to Blois, with its spacious
castle at once formidable and palatial, stained with many blood-thirsty
deeds when vicious and unscrupulous kings held their court there.
Great personages were there imprisoned and sometimes assassinated.
At first the fief of the Counts of Blois, it later passed into the
possession of the crown and became the particular property of the
dukes of Orleans. It was the favorite residence of that duke who became
King Louis XII of France, and his second queen, Anne of Brittany. His
son, Francis I, enlarged and beautified it, and his son again, Henry
II, married a wife, Catherine de Medicis, who was long associated with
Blois and brought much evil upon it. Catherine is one of the blackest
female figures in French history; "niece of a pope, mother of four
Valois, a Queen of France, widow of an ardent enemy of the Huguenots,
an Italian Catholic, above all a Medicis," hers was a dissolute wicked
life, her hands steeped in blood, her moral character a reproach to
womankind. Her favorite device was "_odiate e aspettate_," "hate and
wait," and when she called anyone "friend" it boded ill for him; she
was already plotting his ruin. She no doubt inspired, and is to be held
responsible for the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the murder of
the Duc de Guise in this very castle of Blois was largely her doing.
It was one of the worst of the many crimes committed in the shameful
reign of her son Henry III, the contemptible king with his unnatural
affections, his effeminate love of female attire, his little dogs,
his loathsome favorites and his nauseating mockeries of holiness. His
court was a perpetual scene of intrigue, conspiracy, superstition, the
lowest vices, cowardly assassinations and murderous duels. One of the
most infamous of these was a fight between three of his particular
associates and three of the Guises, when four of the combatants were
killed.

The famous league of the "Sixteen," headed by the Duc de Guise, would
have carried Henry III back to Paris and held him there a prisoner,
but the King was resolved to strike a blow on his own behalf and
determined to kill Guise. The States General was sitting at Blois and
Guise was there taking the leading part. The famous Crillon, one of
his bravest soldiers, was invited to do the deed but refused, saying
he was a soldier and not an executioner. Then one of Henry's personal
attendants offered his services with the forty-five guards, and it was
arranged that the murder should be committed in the King's private
cabinet. Guise was summoned to an early council, but the previous
night he had been cautioned by a letter placed under his napkin. "He
would not dare," Guise wrote underneath the letter and threw it under
the table. Next morning he proceeded to the cabinet undeterred. The
King had issued daggers to his guards, saying, "Guise or I must die,"
and went to his prayers. When Guise lifted the curtain admitting him
into the cabinet one of the guards stabbed him in the breast. A fierce
struggle ensued, in which the Duke dragged his murderers round the room
before they could dispatch him. "The beast is dead, so is the poison,"
was the King's heartless remark, and he ran to tell his mother that he
was "once more master of France." This cowardly act did not serve the
King, for it stirred up the people of Paris, who vowed vengeance. Henry
at once made overtures to the Huguenots and next year fell a victim to
the knife of a fanatic monk at Saint Clou.

Blois ceased to be the seat of the Court after Henry III. Louis XIII,
when he came to the throne, imprisoned his mother Marie de Medicis
there. It was a time of great political stress when executions were
frequent, and much sympathy was felt for Marie de Medicis. A plot was
set on foot to release her from Blois. A party of friends arranged the
escape. She descended from her window by a rope ladder, accompanied
by a single waiting-woman. Many accidents supervened: there was no
carriage, the royal jewels had been overlooked, time was lost in
searching for the first and recovering the second, but at length
Marie was free to continue her criminal machinations. Her chief ally
was Gaston d'Orleans, who came eventually to live and die on his
estate at Blois. He was a cowardly, self indulgent prince but had a
remarkable daughter, Marie de Montpensier, commonly called "La Grande
Mademoiselle," who was the heroine of many stirring adventures, some of
which will be told later on.

Not far from Blois are Chambord, an ancient fortress, first transformed
into a hunting lodge and later into a magnificent palace, a perfect
wilderness of dressed stone; Chaumont, the birth-place of Cardinal
d'Amboise and at one time the property of Catherine de Medicis;
Amboise, the scene of the great Huguenot massacre of which more on a
later page; Chenonceaux, Henri II's gift to Diane de Poitiers, which
Catherine took from her, and in which Mary Queen of Scots spent a part
of her early married life; Langeais, an Angevin fortress of the middle
ages; Azay-le-Rideau, a perfect Renaissance chateau; Fontevrault, where
several Plantagenet kings found burial, and Chinon, a triple castle
now irretrievably ruined, to which Jeanne d'Arc came seeking audience
of the King, when Charles VII formally presented her with a suit of
knight's armor and girt on her the famous sword, said to have been
picked up by Charles Martel on the Field of Tours after that momentous
victory which checked the Moorish invasion, and but for which the
dominion of Islam would probably have embraced western Europe.

Two other remarkable prison castles must be mentioned here, Amboise
and Angers. The first named is still a conspicuous object in a now
peaceful neighborhood, but it offers few traces of antiquity, although
it is full of bloody traditions. Its most terrible memory is that of
the Amboise conspiracy organised by the Huguenots in 1560, and intended
to remove the young king, Francis II, from the close guardianship of
the Guises. The real leader was the Prince de Conde, known as "the
silent captain." The ostensible chief was a Protestant gentleman of
Perigord, named Renaudie, a resolute, intelligent man, stained with an
evil record, having been once sentenced and imprisoned for the crime of
forgery. He was to appear suddenly at the castle at the head of fifteen
hundred devoted followers, surprise the Guises and seize the person of
the young king. One of their accomplices, a lawyer, or according to
another account, a certain Captain Lignieres, was alarmed and betrayed
the conspirators. Preparations were secretly made for defence, Renaudie
was met with an armed force and killed on the spot, and his party made
prisoners by lots, as they appeared. All were forthwith executed,
innocent and guilty, even the peasants on their way to market. They
were hanged, decapitated or drowned. The court of the castle and the
streets of the town ran with blood until the executioners, sated with
the slaughter, took to sewing up the survivors in sacks and throwing
them into the river from the bridge garnished with gibbets, and ghastly
heads impaled on pikes. A balcony to this day known as the "Grille aux
Huguenots" still exists, on which Catherine de Medicis and her three
sons, Francis II, the reigning monarch, Charles, afterwards the ninth
king of that name, and Henry II, witnessed the massacre in full court
dress. Mary, Queen of Scots, the youthful bride of her still younger
husband, was also present. The Prince de Conde had been denounced, but
there was no positive evidence against him and he stoutly denied his
guilt, and in the presence of the whole court challenged any accuser to
single combat. No one took up the glove and he remained free until a
fresh conspiracy, stimulated by detestation of the atrocities committed
by the Guises, seriously compromised the prince. Conde was arrested at
Orleans, found guilty of treason and sentenced to death. He was saved
by the death of Francis. Mary Stuart afterward returned to Scotland to
pass through many stormy adventures and end her life on the scaffold.

The fiendish butchery just described was the last great tragedy Amboise
witnessed, but it received one or two notable prisoners as time went
on, more particularly Fouquet, the fraudulent superintendent of
finances whom Louis XIV pursued to the bitter end; and Lauzun le Beau,
the handsome courtier who flew too high "with vaulting ambition, but
fell" into the depths of a dungeon. A detailed account of both these
cases will be found in another chapter.

In quite recent years Amboise was occupied by a very different
prisoner, the intrepid Arab leader Abd-el-Kader, who after his capture
by the Duc d'Aumale in 1847, in the last Algerian war, was interred in
the heart of France in full view of the so-called "Arab camp" where his
Saracen ancestors had gone so near to enslaving Christian Europe.

Angers, once called Black Angers, from the prevailing hue of its dark
slate buildings, was the capital of Anjou and the seat of its dukes,
so nearly allied with the English Plantagenet dynasty. When Henry II
of England held his court there, Angers was reputed second only to
London in brilliancy and importance. The French king, Louis XI, after
the expulsion of the English, joined the dukedom of Anjou to the
Kingdom of France. The venerable castle, a most striking object with
its alternate bands of white stone let in between black rough slate, is
still considered from its massive proportions and perfect preservation
the finest feudal castle in France. The part overlooking the river,
which was the palace of the counts, is now in ruins, but the high tower
called Du Moulin or Du Diable, and the south tower called La Tour
Dixsept, which contains the old dungeons of the State prisons, is still
standing. The miserable fate of their sad occupants may still be noted,
and the rings to which they were chained still remain embedded in the
rocky walls and the stone floors.

[Illustration: _The Isle St. Marguerite_

One of two rocky, pine-clad islets near the shore at Cannes, and has an
ancient history. Francis I began his captivity here after the Battle of
Pavia. Marshal Bazaine was also imprisoned here. It was at one time the
prison where the mysterious "Man with the Iron Mask" was confined.]

Three famous prisons in their way were Pignerol, Exiles and the island
fortress of St. Marguerite. Pignerol was a fortified frontier town of
Piedmont, which was for some time French property, half bought and half
stolen from Italy. It stands on the lower <DW72>s of the southern Alps,
twenty miles from Turin, fifty from Nice and ninety east of Grenoble.
It was a stronghold of the princes of Savoy, capable of effective
defence, with a small red-roofed tower and many tall campaniles
gathering round an inner citadel, raised on a commanding height. This
central keep is a mass of rambling buildings with solid buttressed
walls, essentially a place of arms. Pignerol has three principal
gateways. One served for the road coming from the westward and was
called the gate of France; another from the eastward, was that of
Turin; and the third was a "safety" or "secret" gate, avoiding the
town and giving upon the citadel. This last gate was opened rarely
and only to admit a prisoner brought privately by special escort. It
was a French garrison town inhabited largely by Italians. There was a
French governor in supreme command, also a king's lieutenant who was
commandant of the citadel, and the head gaoler, who held the prison
proper; and these three officials constituted a sovereign council of
war.

Exiles was an unimportant stronghold, a fort shaped like a five pointed
star, surrounding a small chateau with two tall towers which served
as prisons. St. Marguerite is one of the Iles de Lerins, a couple of
rocky pine clad islets facing the now prosperous southern resort of
Cannes and only fifteen hundred yards from the shore. The two islands
called respectively St. Honorat and St. Marguerite have each an
ancient history. The first was named after a holy man who early in the
fifth century established a monastery of great renown, while upon the
neighboring island he struck a well which yielded a miraculous flow
of sweet water. Francis I of France began his captivity here after his
crushing defeat at the battle of Pavia. The royal fort at the eastern
end of St. Marguerite was for some time the abode of the so-called "Man
with the Iron Mask," and many scenes of the apocryphal stories of that
exploded mystery are laid here.

The island fortress became to some extent famous in our own day by
being chosen as the place of confinement for Marshal Bazaine, after his
conviction by court martial for the alleged treacherous surrender of
Metz to the Germans. As we know, he did not remain long a prisoner, his
escape having been compassed by an American friend.




CHAPTER III

VINCENNES AND THE BASTILE

    Vincennes and the Bastile--Vincennes described--Castle
    and woods--Torture--Methods and implements--_Amende
    Honorable_--Flagellation and mutilations--Notable inmates--Prince
    de Conde--Origin of the Bastile--Earliest records--Hugues
    d'Aubriot--Last English garrison--Sir John Falstaff--Frequented by
    Louis XI and Anne of Beaujeau--Charles VIII--Francis I--Persecution
    of the Huguenots--Henry II, Diane de Poitiers, and Catherine de
    Medicis--Her murderous oppressions--Bastile her favorite prison.


We come now to the two great metropolitan prisons that played so large
a part in the vexed and stormy annals of France. Vincennes and Bastile
may be said to epitomise Parisian history. They were ever closely
associated with startling episodes and notable personages, the best
and worst Frenchmen in all ages, and were incessantly the centres of
rebellions, dissensions, contentions and strife. They were both State
prisons, differing but little in character and quality. Vincennes was
essentially a place of durance for people of rank and consequence.
The Bastile took the nobility also, but with them the whole crowd of
ordinary criminals great and small. These prisons were the two weapons
forged by autocratic authority and freely used by it alike for the
oppression of the weak and down trodden, and the openly turbulent but
vainly recalcitrant. The royal relatives that dared oppose the king,
the stalwart nobles that conspired or raised the standard of revolt,
the great soldiers who dabbled in civil war, found themselves committed
to Vincennes. The same classes of offenders, but generally of lesser
degree, were thrown into the Bastile. The courtier who forgot his
manners or dared to be independent in thought or action, the bitter
poetaster and too fluent penman of scurrilous pamphlets, were certain
of a lodging at the gloomy citadel of Saint Antoine.

The castle of Vincennes was used primarily as a royal palace and
has been called the Windsor of the House of Valois. Philip IV, the
first king of that family, kept high festival there in a splendid
and luxurious court. The great edifice was of noble dimensions--both
a pleasure house and a prison, with towers and drawbridges for
defense and suites of stately apartments. It stood in the centre of
a magnificent forest, the famous Bois de Vincennes, the name often
used to describe the residence; and the crowned heads and royal
guests who constantly visited the French sovereigns hunted the deer
in the woods around, or diverted themselves with tilts or tournaments
in the courtyard of the castle. The first to use Vincennes largely
as a prison was that famous gaoler Louis XI. He did not live there
much, preferring as a residence his impregnable fortified palace at
Plessis-lez-Tours. Not satisfied with Loches, he utilised Vincennes and
kept it constantly filled. Some account of his principal victims will
be found in the narrative of succeeding reigns and the extensive use of
the various prisons made by succeeding kings.

The prison fortress of Vincennes in its palmiest days consisted of nine
great towers; and a tenth, loftier and more solid, was the Donjon, or
central keep, commonly called the Royal Domain. Two drawbridges must be
passed before entrance was gained by a steep ascent. This was barred
by three heavy doors. The last of these communicated directly with the
Donjon, being so ponderous that it could only be moved by the combined
efforts of the warder within and the sergeant of the guard without. A
steep staircase led to the cells above. The four towers had each four
stories and each story a hall forty feet long, with a cell at each
corner having three doors apiece. These doors acted one on the other.
The second barred the first and the third barred the second, and none
could be opened without knowledge of secret machinery.

The torture chamber, with all its abominable paraphernalia of "boots,"
rack, "stools" and other implements for inflicting torture, was on
the first floor. Every French prison of the olden times had its
"question" chamber to carry out the penalties and savage processes
of the French judicial code. The barbarous treatment administered in
it was not peculiar to France alone, but was practised in prisons
throughout the so-called civilised world. Torture was in general use
in French prisons till a late date and really survived till abolished
by the ill-fated Louis XVI in 1780. It may be traced back to the
ancient judicial ordeals when an accused was allowed to prove his
innocence by withstanding combat or personal attack. It was also known
as the "question" because the judge stood by during its infliction
and called upon the prisoner to answer the interrogations put to him,
when his replies, if any, were written down. The process is described
by La Bruyere as a marvellous but futile invention "quite likely to
force the physically weak to confess crimes they never committed
and yet quite as certain to favor the escape of the really guilty,
strong enough to support the application." The "question" was of two
distinct categories: one, the "preparatory" or "ordinary," an unfair
means of obtaining avowals for the still legally innocent; the other,
"preliminary" or "extraordinary," reserved for those actually condemned
to death but believed to know more than had yet been elicited. There
were many terrible varieties of torture exhibiting unlimited cruel
invention. We are familiar enough with the "rack," the "wheel," the
"thumb screw" and the "boot." Other less known forms were the "veglia"
introduced into France by the popes when the Holy See came to Avignon.
The "veglia" consisted of a small wooden stool so constructed that when
the accused sat upon it his whole weight rested on the extremity of
his spine. His sufferings soon became acute. He groaned, he shrieked
and then fainted, whereupon the punishment ceased until he came to
and was again placed on the stool. It was usual to hold a looking
glass before his eyes that his distorted features might frighten him
into confession. The "estrapade," like the "veglia," was borrowed
from Italy. By this the torture was applied with a rope and pulley by
which the patient was suspended over a slow fire and slowly roasted,
being alternately lifted and let down so as to prolong his sufferings.
Elsewhere in France fire was applied to the soles of the feet or a
blade was introduced between the nail and the flesh of finger or toe.
Sometimes sulphur matches or tow was inserted between the fingers and
ignited.

In the chief French prisons the "question" was generally limited to the
two best known tortures: swallowing great quantities of water and the
insertion of the legs within a casing or "boot" of wood or iron. For
the first, the accused was chained to the floor and filled with water
poured down his throat by means of a funnel. In the "ordinary question"
four "cans"--pints, presumably--of water were administered, and for
the "extraordinary" eight cans. From a report of the proceedings
in the case of a priest accused of sacrilege, who had been already
sentenced to death but whose punishment was accentuated by torture, it
is possible to realise the sufferings endured. After the first can the
victim cried "May God have mercy on me;" at the second he declared, "I
know nothing and I am ready to die;" at the third he was silent, but at
the fourth he declared he could support it no longer and that if they
would release him he would tell the truth. Then he changed his mind
and refused to speak, declaring that he had told all he knew and was
forthwith subjected to the "extraordinary question." At the fifth can
he called upon God twice. At the sixth he said, "I am dying, I can hold
out no longer, I have told all." At the seventh he said nothing. At
the eighth he screamed out that he was dying and lapsed into complete
silence. Now the surgeon interfered, saying that further treatment
would endanger his life, and he was unbound and placed on a mattress
near the fire. He appears to have made no revelations and was in due
course borne off to the place of execution.

The torture of the "boot" was applied by inserting the legs in an iron
apparatus which fitted closely but was gradually tightened by the
introduction of wedges driven home within the fastenings. The pain was
intense and became intolerable as the wedge was driven farther and
farther down between the knee and the iron casing by repeated blows of
the mallet. The "boot" was better known in France as the _brodequin_
or _buskin_. In England some modification of it was introduced by one
Skeffington, a keeper in the Tower, and this gave it the nickname of
"Skeffington's gyves" which was corrupted into the words "scavenger's
daughters."

It was sometimes shown that the torture had been applied to perfectly
innocent people. The operation was performed with a certain amount
of care. One of the master surgeons of the prison was always present
to watch the effect upon the patient and to offer him advice. The
"questioner" was a sworn official who was paid a regular salary, about
one hundred francs a year.

Of the secondary punishments, those less than death, there was the
_amende honorable_, a public reparation made by degrading exposure with
a rope round the neck, sometimes by standing at the door of a church,
sometimes by being led through the streets seated on a donkey with face
towards the tail. The culprit was often stripped naked to the waist and
flogged on the back as he stood or was borne away. Blasphemy, sacrilege
and heresy were punished by the exaction of the _amende honorable_. An
old King of France was subjected to it by his revolted sons. A reigning
prince, the Count of Toulouse, who was implicated in the assassination
of a papal legate concerned in judging the _religieuses_, was brought
with every mark of ignominy before an assemblage at the door of a
church. Three archers, who had violated a church sanctuary and dragged
forth two fugitive thieves, were sentenced on the demand of the clergy
to make the _amende_ at the church door arrayed in petticoats and
bearing candles in their hands.

Flagellation was a cruel and humiliating punishment, largely used
under degrading conditions and with various kinds of instruments.
Mutilation was employed in every variety; not a single part of the body
has escaped some penalties. There were many forms of wounding the eyes
and the mouth; tongue, ears, teeth, arms, hands and feet have been
attacked with fire and weapons of every kind. To slice off the nose,
crop the ears, amputate the wrist, draw the teeth, cut off the lower
limbs, were acts constantly decreed. Branding with red hot irons on
the brow, cheeks, lips and shoulders, kept the executioner busy with
such offenses as blasphemy, petty thefts and even duelling. The effects
served to inhibit like offenses, but the punishment was in no sense a
preventive or corrective.

Prisoners were generally received at Vincennes in the dead of night,
a natural sequel to secret unexplained arrests, too often the result
of jealousy or caprice or savage ill-will. The ceremony on arrival was
much the same as that which still obtains. A close search from head to
foot, the deprivation of all papers, cash and valuables, executed under
the eyes of the governor himself. The new arrival was then conducted
to his lodging, generally a foul den barely furnished with bedstead,
wooden table and a couple of rush-bottomed chairs. The first mandate
issued was that strict silence was the invariable rule. Arbitrary and
irksome rules governed the whole course of procedure and daily conduct.
The smallest privileges depended entirely upon the order of superior
authority. Books or writing materials were issued or forbidden as the
gaoler, the king's minister, or the king himself might decide. Dietary
was fixed by regulation and each prisoner's maintenance paid out of the
king's bounty on a regular scale according to the rank and quality of
the captive. The allowance for princes of the blood was $10 per diem,
for marshals of France $7.50, for judges, priests and captains in the
army or officials of good standing about $2, and for lesser persons
fifty cents. These amounts were ample, but pilfering and peculation
were the general rule. The money was diverted from the use intended,
articles were issued in kind and food and fuel were shamelessly stolen.
Prisoners who were not allowed to supply themselves, were often half
starved and half frozen in their cells. So inferior was the quality of
the prison rations, that those who purloined food could not sell it
in the neighborhood and the peasants said that all that came from the
Donjon was rotten. In sharp contrast was the revelry and rioting in
which prisoners of high station were permitted to indulge. These were
attended by their own servants and constantly visited by their personal
friends of both sexes. An amusing sidelight on the regime of Vincennes
may be read in the account of the arrest of the great Prince de Conde,
during the Fronde, and his two confederate princes, the Prince de
Conti, his brother, and the Duc de Longueville, his brother-in-law. No
preparations had been made for their reception, but Conde, a soldier
and an old campaigner, supped on some new-laid eggs and slept on a
bundle of straw. Next morning he played tennis and shuttle-cock with
the turnkeys, sang songs and began seriously to learn music. A strip
of garden ground, part of the great court, surrounding the prison,
where the prisoners exercised, was given to Conde to cultivate and he
raised pinks which were the admiration of all Paris. He poked fun at
the Governor and when the latter threatened him for breach of rule,
proposed to strangle him. This is clearly the same Conde who nicknamed
Cardinal Mazarin, "Mars," when his eminence aspired to lead an army,
and when he wrote him a letter addressed it to "His Excellency, the
Great Scoundrel."

Prison discipline must have been slack in Vincennes, nor could
innumerable locks and ponderous chains make up for the careless guard
kept by its gaolers. Many escapes were effected from Vincennes, more
creditable to the ingenuity and determination of the fugitives than to
the vigilance and integrity of those charged with their safe custody.

Antiquarian researches connect the Bastile in its beginning with the
fortifications hastily thrown up by the Parisians in the middle of the
fourteenth century to defend the outskirts of the city upon the right
bank of the river. The walls built by Philip Augustus one hundred and
fifty years earlier were by this time in a ruinous condition. The
English invasion had prospered, and after the battle of Poitiers the
chief authority in the capital, Etienne Marcel, the provost of the
merchants, felt bound to protect Paris. An important work was added
at the eastern entrance of the city, and the gateway was flanked by a
tower on either side. Marcel was in secret correspondence with the then
King of Navarre, who aspired to the throne of France, and would have
admitted him to Paris through this gateway, but was not permitted to
open it. The infuriated populace attacked him as he stood with the keys
in his hand, and although he sought asylum in one of the towers he was
struck down with an axe and slain.

This first fortified gate was known as the Bastile of St. Antoine.
The first use of the word "Bastile," which is said to have been of
Roman origin, was applied to the temporary forts raised to cover
siege works and isolate and cut off a beleaguered city from relief or
revictualment. The construction of a second and third fortress was
undertaken some years later, in 1370, when the first stone of the
real Bastile was laid. Another provost, Hugues Aubriot by name, had
authority from Charles V to rebuild and strengthen the defences, and
was supplied by the king with moneys for the purpose. Aubriot appears
to have added two towers to the gateway, and this made the Bastile into
a square fort with a tower at each angle. This provost was high-handed
and ruled Paris with a rod of iron, making many enemies, who turned on
him. He offended the ever turbulent students of the University and was
heavily fined for interfering with their rights. To raise money for the
king, he imposed fresh taxes, and was accused of unlawful commerce with
the Jews, for which he was handed over to the ecclesiastical tribunal
and condemned to be burnt to death. This sentence was, however,
commuted to perpetual imprisonment, and tradition has it that he was
confined in one of the towers he had himself erected. The historian
compares his sad fate with that of other designers of punishment, such
as the Greek who invented the brazen bull and was the first to be burnt
inside it, or Enguerrand de Marigny, who was hung on his own gibbet of
Montfaucon, and the Bishop Haraucourt of Verdun, who was confined in
his own iron cage.

Hugues Aubriot was presently transferred from the Bastile to
For-l'Eveque prison where he was languishing at the time of the
insurrection of the Maillotins. These men rose against the imposition
of fresh taxes and armed themselves with leaden mallets which they
seized in the arsenal. A leader failing them, they forcibly released
Hugues Aubriot and begged him to be their captain, escorting him in
triumph to his house. But the ex-provost pined for peace and quiet and
slipped away at the first chance. He was a native of Dijon in Burgundy
and he escaped thither to die in obscurity the following year.

Charles VI enlarged and extended the Bastile by adding four more towers
and giving it the plan of a parallelogram, and it remained with but few
modifications practically the same when captured by the revolutionists
in 1789. The fortress now consisted of eight towers, each a hundred
feet high and with a wall connecting them, nine feet thick. Four of
these towers looked inwards facing the city, four outwards over the
suburb of St. Antoine. A great ditch, twenty-five feet deep and one
hundred and twenty feet wide, was dug to surround it. The road which
had hitherto passed through it was diverted, the gateway blocked up
and a new passage constructed to the left of the fortress. The Bastile
proper ceased to be one of the entrances of Paris and that of the Porte
St. Antoine was substituted. Admission to the fortress was gained at
the end opposite the rue St. Antoine between the two towers named the
Baziniere and Comte overlooking the Seine. On the ground floor of
the former was the reception ward, as we should call it, a detailed
account of which is preserved in the old archives. The first room was
the porter's lodge with a guard bed and other pieces of furniture of
significant purpose; two ponderous iron bars fixed in the wall, with
iron chains affixed ending in fetters for hands and feet, and an iron
collar for the neck; the avowed object of all being to put a man in
"Gehenna," the ancient prison euphemism for hell. A four-wheeled iron
chariot is also mentioned, no doubt for the red hot coals to be used in
inflicting torture, the other implements for which were kept in this
chamber. The tower of the Comte was like the rest, of four stories, and
became chiefly interesting for the escapes effected from it by Latude
and D'Allegre in later years.

All the towers of the Bastile received distinctive names derived from
the chance associations of some well-known personage or from the
purpose to which they were applied. These names became the official
designation of their occupants, who were entered in the books as "No.
so and so" of "such and such a tower." Personal identity was soon lost
in the Bastile. If we made the circuit of the walls, starting from
the Baziniere Tower first described, we should come to that of La
Bertaudiere in the facade above the rue St. Antoine and overlooking
the city, the third floor of which was the last resting place of that
mysterious prisoner, the Man with the Iron Mask. Next came the tower of
Liberty, a name supposed by some to have originated in some saturnine
jest, by others to have been the scene of successful escape, although
attempts were usually made on the other side of the Bastile which
overlooked the open country. The tower of the Well (Du Puits) had an
obvious derivation.

At the north-east angle was the Corner Tower, so called, no doubt,
because it was situated at the corner of the street and the Boulevard
St. Antoine. Next came the Chapel Tower, from its neighborhood to the
old Chapel of the Bastile. This at one time took rank as the noble
quarter of the fortress and was called the "Donjon"--for in the time
of the English domination the king's chamber and that of the "captain"
were situated in this tower. In later days the Chapel Tower had
accommodation for only three occupants, two on the second and one on
the third floor, the first floor being used as a store house. Next came
the Treasure Tower, a title which referred back to a very early date,
as witness receipts in existence for moneys paid over to the king's
controller-general of finances. In the reign of Henry IV, a prudent
monarch with a thrifty minister, the ever faithful and famous Duke de
Sully, large sums were deposited in this tower as a reserve for the
enterprises he contemplated. The money was soon expended after Henry's
assassination, in wasteful extravagances and civil wars. It is of
record that after payment of all current expenses of State, the surplus
collected by Sully in the Bastile amounted to 41,345,000 livres or
upwards of 120,000,000 francs, or $25,000,000. On reaching the eighth,
or last tower, that of the Comte, we return to the northernmost side of
the great gate already spoken of.

Speaking generally, all these towers were of four stories, with an
underground basement each containing a number of dens and dungeons of
the most gloomy and horrible character. The stone walls were constantly
dripping water upon the slimy floor which swarmed with vermin, rats,
toads and newts. Scanty light entered through narrow slits in the wall
on the side of the ditch, and a small allowance of air, always foul
with unwholesome exhalations. Iron bedsteads with a thin layer of dirty
straw were the sole resting places of the miserable inmates. The fourth
or topmost floors were even more dark than the basement. These, the
Calottes, or "skull caps," (familiar to us as the head-dress of the
tonsured priests) were cagelike in form with low, vaulted roofs, so
that no one might stand upright within save in the very centre of the
room. They were barely lighted by narrow windows that gave no prospect,
from the thickness of the walls and the plentiful provision of iron
gratings having bars as thick as a man's arms.

The fortress stood isolated in the centre of its own deep ditch, which
was encircled by a narrow gallery serving as a _chemin-des-rondes_, the
sentinel's and watchman's beat. This was reached by narrow staircases
from the lower level of the interior and there were sentry boxes at
intervals for the guards. North of the Bastile, beyond the main prison
structure, but included in the general line of fortifications, was
the Bastion, used as a terrace and exercising ground for privileged
prisoners. In later years permission was accorded to the governors
to grow vegetables upon this open space and fruit gardens were in
full bearing upon the final demolition of the Bastile. The privilege
conceded to the governor in this garden became a grievance of the
prisoners, for it was let to a contractor who claimed that when the
prisoners frequented it for exercise damage was done to the growing
produce, and by a royal decree all prisoners were forbidden henceforth
to enter this space.

The Bastile was for the first two centuries of its history essentially
a military stronghold serving, principally, as a defensive work, and
of great value to its possessors for the time being. Whoever held
the Bastile over-awed Paris and was in a sense the master of France.
In the unceasing strife of parties it passed perpetually from hand
to hand and it would be wearisome to follow the many changes in its
ownership. In the long wars between the Armagnacs and the Burgundians,
the latter seized Paris in the reign of the half-witted Charles V, but
the Armagnacs held the Bastile and the person of the king's eldest
son, whose life was eventually saved by this seclusion. This dauphin
came afterwards to the throne through the help of the English king,
Henry V, who married his daughter Catherine and was appointed Regent of
France. Under this regime Paris was occupied for a time by an English
garrison. When at length the rival factions in France made common
cause against the intrusive strangers the French re-entered Paris and
the English were forced to retire into the Bastile, where they were
so closely besieged that they presently offered to capitulate. The
fortress was greatly over-crowded, supplies ran short and there was no
hope of relief. The Constable of France, Richemont, was master of the
situation outside, and at first refused terms, hoping to extort a large
ransom, but the people of Paris, eager to be rid of the foreigners,
advised him to accept their surrender and to allow the English garrison
to march out with colors flying. It was feared that the people of Paris
would massacre them as they passed through the streets and they were
led by a circuitous route to the river where, amidst the hoots and
hisses of a large crowd, they embarked in boats and dropped down the
river to Rouen.

It is interesting to note here that one of the English governors of the
Bastile was a certain Sir John Falstaff, not Shakespeare's Sir John but
a very different person, a stalwart knight of unblemished character,
great judgment and approved prowess. He was a soldier utterly unlike
the drunken, and disreputable "Jack Falstaff," with his unconquerable
weakness for sack, who only fought men in buckram. The real Sir John
Falstaff was careful to maintain his charge safely, strengthening the
fortress at all points, arming and victualling it and handing it over
in good order to his successor, Lord Willoughby d'Eresby. History has
to record other good things of Sir John Falstaff, who is remembered
as a patron of letters, who paid a price for the translation of
Cicero's "De Senectute," who endowed Magdalen College, Oxford, with
much valuable property and whose name is still commemorated among the
founders of the College in the anniversary speech. He was a Knight of
the Garter, held many superior commands and died full of honors at the
advanced age of eighty. Lord Willoughby was governor at the time of the
surrender. He withdrew in safety and evidently in good heart for he won
a victory over the French at Amiens after his retreat.

After the exodus of the English and with the accession of Louis XI, the
two State prisons of Paris were very fully and constantly occupied.
The chief episodes in the checkered history of France, conspiracies,
revolts and disturbances, were written in the prison registers and
their records are a running commentary upon the principal events of
French history. The personal qualities of the rulers, their quarrels
with their great subjects, the vindictive policies they followed, their
oppression of, and cruelty to the people, may be read in the annals of
Vincennes and the Bastile. By taking the reigns seriatim and examining
the character of the sovereigns, we shall best realise passing events
and those who acted in them.

Let us take up the story with Louis XI to whom some reference has
already been made. Some of his victims, the prisoners of Loches and the
Comte de Saint Pol have figured on an earlier page. To these we may add
the story of the two Armagnacs, Jacques and Charles. Charles, although
wholly innocent, was arrested and imprisoned because his brother
Jacques had revolted against the king. Charles d'Armagnac was first
tortured horribly, then thrown into one of the cages of the Bastile,
which he inhabited for fourteen years and when released was found to be
bereft of reason. Jacques, better known as the Duc de Nemours, had been
the boy friend and companion of Louis, who lavished many favors on him
which he repaid by conspiring against the royal authority. When orders
were issued for his arrest he withdrew to his own castle, Carlet,
hitherto deemed impregnable. It succumbed, however, when besieged in
due form, and the Duke was taken prisoner. He had given himself up
on a promise that his life would be spared, but he received no mercy
from his offended king. His first prison was Pierre-Encise, in which
his hair turned grey in a few nights. Thence he was transferred to a
cage in the Bastile. The minute instructions were issued by the King
as to this prisoner's treatment, and in a letter it was directed that
he should never be permitted to leave his cage or to have his fetters
removed or to go to mass. He was only to be taken out to be tortured,
in the cruel desire to extort an avowal that he had intended to kill
the King and set up the Dauphin in his place. The Duke made a piteous
appeal, signing himself "Pauvre Jacques," but he was sent for trial
before the Parliament in a packed court from which the peers were
absent. He was condemned to death and executed, according to Voltaire,
under the most revolting circumstances. It is fair to add that no other
historian reports these atrocities. It is said that the scaffold on
which he suffered was so constructed that his children, the youngest
of whom was only five, were placed beneath clad in white and were
splashed with the blood from his severed head that dropped through the
openings of the planks. After this fearful tragedy these infants were
carried back to the Bastile and imprisoned there in a narrow cell for
five years. Other records, possibly also apocryphal, are preserved of
additional torments inflicted on the Armagnac princes. It is asserted
that they were taken out of their cells twice weekly to be flogged in
the presence of the governor and to have a tooth extracted every three
months.

The character of Louis XI shows black and forbidding in history. His
tireless duplicity was matched by his distrustfulness and insatiable
curiosity. He braved all dangers to penetrate the secrets of others,
risked his own life, spent gold, wasted strength, used the matchless
cunning of a red Indian, betrayed confidences and lied to all the
world. Yet he was gifted with keen insight into human nature. No one
knew better than he the strength and weakness of his fellow creatures.
Withal, France has had worse rulers. He may be credited with a desire
to raise and help the common people. He saw that in their industry and
contentment the wealth of the kingdom chiefly lay and looked forward
to the day when settled government would be assured. "If I live a
little longer," he told Comines the historian, "there shall be only
one weight, one measure, one law for the kingdom. We will have no more
lawyers cheating and pilfering, lawsuits shall be shortened, and there
shall be good police in the country." These dreams were never realised;
but at least, Louis was not a libertine and the slave of selfish
indulgence, the most vicious in a vicious court, ever showing an evil
example and encouraging dissolute manners and shameless immorality, as
were many of those who came after him.

Although the Salic law shut the female sex out of the succession to
the throne, supreme power was frequently wielded by women in France.
One of the earliest instances of this was in the steps taken by Louis
XI to provide for the government during the minority of his son, who
succeeded as Charles IX. The King's daughter, Anne de Beaujeu, was
named regent by her father, who had a high opinion of her abilities
and considered her "the least foolish of her sex he had met; not the
wisest, for there are no sensible women." She was in truth possessed
of remarkable talents and great strength of character, having much of
her father's shrewdness and being even less unscrupulous. But she ruled
with a high hand and her young brother submitted himself entirely to
her influence. She felt it her duty to make an example of the evil
counsellors upon whom Louis had so much relied. Oliver le Daim, the
ex-barber who had been created Comte de Meulan, was hanged, and his
estates confiscated; Doyat, chief spy and informer, was flogged and
his tongue pierced with a hot iron; Coictier, the King's doctor, who
had wielded too much authority, was fined heavily and sent into exile.
Anne's brother-in-law, the Duc d'Orleans, afterwards King Louis XII,
had expected the regency and rebelled, but she put him down with a
strong hand, destroyed the insurgent forces that he gathered around
him, and made him a close prisoner in the great tower of Bourges,
where he endured the usual penalties,--confinement in a narrow,
low-roofed cell by day and removal to the conventional iron cage at
night. Better fortune came to him in a few short years, for by the
death of the Dauphin, only son of Charles VIII, Louis became next
heir to the throne, and ascended it on the sudden death of the King
from an accident in striking his head against the low archway of a
dark corridor. He succeeded also to the King's bed, for in due course
he married his widow, Anne of Brittany, another woman of forcible
character, on whom he often relied, sometimes too greatly.

The reign of Charles VIII and Louis brought military glory and a great
increase of territory to France. The records of generally successful
external war rather than internal dissensions fill the history of the
time and we look in vain for lengthy accounts of prisoners relegated
to the State prisons. With the accession of Francis I another epoch
of conflict arrived and was general throughout Europe, involving all
the great nations. It was the age of chivalry, when knights carried
fortunes on their backs and the most lavish outlay added to the "pomp
and circumstance" of war. "The Field of the Cloth of Gold" remains as
a landmark in history, when kings vied with each other in extravagant
ostentation and proposed to settle their differences by personal
combat. The reign was brilliant with achievement abroad, but at home
the people suffered much misery and Francis kept his prisons filled.
Some great personages fell under his displeasure and were committed to
the Bastile; notably, Montmorency, Constable of France, and Chabot,
Admiral of France. These two, once school companions of the King,
became bitter rivals and the Constable persuaded the King to try the
Admiral on a charge of embezzlement. Francis, jealous of Chabot,
readily accepted the accusation, and sent him to the Bastile, where the
most flagrant violations of justice were used to secure conviction. He
escaped with fines and banishment; and the next year the fickle monarch
forgave him and released him from durance. He had been so sorely tried
by his imprisonment that no doctor could restore him to health. The
Chancellor, Poyet, who had framed the indictment, next found himself
in the Bastile, suspected of being in the possession of important
State secrets. The King himself appeared as the witness against him
and although the charges were vague, he was sentenced to fine and
confiscation of property.

[Illustration: _Castle St. Andre, Avignon_

Fortress and prison used by the popes when Avignon was the papal
residence, in the fourteenth century. Avignon remained the property
of the popes after their return to Rome, until its annexation by the
French in 1791.]

The persecution of the Huguenots began in the reign of Francis I, who
from the first declared himself on the side of the Pope. Protestantism
as preached by Martin Luther took another form in France, and the
Geneva doctrines of Calvin, which went much further, were followed.
Calvin, it may be said here, rejected the Episcopate which Luther had
retained. He recognised only two sacraments,--Baptism and the Last
Supper, and desired his disciples to imitate the early Christians in
the austerity of their morals. The French Protestants were styled
Calvinists and more generally Huguenots, a name taken from the German
word, "_Eidgenossen_," or "confederates." Calvinism made slow progress
in France although it numbered amongst its adherents some of the
best heads in the nation, men of letters, savants, great lawyers and
members of the highest aristocracy. They were persecuted pitilessly. In
1559 Berquin, a king's councillor, a man of much learning, was burned
alive in Paris and many shared his fate as martyrs to the new faith
in the great cities such as Lyons, Toulouse, and Marseilles. The most
horrible atrocities were perpetrated against the Vaudois, a simple,
loyal population residing in the towns and villages around Avignon and
on the borders of the Durance. Two fanatical prelates of the Guise
family, the Cardinal de Tournon and the Cardinal de Lorraine, headed
the movement in the course of which 3,000 persons were massacred,--men,
women and children, and any who escaped were condemned to the galleys
for life. Nevertheless the reformed religion gained ground steadily.
The new ideas appealed to the people despite opposition. Neither
persecution, nor the threats fulminated by the Council of Trent, nor
the energies of the new order of Jesuits, could stamp out the new
faith; and religious intolerance, backed by the strong arm of the
Church was destined to deluge France with bloodshed in the coming
centuries.

Henry II, who followed his father Francis on the throne, redoubled the
persecution which was stained with incessant and abominable cruelties.
The ordinary process of law was set aside in dealing with the Huguenots
who were brought under ecclesiastical jurisdiction. An edict published
in 1555, enjoined all governors and officers of justice to punish
without delay, without examination and without appeal, all heretics
condemned by the judges. The civil judge was no longer anything but the
passive executant of the sentences of the Church. The Parliament of
Paris protested, but the King turned a deaf ear to these remonstrances
and summoned a general meeting of all the Parliaments, which he
attended in person and where he heard some home truths. One of the most
outspoken was a great nobleman, one Anne Du Bourg, who defended the
Protestants, declaring that they were condemned to cruel punishment
while heinous criminals altogether escaped retribution. Du Bourg and
another, Dufaure, were arrested and were conveyed to the Bastile
where they were soon joined by other members of the Parliament. After
many delays Du Bourg was brought to trial, convicted and sentenced
to be burnt to death. "It is the intention of the Court," so ran the
judgment, "that the said Du Bourg shall in no wise feel the fire, and
that before it be lighted and he is cast therein he shall be strangled,
yet if he should wish to dogmatise and indulge in any remarks he shall
be gagged so as to avoid scandal." He was executed on the Place de la
Greve on the top of a high gallows under which a fire was lighted to
receive the dead body when it fell.

Henry II had been a weak and self-indulgent king. Ostentatious and
extravagant, he wasted large sums in the expenses of his court and
lavished rich gifts on his creatures, a course which emptied the
treasury and entailed burdensome taxation. He was entirely under the
thumb of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, a cold-blooded, selfish
creature, who ruled him and the country with unquestioned supremacy,
before whom even the lawful queen, Catherine de Medicis, humiliated
herself and paid abject court. The King's ministers, the Constable
Montmorency and the Duc de Guise, were at first rivals in power with
Diane, but soon joined with her in riding roughshod over the country,
and in bestowing all good things, places, governments and profitable
charges on their friends and creatures. Foreign adventure, external
wars, famine and pestilence constantly impoverished France. The people
rose frequently in insurrection and were always suppressed with
sanguinary cruelty. Constable Montmorency, above mentioned, dealt so
severely with Bordeaux, that in a short space of time no fewer than
four hundred persons were beheaded, burned, torn asunder by wild horses
or broken on the wheel.

A prominent figure of those days was Mary Stuart, better known as Mary,
Queen of Scots, that fascinating woman who was "a politician at ten
years old and at fifteen governed the court." She was the child-wife of
Francis II, who unexpectedly came to the throne on the sudden death by
mischance of Henry II at a tournament held in front of the Bastile. He
had challenged Montgomery, an officer of the Scottish Guard, to break a
lance with him and in the encounter a splinter entered Henry's eye and
penetrated to the brain.

The tragic death of Francis II was another of those instances in which
the Salic Law was evaded and a woman held supreme power. Catherine
de Medicis has already appeared on the scene in the sanguinary
suppression of the conspiracy of Amboise. This was only one of the
atrocities that stained her long tenure of power as Regent of France
during the minority of her son Charles IX. Her character has been
already indicated. Evil was ever in the ascendant with her and in
her stormy career she exhibited the most profound cunning, a rare
fertility of resource, and the finished diplomacy of one trained in
the Machiavellian school. She was double-faced and deceitful beyond
measure. Now the ally of one political party, now of the other, she
betrayed both. She even affected sympathy at times with the Protestants
and often wept bitter crocodile tears over their sufferings. For a
time liberty of conscience was conceded to the Huguenots but Catherine
desired always to conciliate the Catholics and concerted measures with
Philip of Spain to bring about a new persecution. A fresh conflict
ensued in which successes were gained on both sides, but the Huguenots
showed so firm a front that peace could not be denied them. They were
always prepared to rise, offering a hydra-headed resistance that might
be scotched but could not be killed. To crush them utterly Catherine
planned the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew, in which the Admiral Coligny
and 10,000 Protestants were murdered in Paris alone and 30,000 more
in the provinces. This ineffaceable crime to which Charles IX had
weakly consented, seemed to paralyse the Huguenot cause and many of
their principal leaders abjured the new faith. Charles IX, tortured by
remorse, constantly haunted by superstitious terrors, rapidly succumbed
to wasting disease and died penitent, acknowledging his guilt.

Some time previously Henri d'Anjou had been elected King of Poland
and on his departure, efforts were made to secure the succession for
his younger brother, the Duc d'Alencon, who was to own himself the
protector of the Huguenots. The plot failed and served only to fill the
prisons of Vincennes and Bastile. Montgomery, the Huguenot leader, was
implicated. He had surrendered on a vague promise of safe conduct which
ended in his torture to compel confession of complicity in the plot. He
was on the point of being secretly strangled when Catherine de Medicis,
who had gone to the Bastile to be present at his execution, suddenly
changed her mind and set the surprised prisoner free.

Another class was committed to the Bastile by Catherine de Medicis. She
waged war constantly against coiners and issuers of false money; their
chief ringleader was sent to the Bastile with special instructions
for his "treatment." He was transferred secretly to Paris from Rouen
and shut up alone in an especially private place where no news could
be had of him. This order was signed by Catherine herself. Next year
(1555) a defaulting finance officer was committed and the lieutenant
of the Bastile was ordered to forbid him to speak to a soul or write
or give any hint where he was. Again, a Gascon gentleman, named Du
Mesnil, was taken in the act of robbing and murdering a courier on his
way to Italy, the bearer of 30,000 crowns worth of pearls. Du Mesnil's
accomplices, two simple soldiers, were hanged at the Halles but he
himself was sent to the Bastile and recommended to its governor for
"good discipline." This prisoner seems to have preferred liberty to
the favor shown him, such as it was, for in November, 1583, he made
a desperate attempt to escape. The account given by L'Estoile in his
memoirs, is that Du Mesnil, weary of his close confinement, burned down
the door of his cell, got out, became possessed of a rope from the well
in the court, climbed to the top of the terrace (the Bastion), fastened
his rope through an artillery wheel and lowered himself into the ditch.
The rope had been lengthened by another made from his sheets and
bedding, but it was still too short to reach the bottom, and letting
himself fall he was caught on a window below and making outcry was
recaptured and re-imprisoned. A more distinguished prisoner was Bernard
Palissy, the famous potter who was committed to gaol as a Protestant
and died in the Bastile in 1590 when eighty years of age. L'Estoile
tells us that Palissy at his death bequeathed him two stones, one of
them, part of a petrified skull which he accounted a philosopher's
stone, the other, a stone he had himself manufactured. "I have them
still," says L'Estoile, "carefully preserved in my cabinet for the sake
of the good old man whom I loved and relieved in his necessity,--not as
much as I could have wished, but to the full extent of my power."

When Henry III assassinated the Duc de Guise at Blois, Paris took it
greatly to heart and swore vengeance. The "Sixteen" held the Bastile,
and its governor, Bussy-Leclerc, an ex-fencing master, sought to coerce
the Parliament, seizing at once upon all with royalist leanings and
driving them into the Bastile. President Auguste de Thou was arrested
and with him his wife, who is said to have been the first female
occupant of this prison. Now the King, in despair, turned to the
Huguenots and formed an alliance with Henry of Navarre. The two kings
joined forces to recover Paris and the Parisians, alarmed, feeling they
could not make long resistance, accepted the worst. Some said there
would be a second St. Bartholomew, for the "Leaguers" and the Royalists
boasted that so many should be hanged that the wood for gibbets would
run short. But the situation suddenly changed, for Henry III was
unexpectedly assassinated by a fanatical monk, Clement, in the very
heart of the royal apartments.




CHAPTER IV

THE RISE OF RICHELIEU

    Early governors of the Bastile--Frequent changes--Day of
    Barricades--Conspiracy of Biron--Assassination of Henry
    IV--Ravaillac--Barbarous sentence--Marie de Medicis left
    Regent--Story of the Concinis--Rise of Richelieu--Gifts and
    character--His large employment of the State prisons--Duelling
    prohibited--The Day of Dupes--Triumph over his enemies--Fall of
    Marie de Medicis--Marechal Bassompierre--His prolonged imprisonment.


We may pause a moment at this stage to give some attention to a few of
the more prominent governors of the Bastile, appointed by each side in
turn during the long conflicts of the opposing parties. Antoine d'Ivyer
was the first after the English, as captain under the supreme command
of Duke Charles of Bourbon. One Cissey, after fifteen years' tenure in
the Bastile, was succeeded by La Rochette, he by De Melun, he by De
Chauvigny, and the last by Phillip Luillier, who enjoyed the confidence
of Louis XI and was personally in charge of the bishops and dukes who
have been mentioned. He was the last of the royal functionaries, the
court officials other than military men who acted as gaolers. Only in
the troublous times of the League and later of the Fronde, when the
possession of the Bastile meant so much to the existing regime, was the
fortress entrusted to the strong hands of soldiers and men of action
equal to any emergency. After Luillier the charge was considered equal
to a provincial government and those entrusted with it were some of
the most considerable persons in the State, constables or ministers
who ruled by lieutenant or deputy and kept only the title and dignity
of the office. It was long deemed hereditary in certain great families
and descended from father to son, as with the Montmorencys. The head
of that house, William, in 1504, was succeeded by his son, Anne, a
Pluralist, at the same time governor of Paris and captain of the castle
of Vincennes. Francis, a marshal of France, son of the last-named,
was a third Montmorency governor. Much later the post was held by
successive members of the family of Admiral Coligny, and some of the
governors were very eminent persons, such as Chateauneuf, the Duc de
Luynes, Marechal Bassompierre and Sully, the celebrated minister of
Henry IV, whose memoirs have been widely read and were the inspiration
of the English novelist, Stanley Weyman.

The Bastile often changed hands. When Henry of Guise made himself
master of Paris after the "Battle," or "Day of the Barricades," Laurent
Testu was governor or king's lieutenant of the Bastile; but after
the second day's fighting, when summoned to surrender, he obeyed
and opened the gates. The Duc de Guise then gave the governorship to
one Bussy-Leclerc, a devoted adherent, but of indifferent character,
who had been a procureur of the Parliament and a fencing master.
He had a large following of bullies and cut-throats. The prisoners
in the Bastile were quite at his mercy and he ruled with a rough,
reckless hand, inflicting all manner of cruelties in order to
extort money,--squeezing the rich and torturing the poor. After the
assassination of Henry of Guise at Blois, he planned reprisals against
Henry III and sought to intimidate the Parliament, which would have
made submission to the King, by making its members prisoners in the
Bastile. Leclerc's excesses roused Paris against him, and the Duc de
Mayenne, now the head of the League, threatened the Bastile. Leclerc,
in abject terror, at once surrendered on condition that he might retire
from the capital to Brussels with the plunder he had acquired. Dubourg
l'Espinasse, a brave, honorable soldier, was appointed to the Bastile
by the Duc de Mayenne, in succession to Leclerc and defended it stoutly
against Henry of Navarre, now King Henry IV, after the assassination
of his predecessor. Dubourg declared that he knew no king of France
but the Duc de Mayenne, and on being told that Henry was master of
Paris, said, "Good, but I am master of the Bastile!" He at length
agreed to yield up the fortress to the Duke, who had entrusted him
with the command, and finally marched out with all the honors of war,
gaining great credit from the King for his staunch and loyal conduct
to his superiors. The text of the capitulation has been preserved and
its quaint phraseology may be transcribed. The commandant promised to
hand over to the king, "on Sunday at three in the afternoon the said
Bastile, its artillery and munitions of war. In return for which the
King will permit the garrison to march out with arms, horses, furniture
and all belongings. The troops will issue by one gate with drums
beating, matches lighted and balls" (for loading).

It is recorded of Henry IV by the historian Maquet, that he was the
king who least abused the Bastile. It is due this sovereign to say
that the prisoners confined in it during his reign were duly tried
and condemned by Parliament and that from his accession the fortress
lost its exceptional character and became an ordinary prison. Sully
was appointed governor and received a letter of appointment in which
the King announced that he relied more than ever upon his loyalty and
had decided to make him captain of the Bastile: "so that if I should
have any birds to put in the cage and hold tight I can rely upon your
foresight, diligence and loyalty." Few prisoners were committed to the
Bastile in this reign, but all imprisoned were notably traitors. Such
was Charles, Marechal de Biron, the restless and unstable subject who
conspired more than once against the King, by whom at one time he had
been exceedingly favored. Henry IV was greatly attached to Biron. "I
never loved anyone as I loved Biron," he said. "I could have confided
my son and my kingdom to him." For a time Biron served him well, yet
he, too, entered into a dangerous conspiracy with the King of Spain,
the Duke of Savoy and the King's disloyal subjects in France.

Henry IV forgave him and paid his debts, which were large, for he was
a great gambler and had lost large sums at the tables. Biron was sent
to London as ambassador to the English Queen Elizabeth but resumed
his evil courses on his return to France and was summoned before the
King to answer for them. Henry promised to pardon and forgive him if
he would confess his crimes, but Biron was obstinately silent and was
committed to the Bastile. He was tried openly before the Parliament
and unanimously convicted by one hundred and twenty-seven judges. The
sentence was death and he was to be publicly executed on the Place
de la Greve, but Henry, dreading the sympathy of the mob and not
indisposed to spare his friend the contumely of a public hanging,
allowed the execution to take place within the Bastile. Biron, although
he had acknowledged his guilt, died protesting against the sentence.
He comported himself with little dignity upon the scaffold, resisting
the headman and trying to strangle him. Three times he knelt down at
the block and three times sprang to his feet; and the fourth time was
decapitated with much dexterity by the executioner.

The Comte d'Auvergne, the natural son of Charles IX and Marie Touchet,
was an ally of Biron's and put on his trial at the same time. Their
common offense had been to invite invasion by the Spaniards and stir
up a revolution throughout France. D'Auvergne was sentenced to death
and with him the Comte d'Entragues, who had married Marie Touchet, but
neither suffered. D'Auvergne remained in the Bastile for twelve years.
He was released in the following reign and made a good appearance at
court as the Duc d'Angouleme. Henry IV had been moved to soften the
rigors of his imprisonment and wrote to the governor (Sully) saying
that as he had heard his nephew d'Auvergne needed change of air, he was
to be placed in "the pavilion at the end of the garden of the arsenal
which looks upon the water, but to be guarded in any way that seemed
necessary for the security of his person."

Reference must be made to one inmate of the Bastile at this period,
the Vicomte de Tavannes, who was opposed to Henry IV as a partisan
of the League. He was long held a prisoner but was exchanged for the
female relations of the Duc de Longueville; and Tavannes has written
in his "memoirs:" "A poor gentleman was thus exchanged against four
princesses, one a Bourbon, one of the House of Cleves, and two of that
of Orleans." At the fall of the League, Tavannes acknowledged Henry IV
on condition that he should be confirmed in his dignity as a marshal of
France. This promise was not kept and he withdrew from his allegiance,
saying he was the King's subject and not his slave. For this he was
again committed to the Bastile from which he escaped, according to his
own account, with great ease,--"A page brought me some thread and a
file; I twisted the cord, filed through a bar and got away." He was
not pursued but was suffered to remain in peace in his own castle of
Soilly, near Autun. The King could never tolerate Tavannes. He had been
largely concerned in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, of which he is
believed to have been the principal instigator and which he is supposed
to have suggested to Catherine de Medicis.

Henry's reign was abruptly terminated by his assassination in 1610.
He was murdered by Francois Ravaillac, a native of Angouleme who was
no doubt a victim of religious dementia. Having been much perturbed
with visions inciting him to exhort the king to take action against
the followers of the pretended reformed religion and convert them to
the Roman Catholic Church, Ravaillac determined to do so. On reaching
Paris he went to the Jesuits' house near the Porte St.-Antoine and
sought advice from one of the priests, Father Daubigny, who told him
to put these disturbed thoughts out of his head, to say his prayers
and tell his beads. He still maintained his intention of speaking
to the King and addressed to him on one occasion as he drove by in
his coach, but "the King put him back with a little stick and would
not hear him." Then Ravaillac changed his mind and set out for home;
but on reaching Estampes, was again impelled to return to Paris--this
time with homicidal intent. The would-be regicide watched for the King
constantly, but thought it better to wait until after the new queen
(Marie de Medicis) was crowned. He hung about the Louvre, burning to do
the deed, and at last found his opportunity on the 14th of May, 1610,
near the churchyard of St. Innocent. The King left the Louvre that
morning in his coach unattended. One of his gentlemen had protested.
"Take me, Sire, I implore you," he said, "to guard your Majesty." "No,"
replied the King, "I will have neither you nor the guard. I want no
one." The coach was driven to the Hotel de Longueville and then to
the Croix du Tiroir and so to the churchyard of St. Bartholomew. It
had turned from the rue St. Honore into the rue Feronniere, a very
narrow way made more so by the small shops built against the wall of
the churchyard. The passage was further blocked by the approach of two
carts, one laden with wine and the other with hay, and the coach was
brought to a stop at the corner of the street.

Ravaillac had followed the coach from the Louvre, had seen it stop
and noted that there was now no one near it and no one to interfere
with him as he came close to the side of the carriage where the King
was seated. Ravaillac had his cloak wrapped round his left arm to
conceal a knife and creeping in between the shops and the coach as if
he desired to pass by, paused there, and resting one foot upon a spoke
of the wheel, the other upon a stone, leaned forward and stabbed the
King. The knife entered a little above the heart between the third and
fourth ribs. The King, who was reading a letter, fell over towards
the Duc d'Epernon on his other side, murmuring, "I am wounded." At
this moment Ravaillac, fearing that the point of his weapon had been
turned aside, quickly struck a second blow at the fainting monarch,
who had raised his arm slightly, thus giving the knife better chance
to reach his heart. This second stroke was instantly fatal. The blood
gushed from his mouth and he expired breathing a deep sigh. His
Majesty's attendants, now running up, would have killed Ravaillac
on the spot, but the Duc d'Epernon called out to them to secure his
person, whereupon one seized the dagger, another his throat, and he was
promptly handed over to the guards. The news spread that the King was
dead and caused a panic. People rushed from the shops into the streets
and a tumult arose which was stayed only by the prompt assurance of
d'Epernon that the King had merely fainted and was being carried to the
Louvre for medical attention.

The murder created intense excitement in the city, for the King was
beloved and trusted by the people as the one hope of peace after such
constant strife. Sully, his faithful minister, was broken-hearted
but acted with great promptitude and firmness. He brought troops
forthwith into Paris and strengthened the garrison with the Swiss
guards. Despair and consternation prevailed in the Louvre, where were
the widowed Queen, Marie de Medicis, and the infant heir, now Louis
XIII. Bassompierre, in his memoirs, tells us how he found the dead King
laid out in his cabinet, surrounded by afflicted followers and weeping
surgeons. Summoned to the Queen's presence, he found her in dishabille,
overcome with grief, and he with others knelt to kiss her hand and
assure her of his devotion. The Duc de Villeroi reasoned with her,
imploring her to postpone her lamentations until she had made provision
for her own and her son's safety. While the Duc de Guise was directed
to bring together all the principal people to recognise and proclaim
the new sovereign, the marshal proceeded to gather up all the troops
and march through the city to check any signs of tumult and sedition.
Meanwhile, Sully had occupied the Bastile with a force of archers and
had enjoined all good subjects to swear allegiance to the throne and
proclaim their readiness to give their lives to avenge Henry's murder.

With the nation in such a temper it was little likely that any mercy
would be shown to Ravaillac. His trial was hurried forward in all haste
and he was arraigned before the High Court of the Tournelle. Long and
minute interrogatories were administered to him on the rack to extort
confession of an act fully proved by eye-witnesses and of which he
was duly convicted. The court declared that he was "attainted of high
treason divine and human in the highest degree, for the most wicked,
the most abominable parricide committed on the person of the late Henry
IV, of good and laudable memory," and he was condemned in reparation to
make the _amende honorable_ before the principal gate of the city of
Paris, "whither he shall be carried," so runs the decree, "and drawn on
a tumbril in his shirt, bearing a lighted torch of two pounds weight,
and there he shall make confession of his crime, of which he repents
and begs pardon of God, the king and the laws. From thence he shall
be carried to the Greve and, on a scaffold to be there erected, the
flesh shall be torn from him with red-hot pincers ... and after this
his limbs shall be dragged by four horses, his body burnt to ashes and
dispersed in the air. His goods and chattels are also declared to be
forfeited and confiscated to the king. And it is further ordained that
the house in which he was born shall be pulled down to the ground (the
owner thereof being previously indemnified) and that no other building
shall ever hereafter be erected on the foundation thereof; that within
fifteen days after the publication of this present sentence his father
and mother shall, by sound of trumpet and public proclamation in the
city of Angouleme, be banished out of the kingdom and forbidden ever
to return under the penalty of being hanged and strangled, without any
further process at law. The Court has also forbidden, and doth forbid
his brothers, sisters, uncles and others, from henceforth to bear the
said name of Ravaillac."

The curious fact is recorded in history that Henry IV had a strong
presentiment of impending fate. "I cannot tell you why, Bassompierre,
but I feel satisfied I shall never go into Germany" (on a projected
campaign). He repeated several times, "I believe I shall die soon."
He shared his forebodings with Sully. "I shall die in this city. This
ceremony of the Queen's coronation (now at hand) disturbs me. I shall
die in this city; I shall never quit Paris again, they mean to kill
me. Accursed coronation! I shall fall during the show." And he did die
the day after it. Yet sometimes he laughed at these fears, remarking,
only two days before his murder, to some of his attendants whom he
overheard discussing the subject, "It is quite foolish to anticipate
evil; for thirty years every astrologer and charlatan in the kingdom
has predicted my death on a particular day, and here I am still alive."
But on this very morning of the 14th of May, the young Duc de Vendome
brought him a fresh horoscope. The constellation under which Henry
was born threatened him with great danger on this day and he was urged
to pass it in sheltered retirement. The King called the astrologer a
crafty old fox and the duke a young fool, and said, "My fate is in
the hands of God." At the moment Ravaillac was in the vicinity of the
palace, but his gestures were so wild that the guards drove him away to
wait and carry out his fell deed elsewhere.

Ravaillac was no doubt the tool of others. The King's life had been
threatened by courtiers near his person. Not the least active of his
enemies was Madame de Verneuil, born D'Entragues, who had been at one
time his mistress, but who had joined his enemies, notably the Duc
d'Epernon, in cordial detestation of his policy. Henry was at this
time planning a great coalition against the overweening power of Spain
and favored the concession of religious toleration throughout Europe.
Madame de Verneuil had welcomed Ravaillac to Paris and commended him
to the hospitality of one of her creatures, and it was proved that the
murderer had been once in the service of the Duc d'Epernon.

When Henry IV fell under the assassin's knife, it was found by his
will that, in the event of a minority, the regency should devolve upon
Marie de Medicis, his second wife. This happened because Louis XIII,
the new King, was no more than nine years of age, and once again France
came under female rule. The Italian Queen Mother soon fell under the
domination of two other Italians, the Concinis, husband and wife.
The first, a mercenary and overbearing creature, best known as the
Marquis d'Ancre, stirred up the bitterest animosity and brought the
Queen into fierce conflict with the princes of the blood who rose in
open rebellion. They were presently supported by the young King and a
murderous plot was carried out for the marquis' assassination. It was
effected in broad daylight at the entrance of the Louvre by the Baron
de Vitry, a captain of the Gardes du Corps. "I have the King's order to
arrest you," said De Vitry. "_A me?_" asked the astonished d'Ancre in
imperfect French. "_A vous_," replied the other, taking out a pistol
and shooting him down, the rest dispatching him with their swords.
Louis XIII, still barely sixteen, is said to have witnessed the murder
from a window of the Louvre, from which he cried, "Great thanks to all;
now at last I am king."

The Prince de Conde, as leader of the insurgent princes, had been
arrested and imprisoned in the palace but removed to the Bastile. The
mob, greatly incensed, attacked the Louvre, but, unable to find him,
failed to compass Conde's release who was now transferred in the dead
of night, "without torches," to Vincennes. Concini's house was next
sacked, his body dragged from the grave, carried through the streets
and subjected to every indignity, his nose and ears being cut off and
the corpse burned. Hatred of the Queen's foreign favorites was not yet
appeased. Leonora Galigai, the Marquis d'Ancre's widow, was brought to
trial, her conviction being necessary before her property and estates
could be confiscated and divided. She was duly arraigned but it was
impossible to prove her complicity in her husband's misdeeds or to
procure conviction of any crime involving capital punishment. The venue
was therefore changed and she was accused of sorcery and witchcraft. It
was said that she had attracted astrologers and magicians into France
who brought with them spells and incantations, amulets, talismans, and
all the apparatus of wax figures, to produce death by wasting disease.
She was asked in court to confess by what magical arts she had gained
her malign influence over the Queen and she replied contemptuously,
"By the power that strong minds exercise over weak ones." The case
was certain to go against her, but she still hoped to escape with
a sentence of banishment and it was a terrible shock when she was
condemned to death for the crime of _lese majeste_, human and divine.
Yet she faced her fate with marvellous fortitude. Great crowds turned
out to jeer at her as she was carried in a cart to the Place de Greve,
but she maintained her composure until she saw the flames destined to
consume her decapitated body, then quickly recovering herself, she met
death without bravado and without fear. Her son was imprisoned for
some time in the castle of Nantes and the Concini property was chiefly
divided between the King and the Pope, Clement VII. Leonora Galigai
had originally been the Queen's waiting woman for several years. Of
humble birth, the daughter of a carpenter, she had gained the complete
confidence of her mistress by her soft voice and insinuating ways,
and on coming to France, Marie de Medicis had insisted upon Leonora's
appointment as lady in waiting, although Henry absolutely refused to
appoint her until the Queen gained her point by her importunities.

By this time a new power was rising above the horizon, that of the
Bishop of Lucon, afterwards, and better known as, Cardinal Richelieu.
The cadet of a noble but not affluent family, he was intended for the
career of arms but turned cleric in order to hold the bishopric of
Lucon, the presentation of which was hereditary in his house. By his
talents he soon made his mark as a churchman. He was assiduous in his
religious profession and an eloquent preacher, but his powerful mind
and ambitious spirit presently turned him towards a political career.
He arrived at Paris in 1614 as the representative of the clergy of
Poitou in the States General and his insinuating manners and personal
charm soon won him wide favor at Court. He was presented to the
Queen Mother, Marie de Medicis, by Barbin, the controller-general of
finances, and by the Concinis, the above mentioned ill-fated Marquis
d'Ancre and his wife, Leonora Galigai. He first became the Queen's
chaplain and next the secretary of State for war, barely escaping the
evil consequences of his intimacy with the Concinis. It is rumored in
history that he knew of the intended assassination of d'Ancre the night
before it occurred but neglected to give warning on the plea that he
did not believe the story and thought the news would wait. When the
King and his mother quarrelled and Marie de Medicis withdrew to Blois,
Richelieu accompanied her and served her without at first compromising
himself with Louis. He was at length ordered to leave her and retired
to his bishopric. He was further exiled to the papal province of
Avignon, but was suddenly recalled and forgiven. He still devoted
himself to the Queen and was her chosen friend and adviser, services
which she requited by securing him the cardinal's hat.

Richelieu soon showed his quality and rose step by step to the
highest honors, becoming in due course, First Minister of State. His
success was due throughout to his prudent, far-seeing conduct and
his incomparable adroitness in managing affairs. "He was so keen and
watchful," said a contemporary, "that he was never taken unawares. He
slept little, worked hard, thought of everything and knew everything
either by intuition or through his painstaking indefatigable spirit."
He was long viewed with suspicion and dislike by the young King, but
presently won his esteem by his brilliant talents. He dazzled and
compelled the admiration of all, even those opposed to him. His
extraordinary genius was immediately made manifest; it was enough
for him to show himself. His penetrating eye, the magnetism of his
presence, his dexterity in untying knots and in solving promptly the
most difficult problems, enabled him to dominate all tempers and
overcome all resistance. His was a singularly persuasive tongue; he
had the faculty of easily and effectually proving that he was always
in the right. In a word, he exercised a great personal ascendency and
was as universally feared as he was implicitly obeyed by all upon whom
he imposed his authority. When he was nominated First Minister, the
Venetian minister in Paris wrote to his government, "Here, humanly
speaking, is a new power of a solid and permanent kind; one that is
little likely to be shaken or quickly crumbled away."

Richelieu's steady and consistent aim was to consolidate an absolute
monarchy. Determined to conquer and crush the Huguenots he made his
first attack upon La Rochelle, the great Protestant stronghold, but was
compelled to make terms with the Rochelais temporarily while he devoted
himself to the abasement of the great nobles forever in opposition to
and intriguing against the reigning sovereign. Headed by the princes
of the blood, they continually resisted Marie de Medicis and engaged
in secret conspiracy, making treasonable overtures to Spain or openly
raising the standard of revolt at home. With indomitable courage
and an extraordinary combination of daring and diplomacy, Richelieu
conquered them completely. The secret of his success has been preserved
in his own words, "I undertake nothing that I have not thoroughly
thought out in advance; when I have once made up my mind I stick to
it with unchangeable firmness, sweeping away all obstacles before me
and treading them down under foot till they lie paralysed under my red
robe."

Richelieu, in thus strenuously fighting for his policy, which he
conceived was in the best interests of France, made unsparing use of
the weapons placed at his disposal for coercing his enemies. Foremost
amongst these were the prisons of state, the Bastile, Vincennes and the
rest, which he filled with prisoners, breaking them with repression,
retribution, or more or less permanent removal from the busy scene.
Year after year the long procession passed in through the gloomy
portals, in numbers far exceeding the movement outward, for few went
out except to make the short journey to the scaffold. The Cardinal's
victims were many. Amongst the earliest offenders upon whom his hand
fell heavily in the very first year of his ministry, were those
implicated in the Ornano-Chalais conspiracy. The object of this was to
remove the King's younger brother, Gaston, Duc d'Orleans, generally
known as "Monsieur," out of the hands of the Court and set him up as
a pretender to the throne in opposition to Louis XIII. Richelieu, in
his memoirs, speaks of this as "the most fearful conspiracy mentioned
in history, both as regards the number concerned and the horror of the
design, which was to raise their master (Monsieur) above his condition
and abase the sacred person of the King." The Cardinal himself was to
have been a victim and was to be murdered at his castle of Fleury, six
miles from Fontainebleau. When the plot was betrayed, the King sent
a body of troops to Fleury and the Queen a number of her attendants.
The conspirators were forestalled and the ringleaders arrested. The
Marshal d'Ornano was taken at Fontainebleau and with him his brother
and some of his closest confidants. The Marquis de Chalais, who was of
the famous house of Talleyrand, was caught in the act at Fleury, to
which he had proceeded for the commission of the deed. He confessed
his crime. There were those who pretended at the time that the plot
was fictitious, invented by Richelieu in order to get rid of some of
his most active enemies. In any case, the Marshal d'Ornano died in
the Bastile within three months of his arrest and it was generally
suspected that he had been poisoned, although Richelieu would not allow
it was other than a natural death. Chalais had been sent to Nantes,
where he was put on trial, convicted, sentenced to death and eventually
executed. The execution was carried out with great barbarity, for the
headsman was clumsy and made thirty-two strokes with his sword before
he could effect decapitation.

The two Vendomes, Caesar, the eldest, and his brother, the Grand
Prior, were concerned in the Ornano-Chalais conspiracy. Caesar was the
eldest son of Henri IV by Gabrielle d'Estrees, but was legitimised and
created a duke by his father, with precedence immediately after the
princes of the blood. Although Louis' half-brother, he was one of his
earliest opponents. After the detection of the plot he was cast into
the prison of Vincennes, where he remained for four years (1626-30),
but was released on surrendering the government of Brittany and
accepting exile. He was absent for eleven years, but on again returning
to France was accused of an attempt to poison Cardinal Richelieu and
again banished until that minister's death. He could not bring himself
to submit to existing authority, and once more in France became one
of the leaders of the party of the "Importants" and was involved in
the disgrace of the Duc de Beaufort, his son. Having made his peace
with Cardinal Mazarin in 1650, he was advanced to several offices,
among others to those of Governor of Burgundy and Superintendent of
Navigation. He helped to pacify Guienne and took Bordeaux. The Grand
Prior, his brother, became a Knight of Malta and saw service early
at the siege of Candia, where he showed great courage. He made the
campaign of Holland under Louis XIV, after having been involved with
Chalais, and throughout showed himself a good soldier.

Richelieu's penalties were sometimes inflicted on other grounds than
self-defense and personal animosity. The disturbers of public peace he
treated as enemies of the State. Thus he laid a heavy hand on all who
were concerned in affairs of honor whether death ensued or not. His own
elder brother had been killed in a duel, and he abhorred a practice
which had so long decimated the country. It was calculated that in one
year alone four thousand combatants had perished. King Henry IV had
issued the most severe edicts against it and had created a tribunal of
marshals empowered to examine into and arrange all differences between
gentlemen. One of these edicts of 1602, prohibiting duels, laid down
as a penalty for the offense, the confiscation of property and the
imprisonment of the survivors. A notorious duellist, De Bouteville,
felt the weight of the Cardinal's hand. He must have been a quarrelsome
person for he fought on twenty-one occasions. After the last quarrel
he retired into Flanders and was challenged by a Monsieur de Beuvron.
They returned to Paris where they fought in the Place Royale, and
Bussy d'Amboise, one of Beuvron's seconds, was killed by one of De
Bouteville's. The survivors fled but were pursued and captured, with
the result that De Bouteville was put upon his trial before the regular
courts. He was convicted and condemned to death. All the efforts on
the part of influential friends, royal personages included, to obtain
pardon having proved unavailing, he suffered in the Place de Greve. The
pugnacity of this De Bouteville was attributed by many to homicidal
mania, and one nobleman declared that he would decline a challenge from
him unless it was accompanied by a medical certificate of sanity. He
had killed a number of his opponents and his reputation was such that
when he established a fencing school at his residence in Paris all the
young noblemen flocked there to benefit by his lessons.

Richelieu used the Bastile for all manner of offenders. One was the
man Farican, of whom he speaks in his "Memoirs" as "a visionary
consumed with vague dreams of a coming republic. All his ends were
bad, all his means wicked and detestable.... His favorite occupation
was the inditing of libellous pamphlets against the government,
rendering the King odious, exciting sedition and aiming at subverting
the tranquillity of the State. Outwardly a priest, he held all good
Catholics in detestation and acted as a secret spy of the Huguenots."
An Englishman found himself in the Bastile for being at cross purposes
with the Cardinal. This was a so-called Chevalier Montagu, son of
the English Lord Montagu and better known as "Wat" Montagu, who was
much employed as a secret political agent between England and France.
Great people importuned the Cardinal to release Montagu. "The Duke
of Lorraine," says Richelieu, "has never ceased to beg this favor.
He began with vain threats and then, with words more suitable to his
position, sent the Prince of Phalsbourg to Paris for the third time
to me to grant this request." The Duke having been gratified with
this favor came in person to Paris to thank the King. An entry in an
English sheet dated April 20th, 1628, runs, "The Earl of Carlisle will
not leave suddenly because Walter Montagu is set free from France and
has arrived at our court. The King says he has done him exceeding
good service." It was Montagu who brought good news from Rochelle to
the Duke of Buckingham on the very day he was assassinated. Later in
October, Montagu had a conference with Richelieu as to the exchange of
prisoners at Rochelle.

Richelieu's upward progress had not been unimpeded. The Queen Mother
became his bitter enemy. Marie de Medicis was disappointed in him. He
had not proved the humble, docile creature she looked for in one whom
she had raised so high and her jealousy intensified as his power grew.
She was a woman of weak character and strong passions, easily led
astray by designing favorites, as was seen in the case of the Concinis,
and there is little doubt that the Marechal d'Ancre was her lover.
After his murder she was estranged from Louis XIII, but was reconciled
and joined with Richelieu's enemies in ceaselessly importuning the King
to break with his too powerful minister. She was backed by Anne of
Austria, the wife of Louis XIII; by "Monsieur," the Duc d'Orleans and
a swarm of leading courtiers in her efforts to sacrifice Richelieu.
The conflict ended in the so-called "Day of Dupes," when the minister
turned the tables triumphantly upon his enemies. Louis had retired to
his hunting lodge near Versailles to escape from his perplexities and
Richelieu followed him there, obtained an audience and put his own case
before the King, whom he dazzled by unveiling his great schemes, and
easily regained the mastery. His enemies were beaten and like craven
hounds came to lick his feet; and like hounds, at once felt the whip.

One of the first to suffer was the Queen Mother. She had no friends.
Every one hated her; her son, her creatures and supporters,--and the
King again sent her into exile, this time to Compiegne, where she was
detained for a time. She presently escaped and left France to wander
through Europe, first to Brussels, then to London and last of all to
Cologne, where she died in a garret in great penury. Marie de Medicis'
had been an unhappy life. Misfortune met her on the moment she came
to France, for the King, her bridegroom, who had divorced his first
wife, Marguerite de Valois, in the hopes of an heir by another wife,
was much disappointed when he saw Marie de Medicis. She was by no means
so good looking as he had been led to believe. She was tall, with a
large coarse figure, and had great round staring eyes. There was
nothing softly feminine and caressing in her ways, she had no gaiety
of manner and was not at all the woman to attract or amuse the King's
roving fancy,--the _vert galant_, the gay deceiver of a thousand errant
loves. Yet he was willing to be good friends and was strongly drawn to
her after the birth of the Dauphin, but was soon repelled again by her
violent temper and generally detestable character. The establishment of
the Jesuits in France was Marie's doing. She was suspected of duplicity
in Henry's assassination, but the foul charge rests on no good grounds.
After becoming Regent, she alienated the nobility by her favoritism and
exasperated the people by her exorbitant tax levies to provide money
for her wasteful extravagance and the prodigal gifts she bestowed. The
one merit she possessed in common with her house was her patronage
of arts and letters. She inspired the series of famous allegorical
pictures, twenty-one in number, painted by Rubens, embodying the life
of Marie de Medicis.

There was no love lost between the Cardinal and the Marechal
Bassompierre, who paid the penalty for being on the wrong side in
the famous "Day of Dupes" and found himself committed for a long
imprisonment in the Bastile. The Marshal had offended Richelieu by
penetrating his designs against the nobility. When asked what he
thought of the prospect of taking La Rochelle, he had answered, "It
would be a mad act for us, for we shall enable the Cardinal, when
he has overcome the Calvinists, to turn all his strength against
our order." It was early in 1631 that danger to his person began
to threaten him. He was warned by the Duc d'Epernon that the Queen
Mother, of whose party Bassompierre was, had been arrested and that
others, including himself, were likely to get into trouble. The Marshal
asked the Duc d'Epernon for his advice, who strongly urged him to get
away, offering him at the same time a loan of fifty thousand crowns
as a provision until better days came. The Marshal refused this kind
offer but resolved to present himself before the King and stand his
ground. He would not compromise himself by a flight which would draw
suspicion down on him and call his loyalty in question. He had served
France faithfully for thirty years and was little inclined now that
he was fifty to seek his fortune elsewhere. "I had given my King the
best years of my life and was willing to sacrifice my liberty to him,
feeling sure that it would be restored on better appreciation of my
loyal services."

Bassompierre prepared for the worst like a man of the world. "I
rose early next day and proceeded to burn more than six thousand
love-letters received from ladies to whom I had paid my addresses. I
was afraid that if arrested my papers would be seized and examined and
some of these letters might compromise my old friends." He entered his
carriage and drove to Senlis where the King was in residence. Here
he met the Duc de Gramont and others who told him he would certainly
be arrested. Bassompierre again protested that he had nothing on his
conscience. The King received him civilly enough and talked to him
at length about the disagreement of the Queen Mother with Cardinal
Richelieu, and then Bassompierre asked point blank whether the King
owed him any grudge. "How can you think such a thing," replied the
treacherous monarch. "You know I am your friend," and left him. That
evening the Marshal supped with the Duc de Longueville and the King
came in afterwards. "Then I saw plainly enough," says Bassompierre,
"that the King had something against me, for he kept his head down,
and touching the strings of his guitar, never looked at me nor spoke a
single word. Next morning I rose at six o'clock and as I was standing
before the fire in my dressing-room, M. de Launay, Lieutenant of the
Body-Guard, entered my room and said, 'Sir, it is with tears in my eyes
and with a bleeding heart that I, who, for twenty years have served
under you, am obliged to tell you that the King has ordered me to
arrest you.'

"I experienced very little emotion and replied: 'Sir, you will have
no trouble, as I came here on purpose, having been warned. I have all
my life submitted to the wishes of the King, who can dispose of me or
my liberty as he thinks fit.'... Shortly afterwards one of the King's
carriages arrived in front of my lodging with an escort of mounted
musketeers and thirty light horsemen. I entered the carriage alone with
De Launay. Then we drove off, keeping two hundred paces in front of
the escort, as far as the Porte St.-Martin, where we turned off to the
left, and I was taken to the Bastile. I dined with the Governor, M. du
Tremblay, whom I afterwards accompanied to the chamber which had been
occupied by the Prince de Conde, and in this I was shut up with one
servant.

"On the 26th, M. du Tremblay came to see me on the part of the King,
saying that his Majesty had not caused me to be arrested for any fault
that I had committed, holding me to be a good servant, but for fear I
should be led into mischief, and he assured me that I should not remain
long in prison, which was a great consolation. He also told me that the
King had ordered him to allow me every liberty but that of leaving the
Bastile. He added another chamber to my lodging for the accommodation
of my domestics. I retained only two valets and a cook, and passed two
months without leaving my room, and I should not have gone out at all
had I not been ill.... The King, it seems, had gone on a voyage as far
as Dijon, and on his return to Paris I implored my liberty, but all
in vain. I fell ill in the Bastile of a very dangerous swelling, due
to the want of fresh air and exercise and I began therefore to walk
regularly on the terrace of the Bastion."

Bassompierre was destined to see a good deal of that terrace, for the
years slowly dragged themselves along with hope constantly deferred
and no fulfilment of the promises of freedom so glibly extended to
him. He was arrested in 1631 and in the following year heard he would
in all probability be released at once; but, as he says, he was told
this merely to redouble his sufferings. Next year he had great hope
of regaining his liberty and Marshal Schomberg sent him word that on
the return of the King to Paris he should leave the Bastile. This
year they deprived him of a portion of his salary and he was greatly
disheartened, feeling "that he was to be eternally detained and from
that time forth he lost all hope except in God." Two years later
(1635) the Governor, Monsieur du Tremblay, congratulated him on his
approaching release and the rumor was so strong that a number of
friends came every day to the Bastile to see if he was still there.
These encouraging stories were repeated from month to month without
any good result, and at length Pere Joseph, "his gray eminence,"
Richelieu's most confidential friend and brother of Monsieur du
Tremblay, being at the Bastile, promised the Marshal to speak to the
Cardinal on his behalf. "I put no faith in him," writes Bassompierre,
and indeed nothing more was heard for a couple of years, but we find in
the Marshal's journal an entry to the effect that the King had told the
Cardinal it weighed on his conscience for having kept him in prison
so long, seeing that there was nothing against him. "To which," says
Bassompierre, "the Cardinal replied that he had so many things on his
mind he could not remember the reason for the imprisonment or why he
(Richelieu) had advised it, but he would consult his papers and show
them to the King." The poor Marshal's dejection increased, having been
detained so long in the Bastile, "where he had nothing to do but pray
God to speedily put an end to his long misery by liberty or death."

The imprisonment outlasted the journal which ends in 1640, and it was
not until the death of the Cardinal in 1642 that he at length obtained
his release, just eleven years after his first committal to prison.
He at once presented himself at Court and was graciously received by
the King who asked him his age. "Fifty," replied Bassompierre, "for I
cannot count the years passed in the Bastile as they were not spent in
your Majesty's service." He did not enjoy his freedom long, for he soon
afterwards died from an apoplectic seizure.




CHAPTER V

THE PEOPLE AND THE BASTILE

    Anne of Austria--Her servant Laporte--Clandestine communication
    in the Bastile--Birth of Dauphin, afterward Louis XIV--Cinq
    Mars--His conspiracy--Richelieu's death--His character and
    achievements--Dubois the alchemist--Regency of Anne of
    Austria--Mazarin's influence--The "Importants"--Imprisonment
    and escape of Duc de Beaufort--Growth of the Fronde--Attacks on
    Bastile--De Retz in Vincennes--Made Archbishop of Paris while in
    prison--Peace restored--Mazarin's later rule benign.


Richelieu throughout his ministry was exposed to the bitter enmity of
the Opposition; his enemies, princes and great nobles, were continually
plotting to take his life. The King's brother, Gaston, Duc d'Orleans,
intrigued incessantly against him, supported by Anne of Austria, queen
of Louis XIII, who was ever in treasonable correspondence with the King
of Spain. Richelieu, whose power waned for a time, strongly urged the
Queen's arrest and trial, but no more was done than to commit her most
confidential servant, Laporte, to the Bastile. The Queen herself was
terrified into submission and made solemn confession of her misdeeds.
She did not tell all, however, and it was hoped more might be extorted
from Laporte by the customary pressure. It was essential to warn
Laporte, but he was in a dungeon far beneath one of the towers and
access to him seemed impossible. The story is preserved,--an almost
incredible one, but vouched for in Laporte's "Memoirs,"--that a letter
was conveyed to Laporte by the assistance of another prisoner, the
Chevalier de Jars. The letter was conveyed to De Jars by one of the
Queen's ladies disguised as a servant, and he managed by boring a hole
in his floor to pass it to the room below. Here the occupants were
friends, and in like manner they dug into the dungeon beneath them,
with the result that Laporte was eventually reached in his subterranean
cell. Fortified now by the fact of the Queen's avowal, Laporte
conducted himself so well that the most searching examination elicited
no further proofs. The process followed was in due course detected and
Richelieu was heard to lament that he did not possess so faithful a
servant as Laporte.

The Chevalier de Jars, above mentioned, had been long an inmate of the
Bastile, being concerned with the keeper of the seals, Chateauneuf,
in a plot to convey Marie de Medicis and the King's brother, Gaston,
to England. No proof was forthcoming as to Jars's complicity with
Chateauneuf, and he was treated with the utmost cruelty in order to
extort confession. He was imprisoned in a fetid dungeon till his
clothes rotted off his back, his hair and nails grew to a frightful
length and he was nearly starved to death. Pere Joseph, the Cardinal's
_alter ego_, the famous "grey eminence," constantly visited him to
make sure that this rigorous treatment was carried out. At length the
Chevalier was taken out for examination, to which he was subjected
eighty times, and threatened first with torture and then with capital
punishment. At last he was warned that he must die and was removed to
the place of execution. Pardon, however, was extended to him just as
the axe was raised. Still the Chevalier refused to make any revelation.
He was taken back to the Bastile, but he was no longer harshly treated.
De Jars seems to have won the favor of Charles I, of England, whose
queen, Henrietta Maria, wrote to Richelieu begging for the prisoner's
release. This came in 1638, apparently a little after the episode of
the clandestine letter described above.

The birth of a son, afterwards Louis XIV, put an end to the worst of
these court intrigues. Gaston d'Orleans lost his position as heir
presumptive and the King, while still hating Richelieu, trusted him
more and more with the conduct of affairs. Fortune smiled upon the
French arms abroad. Richelieu had made short work of his principal
enemies and he was now practically unassailable. No one could stand
against him and the King was simply his servant. Louis XIII would
gladly have shaken himself free from his imperious minister's tyranny,
but the King's health was failing and he could only listen to whispers
of the fresh plots which he was too weak to discountenance and forbid.
The last of these was the celebrated conspiracy of Cinq Mars, well
known in history, but still better known in romantic literature as the
subject of the famous novel by Alfred de Vigny, named after the central
figure. Richelieu, needing an ally near the King's person, had selected
Henri Cinq Mars, youngest son of the Marquis d'Effiat, a handsome,
vain youth who quickly grew into the King's graces and was much petted
and much spoiled. The young Cinq Mars, no more than nineteen, amused
the King by sharing his silly pleasures, teaching him to snare magpies
and helping him to carve wooden toys. Cinq Mars was appointed master
of the horse and was greatly flattered and made much of at court. His
head was soon turned and filled with ambitious dreams. He aspired to
the hand of the Princess Marie de Gonzague of the house of Nevers and
made a formal proposition of himself to Richelieu. The Cardinal laughed
contemptuously at his absurd pretensions, and earned in return the
bitter hatred of Cinq Mars. The breach was widened by the King's bad
taste in introducing his favorite at a conference of the Privy Council.
Richelieu quietly acquiesced but afterwards gave Cinq Mars a bit of his
mind, gaining thereby redoubled dislike. From that time forth Cinq Mars
was resolved to overthrow the Cardinal. He found ready support from the
Duc d'Orleans and the Duc de Bouillon, while the King himself was not
deaf to the hints of a speedy release from Richelieu's thraldom. Only
the Queen, Anne of Austria, stood aloof and was once more on friendly
terms with the Cardinal. A secret treaty had been entered into with
Philip IV of Spain, who was to further the aims of the conspirators by
sending troops into France. The two countries were then at war and it
was high treason to enter into dealings with Spain. Just when the plot
was ripe for execution an anonymous packet was brought to Richelieu
at Tarascon, whither he had proceeded with the King to be present at
the relief of Perpignan. This packet contained a facsimile of the
traitorous treaty with Philip IV and Cinq Mars's fate was sealed. The
King with great reluctance signed an order for the arrest of Cinq Mars,
who was taken in the act of escaping on horseback.

De Thou, another of the conspirators, was taken with the Duc de
Bouillon, while the Duc d'Orleans fled into Auvergne and wandered
to and fro, proscribed and in hiding. The only crime that could be
advanced against De Thou was that he was privy to the plot and had
taken no steps to reveal it. Cinq Mars was now abandoned by the King,
who left him to the tender mercies of Richelieu. This resulted in his
being brought to trial at Lyons, but he contrived to send a message
appealing for mercy to the King. It reached the foolish, fickle monarch
when he was in the act of making toffy in a saucepan over the fire.
"No, no, I will give Cinq Mars no audience," said Louis, "his soul is
as black as the bottom of this pan." Cinq Mars suffered on the block
and comported himself with a fortitude that won him sympathy; for it
was remembered that his faults had been fostered by the exaggerated
favoritism shown him. De Thou was also decapitated after his associate,
and, not strangely, was unnerved by the sight which he had witnessed.
The Duc de Bouillon was pardoned at the price of surrendering his
ancestral estate of Sedan to the Crown.

This was Richelieu's last act of retaliation. He returned to Paris
stricken with mortal disease. He travelled by slow stages in a litter
borne by twelve gentlemen of his entourage, who marched bareheaded.
On reaching Paris, he rapidly grew worse and Louis XIII paid him a
farewell visit on his deathbed. On taking leave of his master he
reminded him of the singular services he had rendered France, saying:
"In taking my leave of your Majesty I behold your kingdom at the
highest pinnacle it has hitherto reached and all your enemies have
been banished or removed." The tradition is preserved that upon this
solemn occasion he strenuously urged the King to appoint Mazarin as his
successor. The Italian cardinal was brought into the Council the day
after Richelieu's death and from the first appears to have exercised
a strong influence over the King. The means and methods of the two
statesmen were in great contrast. Richelieu imposed his will by sheer
force of character and the terror he inspired. Mazarin, soft-mannered
and supple-backed, worked with infinite patience and triumphed by
duplicity and astuteness.

Richelieu's constant aim was to establish the absolute power of
the monarchy, and to aggrandize France among nations. His internal
government was arbitrary and often extremely cruel and he was
singularly deficient in financial ability. He had no idea of raising
money but by the imposition of onerous taxes and never sought to enrich
France by encouraging industries and developing the natural resources
of the country. A strong, self-reliant, highly intelligent and gifted
man, he was nevertheless a slave to superstition and the credulous dupe
of fraudulent impostures. It will always be remembered against him that
he believed in alchemy and the virtue of the so-called philosopher's
stone; yet more, that he was responsible for the persecution and
conviction of Urban Grandier, a priest condemned as a magician, charged
with bewitching the nuns of Poictou. It was gravely asserted that
these simple creatures were possessed of devils through the malignant
influence of Grandier, and many pious ecclesiastics were employed to
exorcise the evil spirits.

The story as it comes down to us would be farcical and absurd were
it not so repulsively horrible. The nuns believed to be afflicted
were clearly the victims of emotional hysteria. They exhibited the
strangest and most extravagant grimaces and contortions, were thrown
into convulsions and foamed and slavered at the mouth. The ceremony
of exorcism was carried out with great solemnity, and it is seriously
advanced that the admonition had such surprising effects that the
devils straightway took flight into the air. The whole story was
conveyed to Cardinal Richelieu by his familiar, Pere Joseph, who
declared that he had seen the evil spirits at work and had observed
many nuns and lay-sisters when they were possessed. The Cardinal
thereupon gave orders for Grandier's arrest and trial, which was
conducted with great prolixity and unfairness. The evidence adduced
against him was preposterous. Among other statements, it was claimed
that he exhibited a number of the devil's marks upon his body and
that he was so impervious to pain that when a needle was thrust into
him to the depth of an inch, it had no effect and no blood issued.
Grandier's defence was a solemn denial of the charges, but according
to the existing procedure, he was put to the "question," subjected to
most cruel torture, ordinary and extraordinary, to extort confession
of the guilt which he would not acknowledge. He was in due course
formally convicted of the crimes of magic and sorcery and sentenced
to make the _amende honorable_; to be led to the public place of Holy
Cross in Loudun and there bound to a stake on a wooden pile and burned
alive. The records state that he bore his punishment with constancy
accompanied with great self-denial, and declare that a certain
unaffected air of piety which hypocrisy cannot counterfeit was shown
in his aspect. On the other hand one bigoted chronicler of the period
declares that, during the ceremony, a flying insect like a wasp was
observed to buzz about Grandier's head. This gave a monk occasion to
say that it was Beelzebub hovering around him to carry away his soul to
hell,--this for the reason that Beelzebub signifies in Hebrew the god
of flies.

It is difficult to understand how Richelieu could suffer himself to be
beguiled into accepting the promises made by an unscrupulous adventurer
to turn the baser metals into gold. But for a space he certainly
believed in Noel Pigard Dubois, a man who, after following for some
time his father's profession of surgery, abandoned it in order to go to
the Levant, where he spent four years in the study of occult science.
On returning to Paris he employed his time in the same pursuit, chiefly
associating with dissolute characters. A sudden fit of devotion made
him enter a monastery, but he soon grew tired of the irksome restraints
he there experienced, and, scaling the walls of his retreat, effected
his escape. Three years after this he once more resolved to embrace a
monastic life, took the vows and was ordained a priest. In this new
course he persevered for ten years, at the end of which time he fled to
Germany, became a Lutheran, and devoted himself to the quest of the
philosopher's stone.

Dissatisfied with this mode of life, he again visited Paris, abjured
the Protestant religion, and married under a fictitious name. As he now
boldly asserted that he had discovered the secret of making gold, he
soon grew into repute and was at last introduced to Richelieu and the
King, both of whom, with singular gullibility, gave full credence to
his pretensions. It was arranged that Dubois should perform the "great
work" in the Louvre, the King, the Queen, the Cardinal, and other
illustrious personages of the court being present. In order to lull all
suspicion, Dubois requested that some one might be appointed to watch
his proceedings. Accordingly Saint-Amour, one of the King's body-guard,
was selected for this purpose. Musket balls, given by a soldier
together with a grain of the "powder for projection," were placed in
a crucible covered with cinders and the furnace fire was soon raised
to a proper heat. When Dubois declared the transmutation accomplished,
he requested the King to blow off the ashes from the crucible. This
Louis did with so much ardor that he nearly blinded the Queen and the
courtiers with the dust he raised. But when his efforts were rewarded
by seeing at the bottom of the crucible the lump of gold which by
wonderful sleight of hand Dubois had contrived to introduce into it,
despite the presence of so many witnesses, the King warmly embraced
the alchemist. Then he ennobled him and appointed him president of the
treasury.

Dubois repeated the same trick several times with equal success. But
an obstacle which he might from the first have anticipated occurred.
He soon grew unable to satisfy the eager demands of his protectors,
who longed for something more substantial than insignificant lumps of
gold. Some idea of their avidity may be conceived when it is known that
Richelieu alone required him to furnish a weekly sum of about L25,000.
Although Dubois asked for a delay, which he obtained, he was of course
unable to comply with these extravagant demands, and was in consequence
imprisoned in Vincennes, whence he was transferred to the Bastile. The
vindictive minister, unwilling to acknowledge that he had been duped,
instead of punishing Dubois as an impostor, accused him of practising
magic and appointed a commission to try him. As the unhappy alchemist
persisted in asserting his innocence he was put to the torture. His
sufferings induced him in order to gain respite to offer to fulfil
the promises with which he had formerly deceived his patrons. Their
credulity was apparently not yet exhausted, for they allowed him to
make another experiment. Having again failed in this, he confessed
his imposture, was sentenced to death and accordingly perished on the
scaffold.

A host of warring elements was forced into fresh activity by the death
of Richelieu, soon followed by that of the King. Louis XIII, in his
will, bequeathed the regency to his widowed Queen, Anne of Austria,
and her accession to power stirred up many active malcontents all
eager to dispute it. The feudal system had faded, but the great nobles
still survived and were ready to fight again for independence if the
executive were weakened; while parliaments were ready to claim a voice
in government and curtail the prerogatives not yet wholly conceded to
the sovereign. The long minority of Louis XIV was a period of continual
intrigue. France was torn by party dissension and cursed with civil
war. If we would understand the true state of affairs and realise the
part played by the two great prisons, Vincennes and the Bastile, and
the principal personages incarcerated within their walls, a brief
resume of events will prove helpful.

Anne of Austria was not a woman of commanding ability. She was kind
hearted, well-intentioned, of sufficiently noble character to forget
her own likes and dislikes, and really desirous of ruling in the best
interests of the country. Her situation was one of extraordinary
difficulty and, not strangely, she was inclined to lean upon the best
support that seemed to offer itself. Cardinal Mazarin was a possible
successor to Richelieu and well fitted to continue that powerful
minister's policy. The Queen was willing to give Mazarin her full
confidence and was aghast when he talked of withdrawing permanently
to Rome. She now desired him to remain and take charge of the ship
of state, but his elevation gave great umbrage to his many opponents
at court, and the desire to undermine, upset and even to assassinate
Mazarin was the cause of endless intrigues and conspiracies. The
cabal of the "Importants" was the first to overcome. It consisted of
Richelieu's chief victims now returned from banishment, or released
from gaol; princes of the blood and great nobles aiming at recovered
influence, and the Queen's favorites counting upon her unabated
friendship. They gave themselves such airs and their pretensions were
so high that they gained the ironical sobriquet of "the important
people." Mazarin, when they threatened him, made short work of them.
The Duc de Beaufort, second son of the Duc de Vendome, handsome of
person but an inordinate swaggerer, whose rough manners and coarse
language had gained him the epithet of "King of the Markets," was
arrested and shut up in Vincennes. Intriguing duchesses were once more
exiled and the principal nobles sent to vegetate on their estates. A
new power now arose; that of the victorious young general, the Duc
d'Enghien, the eldest son of the Prince de Conde, afterwards known as
the "great Conde." He became the hero of the hour and so great was his
popularity that had he been less self-confident and more willing to
join forces with the Duc d'Orleans, "Monsieur," the young King's uncle,
he would have become a dangerous competitor to Mazarin. D'Enghien soon
succeeded to the family honors and continued to win battles and to be
an unknown quantity in politics capable at any time of throwing his
weight on either side.

The next serious conflict was with the Parliament of Paris, ever
eager to vindicate its authority and importance and to claim control
of the financial administration of France. The French treasury was
as ill-managed as ever and the Parliament was resolved to oppose the
proposed taxation. Extreme misery prevailed in the land. The peasants
were ground down into the most wretched poverty, and were said to
have "nothing left to them but their souls; and these also would have
been seized, but that they would fetch nothing at the hammer." The
Parliament backed up the cry for reform, and Mazarin, to check and
intimidate it, decided to arrest two of its most prominent members. The
aged Broussel was sent to the Bastile and Blancmesnil was thrown into
the castle of Vincennes.

These arbitrary acts drove the Parisian populace into open revolt.
Broussel's immediate release was demanded and obstinately refused until
the disturbances increased and barricades were formed, when the Queen,
at last terrified, surrendered her prisoner. The next day she left
Paris, taking the young King with her, declaring that she would return
with troops to enforce submission. Conde, who had returned from the
army with fresh successes, advised conciliation, being secretly anxious
to support those who would <DW36> the growing authority of Mazarin.
Peace was restored, at least on the surface, and the Queen once more
returned to Paris. But she was almost a prisoner in her palace and when
she appeared in public her carriage was followed by a hooting mob.
She again planned to disappear from Paris and send the royal army to
blockade it. In the dead of a winter's night the whole court, carrying
the King, fled to St. Germain where no preparations had been made to
receive them. For days they were short of food, fuel and the commonest
necessaries. But a stern message was dispatched to the people of Paris,
intimating the immediate advance of a body of twelve thousand troops.
The capital was abashed but not greatly alarmed, and was prepared for
defence and for the support of Parliament. The question of the moment
was that of leadership, and choice lay between the Prince de Conde, the
great Conde's brother, and the Duc d'Elboeuf, who was appointed with
the certainty that Conde would not submit to him.

The Duc de Beaufort was also available, for he had succeeded in
escaping from Vincennes. A brief account of his evasion may well find
place here. Chavigny, a former minister, was governor of the prison,
and no friend to Beaufort. But Cardinal Mazarin did not trust to
that, and special gaolers were appointed to ensure the prince's safe
custody. Ravile, an officer of the King's body-guard, and six or seven
troopers kept him constantly under eye, and slept in the prisoner's
room. Beaufort was not permitted to retain his own servants about
him, but his friends managed to secure the employment of a valet,
supposed to be in hiding to escape the consequences of a fatal duel in
which he had killed his man. This mysterious retainer exhibited the
most violent dislike of Beaufort and treated him openly with insolent
rudeness. On the day of Pentecost, when many of the guards were absent
at mass, Beaufort was permitted to exercise on the gallery below the
level of his regular apartment, with a single companion, an officer
of the Garde du Corps. The valet above mentioned had taken his seat
at table with the rest, but suddenly rose, feigning illness, and
leaving the dining room locked the door behind him. Rejoining the Duke
the two threw themselves upon the officer, whom they overpowered and
bound and gagged. A ladder of ropes, already prepared, was produced
and fastened to the bars of the window, and the fugitives went down
into the moat by means of it. Meanwhile, half a dozen confederates had
been stationed below and beyond the moat to assist in the escape, and
were in waiting, watching the descent. Unfortunately the ladder proved
too short by some feet. A long drop was necessary, in which Beaufort,
a stalwart figure, fell heavily and was so seriously hurt that he
fainted. Further progress was arrested until he regained consciousness.
Then a cord was thrown across the moat and the Prince was dragged
over by his attendants, who carried him to a neighboring wood where
he was met by fifty armed men on horseback. He mounted, although in
great bodily pain, and galloped off, forgetting his sufferings in his
delight at freedom regained. Beaufort fled to a distant estate of his
father's, where he remained in safety until the sword was drawn, when
he promptly proceeded to Paris and was received with open arms after
his imprisonment and long absence. His popularity was widespread and
extravagantly manifested. The market women in particular lavished
signs of affection on him and smothered him with kisses. Later, when
it was believed that he had been poisoned by Mazarin and had applied
to the doctors for an antidote, the mob was convulsed with alarm at
his illness. Immense crowds surrounded the Hotel de Vendome. So great
was the concourse, so deep the anxiety that the people were admitted
to see him lying pale and suffering on his bed; and many of them threw
themselves on their knees by his bedside and wept pitifully, calling
him the saviour of his country.

The moving spirit of the Fronde was really Gondi, better
known afterwards as Cardinal de Retz, who had been appointed
Coadjutor-Archbishop of Paris. He was a strange character who played
many parts, controlled great affairs, exercised a supreme authority and
dictated terms to the Crown. His youth had been stormy, and although
he was an ordained ecclesiastic, he hated the religious profession.
He led a vicious, irregular life, was a libertine and conspirator,
fought a couple of duels and tried to abduct a cousin. None of these
evil deeds could release him from his vows, and being permanently,
arbitrarily committed to the Church, his ambition led him to seek
distinction in it. Studying theology deeply and inclining to polemics,
he became a noted disputant, argued points of doctrine in public with
a Protestant and won him back to the bosom of the Catholic Church. It
was Louis XIII who, on his death-bed, in reward for this conversion,
named him Coadjutor. Gondi was possessed of great eloquence and
preached constantly in the cathedral to approving congregations. He was
essentially a demagogue on the side of the popular faction. Despite his
often enthusiastic following, his position was generally precarious,
and when the opposing parties made peace he fell into disgrace. In the
midst of his thousand intrigues he was suddenly arrested and carried
to Vincennes as a prisoner. When at length he escaped from Nantes, to
which he had been transferred, his reappearance produced no effect and
he wandered to and fro through Europe, neglected and despised. His only
fame rests on a quality he esteemed the least, that of literary genius,
for his "Memoirs," which he wrote in the quiet years of latter life,
still hold a high place in French literature.

The wars of the Fronde lasted with varying fortunes for five
distressful years. This conflict owed its name to the boyish Parisian
game of slinging stones. The sling, or _fronde_, was the weapon they
used and the combatants continually gathered to throw stones at each
other, quickly dispersing at the appearance of the watch. The Queen
was implacably resolved to coerce the insurgents. The Parisians, full
of fight, raised men and money in seemingly resolute, but really
half-hearted resistance. Conde commanded the royal army, blockaded
Paris for six weeks and starved the populace into submission. The
earlier successes had been with the city. The Bastile had been attacked
and its governor, Monsieur du Tremblay, the brother of Pere Joseph,
"His Grey Eminence," capitulated, hopeless of holding out with his
small garrison of twenty-two men. The conflict never rose above small
skirmishes and trifling battles. The civic forces had no military
value. The streets were filled with light-hearted mobs who watched
their leaders disporting gaily in dances and entertainments at the
Hotel de Ville. Conde, on the other hand, was in real earnest. He
attacked the suburbs and carried serious war into the heart of the
city. The insurgents prepared to treat, and Mazarin, who feared that
the surrender of Paris to Conde would make that prince dictator of
France, consented. He agreed to grant an amnesty, to reduce taxation
and bring the King back to Paris.

Conde now went into opposition. He posed as the saviour of the Court,
and as the nobles crowded round him he grew more and more overbearing.
Mazarin had now secured the support of Gondi by promising to obtain for
him the Cardinal's hat and he detached the other leaders of the Fronde
by liberal bribes. The final stroke was the sudden arrest of Conde
and with him two other princes, Conti and Longueville. The volatile
Parisians were overjoyed at the sight of the great general being
escorted to Vincennes. Peace might have been permanently established
had not Mazarin played the Coadjutor false by now refusing him the
Cardinal's hat, and Gondi therefore incited his friends to fresh
rebellion. A strong combination insisted upon the dismissal of Mazarin
and the release of the three princes. They had been removed for safe
custody to Havre, where Mazarin went in person to set them free. He
would have made terms with them, but they resisted his advances and
returned to Paris in triumph, where the Parliament during Mazarin's
absence had condemned Mazarin to death in effigy. Mazarin now withdrew
altogether from France to Cologne where he still directed the Queen's
policy. A fresh conflict was imminent. Gondi was gained by a new
promise of a Cardinalate for him and the opposing forces gathered
together for war.

Conde was now hostile. With him were Gaston, Duc d'Orleans, the Dukes
of Beaufort and Nemours and other great nobles. Gaston's daughter, the
intrepid, "Grande Mademoiselle," above all feminine weakness, took
personal command of a part of the army. Turenne, one of the greatest
soldiers of his time, led the royal troops against her. Conde made
a bold but fruitless attempt to capture the Court. He then marched
on Paris pursued by Turenne's forces. A fight ensued in the suburb
of Saint Antoine, where Conde became entangled and was likely to be
overwhelmed. He was saved by the "Grande Mademoiselle," who helped
him to carry his troops through Paris and covered the movement by
entering the Bastile in person, the guns of which were opened upon the
royal troops. This was the final action in the civil war. The people,
wearied of conflict, clamored loudly for peace. One obstacle was the
doubtful attitude of Cardinal de Retz, who throughout this later phase
had pretended to be on the side of the Court. He, however, was still
bent on rebellion. He garrisoned and fortified his house and laid in
ammunition and it was essential to take sharp measures with him. He was
beguiled for a time with fair appearances, but the Queen was already
planning his removal from the scene. One day Cardinal de Retz came to
pay his homage and, on leaving the King's apartments, was arrested by
the captain of the guard.

The Cardinal has told his story at length in his extremely interesting
"Memoirs." Some of his friends knew of the fate impending but were
too late to warn him and help him to escape, as they proposed, by
the kitchen entrance of the Louvre. When taken they brought in dinner
and he eat heartily much to the surprise of the attendant courtiers.
After a delay of three hours he entered a royal carriage with several
officers and drove off under a strong escort of gendarmes and light
horse, for the news of his arrest had got out and had caused an immense
sensation in Paris. All passed off smoothly, for those who threatened
rescue were assured that on the first hostile sign, De Retz would
be killed. The prisoner arrived at Vincennes between eight and nine
o'clock in the evening and was shown into a large, bare chamber without
bed, carpet or fire; and in it he shivered at this bitter Christmas
season, for a whole fortnight. The servant they gave him was a ruffian
who stole his clothes, his shoes and his linen, and he was compelled
to stay constantly in bed. He was allowed books but no paper or ink.
He passed his time in the study of Greek and Latin and when permitted
to leave his room he kept doves, pigeons and rabbits. He entered into
a clandestine correspondence with his friends, pondering ever upon
the possibilities of escape, for he had little or no hope of release
otherwise.

Now fortune played into De Retz's hands. His uncle, the Archbishop of
Paris, died, and the Coadjutor, although a prisoner, was entitled to
succeed. Before the breath was out of the deceased's body, an agent
took possession of the Archbishop's palace in the Coadjutor's name,
forestalling the King's representative by just twenty minutes. De Retz
was a power and had to be counted with. He was close in touch with all
the parish clergy and through them could stir up the people to fresh
revolt which the great ecclesiastics, chafing at the incarceration of
their chief, the Archbishop, would undoubtedly support. Moreover, the
Pope had written from Rome an indignant protest against the arrest of
a prince of the Church. The situation was further embittered by a sad
occurrence. A canon of the Notre Dame had been placed by the chapter
near the Archbishop to take his orders for the administration of the
diocese, and this aged priest, suffering from the confinement, lost his
health and committed suicide. The death was attributed to the severity
of the imprisonment and sympathy for De Retz redoubled, fanned into
flame by incendiary sermons from every pulpit in Paris.

The Court now wished to temporise and overtures were made to De Retz
to resign the archbishopric. He was offered in exchange the revenues
of seven wealthy abbeys, but stubbornly refused. He was advised by his
friends not to yield as the only means to recover his liberty, but
he finally agreed to accept the proffered exchange and pending the
approval of the Holy See was transferred from Vincennes to the prison
of Nantes at the mouth of the Loire. Here his treatment was softened.
He was permitted to amuse himself, to receive visitors of both sexes
and to see theatrical performances within the castle. He was still
a close prisoner and there was a guard of the gate sentinels on his
rooms; but he bore it all bravely, being buoyed up with the hope of
approaching release.

A bitter disappointment was in store for him. The Pope refused to
accept his resignation on the grounds that it had been extorted by
force and was dated from the interior of a prison. The attitude of his
gaolers changed towards him as he was suspected of foul play and he
was secretly apprised that he would probably be carried further out
of the world and removed to Brest. He was strongly advised to attempt
escape. One idea was that he should conceal himself in a capacious mule
trunk and be carried out as part of a friend's baggage. The prospect
of suffocation deterred the Cardinal and he turned his thoughts to
another method. This was the summer season and the river was low and
a space was left at the foot of the castle wall. The prisoner was in
the habit of exercising in a garden close at hand, and it was arranged
that four gentlemen devoted to him should take their posts here on a
certain afternoon. There was a gate at the bottom of the garden placed
there to prevent the soldiers from stealing the grapes. Above was a
kind of terrace on which the sentries guarding De Retz were stationed.
The Cardinal managed to pass into this garden unobserved and he came
upon a rope so placed as to assist him in sliding down to the lower
level. Here a horse was awaiting him, which he mounted and galloped
away, closely followed by his friends. Their way led through streets
where they encountered a couple of guards and exchanged shots with
them. All went well until De Retz's horse shied at the glitter of a
ray of sunlight, stumbled and fell. The Cardinal was thrown and broke
his collar bone. Both horse and man were quickly got on their feet
and the fugitive, though suffering horribly, remounted and continued
his flight. The party reached the river in safety, but when embarking
on the ferry-boat De Retz fainted and was taken across unconscious.
There was no hope of his being able to ride further and while some of
them went in search of a vehicle, the others concealed the Cardinal
in a barn, where he remained for seven hours, suffering terribly. At
last, help came, about two o'clock in the morning, and he was carried
on a litter to another farm where he was laid upon the soft hay of a
stack. He remained here until his safety was assured by the arrival of
a couple of hundred gentlemen, adherents of the De Retz family, for
he was now in the De Retz country. This successful escape caused much
alarm in court circles, for it was feared that De Retz would reappear
at once in Paris, but he was too much shaken by the accident to engage
actively in public affairs. He remained in obscurity and at last
withdrew from the country. He afterwards became reconciled to the royal
power, serving Louis XIV loyally at Rome as ambassador to the Papal
Conclave.

On the removal of the great demagogue from the scene, Mazarin
returned to Paris. The people were well disposed to receive him and
his re-entry was in its way a triumph. The King went many miles out
to meet and welcome him, and the Italian minister, long so detested,
drove into the capital amidst the most enthusiastic acclamations. The
most important personages in the realm vied with each other to do him
honor, many who had long labored for his destruction now protesting the
most ardent attachment to him. Mazarin took his fortune at the flood
and bearing no malice, if he felt any, by no means sought to avenge
himself on those who had so long hated and opposed him. He resumed his
place as chief minister and the remainder of his rule was mild and
beneficent. Disturbances still occurred in France, but they were not
of a serious nature. Conspiracies were formed but easily put down and
were followed by no serious reprisals. The punishments he inflicted
seldom extended to life and limb, for he had a strong abhorrence of
bloodshed and he preferred the milder method of imprisonment. He waged
unceasing war against depredators who infested the capital and parts
of the country. Highway robbery had increased and multiplied during
the long dissensions of the civil war. Mazarin was bitterly opposed to
duelling as was his predecessor, Richelieu, and he wished to keep the
courtiers in good humor. Indeed he directly fostered a vice to which
he was himself addicted, that of the gaming table. He was a persistent
gambler and it has been hinted that he thought it no discredit to take
advantage of his adversary. Never, perhaps, in any age or country was
there a greater addiction to play. Vast sums were won and lost in the
course of an evening. On one occasion Fouquet, the notorious minister
of finance of whom I shall have much more to say, won 60,000 livres
(roughly L5,000) in one deal. Gourville won as much from the Duc de
Richelieu in less than ten minutes. Single stakes ran to thousands of
pounds, and estates, houses, rich lace and jewels of great price were
freely put up at the table.




CHAPTER VI

THE MAN WITH THE IRON MASK

    Louis XIV asserts himself--His use of State prisons--Procedure
    of reception at the Bastile--Life in the prison--Diet and
    privileges--Governing staff--De Besmaus--Saint Mars--Fouquet's
    fate foreshadowed--Fete at Vaux--King enraged--Fouquet arrested
    at Nantes--Lodged in the Bastile--Sentence changed from
    exile to perpetual imprisonment--Removed to Pignerol--Dies
    in prison--Man with the Iron Mask--Basis of mystery--Various
    suppositions--Identical with Count Mattioli--Origin of stories
    about him--Dies in the Bastile.


The latter years of Mazarin's government were free from serious
disturbances at home and his foreign policy was distinctly beneficial
to France. He governed firmly, but in the name of the King, who already
evinced the strength of will and vigor of mind which were shortly to
make the royal authority absolute in France. Louis XIV was still in
his teens, but already he would brook no opposition from rebellious
nobles or a litigious Parliament. One day he entered the Chamber,
booted and spurred just as he came from hunting at Vincennes, and
plainly told the members of Parliament assembled there to prepare some
fresh remonstrance, that he would tolerate no more of their meetings.
"I know, gentlemen, the mischief that comes from them, and I will not
permit them in the future." The president protested that it was in the
interests of the State. "I am the State," replied the young despot of
seventeen. The country was entirely with him. All classes were sick of
commotions and hailed the new authority with every demonstration of
joy. Mazarin, no doubt, aided the development of Louis's character.
"There is enough in Louis," he had been heard to say, "to make four
good kings and one honest man," and it was under the Cardinal's
counsels that Louis developed his political education.

France was now entering upon one of the most brilliant periods of her
history. Mazarin had prosecuted the war with Spain so vigorously that
she was prepared to come to terms. He contracted an alliance with
Protestant Cromwell which resulted in substantial gains to England.
Peace with Spain and the marriage of Louis to a Spanish princess were
the last acts of Mazarin, whose constantly failing health showed that
death was near. Now, when the end was approaching, he had reached
the pinnacle of his fortunes. No longer the hated, proscribed and
persecuted minister, he enjoyed the fullest honors and the most
unbounded popularity. He had grown enormously rich, for avarice was a
ruling vice with him and he had uncontrolled access to the national
purse. At his death he left some fifty million livres in cash, owned
many palaces filled with priceless statues and pictures, and jewels of
inestimable value. His conscience appears to have troubled him as death
approached; he sought to silence it by making over all his possessions
to the King, who speedily silenced Mazarin's scruples by returning them
as a royal gift.

Not strangely, under such government, the finances of France were at
their very lowest ebb. The financial incompetence of Mazarin, coupled
with his greed, had left the treasury empty, and when Louis asked
Fouquet for money he got for answer, "There is none in the treasury,
but ask His Eminence to lend you some, he has plenty." Fortunately for
France, Mazarin had introduced into the King's service one of the most
eminent financiers who ever lived, Colbert, and it is reported that
when dying he said, "I owe your Majesty everything; but by giving you
my own intendant, Colbert, I shall repay you." Colbert became Louis's
secret adviser, for Fouquet purposely complicated accounts and craftily
contrived to tell the King nothing. One of Colbert's first acts was
to reveal to the King that Cardinal Mazarin, over and above the great
fortune he left openly to his family, had a store of wealth hidden away
in various fortresses. Louis promptly laid hands upon it and was in
consequence the only rich sovereign of his time in Europe.

In the long period of irresponsible despotism now at hand, the prisons
were destined to play a prominent part. No one was safe from arbitrary
arrest. The right of personal liberty did not exist. Every one, the
highest and the lowest, the most criminal and the most venial offender,
might come within the far reaching hands of the King's gaolers. Both
the "Wood," as Vincennes was commonly called, and the Bastile, the
"castle with the eight towers," were constantly crowded with victims
of arbitrary power. It was an interminable procession as we shall
presently see.

Let us first describe the procedure in arrest, the reception of
prisoners and their daily regime within the great fortress gaol. It
has been claimed that the system in force was regulated with the most
minute care. As imprisonment might be decreed absolutely and without
question, a great responsibility was supposed to weigh upon officials.
In the first instance the Bastile was under the immediate control of
a minister of state, for a long time a high official. He received
an accurate and exact list of all arrests made, and rendered to the
King an account of all remaining at the end of each year. The order
for arrest was hedged in with all precaution. Each _lettre de cachet_
bore the King's own signature countersigned by a minister, and the
governor of the Bastile signed a receipt for the body at the end of
the order. In some cases, prisoners of distinction brought their own
warrants of arrest; but the court also signed an order to receive
them, without which admission would be refused. In due course, when
Louis XIV had fully established his police, arrests were made by the
_Lieutenant-Criminel_, whose agent approached and touched his intended
prisoner with a white wand. A party of archers of the guard followed
in support. A carriage was always employed; the first that came to
hand being impressed into the King's service. Into this the prisoner
mounted with the officer making the arrest by his side. The escort
surrounded the carriage and the party marched at a foot's pace through
the silent, over-awed crowd. In many cases to avoid gossip, the agent
took his prisoner to a place he kept for the purpose, a private house
commonly called the _four_ (oven) and the remainder of the journey to
the Bastile was made after dark.

The party was challenged as it approached the Bastile. The first
sentinel cried, "Who goes there?" The agent replied, "The King's
order;" and the under officer of the guard came out to examine the
_lettre de cachet_ when, if all was correct, he allowed the carriage
to enter and rang the bell to inform all concerned. The soldiers of
the garrison turned out under arms, the King's lieutenant and the
captain of the gateway guard received the prisoner as he alighted from
the carriage. If the governor was in the castle the new prisoner was
conducted immediately into his presence. A short colloquy followed.
It was decided in which part of the castle the new comer should be
lodged. He was then taken into an adjoining apartment to be thoroughly
searched and was deprived of arms, money and papers. No one but the
officials and those specially authorised by the King were permitted to
carry arms in the Bastile. All visitors surrendered their swords at the
gate.

Now the drawbridge was let down and admission given to the inner court,
whence the prisoner passed on, escorted by turnkeys, to the lodging
assigned to him. If he was a person of distinction, he found a suite
of rooms; if of low degree he was thrown into one of the cells in the
towers. New arrivals were detained for several days in separation until
the interrogatory instituted gave some idea of the fate foreshadowed.
Rooms in the Bastile were not supplied with furniture. The King only
guaranteed food for his guests, and they were obliged to hire what they
needed unless their friends sent in the necessary articles. Later on,
the King provided a special fund for the purpose of buying furniture,
and five or six rooms came to be regularly furnished with a bed, a
table and a couple of chairs. In rare cases servants were admitted
to attend their masters, but the warders generally kept the rooms in
order. If the preliminary inquiry was lengthy or the imprisonment
promised to be prolonged, the prisoner was given a companion of his
own class and quality whose business it was to worm his way into his
confidence and eventually to betray it. These were the _moutons_, or
spies of latter days. Every prison chamber was closed with a double
gate with enormous locks and an approaching visitor was heralded by the
rattling of the keys. The warders came regularly three times a day:
first for breakfast, next for dinner at mid-day and to bring supper in
the evening.

The dietary in the Bastile is said to have been wholesome and
sufficient. The allowance made to the governor who acted as caterer
was liberal. Some prisoners were so satisfied with it that they
offered to accept simpler fare if the governor would share with them
the difference saved between the outlay and the allowance. There were
three courses at meals: soup, entree and joint with a dessert and a
couple of bottles of wine per head, while the governor sent in more
wine on fete days. Reduction of diet was a common punishment, but the
offenders were seldom put upon bread and water treatment, which was
thought so rigorous that it was never used except by the express orders
of the Court. The King paid for ordinary rations only. Luxuries such
as tobacco, high-class wine and superior viands prisoners found for
themselves, and these were charged against their private funds, held by
the authorities. Some smoked a good deal, but many complaints against
the practice were made by other prisoners. The keeping of pets was not
forbidden; there were numbers of dogs, cats and birds in cages and even
pigeons which were set free in the morning and returned every evening
after spending the day in town. But these last were looked upon with
suspicion as facilitating correspondence with the outside. The surgeon
of the castle attended to the sick, but in bad cases one of the King's
physicians was called in and nurses appointed. When death approached a
confessor was summoned to administer the rites of the Church, and upon
death a proper entry was made in the mortuary register, but often under
a false name.

Time passed heavily, no doubt, but the prisoners were not denied
certain relaxations. They might purchase books subject to approval.
When brought in they were scrupulously examined and the binding broken
up in the search for concealed documents. Where prisoners did not care
to read they were permitted to play draughts, chess and even cards.
Writing materials were issued, but with a very niggardly hand. A larger
consideration was extended to those given the so-called "liberty of
the Bastile." The doors were opened early and they were permitted to
enter the courtyard and remain there until nightfall, being allowed to
talk, to play certain games and to receive visits from their friends.
Such relaxations were chiefly limited to non-criminal prisoners, those
detained for family reasons, officers under arrest, and prisoners,
whose cases were disposed of but who were still detained for safe
custody. The well-being of the inmates of the Bastile was supposed
to be ensured by the constant visits of the superior officials, the
King's lieutenant, the governor and his major. Permission to address
petitions to the ministers was not denied and many heart-rending
appeals are still to be read in the archives, emanating from people
whose liberty had been forfeited. Clandestine communications between
prisoners kept strictly apart were frequently successful, as we have
seen; old hands exhibited extraordinary cleverness in their desire to
talk to their neighbors. They climbed the chimneys, crawled along the
outer bars or raised their voices so as to be heard on the floor above
or below.

Much ingenuity was shown in utilising strange articles as writing
materials; the drumstick of a fowl was turned into a pen, a scrap
of linen or a piece of plaster torn from the wall served as writing
paper and fresh blood was used for ink. Constant attempts were made
to communicate with the outside. The old trick of throwing out of the
window a stone wrapped in paper covered with writing was frequently
tried. If it reached the street and was picked up it generally passed
on to its address. Patroles were employed, day and night, making the
rounds of the exterior to check this practice. The bird fanciers tied
letters to the legs of the pigeons which took wing, and the detection
of this device led to a general gaol delivery from all bird cages.
Friends outside were at great pains to pass in news of the day to
prisoners. Where the prison windows gave upon the street, and when
prisoners were permitted to exercise on the platforms of the towers,
their friends waited on the boulevards below and used conventional
signs by waving a handkerchief or placing a hand in a particular
position to convey some valued piece of intelligence. It is said that
when Laporte, the _valet de chambre_ of Anne of Austria, was arrested,
the Queen herself lingered in the street so that her faithful servant
might see her and know that he was not forgotten. Sometimes the house
opposite the castle was rented with a notice board and a message
inscribed with gigantic letters was hung in the windows to be read by
those inside.

The governing staff of the Bastile, although ample and generally
efficient, could not entirely check these disorders. The supreme chief
was the Captain-Governor. Associated with him was a lieutenant of
the King, immediately under his orders were a major and aide-major
with functions akin to those of an adjutant and his assistant. There
was a chief engineer and a director of fortifications, a doctor and
a surgeon, a wet-nurse, a chaplain, a confessor and his coadjutor.
The Chatelet delegated a commissary to the department of the Bastile,
whose business it was to make judicial inquiries. An architect, two
keepers of the archives and three or four turnkeys, practically the
body servants and personal attendants of the prisoners, completed the
administrative staff. A military company of sixty men under the direct
command of the governor and his major formed the garrison and answered
for the security of the castle. Reliance must have been placed chiefly
upon the massive walls of the structure, for this company was composed
mainly of old soldiers, infirm invalids, not particularly active or
useful in such emergencies as open insubordination or attempted escape.
The emoluments of the governor were long fixed at 1,200 livres, but
the irregular profits far out-valued the fixed salary. The governor
was, to all intents and purposes, a hotel or boarding house keeper,
who was paid head money for his involuntary guests. The sum of ten
livres per diem was allowed for each, a sum far in excess of the charge
for diet. This allowance was increased when the lodgers exceeded a
certain number. The governor had other perquisites, such as the rent
of the sheds erected in the Bastile ditch. He was permitted to fill
his cellars with wine untaxed, which he generally exchanged with a
dealer for inferior fluid to re-issue to the prisoners. In later years
when the influx of prisoners diminished, the governors appear to have
complained bitterly of the diminution of their income. Petitions
imploring relief may be read in the actions from governors impoverished
by their outgoings in paying for the garrison and turnkey. They could
not "make both ends meet."

The governor, or captain of the castle, was in supreme charge. The
ministers of state transmitted to him the orders of the King direct.
He corresponded with them and in exceptional cases with the King
himself; but was answerable for the castle and the safe custody of
the inmates. His power was absolute and he wielded it with military
exactitude. We have seen in the list of earlier custodians, that the
most distinguished persons did not feel the position was beneath them;
but as time passed, it was thought safer to employ smaller people,
the creatures of the court whose loyalty and subservience might be
most certainly depended upon. After du Tremblay, who surrendered
his fortress to the Fronde, came Broussel the elder, the member
of Parliament who had defied Anne of Austria, with his son as his
lieutenant. Then came La Louviere, who was commandant of the place
when the "Grande Mademoiselle" seized it in aid of the great Conde.
He was removed by the King's order and when peace was declared one de
Vennes succeeded him and then La Bachelerie. But De Besmaus, who had
been a simple captain in Mazarin's guard, was the first of what we may
call the "gaoler governors." He was appointed by the King in 1658 and
held the post for nearly forty years. Through all the busy period when
Louis XIV personally controlled the morals of his kingdom and used
the castle to enforce his despotic will a great variety of prisoners
came under his charge; political conspirators, religious dissidents,
Jansenists and Protestants, free thinkers and reckless writers with
unbridled libellous pens, publishers who dared to print unauthorised
books which were tried in court and sentenced to committal to gaol
for formal destruction, common criminals, thieves, cutpurses and
highway robbers. De Besmaus has been described as a "coarse, brutal
governor, a dry, disagreeable, hard-hearted ruffian;" but another
report applauds the selection, declaring that his unshaken fidelity
through thirty-nine years of office was associated with much gentleness
and humanity. His honesty is more questioned, for it is stated that
although he entered the service poor, he bequeathed considerable sums
at his death. Monsieur de Saint Mars, who fills so large a place in the
criminal annals of the times, from his connection with certain famous
and mysterious prisoners, succeeded De Besmaus. He was an old man and
had risen from the ranks, having been first a King's musketeer, then
corporal, then Marechal de Logis, and was then appointed commandant of
the donjon of Pignerol.

When Cardinal Mazarin died, the probable successor to the vacant
office was freely discussed and choice was supposed to lie between Le
Tellier, secretary of State for war, Lionne, secretary for foreign
affairs, and Fouquet, superintendent of finances. Louis XIV soon
settled the question by announcing his intention of assuming the
reins of government himself. When leading personages came to him,
asking to whom they should speak in future upon affairs of State,
Louis replied, "To me. I shall be my own Prime Minister in future."
He said it with a decision that could not be questioned, and it was
plain that the young monarch of twenty-two proposed to sacrifice his
ease, to subordinate his love of pleasure and amusement to the duties
of his high position--resolutions fulfilled in the main. In truth
he had been chafing greatly at the vicarious authority exercised by
Mazarin and was heard to say that he could not think what would have
happened had the Cardinal lived much longer. People could not believe
in Louis's determination and predicted that he would soon weary of his
burdensome task. Fouquet was the most incredulous of all. He thought
himself firmly fixed in his place and believed that by humoring the
King, by encouraging him in his extravagance and providing funds for
his gratification, he would still retain his power. He sought, too, by
complicating the business and confusing the accounts of his office, to
disgust the King with financial details and blind him to the dishonest
statements put before him. Fouquet thus prepared his own undoing, for
Louis, suspecting foul play, was secretly coached by Colbert, who came
privately by night to the King's cabinet to instruct and pilot him
through the dark and intricate pitfalls that Fouquet prepared for him.
Louis patiently bided his time and suffered Fouquet to go farther and
farther astray, to increase his peculations and lavish enormous sums
of the ill-gotten wealth in ostentatious extravagance. Louis made up
his mind to pull down and destroy his faithless minister. His insidious
plans, laid with a patient subtlety, not to say perfidy, were the
first revelation of the masterly and unscrupulous character of the
young sovereign. He led Fouquet on to convict himself and show to all
the world, by a costly entertainment on unparalleled lines, how deeply
he had dipped his purse into the revenues of the State.

The fete he gave to the King and court at his newly constructed palace
at Vaux was brilliant beyond measure. The mansion far outshone any
royal residence in beauty and splendor. Three entire villages had
been demolished in its construction so that water might be brought
to the grounds to fill the reservoirs and serve the fountains and
cascades that freshened the lawns and shady alleys and gladdened the
eye with smiling landscapes. The fete he now gave was of oriental
magnificence. Enchantment followed enchantment. Tables laden with
luscious viands came down from the ceiling. Mysterious subterranean
music was heard on every side. The most striking feature was an
ambulant mountain of confectionery which moved amongst the guests with
hidden springs. Moliere was there and at the King's suggestion wrote
a play on the spot, "_Les Facheux_," which caricatured some of the
most amusing guests. The King was a prey to jealous amazement. He saw
pictures by the most celebrated painters, grounds laid out by the most
talented landscape gardeners, buildings of the most noble dimensions
erected by the most famous architects. After the theatre there were
fireworks, after the pyrotechnics a ball at which the King danced with
Mademoiselle de la Valliere; after the ball, supper; and after supper,
the King bade Fouquet good night with the words, "I shall never dare
ask you to my house; I could not receive you properly."

More than once that night the King, sore at heart and humiliated at the
gorgeous show made by a subject and servant of the State, would have
arrested Fouquet then and there. The Queen Mother strongly dissuaded
him from too hasty action and he saw that it would be necessary to
proceed with caution lest he find serious, and possibly successful,
resistance. Fouquet did not waste all his wealth in ostentation. He had
purchased the island of Belle Ile from the Duc de Retz and fortified
it with the idea, it was thought, to withdraw there if he failed to
secure the first place in the kingdom, raise the standard of revolt
against the King and seek aid from England. It was time to pull down so
powerful a subject.

The measures taken for the arrest of Fouquet may be recounted here
at some length. They well illustrate the young King's powers of
dissimulation and the extreme caution that backed his resolute will.
He first assumed a friendly attitude and led Fouquet to believe that
he meant to bestow on him the valued decoration of Saint d'Esprit.
But he had already given it to another member of the Paris Parliament
and a rule had been made that only one of that body should enjoy the
honor. Fouquet was Procureur General of the Parliament and voluntarily
sold the place so that he might become eligible for the cross, at the
same time paying the price into the Treasury. Louis was by no means
softened and still determined to abase Fouquet. Yet he shrank from
making the arrest in Paris and invented a pretext for visiting the
west coast of France for the purpose of choosing a site for a great
naval depot. He was to be accompanied by his council, Fouquet among
the rest. Although the Superintendent was suffering from fever, he
proceeded to Nantes by the river Loire, where the King, travelling by
the road, soon afterwards arrived. Some delay occurred through the
illness of d'Artagnan, lieutenant of musketeers, who was to be charged
with the arrest. The reader will recognise d'Artagnan, the famous
fourth of the still more famous "Three Musketeers" of Alexandre Dumas.
The instructions issued to d'Artagnan are preserved in the memorandum
written by Le Tellier's clerk and may be summarised as follows:--

"It is the King's intention to arrest the Sieur Fouquet on his leaving
the castle (Nantes) when he has passed beyond the last sentinel. Forty
musketeers will be employed, twenty to remain within the court of the
castle, the other twenty to patrol outside. The arrest will be made
when Sieur Fouquet comes down from the King's chamber, and he will be
carried, surrounded by the musketeers, to the Chamberlain's room,
there to await the King's carriage which is to take him further on.
Monsieur d'Artagnan will offer Monsieur Fouquet a basin of soup if he
should care to take it. Meanwhile the musketeers will form a cordon
round the lodging in which the Chamberlain's room is situated. Monsieur
d'Artagnan will not take his eyes off the prisoner for a single
moment nor will he permit him to put his hand into his pocket so as
to remove any papers, telling him that the King demands the delivery
of all documents; and those he gets Monsieur d'Artagnan will at once
pass on to the authority indicated. In entering the royal carriage
Monsieur Fouquet will be accompanied by Monsieur d'Artagnan with five
of his most trustworthy officers and musketeers. The road taken will
be: the first day, to Oudon, the second day, to Ingrandes, and the
third, to the castle of Angers. Extreme care will be observed that
Monsieur Fouquet has no communication by word or writing or in any
other possible way with any one on the road. At Oudon, Monsieur Fouquet
will be summoned to deliver an order in his own hand to the Commandant
of Belle Ile to hand it over to an officer of the King. In order that
every precaution may be taken at Angers, its governor, the Count
d'Harcourt, will receive orders to surrender the place to Monsieur
d'Artagnan and expel the garrison. This letter will be forwarded
express to Angers so that all may be ready on the arrival. At the same
time a public notice shall be issued to the inhabitants of Angers
requiring them to give every assistance in food and lodging to the
King's musketeers. Monsieur Fouquet will be lodged in the most suitable
rooms which will be furnished with goods purchased in the town. The
King will himself nominate the _valet de chambre_ and decide upon the
prisoner's rations and the supply of his table. Monsieur d'Artagnan
will receive 1,000 louis for all expenses."

The arrest was not limited to the Superintendent himself. His chief
clerk Pellisson, who afterwards became famous in literature, was also
taken to Saint Mande. Fouquet's house and his papers were seized;
which his brother would have forestalled by burning the house but
was too late. A mass of damaging papers fell into the hands of the
King. One of these was an elaborate manuscript with the project of
a general rising, treasonable in the highest degree. The scheme was
too wild and visionary for accomplishment and Fouquet himself swore
positively that it was a forgery. Fouquet did not remain long at
Angers. He was carried to Amboise and afterwards to Vincennes, always
under the strictest surveillance, being suffered to speak to no one
en route but his guards and denied the use of writing materials. He
left Amboise in December, 1661, for Vincennes, under the escort of
eighty musketeers, and from time to time passed to and fro between
the "Wood" and the Bastile as his interminable trial dragged along.
He was first interrogated at Vincennes by an informal tribunal, the
commission previously constituted to inquire into the malversation of
finances, but he steadily refused to answer except in free and open
court. After much persecution by his enemies with the King himself at
their head, and the violation of all forms of law, he was taken again
to the Bastile and arraigned before the so-called Chamber of Justice at
the Arsenal, a tribunal made up mainly of unjust and prejudiced judges,
some of whom hated the prisoner bitterly. The process was delayed by
Fouquet's dexterity in raising objections and involving others in the
indictment. Louis XIV ardently desired the end. "My reputation is at
stake," he wrote. "The matter is not serious, really, but in foreign
countries it will be thought so if I cannot secure the conviction of a
thief." The King's long standing animosity was undying, as the sequel
showed. Throughout, the public sympathy was with Fouquet. He had troops
of friends; he had been a liberal patron of art and letters and all
the best brains of Paris were on his side. Madame de Sevigne filled
several of her matchless letters with news of the case. La Fontaine
bemoaned his patron's fate in elegant verse. Mademoiselle Scuderi,
the first French novelist, wrote of him eloquently. Henault attacked
Colbert in terms that might well have landed him in the Bastile, and
Pellisson, his former clerk, from the depths of that prison made public
his eloquent and impassioned justifications of his old master. At
last, when hope was almost dead, the relief was great at hearing that
there would be no sentence of death as was greatly feared. By thirteen
votes against nine, a sentence of banishment was decreed and the result
was made public amid general rejoicing. The sentence was deemed light,
although Fouquet had already endured three years' imprisonment and
he must have suffered much in the protracted trial. Louis XIV, still
bearing malice, would not allow Fouquet to escape so easily and changed
banishment abroad into perpetual imprisonment at home. The case is
quoted as one of the rare instances in which a despotic sovereign ruler
over-rode the judgment of a court by ordering a more severe sentence
and personally ensuring its harsh infliction.

He was forthwith transferred to Pignerol, escorted again by d'Artagnan
and a hundred musketeers. Special instructions for his treatment,
contained in letters from the King in person, were handed over to
Saint Mars. By express royal order he was forbidden to communicate
in speech or writing with anyone but his gaolers. He might not leave
the room he occupied for a single moment or for any reason. He could
not use a slate to note down his thoughts, that common boon extended
to all modern prisoners. These restrictions were imposed with the
most watchful precautions and, as we may well believe, were inspired
with the wish to cut him off absolutely from friends outside. He was
supposed to have some valuable information to communicate and the
King was determined it should not pass through. Fouquet's efforts and
devices were most persistent and ingenious. He utilised all manner
of material; writing on the ribbons that ornamented his clothes and
the linen that lined them. When the ribbons were tabooed and removed
and the linings were all in black he abstracted pieces of his table
cloth and manufactured it into paper. He made pens out of fowl bones
and ink from soot. He wrote on the inside of his books and on his
pocket handkerchiefs. Once he begged to be allowed a telescope and
it was discovered that some of his former attendants had arrived in
Pignerol and were in communication with him by signal. They were
forthwith commanded to leave the neighborhood. He was very attentive
to his religious duties at one time, and constantly asked for the
ministrations of a priest. From this some clandestine work was
suspected and the visits of the confessor were strictly limited to
four a year. A servant was, however, permitted to wait on him but was
presently replaced by two others, who were intended to act as spies on
each other; although on joining Fouquet these were plainly warned that
they would never be allowed to leave Pignerol alive.

After eight years the severity of his incarceration appreciably
relaxed. The incriminated financiers outside were by this time disposed
of or dead. He was given leave to write a letter to his wife and
receive one in reply, on condition that they were previously read by
the authorities. His personal comfort was improved and he was allowed
tea, at that time a most expensive luxury. He had many more books
to read, the daily gazettes and current news reached him, and when
presently the Comte de Lauzun was brought a prisoner to Pignerol, the
two were permitted to take exercise together upon the ramparts. By
degrees greater favor was shown. Fouquet was permitted to play outdoor
games and the privilege of unlimited correspondence was conceded, both
with relations and friends. Fouquet's wife and children were suffered
to reside in the town of Pignerol and were constant visitors, permitted
to remain with him alone, without witnesses. As the prisoner, who
was failing in health, grew worse and worse, his wife was permitted
to occupy the same room with him and his daughter lodged alongside.
When he died in 1680, all his near relations were present. The fact
has been questioned; and a tradition exists that Fouquet, still no
older than sixty-six, was released and lived on in extreme privacy
for twenty-three years. The point is of interest as illustrating the
veil of secrecy so often thrown over events in that age and so often
impenetrable.

This seems a fitting opportunity to refer to a prison mystery belonging
to this period, and originating in Pignerol, which has exercised the
whole world for many generations. The fascinating story of the "Man
with the Iron Mask," as presented by writers enamored of romantic
sensation, has attracted universal attention for nearly two centuries.
A fruitful field for investigation and conjecture was opened up by
the strange circumstances of the case. Voltaire with his keen love of
dramatic effect was the first to awaken the widespread interest in an
historic enigma for which there was no plausible solution. Who was this
unknown person held captive for five and twenty unbroken years with his
identity so studiously and strictly hidden that it has never yet been
authoritatively revealed? The mystery deepened with the details (mostly
imaginery) of the exceptional treatment accorded him. Year after year
he wore a mask, really made of black velvet on a whalebone frame, not
a steel machine, with a chin-piece closing with a spring and looking
much like an instrument of mediaeval torture. He was said to have been
treated with extreme deference. His gaoler stood, bareheaded, in his
presence. He led a luxurious life; he wore purple and fine linen and
costly lace; his diet was rich and plentiful and served on silver
plate; he was granted the solace of music; every wish was gratified,
save in the one cardinal point of freedom. The plausible theory deduced
from all this was that he was a personage of great consequence,--of
high, possibly royal birth, who was imprisoned and segregated for
important reasons of State.

Such conditions, quite unsubstantiated by later knowledge, fired the
imagination of inquirers, and a clue to the mystery has been sought in
some exalted victim whom Louis XIV had the strongest reason to keep out
of sight. Many suggested explanations were offered, all more or less
far fetched even to absurdity. The first was put forward by at least
two respectable writers, who affirmed that a twin son was born to Anne
of Austria, some hours later than the birth of the Dauphin, and that
Louis XIII, fearing there might be a disputed succession, was resolved
to conceal the fact. It was held by certain legal authorities in France
that the first born of twins had no positive and exclusive claim to the
inheritance. Accordingly, the second child was conveyed away secretly
and confided first to a nurse and then to the governor of Burgundy who
kept him close. But the lad, growing to manhood, found out who he was
and was forthwith placed in confinement, with a mask to conceal his
features which were exactly like those of his brother, the King. Yet
this view was held by many people of credit in France and it was that
to which the great Napoleon inclined, for he was keenly interested in
the question and when in power had diligent search made in the National
archives, quite without result, which greatly chafed his imperious
mind. A similar theory of the birth of this second child was found
very attractive; the paternity of it was given, not to Louis XIII, but
to various lovers: the Duke of Buckingham, Cardinal Mazarin and a
gentleman of the court whose name never transpired. This is the wildest
and most extravagant of surmises, for which there is not one vestige of
authority. The first suggestion is altogether upset by the formalities
and precautions observed at the birth of "a child of France," and it
would have been absolutely impossible to perpetrate the fraud.

Other special and fanciful suppositions have gained credence, but their
mere statement is sufficient to upset them. One is the belief that the
"Man with the Iron Mask" was the English Duke of Monmouth, the son of
Charles II and Lucy Waters, who raised the standard of revolt against
James II and suffered death on Tower Hill. It was pretended that a
devoted follower, whose life was also forfeit, took his place upon
the scaffold and was hacked about in Monmouth's place by the clumsy
executioner. The craze for ridiculous conjecture led to the adoption of
Henry Cromwell, the Protector's second son, as the cryptic personage,
but there was never a shadow of evidence to support this story and no
earthly reason why Louis XIV should desire to imprison and conceal a
young Englishman. Nor can we understand why Louis should thus dispose
of his own son by Louise de Valliere, the young Comte de Vermandois,
whose death in camp at an early age was fully authenticated by the sums
allotted to buy masses for the repose of his soul. The disappearance
of the Duc de Beaufort's body after his death on the field of Candia
led to his promotion to the honor of the Black Mask, but his head was
probably sent to the Sultan of Turkey, and in any case, although he
was, as we have already seen, a noisy, vulgar demagogue, he had made
his peace with the court in his later days. There was no mystery about
Fouquet's imprisonment. The story which has just been told to the time
of his death shows conclusively that he could not be the "Man with the
Iron Mask," nor was there any sound reason to think it. The same may be
said of the rather crazy suggestion that he was Avedik, the Armenian
patriarch at Constantinople who, having incurred the deadly animosity
of the Jesuits, had been kidnapped and brought to France. This
conclusion was entirely vitiated by the unalterable logic of dates. The
patriarch was carried off from Constantinople just a year after the
mysterious person died in the Bastile.

Thus, one by one, we exclude and dispose of the uncertain and
improbable claimants to the honors of identification. But one person
remains whom the cap fits from the first; a man who, we know, offended
Louis mortally and whose imprisonment the King had the best of reasons,
from his own point of view, for desiring: the first, private vengeance,
the second, the public good and the implacable will to carry out his
set purpose. It is curious that this solution which was close at hand
seems never to have appealed to the busy-bodies who approached the
subject with such exaggerated ideas about the impenetrable mystery. A
prisoner had been brought to Pignerol at a date which harmonizes with
the first appearance of the unknown upon the stage. Great precautions
were observed to keep his personality a secret; but it was distinctly
known to more than one, and although guarded with official reticence,
there were those who could have, and must have drawn their own
conclusions. In any case the screen has now been entirely torn aside
and documentary evidence is afforded which proves beyond all doubt that
no real mystery attaches to the "Man with the Iron Mask."

The exact truth of the story will be best established by a brief
history of the antecedent facts. When Louis XIV was at the zenith of
his power, supreme at home and an accepted arbiter abroad, he was bent
upon consolidating his power in Northern Italy, and eagerly opened
negotiations with the Duke of Mantua to acquire the fortress town of
Casale. The town was a decisive point which secured his predominance in
Montferrat, which gave an easy access at any time into Lombardy. The
terms agreed upon were, first, a payment of 100,000 crowns by Louis
to the Duke of Mantua and, second, a promise that the latter should
command any French army sent into Italy; in exchange, the surrender
of Casale. The transaction had been started by the French ambassador
in Venice and the principal agent was a certain Count Mattioli, who
had been a minister to the Duke of Mantua and was high in his favor.
Mattioli visited Paris and was well received by the King, who sent
him back to Italy to complete the contract. Now, however, unexplained
delays arose and it came out that the great Powers, who were strongly
opposed to the dominating influence of France in Northern Italy, had
been informed of what was pending. The private treaty with France
became public property and there could be no doubt but that Mattioli
had been bought over. He had in fact sold out the French king and the
whole affair fell through.

Louis XIV, finding himself deceived and betrayed, was furiously angry
and resolved to avenge himself upon the traitor. It was pain and
anguish to him to find that he had been cheated before all Europe,
and in his discomfiture and bitter humiliation he prepared to avenge
himself amply. On the suggestion of the French minister at Turin he
planned that Mattioli should be kidnapped and carried into France and
there subjected to the King's good pleasure. Mattioli was a needy man
and was easily beguiled by the Frenchman's promises of a substantial
sum in French gold, from the French general, Catinat, who was on
the frontier with ample funds for use when Casale should have been
occupied. Mattioli, unsuspecting, met Catinat not far from Pignerol,
where after revealing the place where his papers were concealed he
fell into the hands of the French. Louis had approved of the arrest
and insisted only on secrecy, and that Mattioli should be carried off
without the least suspicion in Casale. "Look to it," he wrote, "that no
one knows what becomes of this man." And at the same time the governor
of Pignerol, Saint Mars, was instructed by Louvois, the minister, to
receive him in great secrecy and was told, "You will guard him in such
a manner that, not only may he have no communication with anyone, but
that he may have cause to repent his conduct, and that no one may know
you have a new prisoner." The secrecy was necessary because Mattioli
was the diplomatic agent of another country and his arrest was a
barefaced violation of the law of nations.

Brigadier-General (afterwards the famous Marshal) Catinat reports from
Pignerol on May 3rd, 1679:--"I arrested Mattioli yesterday, three miles
from here, upon the King's territories, during the interview which the
Abbe d'Estrades had ingeniously contrived between himself, Mattioli
and me, to facilitate the scheme. For the arrest, I employed only the
Chevaliers de Saint Martin and de Villebois, two officers under M.
de Saint Mars, and four men of his company. It was effected without
the least violence, and no one knows the rogue's name, not even the
officers who assisted." This fixed beyond all doubt the identity, but
there is a corroborative evidence in a pamphlet still in existence,
dated 1682, which states that "the Secretary was surrounded by ten or
twelve horsemen who seized him, disguised him, masked him and conducted
him to Pignerol." This is farther borne out by a traditionary arrest
about that time.

When, thirty years later, the great sensation was first invented, its
importance was emphasised by Voltaire and others who declared that at
the period of the arrest no disappearance of any important person was
recorded. Certainly Mattioli's disappearance was not much noticed. It
was given out that he was dead, the last news of him being a letter to
his father in Padua begging him to hand over his papers to a French
agent. They were concealed in a hole in the wall in one of the rooms in
his father's house, and when obtained without demur were forwarded to
the King in Paris. There was no longer any doubt of Mattioli's guilt,
and Louis exacted the fullest penalty. He would annihilate him, sweep
him out of existence, condemn him to a living death as effective as
though he were poisoned, strangled or otherwise removed. He did not
mean that the man who had flouted and deceived him should be in a
position to glory over the affront he had put upon the proudest king in
Christendom.

Exit Mattioli. Enter the "Man with the Iron Mask." Pignerol, the prison
to which he was consigned, has already been described, and also Saint
Mars, his gaoler. The mask was not regularly used at first, but the
name of Mattioli was changed on reception to Lestang. We come at once
upon evidence that this was no distinguished and favored prisoner. The
deference shown him, the silver plate, the fine clothes are fictions
destroyed by a letter written by Louvois within a fortnight of the
arrest. "It is not the King's intention," he writes, "that the Sieur
de Lestang should be well treated, or that, except the necessaries of
life, you should give him anything to soften his captivity.... You must
keep Lestang in the rigorous confinement I enjoined in my previous
letters."

Saint Mars punctiliously obeyed his orders. He was a man of inflexible
character, with no bowels of compassion for his charges, and Lestang
must have felt the severity of the prison rule. Eight months later the
governor reported that Lestang, likewise a fellow prisoner, a monk,
who shared his chamber, had gone out of his mind. Both were subject to
fits of raving madness. This is the only authentic record of the course
of the imprisonment, which lasted fifteen years in this same prison of
Pignerol. Saint Mars, in 1681, exchanged his governorship for that of
Exiles, another frontier fortress, and was supposed to have carried
his masked prisoner with him. This erroneous belief has been disproved
by a letter of Saint Mars to the Abbe d'Estrades, discovered in the
archives, in which the writer states that he has left Mattioli at
Pignerol. There is no attempt at disguise. The name used is Mattioli,
not Lestang, and it is clear from collateral evidence that this is the
masked man.

Saint Mars was not pleased with Exiles and solicited another transfer
which came in his appointment to the command of the castle on the
island of Sainte-Marguerite, opposite Cannes and well known to visitors
to the French Riviera. The fortress, by the way, has much later
interest as Marshal Bazaine's place of confinement after his trial by
court martial for surrendering Metz. It will be remembered, too, that
with the connivance of friends Bazaine made his escape from durance,
although it may be doubted whether the French Republic was particularly
anxious to keep him.

The time at length arrived for Mattioli's removal from Pignerol. A
change had come over the fortunes of France. Louis was no longer the
dictator of Europe. Defeated in the field and thwarted in policy, the
proud King had to eat humble pie; he was forced to give up Casale,
which had come to him after all in spite of Mattioli's betrayal.
Pignerol also went back once more to Italian rule and it must be
cleared of French prisoners. One alone remained of any importance, for
Fouquet was long since dead and Lauzun released. This was Mattioli,
whose illegal seizure and detention it was now more than ever necessary
to keep secret. Extreme precautions were taken when making the
transfer. A strong detachment of soldiers, headed by guides, escorted
the prisoner who was in a litter. The governor of Pignerol (now one
Villebois) by his side was the only person permitted to communicate
with him. The locks and bolts of his quarters at Pignerol were sent
ahead to be used at Sainte-Marguerite and the strictest discipline
was maintained on the journey. Mattioli saw no one. His solitude was
unbroken save by Saint Mars and the two lieutenants who brought him his
food and removed the dishes.

One other change awaited the prisoner, the last before his final
release. High preferment came to Saint Mars, who was offered and
accepted the governorship of the Bastile. He was to bring his "ancient
prisoner" with him to Paris; to make the long journey across France
weighted with the terrible responsibility of conveying such a man
safely in open arrest. We get a passing glimpse of the cortege in
a letter published by the grandnephew of Saint Mars, M. Polteau,
who describes the halt made for a night at Polteau, a country house
belonging to Saint Mars.

"The Man in the Mask," he writes, in 1768, "came in a litter which
preceded that of M. de Saint Mars. They were accompanied by several
men on horseback. The peasants waited to greet their lord. M. de Saint
Mars took his meals with his prisoner, who was placed with his back
to the windows of the dining room which overlooked the courtyard. The
peasants whom I questioned could not see whether he wore his mask while
eating, but they took notice of the fact that M. de Saint Mars who
sat opposite to him kept a pair of pistols beside his plate. They were
waited on by one manservant who fetched the dishes from the anteroom
where they were brought to him, taking care to close the door of the
dining room after him. When the prisoner crossed the courtyard, he
always wore the black mask. The peasants noticed that his teeth and
lips showed through, also that he was tall and had white hair. M. de
Saint Mars slept in a bed close to that of the masked man."

The prisoner arrived at the Bastile on the 18th of September, 1698,
and the authentic record of his reception appears in the journal of
the King's lieutenant of the castle, M. du Junca, still preserved in
the Arsenal Library. "M. de Saint Mars, governor of the Chateau of the
Bastile, presented, for the first time, coming from his government of
the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite, bringing with him a prisoner who was
formerly in his keeping at Pignerol." The entry goes on to say that the
newcomer was taken to the third chamber of the Bertandiere tower and
lodged there alone in the charge of a gaoler who had come with him. He
was nameless in the Bastile and was known only as "the prisoner from
Provence" or "the ancient prisoner."

His isolation and seclusion were strictly maintained for the first
three years of his imprisonment in the Bastile and then came a curious
change. He is no longer kept apart. He is associated with other
prisoners, and not of the best class. One, a rascally domestic servant,
who practised black magic, and a disreputable rake who had once been
an army officer. Nothing is said about the mask, but there can no
longer be much secrecy and the mystery might be divulged at any time.
It is evident that the reasons for concealment have passed away. The
old political intrigue has lost its importance. No one cared to know
about Casale. Louis XIV had slaked his vindictiveness and the sun of
his splendor was on the decline. Nevertheless it was not till after
his death that the prisoner's real name transpired. He died as he had
lived, unknown. Du Junca enters the event in the register:--

"The prisoner unknown, masked always ... happening to be unwell
yesterday on coming from mass died this day about 10 o'clock in the
evening without having had any serious illness; indeed it could not
have been slighter ... and this unknown prisoner confined so long a
time was buried on Tuesday at four in the afternoon in the cemetery of
St. Paul, our parish. On the register of burial he was given a name
also unknown." To this is added in the margin, "I have since learnt
that he was named on the register M. de Marchiali." A further entry
can be seen in the parish register. "On the 19th of November, 1703,
Marchioly, of the age of forty-five or thereabouts, died in the Bastile
... and was buried in the presence of the major and the surgeon of
the Bastile." "Marchioly" is curiously like "Mattioli" and it is a
fair assumption that the true identity of the "Man with the Iron Mask"
bursts forth on passing the verge of the silent land.

Lauzun, a third inmate of Pignerol about this period, calls for mention
here as a prominent courtier whose misguided ambition and boundless
impudence tempted him seriously to affront and offend the King. The
penalties that overtook him were just what a bold, intemperate subject
might expect from an autocratic, unforgiving master. This prisoner,
the Count de Lauzun, was rightly styled by a contemporary "the most
insolent little man that had been seen for a century." He had no
considerable claims to great talents, agreeable manners or personal
beauty, but he was quick to establish himself in the good graces of
Louis XIV. He was one of the first to offer him the grateful incense of
unlimited adulation. He worshipped the sovereign as a superior being,
erected him into a god, lavished the most fulsome flattery on him,
declaring that Louis by his wisdom, wit, greatness and majesty took
rank as a divinity. Yet he sometimes forgot himself and went to the
other extreme, daring to attack and upbraid the King if he disapproved
of his conduct. Once he sided with Madame de Montespan when she was
first favorite and remonstrated with Louis so rudely that the King cast
him at once into the Bastile. But such blunt honesty won the King's
respect and speedy forgiveness. Lauzun was soon released and advanced
from post to post, each of successively greater value, so that the
hypocritical courtier, who had made the most abject submission, seemed
assured of high fortune. As he rose, his ambition grew and he aspired
now to the hand of the King's cousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier,
who began to look upon him with favor. This was the same "Grande
Mademoiselle," the heroine of the wars of the Fronde, who was now a
wealthy heiress and who at one time came near being the King's wife and
Queen. The match was so unequal as to appear wildly impossible, but De
Lauzun was strongly backed by Madame de Montespan and two nobles of
high rank were induced to make a formal proposal to the King.

Louis liked De Lauzun and gave his consent without hesitation. The
marriage might have been completed at once but the bold suitor,
successful beyond his deserts and puffed up with conceit, put off the
happy day so as to give more and more eclat to the wedding ceremony.
While he procrastinated his enemies were unceasingly active. The
princes of the blood and jealous fellow courtiers constantly implored
the King to avoid so great a mistake, and Louis, having been weak
enough to give his consent, was now so base as to withdraw it. De
Lauzun retorted by persuading Mademoiselle de Montpensier to marry him
privately. This reckless act, after all, might have been forgiven,
but he was full of bitterness against those who had injured him with
the King and desired to retaliate. He more especially hated Madame de
Montespan, whom he now plotted to ruin by very unworthy means. He thus
filled his cup and procured the full measure of the King's indignation.
He was arrested and consigned to Pignerol, where in company with
Fouquet he languished for ten years.




CHAPTER VII

THE POWER OF THE BASTILE

    Louis XIV and the _lettre de cachet_--Society corrupt--Assassination
    common--Cheating at cards--Shocking state of Paris--"The Court of
    Miracles"--Prisons filled--Prisoners detained indefinitely--Revived
    persecution of the Protestants--General exodus of industrious
    artisans--Inside the Bastile--Sufferings of the prisoners--The
    Comte Pagan--Imprisonment for blasphemy, riotous conduct in
    the streets and all loose living--Kidnapping of the Armenian
    Patriarch, Avedik--His sudden death--Many heinous crimes disgrace
    the epoch--Plot of the Chevalier de Rohan--Its detection--De Rohan
    executed.


The three notable cases of arrest and imprisonment given in the last
chapter are typical of the regime at last established in France under
the personal rule of a young monarch whom various causes had combined
to render absolute. The willing submission of a people sick of civil
war, the removal or complete subjection of the turbulent vassals,
his own imperious character,--that of a strong willed man with a
set resolve to be sovereign, irresponsible master,--all combined to
consolidate his powers. Louis was the incarnation of selfishness. To
have his own way with everyone and in everything, to gratify every whim
and passion was the keynote of his sensuous and indulgent nature. No
one dared oppose him; no one stood near him. His subjects were his
creatures; the greatest nobles accepted the most menial tasks about his
person. His abject and supple-backed courtiers offered him incense and
dosed him with the most fulsome flattery. He held France in the hollow
of his hand and French society was formed on his model, utterly corrupt
and profligate under a thin veneer of fine manners which influenced all
Europe and set its fashions.

The worst example set by Louis was in his interference with personal
liberty. The privilege of freedom from arrest had been won by the
Parliament, in the Fronde. They had decreed that any one taken into
custody one day must be produced for trial the next and his detention
justified. This safeguard was shortlived. The law was defied and
ignored by Louis XIV who invented the _lettres de cachet_, or sealed
warrants, which decreed arbitrary arrest without reason given or
the smallest excuse made for the committal. It came to be a common
thing that persons who were not even suspected of crimes, and who had
certainly never been guilty of crimes, were caught up and imprisoned
indefinitely. They might lie for years in the Bastile or Vincennes,
utterly uncared for and forgotten, kept in custody not because anybody
was set upon their remaining but because nobody was interested in their
release. In the absence of any statement of the offense no one could
say whether or not it was purged and no one was concerned as to whether
the necessity for punishment still survived. These _lettres de cachet_
were abundantly in evidence, for they were signed in blank by the King
himself and countersigned by one of his ministers whenever it was
desired to make use of one.

It may be well to explain here that it was customary for the King of
France to make his sovereign will known by addressing a communication
to the various State functionaries in the form of a letter which was
open or closed. If the former, it was a "patent," it bore the King's
signature, it was countersigned by a minister and the great Seal of
State was appended. This was the form in which all ordinances or grants
of privileges appeared. These "letters patent" were registered and
endorsed by the Parliament. But there was no check upon the closed
letter or _lettre de cachet_, famous in the history of tyranny, as the
secret method of making known the King's pleasure. This was folded
and sealed with the King's small seal, and although it was a private
communication it had all the weight of the royal authority. It became
the warrant for the arbitrary arrest, at any time and without any
reason given, of any person who, upon the strength of it, was forthwith
committed to a State prison. The chief ministers and the head of the
police had always _lettres de cachet_ in stock, signed in blank, but
all in due form, and they could be completed at any time, by order,
or of their own free will, by inserting the name of the unfortunate
individual whose liberty was to be forfeited. Arrest on a _lettre de
cachet_, as has been said, sometimes meant prolonged imprisonment
purposely or only because the identity of the individual or the cause
of the arrest was forgotten.

Society was horribly vicious and corrupt in the time of Louis XIV.
Evil practices prevailed throughout the nation. Profligacy was general
among the better classes and the lower ranks committed the most
atrocious crimes. While the courtiers openly followed the example set
by their self-indulgent young monarch, an ardent devotee of pleasure,
the country was over-run with thieves and desperadoes. Assassination
was common, by the open attack of hired bravos or secretly by the
infamous administration of poison. Security was undermined and numbers
in every condition of life were put out of the way. The epoch of the
poisoners presently to be described is one of the darkest pages in
the annals of the Bastile. Cheating at cards and in every form of
gambling was shamelessly prevalent, and defended on the specious excuse
that it was merely correcting fortune. Prominent persons of rank and
fashion such as the Chevalier de Gramont and the Marquis de Saissac
won enormous sums unfairly. The passion for play was so general and
so engrossing that no opportunity of yielding to it was lost; people
gambled wherever they met, in public places, in private houses, in
carriages when travelling on the road. Cheating at play was so common
that a special officer, the Grand Provost, was attached to the Court
to bring delinquents immediately to trial. Many dishonest practices
were called in to assist, false cards were manufactured on purpose and
cardmakers were a part of the great households. Strict laws imposed
heavy penalties upon those caught loading dice or marking packs. Fraud
was conspicuously frequent in the Italian and most popular game of
_hoca_ played with thirty balls on a board, each ball containing a
number on a paper inside.

[Illustration: _The Bastile_

The first stone of this historic fortress was laid in 1370. For the
first two centuries it was a military stronghold, and whoever held the
Bastile overawed Paris. The terrors of the Bastile as a state prison
were greatest during the ministry of Richelieu. From the beginning
of the revolution this prison was a special object of attack by the
populace. On July 14, 1789, it was stormed by the people and forced to
surrender.]

Later in the reign, the rage for play grew into a perfect madness.
_Hoca_, just mentioned, although it had been indicted by two popes in
Rome, and although, in Paris, the Parliament, the magistrates and the
six guilds of merchants had petitioned for its suppression, held the
lead. Other games of chance little less popular were _lansquenet_,
_hazard_, _portique_ and _trou-madame_. Colossal sums were lost and
won. A hundred thousand crowns changed hands at a sitting. Madame de
Montespan, the notorious favorite, lost, one Christmas Day, 700,000
crowns and got back 300,000 by a stake upon only three cards. It was
possible at _hoca_ to lose or win fifty or sixty times a stake in one
quarter of an hour. During a campaign, officers played incessantly and
leading generals of the army were among the favorite players with the
King, when invited to the palace. The police fulminated vainly against
the vice, and would have prohibited play among the people, but did not
dare to suggest that the court should set the example.

Extravagance and ostentation being the aim and fashion of all, every
means was tried to fill the purse. The Crown was assailed on all sides
by the needy, seeking places at court. Fathers sent their sons to Paris
from the provinces to ingratiate themselves with great people and to
pay court in particular to rich widows and dissolute old dowagers
eager to marry again. Heiresses were frequently waylaid and carried
off by force. Abduction was then as much the rule as are _mariages de
convenance_ in Paris nowadays. Friends and relations aided and abetted
the abductor, if the lady's servants made resistance.

The state of Paris was shocking. Disturbances in the street were
chronic, murders were frequent and robbery was usually accompanied with
violence, especially in the long winter nights. The chief offenders
were soldiers of the garrison and the pages and lackeys of the great
houses, who still carried arms. A police ordinance finally forbade them
to wear swords and it was enforced by exemplary punishment. A duke's
footman and a duchess's page, who attacked and wounded a student on
the Pont Neuf, were arrested, tried and forthwith hanged despite the
protests and petitions of their employers. Further ordinances regulated
the demeanor of servants who could not be employed without producing
their papers, and now in addition to their swords being taken away,
they were deprived of their canes and sticks on account of their
brutal treatment of inoffensive people. They were forbidden to gather
in crowds and they might not enter the gardens of the Tuileries or
Luxembourg.

It was not enough to repress the insolent valets and check the midnight
excesses of the worst characters. The importunity of the sturdy
vagabond, who lived by begging, called for stern repression. These
ruffians had long been tolerated. They enjoyed certain privileges and
immunities, they were organised in dangerous bands strong enough to
make terms with the police and they possessed a sanctuary in the heart
of Paris, where they defied authority. This "Court of Miracles," as
it was called, had three times withstood a siege by commissaries and
detachments of troops, who were repulsed with showers of stones. Then
the head of the police went at the head of a strong force and cleared
the place out, allowing all to escape; and when it had been thus
emptied, their last receptacle was swept entirely away. Other similar
refuges were suppressed,--the enclosures of the Temple and the Abbey
of St. Germain-des-Pres, and the Hotel Soissons, property of the royal
family of Savoy, which had long claimed the right to give shelter to
malefactors.

The prisons of Paris were in a deplorable and disgraceful state at
this period, as appears from a picture drawn by a magistrate about
the middle of the seventeenth century. They were without light or
air, horribly overcrowded by the dregs of humanity and a prey to
foul diseases which prisoners freely communicated to one another.
For-l'Eveque was worse then than it had ever been; the whole building
was in ruins and must soon fall to the ground. The Greater and Lesser
Chatelets were equally unhealthy and of dimensions too limited for
their population, the walls too high, the dungeons too deep down in
the bowels of the earth. The only prison not absolutely lethal was the
Conciergerie, yet some of its cells and chambers possessed no sort of
drainage. The hopelessness of the future was the greatest infliction;
once committed, no one could count on release: to be thrown into prison
was to be abandoned and forgotten.

The records kept at the Bastile were in irremediable disorder. Even
the names of the inmates were in most cases unknown, from the custom
of giving new arrivals a false name. By the King's order, his Minister
once applied to M. de Besmaus, the governor, for information as to
the cause of detention of two prisoners, a priest called Gerard, who
had been confined for eight years, and a certain Pierre Rolland,
detained for three years. The inquiry elicited a report that no such
person as Rolland appeared upon the monthly pay lists for rations.
Gerard, the priest, was recognised by his numerous petitions for
release. The Minister called for a full nominal list of all prisoners
and the reasons for their confinement, but the particulars were not
forthcoming. This was on the conclusion of the Peace of Ryswick,
when the King desired to mark the general rejoicings by a great gaol
delivery.

Many causes contributed to fill the Bastile and other State prisons in
the reign of Louis XIV. Let us take these more in detail. The frauds
committed by dishonest agents dealing with public money, the small fry,
as guilty as Fouquet, but on a lesser scale, consigned many to prison.
Severe penalties were imposed upon defamatory writers and the whole of
the literary crew concerned in the publication of libellous attacks
upon the King,--printers, binders, distributors of this dangerous
literature,--found their way to the Bastile, to the galleys, even to
the scaffold. Presently when Louis, always a bigoted Catholic, became
more and more intolerant under the influence of the priests, the
revived persecution of the Protestants filled the gaols and galleys
with the sufferers for their faith. Colbert had long protected them,
but at the death of this talented minister who, as he wrote Madame de
Maintenon, "thought more of finance than religion," Le Tellier and
Louvois, who succeeded him, raged furiously against the Protestants
and many cruel edicts were published. A fierce fanatical desire to
proselytise, to procure an abjuration of creed by every violent and
oppressive means possessed all classes, high and low. The doors of sick
people were forced to admit the priests who came to administer the
sacraments, without being summoned.

On one occasion the pot-boy of a wine shop who, with his master,
professed the new faith, was mortally wounded in a street fight. A
priest visited him as he lay dying and besought him to make confession.
A low crowd forthwith collected before the house, to the number of
seven or eight hundred, and rose in stormy riot, attacked the door
with sticks and stones, broke it down, smashed all the windows and
forced their way in, crying, "Give us up the Huguenots or we will set
fire to the house." The police then came upon the scene and restored
quiet, but the man died, to the last refusing to confess. Outrages of
this kind were frequent. Again, the son of a new convert removed his
hat when the procession of the Host passed by, but remained standing
instead of falling on his knees. He was violently attacked and fled to
his home, pursued by the angry crowd who would have burned the house to
the ground. The public feeling was so strong that many called for the
quartering of troops in Paris to assist in the good work of conversion,
a suggestion which bore fruit presently in the infamous _dragonnades_,
when the soldiers pillaged and laid waste the provinces.

The passion for proselytising was carried to the extent of bribing the
poverty stricken to change their religion. Great pressure was brought
to bear upon Huguenot prisoners who were in the Bastile. A number of
priests came in to use their persuasive eloquence upon the recusants,
and many reports are preserved in the correspondence of M. de Besmaus,
the governor, of their energetic efforts. "I am doing my best," says
one priest, "and have great hopes of success." "I think," writes
another, "I have touched Mademoiselle de Lamon and the Mademoiselles de
la Fontaine. If I may have access to them I shall be able to satisfy
you." The governor was the most zealous of all in seeking to secure the
abjuration of the new religion.

It may be noted here that this constant persecution, emphasised by the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes (which had conceded full liberty of
conscience), had the most disastrous consequences upon French industry.
The richest manufacturers and the most skillful and industrious
artisans were to be found among the French Protestants and there was
soon a steady drain outwards of these sources of commercial prosperity.
In this continuous exodus of capital and intelligent labor began the
material decadence of France and transferred the enterprise of these
people elsewhere, notably to England. A contemporary pamphlet paints
the situation in sombre colors;--"Nothing is to be seen but deserted
farms, impecunious landed proprietors, bankrupt traders, creditors in
despair, peasants dying of starvation, their dwellings in ruins." On
every side and in every commodity there was a terrible depreciation of
values,--land nearly worthless, revenues diminished, and besides a new
and protracted war had now to be faced.

Some idea of the condition of the interior of the Bastile in those
days may be best realised by a few extracts from the original archives
preserved from the sack of the hated castle when Paris rose in
revolution. Some documents are extant, written by a certain Comte de
Pagan, who was thrown into the State prison charged with sorcery. He
had boasted that he could, when he chose, destroy Louis XIV by magic.
His arrest was immediate and his detention indefinitely prolonged. His
letters contain the most piteous appeals for money.

"Monseigneur and most reverent patron," he writes to Colbert from the
Bastile under date of the 8th of November, 1661, "I supplicate you
most humbly to accord this poor, unfortunate being his liberty. Your
lordship will most undoubtedly be rewarded for so merciful a deed as
the release of a wretched creature who has languished here for nine
years devoid of hope." In a second petition, reiterating his prayer for
clemency, he adds, "It is now impossible for me to leave the room in
which I am lodged as I am almost naked. Do send me a little money so
that I may procure a coat and a few shirts." Again, "May I beseech you
to remember that I have been incarcerated for eleven years and eight
months and have endured the worst hardships ever inflicted on a man
for the want of covering against the bitter cold.... Monseigneur, I am
seventy-eight years of age, a prey to all manner of bodily infirmities;
I do not possess a single friend in the world, and worse still, I am
not worth one sou and am sunk in an abyss of wretchedness. I swear to
you, Monseigneur, that I am compelled to go to bed in the dark because
I cannot buy a farthing candle; I have worn the same shirt without
removing or changing it for seven whole months."

This appeal is endorsed with a brief minute signed by Colbert. "Let him
have clothes." The year following a new petition is rendered. "Your
Excellency will forgive me if I entreat him to remember that thirteen
months ago he granted me 400 francs to relieve my miseries. But I am
once more in the same or even worse condition and I again beg humbly
for help. I have been quite unable to pay the hire of the furniture
in my chamber and the upholsterer threatens to remove the goods and I
shall soon be compelled to lie on the bare floor. I have neither light
nor fuel and am almost without clothes. You, Monseigneur, are my only
refuge and I beseech your charitable help or I shall be found dead of
cold in my cell. For the love of God, entreat the King to give me my
liberty after the thirteen years spent here."

This last appeal is dated November 28th, 1665, but there is no record
of his ultimate disposal. It is stated in an earlier document that
Cardinal Mazarin had been willing to grant a pardon to this prisoner
if he would agree to be conveyed to the frontier under escort and sent
across it as a common criminal, but the Count had refused to accept
this dishonoring condition which he pleaded would cast a stigma upon
his family name. He offered, however, to leave France directly he was
released and seek any domicile suggested to him where he might be safe
from further oppression. Cardinal Mazarin seems to have been mercifully
inclined, but died before he could extend clemency to this unhappy
victim of arbitrary power.

The Bastile was used sometimes as a sanctuary to withdraw an offender
who had outraged the law and could not otherwise be saved from
reprisal. A notable case was that of Rene de l'Hopital, Marquis de
Choisy, who lived on his estates like a savage tyrant. In 1659 he was
denounced by a cure to the ecclesiastical authorities for his crimes.
The marquis with a couple of attendants waylaid the priest on the high
road and attacked the cure whom he grievously wounded. The priest
commended himself to God and was presently stunned by a murderous blow
on the jaw from the butt end of a musket. Then the Marquis, to make
sure his victim was really dead, rode his horse over the recumbent body
and then stabbed it several times with his sword. But help came and the
cure was rescued still alive, and strange to say, recovered, although
it was said he had received a hundred and twenty wounds.

The entire religious hierarchy in France espoused the priest's cause.
The Marquis was haled before several provincial courts of justice.
He would undoubtedly have been convicted of murder and sentenced to
death, for Louis XIV would seldom spare the murderer of a priest, but
the l'Hopital family had great influence at Court and won a pardon
for the criminal. The Parliament of Paris or High Court of Justice
boldly resisted the royal decree and the marquis would still have been
executed had he not been consigned for safety to the "King's Castle,"
the Bastile. He passed subsequently to the prison of For-l'Eveque, from
which he was released with others on the entry of the King to Paris, at
his marriage. Still the vindictive Parliament pursued him and he would
hardly have escaped the scaffold had he not fled the country.

In an age when so much respect was exacted for religious forms and
ceremonies, imprisonment in the Bastile was promptly inflicted upon all
guilty of blasphemous conduct or who openly ridiculed sacred things.
The records are full of cases in which prisoners have been committed to
gaol for impiety, profane swearing at their ill luck with the dice or
at _hoca_. A number of the Prince de Conde's officers were sent to the
Bastile for acting a disgraceful parody of the procession of the Host,
in which a besom was made to represent a cross, a bucket was filled at
a neighboring pump and called holy water, and the sham priests chanted
the _De Profundis_ as they went through the streets to administer the
last sacrament to a pretended moribund.

A very small offense gained the pain of imprisonment. One foolish
person was committed because he was dissatisfied with his name Cardon
(thistle), and changed it to _Cardone_, prefixing the particle "de"
which signifies nobility, claiming that he was a member of the
illustrious family of De Cardone. It appears from the record, however,
that he also spoke evil of M. de Maurepas, a minister of State.

Still another class found themselves committed to the Bastile. The
parental Louis, as he grew more sober and staid, insisted more and
more on external decorum and dealt sharply with immoral conduct among
his courtiers. The Bastile was used very much as a police station or a
reformatory. Young noblemen were sent there for riotous conduct in the
streets, for an affray with the watch and the maltreatment of peaceful
citizens. The Duc d'Estrees and the Duc de Mortemart were imprisoned as
wastrels who bet and gambled with sharpers. "The police officers cannot
help complaining that the education of these young dukes had been sadly
neglected," reads the report. So the Royal Castle was turned for the
nonce into a school, and a master of mathematics, a drawing master and
a Jesuit professor of history were admitted to instruct the neglected
youths. The same Duc d'Estrees paid a second visit for quarrelling with
the Comte d'Harcourt and protesting against the interference of the
marshals to prevent a duel.

The King nowadays set his face against all loose living. The Comte de
Montgomery, for leading a debauched and scandalous life on his estates,
was committed to the Bastile, where he presently died. He was a
Protestant and the question of his burial came up before the Ministry,
who wrote the governor that, "His Majesty is very indifferent whether
he (Montgomery) be buried in one place rather than another and still
more in what manner the ceremony is performed."

The report that the Prince de Leon, being a prince of the blood, a son
of the Duc de Rohan, was about to marry a ballet dancer, Mademoiselle
Florence, entailed committal to the Bastile, not on the Prince but
on the girl. "Florence was arrested this morning while the Prince
was at Versailles," writes the chief of the police. "Her papers were
seized.... She told the officer who arrested her she was not married,
that she long foresaw what would happen, that she would be only too
happy to retire into a convent and that she had a hundred times
implored the Prince to give his consent. I have informed the Prince's
father, the Duc de Rohan, of this." The Prince was furious upon hearing
of the arrest and refused to forgive his relations. The Duc de Rohan
was willing to supply Mademoiselle Florence with all necessaries to
make captivity more tolerable, but great difficulty was found in
getting him to pay the bill. The Duc de Rohan was so great a miser
that he allowed his wife and children to die of hunger. The Bastile
bill included charges for doctor and nurse as Mademoiselle de Florence
was brought to bed of a child in prison. What with the expenses of
capture and gaol fees it amounted to 5,000 francs. The end of this
incident was that the Prince de Leon, while his lady love was in the
Bastile, eloped with a supposed heiress, Mademoiselle de Roquelaure,
who was ugly, hunch-backed and no longer young. The Prince ran off
with her from a convent, moved to do so by his father's promise of an
allowance, which the miserly duke never paid. The bride was recaptured
and sent back to the cloister in which her mother had placed her to
avoid the necessity of giving her any dowry. The married couple, when
at last they came together, had a bad time of it, as neither of the
parents would help them with funds and they lived in great poverty.

A strange episode, forcibly illustrating the arbitrary character of
Louis XIV and his fine contempt for international rights, was the case
of the Armenian Patriarch, Avedik, who was an inmate of the Bastile
and also of Mont St. Michel. The Armenian Catholics, and especially
the Jesuits, had reason to complain of Avedik's high handed treatment,
and the French ambassador interfered by paying a large price for the
Patriarch's removal from his sacred office. Certain schismatics of the
French party secured his reinstatement by raising the bid; and now the
French ambassador seized the person of Avedik, who was put on board
a French ship and conveyed to Messina, then Spanish territory, where
he was cast into the prison of the Inquisition. This abduction evoked
loud protest in Constantinople, but the French disavowed it, although
it had certainly met with the approval of Louis XIV. Avedik would
have languished and died forgotten in Messina, but without waiting
instructions, the French consul had extracted him from the prison of
the Inquisition and passed him on to Marseilles.

Great precautions were taken to keep his arrival secret. If the poor,
kidnapped foreigner, who spoke no language but Turkish and Armenian,
should chance to be recognised, the report of his sudden death was
to be announced and no doubt it would soon be justified in fact.
Otherwise he was to be taken quietly across France from Marseilles,
on the Mediterranean, to Mont St. Michel on the Normandy coast, where
his kidnappers were willing to treat him well. The King expressly
ordered that he should have "a room with a fire place, linen and so
forth, as his Majesty had no desire that the prisoner should suffer,
provided economy is observed.... He is not to be subjected to perpetual
abstinence and may have meat when he asks for it." Of course an attempt
was made to convert the Patriarch, already a member of the Greek
Church, to Catholicism as preached in France, although the interchange
of ideas was not easy, and the monk sent to confess him could not do
so for want of a common language. Eventually Avedik was brought to
Paris and lodged in the Bastile, where an interpreter was found for him
in the person of the Abbe Renaudot, a learned Oriental scholar.

Meanwhile a hue and cry was raised for the missing Patriarch. One
of his servants was traced to Marseilles and was promptly arrested
and hidden away in the hospital of the galley slaves. Louis and his
ministers stoutly denied that Avedik was in France, and he was very
strictly guarded lest the fact of his kidnapping should leak out. No
one saw him but the person who took him his food, and they understood
each other only by signs. Avedik was worked up to make a written
statement that he owed his arrest to English intrigues, and this was
to be held as an explanation should the Porte become too pressing in
its inquiries. It is clear that the French Government would gladly
have seen the last of Avedik and hesitated what course to adopt with
him: whether to keep him by force, win him over, transfer him to the
hands of the Pope, send him to Persia or let him go straight home.
These questions were in a measure answered by a marginal note endorsed
on the paper submitting them. "Would it be a blessing or would it be
a misfortune if he were to die?" asks the Minister Pontchartrain; and
the rather suspicious answer was presently given by his death. But an
official report was drawn up, declaring that he had long enjoyed full
liberty, that he received every attention during his illness, that
his death was perfectly natural and that he died a zealous Catholic.
Pontchartrain went further and, after reiterating that death was
neither violent nor premature, added that it was entirely due to the
immoderate use of brandy and baleful drugs. Avedik had grown very
corpulent during his imprisonment, but there was no proof of the charge
of intemperance.

The most heinous crimes disgraced the epoch of Louis XIV, and in all,
the Bastile played a prominent part. There was first the gigantic
frauds and peculations of Fouquet as already described; then came the
conspiracy of the Chevalier de Rohan, who was willing to sell French
fortresses to foreign enemies; and on this followed the horrible affair
of the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the secret poisoner of her own
people. The use of poison was for a time a wholesale practice, and
although the special court established for the trial of those suspected
held its sessions in private, the widespread diffusion of the crime was
presently revealed beyond all question. There were reasons of State why
silence should be preserved; the high rank of many of the criminals
and their enormous number threatened, if too openly divulged, to shake
society to its base. Some two hundred and thirty of the accused were
afterwards convicted and sent to prison and thirty-four more were
condemned to death.

Conspiracies against the life of the King had been frequent. We may
mention among them that of the Marquis de Bonnesson, of the Protestant
Roux de Marcilly, who would have killed Louis to avenge the wrongs
of his co-religionists, and another Protestant, Comte de Sardan, who
sought to stir up disaffection in four great provinces,--which were to
renounce allegiance to France and pass under the dominion of the Prince
of Orange and the King of Spain. The most dangerous and extensive
plot was that of Louis de Rohan, a dissolute young nobleman, who had
been a playmate of the King and the favorite of ladies of the highest
rank, but who had been ruined by gambling and a loose life until his
fortunes had sunk to the lowest ebb. He found an evil counsellor in a
certain retired military officer, the Sieur de Latreaumont, no less a
pauper than De Rohan, and hungry for money to retrieve his position.
Together they made overtures to the Dutch and Spaniards to open the
way for a descent upon the Normandy coast. Their price was a million
livres. Several disaffected Normandy nobles joined the plot, and as it
was unsafe to trust to the post, an emissary, Van den Ende, an ancient
Dutch professor, was sent in person to the Low Countries to deal with
the Spanish general. He obtained liberal promises of cash and pension,
and returned to Paris, where he was promptly arrested at the barrier.
The police had discovered the conspiracy and De Rohan was already in
custody. De Latreaumont was surprised in bed, had resisted capture,
had been mortally wounded and had died, leaving highly compromising
papers.

Louis XIV, bitterly incensed against the Chevalier, whom he had
so intimately known, determined to make an example of him and his
confederates. A special tribunal was appointed for their trial, some
sixty persons in all. Abundant evidence was forthcoming, for half
Normandy was eager to confess and escape the traitor's fate. Some
very great names were mentioned as implicated, the son of the Prince
de Conde among the rest. The King now wisely resolved to limit the
proceedings, lest too much importance should be given to a rather
contemptible plot. De Rohan's guilt was fully proved. He was reported
to have said: "If I can only draw my sword against the King in a
serious rebellion I shall die happy." When he saw there was no hope for
him, the Chevalier tried to soften the King by full confession. It did
not serve him, and he was sentenced to be beheaded and his creature,
Van den Ende, to be hanged in front of the Bastile. De Rohan was spared
torture before execution, but Van den Ende and another suffered the
"boot." The King was vainly solicited to grant pardon to De Rohan, but
was inflexible, declaring it was in the best interests of France that
traffic with a foreign enemy should be punished with the extreme rigor
of the law. It cannot be stated positively that there were no other
conspiracies against Louis XIV, but none were made public.




CHAPTER VIII

THE TERROR OF POISON

    The Marquise de Brinvilliers--Homicidal mania--Mysterious
    death of her father, M. D'Aubray--Death of her eldest brother
    and her second brother--Sainte Croix's sudden death--Fatal
    secret betrayed--Marchioness flies to England--Brought
    to Paris--Her trial--Torture and cruel sentence--Others
    suspected--Pennautier--Trade in poisoning--The _Chambre
    Ardente_--La Voisin--Great people implicated--Wholesale
    sentences--The galleys, or forced labor at the oar a common
    punishment--War galleys--Manned with difficulty--Illegal
    detention--Horrors of the galleys.


Paris was convulsed and shaken to its roots in 1674, when the
abominable crimes of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers were laid
bare. They have continued to horrify the whole world. Here was
a beautiful woman of good family, of quiet demeanor, seemingly
soft-hearted and sweet tempered, who nevertheless murdered her nearest
relations,--father, brother, sisters, her husband and her own children
by secret and detestable practices. It could have been nothing less
than homicidal mania in its worst development. The rage to kill, or,
more exactly, to test the value of the lethal weapons she recklessly
wielded, seized her under the guise of a high, religious duty to visit
the hospitals to try the effects of her poisons on the sick poor.
There were those at the time who saw in the discovery of her murderous
processes the direct interposition of Providence. First, there was the
sudden death of her principal accomplice, and the sure indications
found among the papers he left; next, the confirmatory proofs afforded
by a servant who had borne the "question" without opening his lips, and
only confessed at the scaffold; last of all, the guilty woman's arrest
in Liege on the last day that the French king's authority was paramount
in that city; and more, there was the fact that when taken, she was in
possession of papers indispensable to secure her own conviction.

Marie-Madeleine d'Aubray was beautiful, the daughter of the d'Aubray
who filled the high legal office of Lieutenant-Criminel, and she
married the Marquis de Brinvilliers at the age of twenty-one.
She was possessed of great personal attraction: a small woman of
slight, exquisite figure, her face round and regular, her complexion
extraordinarily fair, her hair abundant and of a dark chestnut color.
Everything promised a happy life for the young people. They were drawn
together by strong liking, they were fairly rich and held their heads
high in the best circle of the court. They lived together happily for
some years, and five children were born to them, but presently they
fell into extravagant ways and wasted their substance. The Marquis
became a roue and a gambler, and left his wife very much alone and
exposed to temptation, and especially to the marked attentions of a
certain Godin de St. Croix, a young, handsome and seductive gallant,
whom the Marquis had himself introduced and welcomed to his house. At
the trial it was urged that this St. Croix had been the real criminal;
he is described as a demon of violent and unbridled passion, who had
led the Marchioness astray, a statement never proved.

The liaison soon became public property, but the husband was altogether
indifferent to his wife's misconduct, having a disreputable character
of his own. The father and brothers strongly disapproved and reproached
the Marchioness fiercely. The elder d'Aubray, quite unable to check the
scandal, at last obtained a _lettre de cachet_, an order of summary
imprisonment, against St. Croix, and the lover was arrested in the
Marchioness' carriage, seated by her side. He was committed at once
to the Bastile, where he became the cellmate of an Italian generally
called Exili; although his real name is said to have been Egidi, while
his occult profession, according to contemporary writers, was that of
an artist in poisons. From this chance prison acquaintance flowed the
whole of the subsequent crimes. When St. Croix was released from the
Bastile, he obtained the release also of Exili and, taking him into
his service, the two applied themselves to the extensive manufacture
of poisons, assisted by an apothecary named Glaser. St. Croix was
supposed to have reformed. When once more free, he married, became
reserved and grew devout. Secretly he renewed his intimacy with the
Marchioness and persuaded her to get rid of her near relatives in order
to acquire the whole of the d'Aubray property; and he provided her with
the poisons for the purpose.

M. d'Aubray had forgiven his daughter, and had taken her with
him to his country estate at Offemont in the autumn of 1666. The
Marchioness treated him with the utmost affection and seemed to have
quite abandoned her loose ways. Suddenly, soon after their arrival,
M. d'Aubray was seized with some mysterious malady, accompanied by
constant vomitings and intolerable sufferings. Removed to Paris
next day, he was attended by a strange doctor, who had not seen the
beginning of the attack, and speedily died in convulsions. It was
suggested as the cause of his death, that he had been suffering from
gout driven into the stomach.

The inheritance was small, and there were four children to share it.
The Marchioness had two brothers and two sisters. One sister was
married and the mother of two children, the other was a Carmelite
nun. The eldest brother, Antoine d'Aubray, succeeded to his father's
office as Lieutenant-Criminel, and within four years he also died
under suspicious circumstances. He lived in Paris, and upon entering
his house one day called for a drink. A new valet, named La Chaussee,
brought him a glass of wine and water. It was horribly bitter to the
taste, and d'Aubray threw the greater part away, expressing his belief
that the rascal, La Chaussee, wanted to poison him. It was like liquid
fire, and others, who tasted it, declared that it contained vitriol.
La Chaussee, apologising, recovered the glass, threw the rest of the
liquid into the fire and excused himself by saying that a fellow
servant had just used the tumbler as a medicine glass. This incident
was presently forgotten, but next spring, at a dinner given by M.
d'Aubray, guests and host were seized with a strange illness after
eating a tart or _vol au vent_, and M. d'Aubray never recovered his
health. He "pined visibly" after his return to Paris, losing appetite
and flesh, and presently died, apparently of extreme weakness, on the
17th of June, 1670. A post mortem was held, but disclosed nothing, and
the death was attributed to "malignant humours," a ridiculously vague
expression showing the medical ignorance of the times.

The second brother did not survive. He too was attacked with illness,
and died of the same loss of power and vitality. An autopsy resulted
in a certain suspicion of foul play. The doctors reported that the
lungs of the deceased were ulcerated, the liver and heart burned up and
destroyed. Undoubtedly there had been noxious action, but it could not
be definitely referred to poison. No steps, however, were taken by the
police to inquire into the circumstances of this sudden death.

Meanwhile the Marchioness had been deserted by her husband, and she
gave herself up to reckless dissipation. When St. Croix abandoned her
also, she resolved to commit suicide. "I shall put an end to my life,"
she wrote him in a letter afterwards found among his papers, "by using
what you gave me, the preparation of Glaser." Courage failed her, and
now chance or strange fortune intervened with terrible revelations. St.
Croix's sudden death betrayed the secret of the crime.

He was in the habit of working at a private laboratory in the Place
Maubert, where he distilled his lethal drugs. One day as he bent
over the furnace, his face protected by a glass mask, the glass
burst unexpectedly, and he inhaled a breath of the poisonous fumes,
which stretched him dead upon the spot. Naturally there could be no
destruction of compromising papers, and these at once fell into the
hands of the police. Before they could be examined, the Marchioness,
terrified at the prospect of impending detection, committed herself
hopelessly by her imprudence. She went at once to the person to whom
the papers had been confided and begged for a casket in which were a
number of her letters. She was imprudent enough to offer a bribe of
fifty louis, and was so eager in her appeal, that suspicion arose and
her request was refused. Ruin stared her in the face, she went home,
got what money she could and fled from Paris.

The casket was now opened, and fully explained her apprehensions.
On top was a paper written by St. Croix which ran: "I humbly entreat
the person into whose hands this casket may come to convey it to the
Marchioness Brinvilliers, rue Neuve St. Paul; its contents belong to
her and solely concern her and no one else in the world. Should she die
before me I beg that everything within the box may be burned without
examination." In addition to the letters from the Marchioness, the
casket contained a number of small parcels and phials full of drugs,
such as antimony, corrosive sublimate, vitriol in various forms. These
were analysed, and some portion of them administered to animals, which
immediately died.

The law now took action. The first arrest was that of La Chaussee,
whose complicity with St. Croix was undoubted. The man had been in St.
Croix's service, he had lived with Antoine d'Aubray, and at the seizure
of St. Croix's effects, he had rashly protested against the opening
of the casket. He was committed to the Chatelet and put on his trial
with the usual preliminary torture of the "boot." He stoutly refused
to make confession at first, but spoke out when released from the
rack. His conviction followed, on a charge of having murdered the two
Lieutenants-Criminel, the d'Aubrays, father and son. His sentence was,
to be broken alive on the wheel, and he was duly executed.

This was the first act in the criminal drama. The Marchioness was still
at large. She had sought an asylum in England, and was known to be in
London. Colbert, the French minister, applied in his king's name for
her arrest and removal to France. But no treaty of extradition existed
in those days, and the laws of England were tenacious. Even Charles II,
the paid pensioner of Louis and his very submissive ally, could not
impose his authority upon a free people; and the English, then by no
means friendly with France, would have resented the arbitrary arrest
of even the most dastard criminal for an offence committed beyond the
kingdom. History does not say exactly how it was compassed, but the
Marchioness did leave England, and crossed to the Low Countries, where
she took refuge in a convent in the city of Liege.

Four years passed, but her retreat became known to the police of Paris.
Desgrez, a skilful officer, famous for his successes as a detective,
was forthwith despatched to inveigle her away. He assumed the disguise
of an abbe, and called at the convent. Being a good looking young man
of engaging manners, he was well received by the fugitive French woman,
sick and weary of conventual restriction. The Marchioness, suspecting
nothing, gladly accepted the offer of a drive in the country with the
astute Desgrez, who promptly brought her under escort to the French
frontier as a prisoner. A note of her reception at the Conciergerie is
among the records, to the effect, that, "La Brinvilliers, who had been
arrested by the King's order in the city of Liege, was brought to the
prison under a warrant of the Court."

On the journey from Liege she had tried to seduce one of her escort
into passing letters to a friend, whom she earnestly entreated to
recover certain papers she had left at the convent. These, however,
one of them of immense importance, her full confession, had already
been secured by Desgrez, showing that the Abbess had been cognisant of
the intended arrest. The Marchioness yielded to despair when she heard
of the seizure of her papers and would have killed herself, first by
swallowing a long pin and next by eating glass. This confession is
still extant and will be read with horror--the long list of her crimes
and debaucheries set forth with cold-blooded, plain speaking. It was
not produced at her trial, which was mainly a prolonged series of
detailed interrogatories to which she made persistent denials. As the
proceedings drew slowly on, all Paris watched with shuddering anxiety,
and the King himself, who was absent on a campaign, sent peremptory
orders to Colbert that no pains should be spared to bring all proof
against the guilty woman. Conviction was never in doubt. One witness
declared that she had made many attempts to get the casket from St.
Croix; another, that she exulted in her power to rid herself of her
enemies, declaring it was easy to give them "a pistol shot in their
soup;" a third, that she had exhibited a small box, saying, "it is
very small but there is enough inside to secure many successions
(inheritances)." Hence the euphemism _poudre de succession_, so often
employed at that time to signify "deadly poison."

The accused still remained obstinately dumb, but at last an eloquent
priest, l'Abbe Pirot, worked upon her feelings of contrition, and
obtained a full avowal, not only of her own crimes, but those also
of her accomplices. Sentence was at once pronounced, and execution
quickly followed. Torture, both ordinary and extraordinary, was to
be first inflicted. The ordeal of water, three buckets-full, led her
to ask if they meant to drown her, as assuredly she could not, with
her small body, drink so much. After the torture she was to make
the _amende honorable_ and the acknowledgment, candle in hand, that
vengeance and greed had tempted her to poison her father, brothers and
sisters. Then her right hand was to be amputated as a parricide; but
this penalty was remitted. The execution was carried out under very
brutal conditions. No sooner were the prison doors opened than a mob of
great ladies rushed in to share and gloat over her sufferings, among
them the infamous Comtesse de Soissons, who was proved later to have
been herself a poisoner. An enormous crowd of spectators, at least one
hundred thousand, were assembled in the streets, at the windows and
on the roofs, and she was received with furious shouts. Close by the
tumbril rode Desgrez, the officer who had captured her in Liege. Yet
she showed the greatest fortitude. "She died as she had lived," writes
Madame de Sevigne, "resolutely. Now she is dispersed into the air. Her
poor little body was thrown into a fierce furnace, and her ashes blown
to the four winds of heaven."

Another person was implicated in this black affair, Reich de
Pennautier, Receiver-General of the clergy. When the St. Croix casket
was opened, a promissory note signed by Pennautier had been found.
He was suspected of having used poison to remove his predecessor in
office. Pennautier was arrested and lodged in the Conciergerie, where
he occupied the old cell of Ravaillac for seven days. Then he was put
on his trial. He found friends, chief of them the reticent Madame
de Brinvilliers, but he had an implacable enemy in the widow of his
supposed victim, Madame de St. Laurent, who continually pursued him
in the courts. He was, however, backed by Colbert, Archbishop of
Paris, and the whole of the French clergy. In the end he was released,
emerging as Madame de Sevigne put it, "rather whiter than snow," and
he retained his offices until he became enormously rich. Although his
character was smirched in this business he faced the world bravely to a
green old age.

In France uneasiness was general after the execution of the Brinvilliers
and the acquittal of Pennautier. Sinister rumors prevailed that secret
poisoning had become quite a trade, facilitated by the existence of
carefully concealed offices, where the noxious drugs necessary could be
purchased easily by heirs tired of waiting for their succession, and
by husbands and wives eager to get rid of one another. Within a year
suspicion was strengthened by the picking up of an anonymous letter in
the confessional of the Jesuit Church of the rue St. Antoine, stating
that a plot was afoot to poison both the King and the Dauphin. The
police set inquiries on foot, and traced the projected crime to two
persons, Louis Vanens and Robert de la Nuree, the Sieur de Bachimont.

The first of these dabbled openly in love philtres and other unavowable
medicines; and he was also suspected of having poisoned the Duke of
Savoy some years previously. Bachimont was one of his agents. From
this first clue, the police followed the thread of their discoveries,
and brought home to a number of people the charge of preparing and
selling poisons, two of whom were condemned and executed. A still
more important arrest was that of Catherine Deshayes, the wife of one
Voisin or Monvoisin, a jeweller. From this moment the affair assumed
such serious proportions that it was decided to conduct the trial
with closed doors. The authorities constituted a royal tribunal to
sit in private at the Arsenal, and to be known to the public as the
_Chambre Ardente_ or Court of Poisons. La Reynie and another counsellor
presided, and observed extreme caution, but were quite unable to keep
secret the result of their proceedings. It was soon whispered through
Paris that the crime of poisoning had extensive ramifications, and that
many great people, some nearly related to the throne, were compromised
with la Voisin. The names were openly mentioned: a Bourbon prince, the
Comte de Clermont, the Duchesse de Bouillon, the Princesse de Tingry,
one of the Queen's ladies in waiting, and the Marchionesse d'Alluye,
who had been an intimate friend of Fouquet. The Duc de Luxembourg and
others of the highest rank were consigned to the Bastile. Yet more, the
Comtesse de Soissons, the proudest of Cardinal Mazarin's nieces and one
of the first of the King's favorites, had, by his special grace, been
warned to fly from Paris to escape imprisonment.

No such favor was shown to others. Louis XIV sternly bade La Reynie
to spare no one else, to let justice take its course strictly and
expose everything; the safety of the public demanded it, and the
hideous evil must be extirpated in its very root. There was to be no
distinction of persons or of sex in vindicating the law. Such severity
was indeed necessary. Although the King wished all the documents in
the case to be carefully destroyed, some have been preserved. They
exhibit the widespread infamy and almost immeasurable guilt of the
criminals. Colbert stigmatised the facts as "things too execrable to
be put on paper; amounting to sacrilege, profanity and abomination."
The very basest aims inspired the criminals to seek the King's favor;
disappointed beauties would have poisoned their rivals and replaced
them in the King's affections. The Comtesse de Soissons's would-be
victim was the beautiful La Valliere, and Madame de Montespan was
suspected of desiring to remove Mdlle. de Fontanges. Madame La Feron
attempted the life of her husband, a president of Parliament. The Duc
de Luxembourg was accused of poisoning his duchess. M. de Feuquieres
invited la Voisin to get rid of the uncle and guardian of an heiress
he wished to marry. The end of these protracted proceedings was the
inevitable retribution that waited on their crimes. Two hundred and
forty-six persons had been brought to trial, of whom thirty-six went
to the scaffold, after enduring torture, ordinary and extraordinary.
Of the rest, some were sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, some to
banishment, some to the galleys for life. Among those who suffered the
extreme penalty were la Voisin, La Vigouroux, Madame de Carada, several
priests and Sieur Maillard, who was charged with attempting to poison
Colbert and the King himself. The Bastile, Vincennes and every State
prison were crowded with the poisoners, and for years the registers of
castles and fortresses contained the names of inmates committed by the
_Chambre Ardente_ of the Arsenal.

The edict which dissolved this special tribunal laid down stringent
laws to protect the public against future poisoning. A clean sweep
was made of the charlatans, the pretended magicians who came from
abroad and imposed upon the credulity of the French people, who united
sacrilege and impious practices with the manufacture and distribution
of noxious drugs. Several clauses in the edict dealt with poisons,
describing their action and effect,--in some cases instantaneous, in
others slow, gradually undermining health and originating mysterious
maladies, that proved fatal in the end. The sale of deleterious
substances was strictly regulated, such as arsenic and corrosive
sublimate, and the use of poisonous vermin, "snakes, vipers and frogs,"
in medical prescriptions was forbidden.

A few words more as to the Comtesse de Soissons, who was suffered
to fly from France, but could find no resting place. Her reputation
preceded her, and she was refused admittance into Antwerp. In Flanders
she ingratiated herself with the Duke of Parma, and lived under his
protection for several years. Finally she appeared in Madrid, and was
received at court. Then the young Queen of Spain died suddenly with
all the symptoms of poisoning, and Madame de Soissons was immediately
suspected, for unexpected and mysterious deaths always followed in her
trail. She was driven from the country, and died a wanderer in great
poverty.

No account of the means of repression of those days in France would be
complete without including the galleys,--the system of enforced labor
at the oars, practised for many centuries by all the Mediterranean
nations, and dating back to classical times. These ancient warships,
making at best but six miles an hour by human effort under the lash,
are in strong contrast with the modern ironclad impelled by steam. But
the Venetians and the Genoese owned fine fleets of galleys and won
signal naval victories with them. France long desired to rival these
powers, and Henry III, when returning from Poland to mount the French
throne, paused at Venice to visit the arsenal and see the warships in
process of construction. At that time France had thirty galleys afloat,
twenty-six of the highest order and worked by convicts (_galeriens_).
This number was not always maintained, and in 1662 Colbert, bidding for
sea power and striving hard to add to the French navy, ordered six new
ships to be laid down at Marseilles, and sought to buy a number, all
standing, from the Republic of Genoa and the Grand Duke of Tuscany.
These efforts were crowned with success. In 1670 there were twenty
galleys under the French flag, and Colbert wrote the intendant at
Marseilles that his Master, Louis XIV, was eager to possess one royal
ship which would outvie any hitherto launched on the seas. The increase
continued, and in 1677 the fleet numbered thirty, rising to forty-two
by the end of the century.

It was not enough to build the ships; the difficulty was to man them.
The custom of sending condemned convicts to ply the oar was ancient,
and dated back to the reign of Charles VII. But it was little used
until Francis I desired to strengthen his navy, and he ordered
parliaments and tribunals to consign to the galleys all able-bodied
offenders who deserved death and had been condemned to bodily
penalties, whatsoever crimes they had committed. The supply of this
personnel was precarious, and Colbert wrote to the judges to be more
severe with their sentences, and to inflict the galleys in preference
to death, a commutation likely to be welcome to the culprit. But some
of the parliaments demurred. That of Dijon called it changing the
law, and the President, protesting, asked for new ordinances. Colbert
put the objection aside arbitrarily. He increased the pressure on the
courts and dealt sharply with the keepers of local gaols, who did not
use sufficient promptness in sending on their quotas of convicts to
Marseilles and Toulon. Many escapes from the chain were made by the
way, so carelessly conducted was the transfer.

This "chain," a disgrace to humanity, was employed in France till quite
within our own day. The wretched convicts made their long pilgrimage
on foot from all parts of the country to the southern coast. They
were chained together in gangs and marched painfully in all weathers,
mile after mile, along their weary road under military escort. No
arrangements were made for them by the way. They were fed on any coarse
food that could be picked up, and were lodged for the night in sheds
and stables if any could be found; if not, under the sky. Death took
its toll of them ere they reached their destination. They were a scarce
commodity and yet no measures were adopted to preserve their health and
strength. The ministers in Paris were continually urging the presidents
of parliaments to augment the supplies of the condemned, and were told
that the system was in fault, that numbers died in their miserable
cells waiting removal, and many made their escape on the journey.

Still the demands of the galleys were insatiable, and many contrivances
were adopted to reinforce the crews. Colbert desired to send to them
all vagabonds, all sturdy beggars, smugglers and men without visible
means of support, but a change in the law was required and the
authorities for a time shrank from it. Another expedient was to hire
_forcats_ from the Duke of Savoy, who had no warships. Turkish and
Russian slaves were purchased to work the oars, and <DW64>s from the
Guinea coast. As a measure of retaliation against Spain, prisoners of
war of that nation were treated as galley slaves, a custom abhorrent
to fair usage. It was carried so far as to include the Red Indians,
Iroquois, captured in Canada in the fierce war then in progress.
Numbers were taken by unworthy stratagem and passed over to France, and
the result was an embittered contest, which endured for four years.

A fresh device was to seek volunteers. These "bonne-voglies," or
"bonivoglios," the Italian form most commonly used, were so called
because they contracted of their own free will to accept service in
the galleys, to live the wretched life of the galley slave, to submit
to all his hardships, meagre fare and cruel usage, to be chained to
the oar, and driven to labor under the ready lash of the overseers.
These free _forcats_ soon claimed greater consideration, and it was
necessary to treat them more leniently and in a way injurious to
discipline in the opinion of the captains and intendants. The convicts
were more submissive and more laborious, and still the authorities
sought to multiply them. A more disgraceful system than any of these
already mentioned was now practised,--that of illegal detention long
after the sentence had expired. By an old ordinance, any captain who
thus detained a convict was liable to instant dismissal. Other laws,
however, fixed a minimum term of ten years' detention, what though the
original sentence was considerable. Under Louis XIII it was ruled that
six years should be the lowest term, on the ground that during the two
first years a galley slave was useless on account of weak physique and
want of skill in rowing. Later a good Bishop of Marseilles pleaded the
cause of convicts who had endured a term of twice or three times their
first sentence. A case was quoted in which _thirty-four_, convicted
between 1652 and 1660, and sentenced to two, three or four years, were
still languishing in chains in 1674. An official document of that
year gives the names of twenty who had served fifteen to twenty years
beyond their sentence. The intendant of the galleys at Marseilles
reports in 1679, that on examining the registers he had found a certain
soldier still in custody who was sentenced by a military court in
1660 to five years, and who had therefore endured fourteen. Again, a
man named Caneau was sentenced in 1605 to two years and was still in
confinement twelve years later. True it was open to the _galerien_ to
buy a substitute, a Turkish or other "bonivoglio," but the price, eight
hundred or one thousand francs, was scarcely within the reach of the
miserable creatures at the _bagnes_.

It is difficult to exaggerate the horrors of the galleys. No wonder
that many preferred suicide or self-mutilation to enduring it! Afloat
or ashore, the convict's condition was wretched in the extreme. On
board ship each individual was chained to his bench, day and night,
and the short length of the chain, as well as the nearness of his
neighbors, limited his movements. His whole clothing consisted of
a single loose blouse of coarse red canvas, with neither shoes nor
stockings and little underlinen. His diet was of brown beans cooked in
a little oil, black bread and a morsel of bacon. Personal cleanliness
was entirely neglected, and all alike suffered from scurvy and were
infested with vermin. Labor was incessant while at sea, and the
overseers, walking on a raised platform, which ran fore and aft between
the benches of rowers, stimulated effort by using their whips upon the
bending backs below them. At times silence was strictly required,--as
when moving to the attack or creeping away from an enemy and the whole
ship's company was gagged with a wooden ball inserted in the mouth. In
the barracks ashore, when the ships were laid up for the winter, the
convicts' lot was somewhat better, for they were not at the mercy of
the elements, and there was no severe labor; but the other conditions,
such as diet, clothing and general discomfort, were the same. Now and
again if any distinguished visitor arrived at the port, it was the
custom to treat them to a cruise in one of the great galleys. The ship
was dressed with all her colors, the convicts were washed clean, and
wore their best red shirts, and they were trained to salute the great
folk who condescended to come on board, by a strange shout of welcome:
"Hou! Hou! Hou!" a cry thrice repeated, resembling the roar of a wild
beast.

The merciless treatment accorded by Louis XIV to the Protestants, who
dared to hold their own religious opinions, will be better realised
when it is stated that great numbers of them were consigned to the
galleys, to serve for years side by side with the worst malefactors,
with savage Iroquois and infidel Turks, and to endure the selfsame
barbarities inflicted on the wretched refuse of mankind. No greater
stain rests upon the memory of a ruler, whom the weak-kneed sycophants
of his age misnamed La Grande Monarque, than this monstrous persecution
of honest, honorable people, who were ready to suffer all rather than
sacrifice liberty of conscience. How deep and ineffaceable is the
stain shall be shown in the next chapter.




CHAPTER IX

THE HORRORS OF THE GALLEYS

    Huguenots sent to the galleys--Authentic Memoirs of Jean
    Marteilhe--Description of galleys--Construction--Method of
    rowing--Extreme severity of labor--A sea fight--Marteilhe severely
    wounded--His sufferings--Dunkirk acquired by the English--Huguenot
    prisoners sent secretly to Havre--Removed to Paris--Included in
    the chain gang for Marseilles--Cruelties en route--Detention
    at Marseilles--Renewed efforts to proselytise--More about
    the galleys--Dress, diet, occupation and discipline--Winter
    season--Labor constant--Summer season.


No blot upon the reign of Louis XIV is blacker than his treatment of
the Huguenots,--most faithful of his subjects could he have perceived
it, and the flower of his people. They were hardly more devoted to
their faith than they were to France, and it was their faith in God
that inspired their patriotism; and yet because they would not abandon
their right of conscience they were hounded like a subject, savage
people.

A remarkable record of the sufferings endured by one of these victims
"for the faith" has come down to us in the "Memoirs of a Protestant,
Condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion." The author is
said to have been one Jean Marteilhe, but the book was published
anonymously at The Hague in the middle of the eighteenth century. It
purports to be "A Comprehensive Account of the Various Distresses he
suffered in a Slavery of Thirteen Years and his Constance in supporting
almost Every Cruelty that Bigoted Zeal could inflict or Human Nature
sustain; also a Description of the Galleys and the Service in which
they are Employed." The writer states that he was at last set free at
the intercession of the Court of Great Britain in the reign of Queen
Anne.

Jean Marteilhe belonged to a family which had been dispersed in the
Dragonades, and he resolved to fly the country. Passing through Paris
he made for Maestricht in Holland, but was intercepted and detained at
Marienburg, a town in the French dominions, where he and his companions
were imprisoned and charged with being found upon the frontier without
a passport. They were called upon to abjure their faith or to be sent
instantly to the galleys; they were guilty of endeavoring to quit the
kingdom against the King's ordinance. Then began a weary pilgrimage on
foot, handcuffed together, "confined every evening in such loathsome
prisons as shocked even us, although by this time familiarised to
distress." On reaching Tournay they were thrown into a dungeon and
kept there many weeks, "laying continually upon an old pallet quite
rotten and swarming with vermin, placed near a door, through a hole
in which our daily allowance of bread was thrown." They remained
six weeks in this situation, when they were joined in prison by two
friends,--alleged Huguenots but less resolute than Marteilhe in
their belief, for they presently went over and embraced the Catholic
religion. Marteilhe sturdily resisted all attempts at conversion,
although all were continually importuned by the priests; yet
nevertheless entertained hopes of release, which were never realised.
They passed on from gaol to gaol until at last they reached Dunkirk, at
that time a French port and the home port of six war galleys. On their
arrival they were at once separated and each committed to a different
ship. Marteilhe's was the _Heureuse_, where he took his place upon the
bench, which was to be his terrible abode for many years.

The description given by our author of the system in force at the
galleys and of the galleys themselves may be quoted here at some length:

"A galley is ordinarily a hundred and fifty feet long and fifty feet
broad. It consists of but one deck, which covers the hold. This hold
is in the middle, seven feet high, but at the sides of the galley
only six feet. By this we may see that the deck rises about a foot
in the centre, and <DW72>s towards the edges to let the water run
off more easily; for when a galley is loaded it seems to swim under
water, at least the sea constantly washes the deck. The sea would then
necessarily enter the hold by the apertures where the masts are placed,
were it not prevented by what is called the _coursier_. This is a
long case of boards fixed on the middle or highest part of the deck
and running from one end of the galley to the other. There is also a
hatchway into the hold as high as the _coursier_. From this superficial
description perhaps it may be imagined that the slaves and the rest of
the crew have their feet always in water. But the case is otherwise;
for to each bench there is a board raised a foot from the deck, which
serves as a footstool to the rowers, under which the water passes. For
the soldiers and mariners there is, running on each side, along the
gunnel of the vessel, what is called the _bande_, which is a bench of
about the same height with the _coursier_, and two feet broad. They
never lie here, but each leans on his own particular bundle of clothes
in a very incommodious posture. The officers themselves are not better
accommodated; for the chambers in the hold are designed only to hold
the provisions and naval stores of the galley.

"The hold is divided in six apartments. The first of these in
importance is the _gavon_. This is a little chamber in the poop,
which is big enough only to hold the captain's bed. The second is the
_escandolat_, where the captain's provisions are kept and dressed. The
third is the _compagne_. This contains the beer, wine, oil, vinegar and
fresh water of the whole crew, together with their bacon, salt meat,
fish and cheese; they never use butter. The fourth, the _paillot_. Here
are kept the dried provisions, as biscuits, pease, rice, etc. The
fifth is called the _tavern_. This apartment is in the middle of the
galley. It contains the wine, which is retailed by the comite, and of
which he enjoys the profits. This opens into the powder room, of which
the gunner alone keeps the key. In this chamber also the sails and
tents are kept. The sixth and last apartment is called the _steerage_,
where the cordage and the surgeon's chest are kept. It serves also
during a voyage as a hospital for the sick and wounded, who, however,
have no other bed to lie on than ropes. In winter, when the galley is
laid up, the sick are sent to a hospital in the city.

"A galley has fifty benches for rowers, that is to say, twenty-five
on each side. Each bench is ten feet long. One end is fixed in the
_coursier_, the other in the _bande_. They are each half a foot thick
and are placed four feet from each other. They are covered with
sack-cloth stuffed with flocks, and over this is thrown a cowhide,
which reaching down to the _banquet_, or footstool, gives them the
resemblance of large trunks. To these the slaves are chained, six to
a bench. Along the _bande_ runs a large rim of timber, about a foot
thick, which forms the gunnel of the galley. To this, which is called
the _apostie_, the oars are fixed. These are fifty feet long, and are
balanced upon the aforementioned piece of timber; so that the thirteen
feet of oar which comes into the galley is equal in weight to the
thirty-seven which go into the water. As it would be impossible to
hold them in the hand because of their thickness they have handles by
which they are managed by the slaves."

The writer passes on to the method of rowing a galley and says: "The
comite, who is the master of the crew of slaves and the tyrant so
much dreaded by the wretches fated to this misery, stands always at
the stern, near the captain, to receive his orders. There are two
lieutenants also, one in the middle, the other near the prow. These,
each with a whip of cords which they exercise without mercy on the
naked bodies of the slaves, are always attentive to the orders of the
comite. When the captain gives the word for rowing the comite gives
the signal with a silver whistle which hangs from his neck. This is
repeated by the lieutenants, upon which the slaves, who have their oars
in readiness, strike all at once and beat time so exactly, that the
hundred and fifty oars seem to give but one blow. Thus they continue,
without requiring further orders, till by another signal of the whistle
they desist in a moment. There is an absolute necessity for all rowing
thus together; for should one of the oars be lifted up or let fall
too soon, those in the next bench forward, leaning back, necessarily
strike the oar behind them with the hinder part of their heads, while
the slaves of this bench do the same by those behind them. It were
well if a few bruises on the head were the only punishment. The comite
exercises the whip on this occasion like a fury, while the muscles,
all in convulsion under the lash, pour streams of blood down the seats;
which how dreadful soever it may seem to the reader, custom teaches the
sufferers to bear without murmuring.

"The labor of a galley slave has become a proverb; nor is it without
reason that this may be reckoned the greatest fatigue that can be
inflicted on wretchedness. Imagine six men, naked as when born, chained
to their seats, sitting with one foot on a block of timber fixed to the
footstool or stretcher, the other lifted up against the bench before
them, holding in their hands an oar of enormous size. Imagine them
stretching their bodies, their arms outreached to push the oar over
the backs of those before them, who are also themselves in a similar
attitude. Having thus advanced their oar, they raise that end which
they hold in their hands, to plunge the opposite end, or blade, in
the sea, which done, they throw themselves back on their benches for
the stroke. None, in short, but those who have seen them labor, can
conceive how much they endure. None but such could be persuaded that
human strength could sustain the fatigue which they undergo for an hour
without resting. But what cannot necessity and cruelty make men do?
Almost impossibilities. Certain it is that a galley can be navigated
in no other manner but by a crew of slaves, over whom a comite may
exercise the most unbounded authority. No free man could continue at
the oar an hour unwearied; yet a slave must sometimes lengthen out
his toil for ten, twelve, nay, for twenty hours without the smallest
intermission. On these occasions, the comite, or one of the other
mariners, puts into the mouths of those wretches a bit of bread steeped
in wine, to prevent fainting through excess of fatigue or hunger, while
their hands are employed upon the oar. At such times are heard nothing
but horrid blasphemies, loud bursts of despair, or ejaculations to
heaven; all the slaves are streaming with blood, while their unpitying
taskmasters mix oaths and threats and the smacking of whips, to fill
up this dreadful harmony. At this time the captain roars to the comite
to redouble his blows, and when anyone drops from his oar in a swoon,
which not infrequently happens, he is whipped while any remains of life
appear, and then thrown into the sea without further ceremony."

Marteilhe fell to a galley commanded by a comite, commonly reputed of
cruel character and said to be "merciless as a demon." Yet the young
Protestant, who was of fine muscular physique, found favor with this
severe master, who ordered him to be chained to the bench under his
immediate charge. Quoting still further from his "Memoirs,"--he writes:
"It may not be unnecessary to mention that the comite eats upon a
table raised over one of the seats, by four iron feet. This table also
serves him for a bed, and when he chooses to sleep, it is covered with
a large pavilion made of cotton. The six slaves of that bench sit
under the table, which can easily be taken away when it interferes with
the working of the vessel. These six slaves serve as domestics to the
comite. Each has his particular employ; and whenever the comite eats
or sits here, all the slaves of this bench and the benches next it are
uncovered out of respect. Everyone is ambitious of being either on the
comite's bench or on one of the lieutenants' benches; not only because
they have what is left of the provisions of his table, but also because
they are never whipped while at work. Those are called the 'respectable
benches;' and being placed in one of them is looked upon as being in a
petty office. I was, as already mentioned, placed in this bench, which
however I did not long keep; for still retaining some of the pride of
this world, I could not prevail upon myself to behave with that degree
of abject submission which was necessary to my being in favor. While
the comite was at meals, I generally faced another way, and, with my
cap on, pretended to take no notice of what was passing behind me. The
slaves frequently said that such behavior would be punished, but I
disregarded their admonition, thinking it sufficiently opprobrious to
be the slave of the King, without being also the slave of his meanest
vassal. I had by this means like to have fallen into the displeasure of
the comite, which is one of the greatest misfortunes that can befall
a galley slave. He inquired whether I partook of those provisions he
usually left, and upon being told that I refused to touch a bit, said
'Give him his own way, for the present; a few years' servitude will
divest him of this delicacy.'

"One evening the comite called me to his pavilion, and accosting
me with more than usual gentleness, unheard by the rest, he let me
understand that he perceived I was born of a rank superior to the rest
of his crew, which rather increased than diminished his esteem; but,
as by indulging my disrespectful behavior the rest might take example,
he found it necessary to transfer me to another bench. However I
might rest assured of never receiving a blow from him or his inferior
officers upon any occasion whatsoever. I testified my gratitude in the
best manner I was able; and from that time he kept his promise, which
was something extraordinary in one who usually seemed divested of every
principle of humanity. Never was man more severe to the slaves in
general than he, yet he preserved a moderation towards the Huguenots of
his galley, which argued a regard for virtue, not usually found among
the lower classes of people."

Constant labor at the oar was terrible enough, but its horrors were
accentuated when the galley went into action. Marteilhe was engaged in
several sea-fights, one of the fiercest being an engagement with an
English warship convoying a fleet of merchantmen to the Thames. "Of the
two galleys ordered to attack the frigate," says he, "ours alone was
in a position to begin the engagement, as our consort had fallen back
at least a league behind us; either because she did not sail so fast
as we, or else her captain chose to let us have the honor of striking
the first blow. Our commodore, who seemed in no way disturbed at the
approach of the frigate, thought our galley alone would be more than a
match for the Englishman; but the sequel will show that he was somewhat
mistaken in this conjecture.

"As we both mutually approached each other, we were soon within cannon
shot, and accordingly the galley discharged her broadside. The frigate,
silent as death, approached us without firing a gun, but seemed
steadily resolved to reserve all her terrors for a closer engagement.
Our commodore, nevertheless, mistook English resolution for cowardice.
'What,' cried he, 'is the frigate weary of carrying English colors? And
does she come to surrender without a blow?' The boast was premature.
Still we approached each other and were now within musket shot. The
galley incessantly poured in her broadside and small arm fire, the
frigate, all this while, preserving the most dreadful tranquillity
that imagination can conceive. At last the Englishman seemed all at
once struck with a panic, and began to fly for it. Nothing gives more
spirits than a flying enemy, and nothing was heard but the boasting
among our officers. 'We could at one blast sink a man of war; aye,
that we could and with ease, too!' 'If Mr. English does not strike in
two minutes, down he goes, down to the bottom!' All this time the
frigate was in silence, preparing for the tragedy which was to ensue.
Her flight was but pretended, and done with a view to entice us to
board her astern, which, being the weakest quarter of a man-of-war,
galleys generally choose to attack. Against this quarter they endeavor
to drive their beak, and then generally board the enemy, after having
cleared the decks with their five pieces of cannon. The commodore,
in such a favorable conjuncture as he imagined this to be, ordered
the galley to board and the men at the helm to bury her beak in the
frigate if possible. All the soldiers and sailors stood ready with
their sabres and battle-axes to execute his command. The frigate, who
perceived our intention, dexterously avoided our beak, which was just
ready to be dashed against her stern, so that instead of seeing the
frigate sink in the dreadful encounter as was expected, we had the
mortification of beholding her fairly alongside of us,--an interview
which struck us with terror. Now it was that the English captain's
courage was conspicuous. As he had foreseen what would happen, he was
ready with his grappling irons and fixed us fast by his side. His
artillery began to open, charged with grape-shot. All on board the
galley were as much exposed as if upon a raft. Not a gun was fired
that did not make horrible execution; we were near enough even to be
scorched with the flame. The English masts were filled with sailors,
who threw hand-grenades among us like hail, that scattered wounds and
death wherever they fell. Our crew no longer thought of attacking; they
were even unable to make the least defence. The terror was so great,
as well among the officers as common men, that they seemed incapable
of resistance. Those who were neither killed nor wounded lay flat and
counterfeited death to find safety. The enemy perceiving our fright,
to add to our misfortunes, threw in forty or fifty men, who, sword
in hand, hewed down all that ventured to oppose, sparing however the
slaves who made no resistance. After they had cut away thus for some
time, being constrained by our still surviving numbers, they continued
to pour an infernal fire upon us.

"The galley which had lain astern was soon up with us, and the other
four who had almost taken possession of the merchantmen, upon seeing
our signal and perceiving our distress, quitted the intended prey to
come to our assistance. Thus the whole fleet of merchant ships saved
themselves in the Thames. The galleys rowed with such swiftness that
in less than half an hour the whole six had encompassed the frigate.
Her men were now no longer able to keep the deck, and she presented a
favorable opportunity for being boarded. Twenty-five grenadiers from
each galley were ordered upon this service. They met with no opposition
in coming on; but scarce were they crowded upon the deck when they
were saluted once again _a l'Anglais_. The officers of the frigate
were entrenched in the forecastle, and fired upon the grenadiers
incessantly. The rest of the crew also did what execution they were
able through the gratings, and at last cleared the ship of the enemy.
Another detachment was ordered to board, but with the same success;
however it was at last thought advisable, with hatchets and other
proper instruments, to lay open her decks and by that means to make
the crew prisoners of war. This was, though with extreme difficulty,
executed; and in spite of their firing, which killed several of the
assailants, the frigate's crew was at last constrained to surrender."

Marteilhe was seriously wounded in this fight, and he graphically
details his sufferings as he lay there still chained to the bench, the
only survivor of his six companions at the oar. He says: "I had not
been long in this attitude when I perceived somewhat moist and cold
run down my body. I put my hand to the place and found it wet; but as
it was dark I was unable to distinguish what it was. I suspected it,
however, to be blood, flowing from some wound, and following with my
hand the course of the stream, I found my shoulder near the clavicle
was pierced quite through. I now felt another gash in my left leg below
the knee, which also went through; again another, made I suppose by a
splinter, which ripped the integuments of my belly, the wound being a
foot long and four inches wide. I lost a great quantity of blood before
I could have any assistance. All near me were dead, as well those
before and behind me, and those of my own seat. Of eighteen persons on
the three seats, there was left surviving only myself, wounded as I was
in three different places, and all by the explosion of one cannon only.
But if we consider the manner of charging with grape-shot our wonder at
such prodigious slaughter will cease. After the cartouche of powder, a
long tin box filled with musket balls is rammed in. When the piece is
fired the box breaks and scatters its contents most surprisingly.

"I was now forced to wait till the battle was ended before I could
expect any relief. All on board were in the utmost confusion; the dead,
the dying and the wounded, lying upon each other, made a frightful
scene. Groans from those who desired to be freed from the dead,
blasphemies from the slaves who were wounded unto death, arraigning
heaven for making their end not less unhappy than their lives had been.
The _coursier_ could not be passed for the dead bodies which lay on
it. The seats were filled, not only with slaves, but also with sailors
and officers who were wounded or slain. Such was the carnage that the
living hardly found room to throw the dead into the sea, or succor the
wounded. Add to all this the obscurity of the night, and where could
misery have been found to equal mine!

"The wounded were thrown indiscriminately into the hold,--petty
officers, sailors, soldiers and slaves; there was no distinction of
places, no bed to lie upon, nor any succor to be had. With respect to
myself, I continued three days in this miserable situation. The blood
coming from my wounds was stopped by a little spirit of wine, but there
was no bandage tied, nor did the surgeon once come to examine whether
I was dead or alive. In this suffocating hole, the wounded, who might
otherwise have survived, died in great numbers. The heat and the stench
were intolerable, so that the slightest sore seemed to mortify; while
those who had lost limbs or received large wounds went off by universal
putrefaction.

"In this deplorable situation we at last arrived at Dunkirk, where
the wounded were put on shore in order to be carried to the marine
hospital. We were drawn up from the hold by pulleys and carried to
the hospital on men's shoulders. The slaves were consigned to two
large apartments separate from the men who were free, forty beds in
each room. Every slave was chained by the leg to the foot of his bed.
We were visited once every day by the surgeon-major of the hospital,
accompanied by all the army and navy surgeons then in port."

Better fortune came to Marteilhe when he recovered. He was appointed
clerk to the captain of the galley, being maimed by his wounds and no
longer fit for the oar.

"Behold me now," he writes, "placed in a more exalted station, not
less than the captain's clerk, forsooth. As I knew my master loved
cleanliness, I purchased a short coat of red stuff (galley-slaves must
wear no other color) tolerably fine. I was permitted to let my hair
grow. I bought a scarlet cap, and in this trim presented myself before
the captain, who was greatly pleased with my appearance. He gave his
_maitre d'hotel_ orders to carry me every day a plate of meat from his
own table and to furnish me with a bottle of wine, luxuries to which
I had long been a stranger. I was never more chained and only wore a
ring about my leg in token of slavery. I lay upon a good bed. I had
nothing fatiguing to do, even at times when all the rest of the crew
were lashed to the most violent exertion. I was loved and respected by
the officers and the rest of the crew, cherished by my master and by
his nephew, the major of the galleys. In short, I wanted nothing but
liberty to increase the happiness I then enjoyed. In this state, if not
of pleasure at least of tranquillity, I continued from the year 1709 to
1712, in which it pleased heaven to afflict me with trials more severe
than even those I had already experienced."

England acquired Dunkirk by special treaty with France in 1712. Upon
the transfer the English troops entered the city and took possession
of the citadel. The French galleys were to remain in port until the
fortifications were demolished, and it was agreed that no vessel
should leave Dunkirk without permission from Her Britannic Majesty.
The galley-slaves remained on board their ships, but by some strange
oversight it was not stipulated that the Protestant prisoners,
with whose sad condition the English fully sympathised, should be
released. The French government was still determined to retain them,
and planned to carry them off secretly into France before any demand
could be made for their release. In the dead of night they were
embarked to the number of twenty-two on board a fishing boat and
taken by water to Calais, where they were landed to make the long
journey on foot, chained together, to Havre-de-Grace. Here they were
held close prisoners in the Arsenal, but fairly well treated. After
some weeks, orders came for their removal to Rouen, en route for
Paris and eventually to Marseilles. Through the kindness of their
co-religionists, who came charitably to their aid, they were provided
with wagons for the journey in which all were carried to the capital,
where on arrival they were lodged in the ancient castle of Tournelle,
formerly a pleasure house belonging to the royal family, but by now
converted into a prison for galley-slaves. It is thus described by
Marteilhe: "This prison, or rather cavern, is round and of vast extent.
The floor is made uneven by large oak beams, which are placed at three
feet distance from each other. These beams are two feet and a half
thick, and ranged along the floors in such a manner that at first sight
they might be taken for benches, were they not designed for a much more
disagreeable purpose. To these were fastened large iron chains, a
foot and a half long, at intervals of two feet from each other. At the
end of each chain is a large ring of the same metal. When the slave is
first brought into this prison, he is made to lie along the beam till
his head touches it. Then the ring is put round his neck and fastened
by a hammer and anvil kept for the purpose. As the chains are fixed in
the beam at two feet distance from each other, and some of the beams
are forty feet long, sometimes twenty men are thus chained down in a
row and so in proportion to the length of the beams. In this manner are
fastened five hundred wretches in an attitude certainly pitiful enough
to melt the hardest heart.

[Illustration: _Chateau D'If_

Fortress on a small island two miles southwest of Marseilles: one of
the scenes of Dumas's novel "Count of Monte Cristo," and the place
of captivity of several celebrated persons, among them Mirabeau and
Philippe Egalite.]

"We remained here (in the Tournelle) but a month, at the expiration of
which time we set out with the rest of the slaves for Marseilles. On
the tenth of December, at nine in the morning, we left our dismal abode
and were conducted into a spacious court of the castle. We were chained
by the neck, two and two together, with a heavy chain three feet long,
in the middle of which was fixed a ring. After being thus paired, we
were placed in ranks, couple before couple, and a long and weighty
chain passed through the rings, by which means we were all fastened
together. This 'chain,' which consisted of more than four hundred
slaves, made a strange appearance. Once more a Protestant friend
interposed and purchased the captain's consent to allow them to
provide wagons on the road for those unable to walk. But the trials
endured by the majority of these wretched wayfarers were terribly
severe. We entered Charenton at six in the evening by moonlight. It
froze excessively hard, but the weight of our chains, according to the
captain's calculation, being a hundred and fifty pounds upon every
man, with the swiftness of our pace, had kept us pretty warm, and we
were all actually in a sweat when we entered Charenton. Here we were
lodged in the stable of an inn, but chained so close to the manger,
that we could neither sit nor lie at our ease. Beside, we had no bed
but the dung and the litter of horses to repose on; for as the captain
conducted the train to Marseilles at his own expense, where he received
twenty crowns for every one that survived the journey, he was as saving
as possible and refused us bedding, nor was any allowed the whole
way. Here, however, we were suffered to repose, if it might be called
repose, till nine at night, when we were to undergo another piece of
cruelty, which almost disgraces humanity.

"At nine o'clock, while it yet froze excessively hard, our chains
were again unriveted and we were all led from the stable into a court
surrounded by high walls. The whole train, which was ranked at one
end of the court, was commanded to strip off all clothes and lay them
down each before him. The whip was exercised unmercifully on those who
were lazy or presumed to disobey. Every one promiscuously, as well
we as others, was obliged to comply with this unnecessary command.
After we were thus stripped, naked as when born, the whole train was
again commanded to march from the side of the court in which they were
to the side opposite them. Here were we for two hours, stark naked,
exposed to all the inclemency of the weather and a cutting wind that
blew from the north. All this time the archers were rummaging our rags
under pretence of searching for knives, files or other instruments that
might be employed in effecting our escape; but in reality money was
that for which they sought so earnestly. They took away everything that
was worth taking,--handkerchiefs, shirts, snuff-boxes, scissors,--and
never returned anything they laid hands on. When any slave entreated
to have his goods restored, he was only answered by blows and menaces,
which effectually silenced if not satisfied the querist. This rummage
being over, all were ordered to march back to the place from whence we
came, and take again each his respective bundle of clothes. But it was
impossible. We were almost frozen to death, and so stiff with cold that
scarce one in the whole train could move. And though the distance was
but small, yet frozen like statues, every wretch remained where he was
and silently awaited fresh instances of their keeper's cruelty. But
they did not long wait; the whip again was handled and by the merciless
fury of these strangers to pity, the bodies of the poor wretches were
mangled without distinction; but all in vain, for this could not
supply vital warmth where life was no more. Some actually dead, others
dying, were dragged along by the neck and thrown into the stable,
without further ceremony, to take their fate. And thus died that night
or the ensuing morning, eighteen persons. With respect to our little
society, we were neither beaten nor thus dragged along and we may well
attribute the saving of our lives to the hundred crowns which had been
advanced before our setting out."

Further details of this cruel march may be spared the reader. "In this
manner," says Marteilhe, "we crossed the Isle of France, Burgundy and
the Maconnais, till we came to Lyons, marching every day three or four
leagues; long stages, considering the weight of our chains, our being
obliged to sleep every night in stables upon dung, our having bad
provisions and not sufficient liquid to dilute them, walking all day
mid-leg in mud, and frequently wet through with rain; swarming with
vermin and ulcerated with the itch, the almost inseparable attendants
on misery." At Lyons the whole train embarked in large flat-bottomed
boats and dropped down the Rhone as far as the bridge St. Esprit;
thence by land to Avignon and from Avignon to Marseilles, which they
reached on the 17th of January, 1713, having spent some six weeks on
the road.

The treatment accorded to the galley-slaves at Marseilles was
identical with that of Dunkirk. But now the case of the Protestants
engaged the serious attention of the Northern nations, and strong
representations were made to the French king, demanding their release.
But now in the vain hope of retaining them, the most pertinacious
efforts were made to obtain that abjuration of the faith which
had been steadfastly rejected by the sufferers for so many years.
Bigoted priests with special powers of persuasion were called in with
fresh zeal for proselytising, but being entirely unsuccessful they
concentrated their efforts to impede and prolong the negotiations for
release. When at last the order came, due to the vigorous interposition
of the Queen of England, it was limited to a portion only of the
Protestant prisoners. One hundred and thirty-six were released, and
among them Jean Marteilhe; but the balance were retained quite another
year. Marteilhe, after a short stay at Geneva, travelled northwards,
and at length went with some of his comrades to England. They were
granted a special audience with Queen Anne, and were permitted to
kiss her Majesty's hand, and were assured from her own mouth of the
satisfaction afforded by their deliverance.

A few details may be extracted from Marteilhe's story as to the dress,
diet, occupation and general discipline of one of Louis' galleys. As to
dress he tells us:

"Each slave receives every year linen shirts, somewhat finer than that
of which sails are made; two pair of knee trousers, which are made
without any division, like a woman's petticoat,--for they must be put
on over the head because of the chain; one pair of stockings made of
coarse red stuff, but no shoes. However, when the slaves are employed
in the business of the galley by land, as frequently happens in winter,
the keeper on that occasion furnishes them with shoes, which he takes
back when the slaves return aboard. They are supplied every second year
with a cassock of coarse red stuff. The tailor shows no great marks of
an artist in making it up; it is only a piece of stuff doubled, one
half for the forepart, the other for the back; at the top a hole to
put the head through. It is sewed up on each side, and has two little
sleeves which descend to the elbow. This cassock has something the
shape of what is called in Holland a 'keil,' which carters generally
wear over the rest of their clothes. The habit of the former is,
however, not so long, for it reaches before only down to the knees, and
behind it falls half a foot lower. Besides all this, they are allowed
every year a red cap, very short, as it must not cover the ears. Lastly
they are given every second year a great coat of coarse cloth made
of wool and hair. This habit is made in the form of a nightgown and
descends to the feet; it is furnished with a hood not unlike the cowl
of a Capuchin friar. This is by far the best part of a slave's scanty
wardrobe; for it serves him for mattress and blankets at night, and
keeps him warm by day."

As will have been gathered from the preceding description, the galleys
were mainly intended for sea service and occasional combat, but this
was only in the summer months. As winter approached, generally about
the latter end of October, the galleys were laid up in harbor and
disarmed. "The first precaution is to land the gunpowder, for they
never bring their powder into port. The galleys are next brought in and
ranged along the quay according to the order of precedence, with the
stern next the quay. There are then boards laid, called _planches_, to
serve as a passage from the quay to the galley. The masts are taken
down and laid in the _coursier_, and the yards lie all along the seats.
After this they take out the cannon, the warlike stores, provisions,
sails, cordage, anchors, etc. The sailors and coasting pilots are
discharged, and the rest of the crew lodged in places appointed for
them in the city of Dunkirk. Here the principal officers have their
pavilions, though they lodge in them but seldom, the greatest part
spending the winter at Paris or at their own homes. The galley being
at last entirely cleared, the slaves find room enough to fix their
wretched quarters for the winter. The company belonging to each seat
procure pieces of boards, which they lay across the seats and upon
these make their beds. The only bed between them and the boards is a
cast-off greatcoat; their only covering that which they wear during
the day. The first rower of each seat, who has consequently the first
choice, is best lodged; the second shares the next best place; the
four others are lodged, each, on the cross planks already mentioned,
according to his order.

"When the weather grows extremely cold, there are two tents raised over
the galley, one above the other. The outermost is generally made of
the same stuff of which the slaves' greatcoats are formed, and keeps
the galley sufficiently warm; I mean it seems warm to those who are
accustomed to this hard way of living. For those who have been used
to their own houses and warm fires would never be able to support the
cold without being habituated to it beforehand. A little fire to warm
them and a blanket to cover them would make our slaves extremely happy,
but this is a happiness never allowed them on board. At break of day
the comites, who always sleep on board together with the keepers and
halberdiers, blow their whistles, at the sound of which all must rise.
This is always done precisely at the same hour; for the commodore every
evening gives the signal to the comite by firing a cannon for the
slaves to go to sleep, and repeats the same at break of day for their
getting up. If in the morning any should be lazy and not rise when they
hear the whistle, they may depend on being lashed severely. The crew
being risen, their first care is to fold up their beds, to put the
seats in order, to sweep between them and wash them when necessary.
The sides of the tent are raised up by stanchions provided for that
purpose in order to air the galley; though when the wind blows hard,
that side to the leeward only is raised. When this is done every slave
sits down on his own seat and does something to earn himself a little
money.

"It is necessary to be known, that no slave must be idle. The comites,
who observe their employments every day, come up to those they see
unemployed and ask why they do not work. If it is answered that they
understand no trade, he gives them cotton yarn, and bids them knit it
into stockings; and if the slave knows not how to knit, the comite
appoints one of his companions of the same seat to instruct him. It
is a trade easily learnt; but as there are some who are either lazy,
stupid or stubborn and will not learn, they are sure to be remarked by
the comites who seldom show them any future favor. If they will not
work at that for their own advantage, the comite generally gives them
some work impossible to perform; and when they have labored in vain to
execute his commands, he whips them for laziness; so that in their own
defence, they are at last obliged to learn to knit.

"Whenever a slave is missing, there are guns fired one after the other,
which advertise his escape to the peasants round the country; upon
which they all rise, and with hounds trained for the purpose trace
out his footsteps; so that it is almost impossible for him to secure
a retreat. I have seen several instances of this at Marseilles. At
Dunkirk, indeed, the Flemish detest such practices; but the soldiers,
with which the town abounds, will do anything to gain twenty crowns.
At Marseilles the peasants are cruel to the last degree. I have been
informed for certain that a son brought back his own father, who had
been a slave and endeavored to escape. The intendant, as the story
goes, was so shocked at his undutifulness, that though he ordered him
the twenty crowns for his fee, yet sentenced him to the galleys for
life, where he remained chained to the same seat with his unhappy
father. So true is it, that the natives of Provence are in general
perfidious, cruel and inhuman.

"All along the quay, where the galleys lie, are ranged little stalls,
with three or four slaves in each, exercising their trades to gain a
trifling subsistence. Their trades are nevertheless frequently little
better than gross impositions on the credulity of the vulgar. Some
pretend to tell fortunes and take horoscopes; others profess magic and
undertake to find stolen goods, though cunning often helps them out
when the devil is not so obedient as to come at a call.

"While some of the slaves are thus employed in the stalls along the
quay, the major part are chained to their seats aboard, some few
excepted who pay a halfpenny a day for being left without a chain.
Those can walk about the galley and traffic or do any other business
which may procure them a wretched means of subsistence. The greatest
part of them are sutlers. They sell tobacco (for in winter the slaves
are permitted to smoke on board), brandy, etc. Others make over their
seats a little shop, where they expose for sale butter, cheese,
vinegar, boiled tripe, all of which are sold to the crew at reasonable
rates. A halfpenny worth of these, with the king's allowance of bread,
make no uncomfortable meal. Except these sutlers, all the rest are
chained to their seats and employed in knitting stockings. Perhaps it
may be asked where the slaves find spun cotton for knitting. I answer
thus:

"Many of the Turks, especially those who have money, drive a trade in
this commodity with the merchants of Marseilles, who deal largely in
stockings. The merchants give the Turks what cotton they think proper,
unmanufactured, and the Turks pay them in this commodity manufactured
into stockings. These Turks deliver the cotton spun to the slaves, to
be knit. They are indifferent as to the size of the stockings, as the
slave is paid for knitting at so much a pound. So that the slave who
received ten pounds of spun cotton is obliged to return the same weight
of knit stockings, for which he is paid at a fixed price. There must be
great care taken not to filch any of the cotton nor leave the stockings
on a damp place to increase their weight; for if such practices are
detected the slave is sure to undergo the bastinado.

"At the approach of summer their employments are multiplied every day
by new fatigues. All the ballast, which is composed of little stones
about the size of pigeon's eggs, is taken out and handed up from the
hold in little wicker baskets from one to the other, till they are
heaped upon the quay opposite the galley. Here two men are to pump
water upon them till they become as clean as possible; and when dry
they are again replaced. This, and cleaning the vessel, takes up seven
or eight days' hard labor. Then the galley must be put into proper
order before it puts to sea. First, necessary precautions must be taken
with respect to the cordage that it be strong and supple; and what new
cordage may be necessary is to be supplied by the slaves by passing it
round the galley. This takes up some days to effect. Next the sails are
to be visited, and if new ones are necessary, the comite cuts them out
and the slaves sew them. They must also make new tents, mend the old in
like manner, prepare the officers' beds, and everything else, which it
would be impossible to particularise. This bustle continues till the
beginning of April, when the Court sends orders for putting to sea.

"Our armament begins by careening the galleys. This is done by turning
one galley upon another so that its keel is quite out of the water.
The whole keel is then rubbed with rendered tallow. This is perhaps
one of the most fatiguing parts of a slave's employments. After this
the galley is fitted up with her masts and rigging and supplied with
artillery and ammunition. All this is performed by the slaves, who are
sometimes so fatigued that the commander is obliged to wait in port a
few days till the crew have time to refresh themselves."

Galleys as warships fell into disuse about the time that our Protestant
prisoners were released. The improvement in the sailing qualities of
ships and the manifest advantages enjoyed by those skilfully handled,
as were the English, gradually brought about the abandonment of the oar
as a motive power, and the galleys are only remembered now as a glaring
instance of the cruelties practised by rulers upon helpless creatures
subjected to their tender mercies.




CHAPTER X

THE DAWN OF REVOLUTION

    State of France--Bad harvests--Universal famine--Chronic
    disturbances--Crime prevalent--Cartouche--His organized gang--His
    capture, sentence and execution--Pamphleteers and libelists
    in the Bastile--Lenglet-Dufresnoy--Roy--Voltaire--His first
    consignment to the Bastile--His release and departure for
    London--Cellamare-Alberoni conspiracy--Mlle. De Launay, afterwards
    Madame de Staal--Remarkable escapes--Latude and Allegre.


Dark clouds hovered over France in the latter years of the reign of
Louis XIV: an empty exchequer drained by the cost of a protracted and
disastrous war; the exodus of many thousands of the most industrious
producers of wealth, flying from religious intolerance; a succession
of bad harvests, causing universal famine and chronic disturbance.
The people rose against the new edicts increasing taxes upon salt,
upon tobacco and on stamped paper, and were repressed with harshness,
shot down, thrown into prison or hanged. The genuine distress in the
country was terrible. Thousands of deaths from starvation occurred.
Hordes of wretched creatures wandered like wild beasts through the
forest of Orleans. A Jesuit priest wrote from Onzain that he preached
to four or five skeletons, who barely existed on raw thistles, snails
and the putrid remains of dead animals. In the Vendomois, the heather
was made into bread with an intermixture of sawdust, and soup was
made with roots and the sap of trees. Touraine, once the very garden
of France, had become a wilderness. The hungry fought for a morsel of
horse flesh, torn from some wretched beast which had died a natural
death. Four-fifths of the inhabitants of the villages had become public
beggars. In one village of four hundred houses, the population had been
reduced to three persons.

Never in the history of France had robberies been so numerous or so
varied in character as during this period. Paris was filled with the
worst criminals and desperadoes. The provinces were overrun with them.
The whole country was ravaged and terrorised. Prominent among this
dangerous fraternity, whose name was legion, is one name, that of
Cartouche, the most noted evil doer of his or indeed any time. Others
might have excelled him in originality, intelligence and daring. That
which gave him especial distinction was his power of organisation, his
nice choice of associates and the far-reaching extent of his nefarious
plans. The devoted and obedient band he directed was recruited from
all sources, and included numbers of outwardly respectable persons
even drawn from the police and the French guards. He had agents at
his disposal for all branches of his business; he had spies, his
active assistants to deal the blows, his receivers, his locksmiths,
his publicans with ready shelter and asylums of retreat. The forces
controlled by Cartouche were extraordinarily numerous, and the total
was said to exceed a couple of thousand persons of both sexes.

Paris was dismayed and indignant when the operations grew and
increased, and the police proved less able to check them. In the
last months of 1719 and during 1720, widespread terror prevailed.
The thieves worked their will even in daylight. After dark the city
belonged to them. The richest quarters were parcelled out among the
various gangs, which broke into every house and summoned every wayfarer
to stand and deliver. As a specimen of their proceedings,--a party
visited the mansion, once the Hotel of the Marechal de France and now
occupied by the Spanish Ambassador, entered the Ambassador's bedroom
at night and rifled it, securing a rich booty--several collars of fine
pearls, a brooch adorned with twenty-seven enormous diamonds, a large
service of silver plate and the whole of the magnificent wardrobe of
the lady of the house. This was only one of hundreds of such outrages,
which were greatly encouraged by the diffusion of luxury among the
upper classes, while the lower, as we have seen, were plunged in misery
and starvation.

This was the epoch of the speculations of the famous adventurer,
Law, who established the great Bank of Mississippi, and for the time
made the fortunes of all who joined in his schemes and trafficked in
his shares. Money was almost a drug; people made so much and made
it so fast that it was difficult to spend it. Houses were furnished
regardless of expense with gorgeous tapestry, cloth of gold hangings,
beds of costly woods encrusted with jewels and ormolu, Venetian glasses
in ivory frames, candelabra of rock crystal. All this luxury played
into the hands of Cartouche and his followers, who worked on a system,
recognising each other by strict signs and helping each other to
seize and pass away articles of value from hand to hand along a whole
street. Strict order regulated the conduct of the thieves. Many were
forbidden to use unnecessary violence, killing was only permitted in
self defence, the same person was never to be robbed twice, and some
were entrusted with the password of the band as a safe conduct through
a crowd.

Meanwhile the personality of Cartouche was constantly concealed. Some
went so far as to declare that he was a myth and did not exist in the
flesh. Yet the suspicion grew into certainty that Paris was at the
mercy of a dangerous combination, directed by and centred in one astute
and capable leader. Thieves taken red-handed had revealed upon the rack
the identity of Cartouche and the government was adjured to effect his
capture, but without result. So daring did he become that he openly
showed himself at carnival time with five of his chief lieutenants and
defied arrest.

Cartouche was a popular hero, for he pretended to succor the poor with
the booty he took from the rich. He was a species of Parisian Fra
Diavolo, and many stories were invented in proof of his generosity,
his sense of humor and his kindliness to those in distress. As a
matter of fact he was a brutal, black-hearted villain, whose most
prominent characteristic was his constant loyalty to his followers,
by which he secured their unswerving attachment and by means of it
worked with such remarkable success. To this day his name survives
as the prototype of a criminal leader, directing the wide operations
of a well organised gang of depredators that swept all before them.
Their exploits were at times marvellous, both in initiative and
execution, and owed everything to Cartouche. One among many stories
told of him may be quoted as illustrating his ingenious methods. It
was a robbery from the chief officer of the watch, from whom he stole
a number of silver forks in broad daylight, and while actually engaged
in conversation with his victim. Cartouche arrived at this official's
house in his carriage, accompanied by two tall flunkeys in gorgeous
livery. He announced himself as an Englishman, and was shown into the
dining-room, where dinner was in progress. Cartouche declined to take a
seat, but contrived to lead the host to a corner of the room where he
regaled him with a fabulous story of how an attack was being organised
by Cartouche on his house. The officer quite failed to recognise his
visitor, and listened with profound attention. It was not until after
Cartouche had left that it was discovered that not a single fork
or spoon remained upon his table, the silver having been adroitly
abstracted by Cartouche, who passed it unseen to his confederates--the
disguised footmen who had accompanied him. Many similar thefts were
committed by Cartouche and his gang, one victim being the Archbishop of
Bourges.

Cartouche, by his cleverness in disguise, long escaped capture, and
it was not until October 15th, 1721, that he was finally caught and
arrested. His capture naturally created an immense sensation in Paris,
and became the universal topic of conversation. Cartouche had been
traced to a wine shop, where he was found in bed by M. le Blanc, an
employe of the War Ministry, who had with him forty picked soldiers
and a number of policemen. Orders had been issued to take Cartouche,
dead or alive. His capture came about through a patrol soldier who
had recognised Cartouche and acted as a spy on his movements. This
man had been carried to the Chatelet by Pekom, major of the Guards,
and when threatened with the utmost rigor of the law confessed all
he knew about the prince of thieves. The prisoner was taken first
to the residence of M. le Blanc and afterwards to the Chatelet. It
was found necessary to be extremely circumspect with Cartouche on
account of his violence, and his cell was closely guarded by four men.
Cartouche soon made an attempt to escape in company with a fellow
occupant of his cell, who happened to be a mason. Having made a hole
in a sewer passage below, they dropped into the water, waded to the
end of the gallery and finally reached the cellar of a greengrocer
in the neighborhood thence they emerged into the shop, and were on
the verge of escape, but the barking of the greengrocer's dog aroused
the inmates of the house, who gave the alarm, and four policemen, who
happened to be in the neighborhood, came to the rescue. Cartouche was
recognised, captured and again imprisoned, being now securely chained
by his feet and hands. He was later transferred to the Conciergerie
and more closely watched than ever during his trial, which was
concluded on November 26th, 1721, when sentence was passed upon him
and two accomplices. On the day following, Cartouche was subjected to
the torture "extraordinary" by means of the "boot," which he endured
without yielding, and refused to make any confession. The scaffold,
meanwhile was erected in the Place de Greve where the carpenters put
up five wheels and two gibbets. Directly the place of execution became
known in Paris, the streets were filled with large crowds of people
and windows overlooking the Greve were let at high prices. Apparently
the magistrates did not care to gratify the curiosity of the public,
and before the afternoon four of the wheels and one of the gibbets
were removed. Towards four o'clock Charles Sanson, the executioner of
the Court of Justice, went to the Conciergerie, accompanied by his
assistants, and sentence was read to the culprit, who was afterwards
handed over to the secular arm. Cartouche had displayed no emotion
throughout the trial. He no doubt thought himself a hero, and wished
to die amidst the applause of the people who had long feared him.
When, however, the cortege started, Cartouche began to grow uneasy
and finally his stolid indifference completely gave way. On reaching
the Place de Greve he noticed that only one wheel remained, and his
agitation became intense. He repeatedly exclaimed, "_Les frollants!_"
"_Les frollants!_" (the traitors), thinking his accomplices had been
induced to confess, and had betrayed him. Now his stoicism vanished,
and he insisted upon being taken back to the Hotel de Ville to confess
his sins. On the following morning great crowds again assembled to
witness the execution. The condemned man had lost his bravado, but
still displayed strange firmness. His natural instincts appeared when
he was placed on the _Croix de St. Andre_, and the dull thud of the
iron bar descending extorted the exclamation "One" from him, as if
it was his business to count the number of blows to be inflicted.
Although it had been stipulated at the passing of sentence that
Cartouche should be strangled after a certain number of strokes, the
excitement of the clerk of the Court caused him to withhold the fact
from the executioner; and so great was the strength of Cartouche that
it required eleven blows to break him on the wheel.

Other executions speedily followed. Scaffold and gibbet were kept busy
till 1722, and in the succeeding years five females whom Cartouche
had found useful as auxiliaries to his society were put upon their
trial, sentenced and executed. Many receivers of stolen goods were also
brought to account before the long series of crimes that had defied the
police was finally ended.

In these days the prevailing discontent against the ruling authority
found voice in the manner so often exhibited by a ground-down and
severely repressed people. This was the age of the libellist and the
pamphleteer, and the incessant proceedings against them brought in
fresh harvests to the Bastile. The class was comprehensive, and its
two extremes ranged between a great literary genius such as Voltaire
and the petty penny-a-liner, who frequently found a lodging in the
State prisons. Of the last named category the most prolific was Gatien
Sandras de Courtilz, who produced about a hundred volumes of satirical,
political pamphlets and fictitious histories. Such a man was for ever
within four walls or in hiding beyond the frontier. Leniency was wasted
on him. Upon a petition to the Chancellor Pontchartrain, an inquiry
was instituted into the reasons of his imprisonment with the result
that he was released. Within two years he was found again distributing
libels, and was again thrown into the Bastile, this time to remain
there for ten years.

A curious specimen of this class distinguished himself in the following
reign,--a certain Abbe Nicolas Lenglet-Dufresnoy, who was for ever in
and out of the Bastile. He is spoken of as a man of wit and learning,
an indefatigable worker, a fearless writer, but of very indifferent
honesty, venial to the last degree, to be bought at any time and ready
for any baseness, even to espionage. Isaac d'Israeli mentions him in
his "Curiosities of Literature" and in terms of praise as a man of much
erudition with a fluent, caustic pen and daring opinions. He earned a
calm contempt for the rubs of evil fortune, and when a fresh arrest was
decreed against him, he accepted it with a light heart. He well knew
his way to the Bastile. At the sight of the officer, who came to escort
him to prison, he would pick up his night-cap and his snuff-box, gather
his papers together and take up his quarter in the old familiar cell
where he had already done so much good work. He suffered seven distinct
imprisonments in the Bastile between 1718 and 1752, and saw also the
inside of the prisons of Vincennes, Strasbourg and For-l'Eveque. At his
last release he signed the following declaration:

"Being at liberty, I promise, in conformity with the orders of the
King, to say nothing of the prisoners or other things concerning the
Bastile, which may have come to my knowledge. In addition to this I
acknowledge that all my good silver and papers and effects which I
brought to the said castle have been restored to me."

Lenglet rendered one important service to the State, the discovery of
the Cellamare-Alberoni conspiracy, but he would not proceed in the
affair until he had been assured that no lives should be sacrificed. He
was a painstaking writer, and kept one manuscript by him for fifty-five
years; it was, however, a work on visions and apparitions, and he was a
little afraid of publishing it to the world. His end came by a strange
accident. He fell into the fire as he slept over a "modern book" and
was burned to death. He was then eighty years of age.

Among the smaller people, scribblers and second rate litterateurs,
who were consigned to the Bastile, was Roy, an impudent rascal, who
lampooned royalty and royal things, and impertinently attacked the
Spanish ambassador. All Paris was moved by his arrest, his papers were
sealed and he was treated as of more importance than he deserved.
After four months' detention he was released, and banished from Paris
to a distance of ninety leagues. He soon returned and published a
defamatory ode on the French generals. General de Moncrieff met Roy in
the streets, boxed his ears and kicked him, but although the poet wore
his sword he did not defend himself. Roy raged furiously against the
Academy which would not elect him a member and wrote a stinging epigram
when the Comte de Clermont of the blood royal was chosen. The Comte
paid a ruffian to give him a thrashing, which was so severe that the
poet, now eighty years of age, succumbed to the punishment.

Another literary prisoner of more pretensions was the Abbe Prevost,
author of the well known _Manon Lescaut_, the only work which has
survived out of the 170 books he wrote in all. He was a Jesuit, who
joined the order of the Benedictines, but fled from their house in
St.-Germain-des-Pres, and went about Paris freely. He was arrested by
the police and sent back to his monastery. For seven years he remained
quiet, but when at length he proposed to publish new works in order "to
impose silence upon the malignity of his enemies," a _lettre de cachet_
was issued to commit him to the Bastile. The Prince de Conti came to
his help, and gave him money with which he escaped to Brussels.

Voltaire's first connection with the Bastile was in 1717, when he
was only twenty-two years of age, a law student in Paris. He had
already attracted attention by his insolent lampoons on the Regent
and the government, and had been banished from Paris for writing
an epigram styled the _Bourbier_, "the mud heap." This new offence
was a scandalous Latin inscription and some scathing verses which,
according to a French writer, would have been punished under Louis
XIV with imprisonment for life. He took his arrest very lightly. The
officer who escorted him to the Bastile reports: "Arouet (Voltaire)
joked a good deal on the road, saying he did not think any business
was done on feast days, that he did not mind going to the Bastile but
hoped he would be allowed to continue taking his milk, and that if
offered immediate release he would beg to remain a fortnight longer."
His detention ran on from week to week into eleven months, which
he employed in writing two of his masterpieces, _La Henriade_ and
_Oedipe_, the latter his first play to have a real success when put
upon the stage.

Voltaire, when released, was ordered to reside at Chatenay with his
father, who had a country house there, and offered to be responsible
for him. The charge was onerous, and the young man was sent to Holland
to be attached to the French ambassador, but he soon drifted back to
Paris, where he remained in obscurity for seven years. Now he came
to the front as the victim of a personal attack by bravos in the pay
of the Chevalier de Rohan, by whom he was severely caned. The poet
had offended the nobility by his insolent airs. Voltaire appealed for
protection, and orders were issued to arrest De Rohan's hirelings if
they could be found. The poet sought satisfaction against the moving
spirit, and having gone for a time into the country to practise
fencing, returned to Paris and challenged the Chevalier, when he met
him in the dressing-room of the famous actress, Adrienne Lecouvreur.
The duel was arranged, but the De Rohan family interposed and secured
Voltaire's committal to the Bastile, when he wrote to the Minister
Herault:

"In the deplorable condition in which I find myself I implore your
kindness. I have been sent to the Bastile for having pursued with too
much haste and ardor the established laws of honor. I was set upon
publicly by six persons, and I am punished for the crime of another
because I did not wish to hand him over to justice. I beg you to use
your credit to obtain leave for me to go to England."

Leave was granted, accompanied with release, and in due course Voltaire
arrived in London, where he remained three years. This period tended
greatly to develop his mental qualities. "He went a discontented poet,
he left England a philosopher, the friend of humanity," says Victor
Cousin. He became a leader among the men who, as Macaulay puts it,
"with all their faults, moral and intellectual, sincerely and earnestly
desired the improvement of the condition of the human race, whose blood
boiled at the sight of cruelty and injustice, who made manful war with
every faculty they possessed on what they considered as abuses, and
who on many signal occasions placed themselves gallantly between the
powerful and the oppressed."

Voltaire was presently permitted to return to Paris. Minister Maurepas
wrote him: "You may go to Paris when you like and even reside there....
I am persuaded you will keep a watch upon yourself at Paris, and do
nothing calculated to get you into trouble." The warning was futile.
Within four years he was once more arrested and lodged in the castle
prison of Auxonne, with strict orders that he was never to leave the
interior of the castle. His offences were blasphemy and a bitter
attack upon the Stuarts. He had, moreover, published his "Lettres
Philosophiques," and a new _lettre de cachet_ was to be issued, but he
was given time and opportunity to make his escape into Germany. The
work was, however, burned by the public executioner, and the wretched
publisher sent to the Bastile, after the confiscation of all his stock,
which meant total ruin. Prison history is not further concerned with
Voltaire. His friendship with Frederick the Great, his long retreat in
Switzerland and the fierce criticisms and manifestoes he fulminated
from Ferney must be sought elsewhere.

Reference has been made in a previous page to the Cellamare-Alberoni
conspiracy first detected by Abbe Lenglet, which had for object the
removal of the Duc d'Orleans from the Regency and the convocation of
the States General, the first organised effort towards more popular
government in France. A secondary aim was a coalition of the powers
to re-establish the Stuart dynasty in England. Nothing came of the
conspiracy, but the arrest of those implicated. Among them were the
Duc and Duchesse de Maine. A certain Mdlle. de Launay, who was a
waiting woman of the Duchess, staunchly refused to betray her mistress
and was imprisoned in the Bastile. Out of this grew a rather romantic
love story. The King's lieutenant of the Bastile, a certain M. de
Maison Rouge, an old cavalry officer, was greatly attracted by Mdlle.
de Launay. "He conceived the greatest attachment that any one ever had
for me," she writes in her amusing memoirs. "He was the only man by
whom I think I was ever really loved." His devotion led him to grant
many privileges to his prisoner, above all in allowing her to open a
correspondence with another inmate of the Bastile, the Chevalier de
Menil,--also concerned in the Cellamare conspiracy,--with whom she had
a slight acquaintance. M. de Maison Rouge went so far as to allow them
to meet on several occasions, and, much to his chagrin, the pair fell
desperately in love with each other. Mdlle. de Launay expected to marry
the Chevalier after their release, but on getting out of the Bastile
she found herself forgotten. Some fifteen years later she became the
wife of Baron de Staal, an ex-officer of the Swiss Guards under the Duc
de Maine. She must not be confused, of course, with the Madame de Stael
of Napoleon's time.

While some prisoners like Masers Latude--of whom more directly--followed
their natural bent in making the most daring and desperate attempts
to escape from the Bastile, there were one or two cases in which
men showed a strong reluctance to leave it. One of the victims of
the Cellamare conspiracy was an ex-cavalry officer, the Marquis de
Bonrepas, who had been shut up for four or five years. He found friends
abroad who sought to obtain his release. But he received the offer
of liberty with a very bad grace, declaring his preference for the
prison. He was a veteran soldier, old, poor and without friends, and
he was only persuaded to leave the Bastile on the promise of a home at
the Invalides with a pension. A doctor of the University, Francois du
Boulay, was sent to the Bastile in 1727 and remained there forty-seven
years. Then, when Louis XVI ascended the throne, search was made
through the registers for meet subjects for the King's pardon, and Du
Boulay was one of those recommended for discharge. He went out and
deeply regretted it. He was quite friendless and could find no trace of
any member of his family. His house had been pulled down and a public
edifice built upon the site. He had been quite happy in the Bastile,
and begged that he might return there. His prayer was refused, however,
and he withdrew altogether from the world and passed the rest of his
days in complete solitude.

The name of Latude, mentioned above, is classed in prison history with
those of Baron Trenck, Sack, Shepherd, Casanova and "Punch" Howard as
the heroes of the most remarkable prison escapes on record. He is best
known as Latude, but he had many aliases,--Jean Henri, Danry, Dawyer,
Gedor; and his offence was that of seeking to curry favor with Madame
de Pompadour by falsely informing her that her life was in danger.
He warned her carefully to avoid opening a box that would reach her
through the post, which, in fact, was sent by himself. It enclosed a
perfectly harmless white powder. Then having despatched it he went in
person and on foot to Versailles expecting to be handsomely rewarded
for saving the life of the King's favorite.

Unfortunately for Latude the innocuous nature of the powder was
disbelieved, and the mere possibility of foul play sufficed to raise
suspicion. Both Louis XV and his mistress shivered at the very whisper
of poison. The police promptly laid hands upon the author of this sorry
trick, and he was committed to Vincennes to begin an imprisonment
which lasted, with short intervals of freedom after his escapes,
for thirty-four years. Latude was well treated and was visited by
the King's doctor, as it was thought his mind was deranged. He was,
however, keen witted enough to snatch at the first chance of escape.
When at exercise in the garden, apparently alone, a dog ran against
the door and it fell open. Latude instantly stepped through and got
into the open fields, through which he ran for his life, and made
his way into Paris, to the house of a friend, one Duval. Thence he
wrote a letter to Madame de Pompadour beseeching her forgiveness and
imprudently giving his address. The authorities at once laid hands upon
him, and after being no more than twenty-four hours at large he was
once more imprisoned, this time in the Bastile.

He now found a prison companion with whom his fortunes were to be
closely allied, one Allegre, who had been accused of the same crime,
that of attempting to poison Madame de Pompadour. Allegre, who in the
end died in a lunatic asylum, was a violent, unmanageable and hardly
responsible prisoner. He always denied the charges brought against
him, as did also Latude. The two joined forces in giving trouble and
breaking the prison rules. They were caught in clandestine conversation
with others, from floor to floor in the Baziniere Tower, and in passing
tobacco to each other. Latude addressed an indignant appeal against
his treatment to the authorities, written upon linen with his blood.
He complained of his food, demanded fish for breakfast, declaring he
could not eat eggs, artichokes or spinach, and would pay out of his
own pocket for different food. He became enraged when these requests
were refused. When fault was found with his misuse of the linen, he
asked for paper and more shirts. He got the former, and began a fresh
petition of interminable length and, when the governor grew weary of
waiting for it, threw it into the fire.

As the chamber occupied by Latude and Allegre was in the basement
and liable to be flooded by the inundation of the Seine, it became
necessary to remove them to another. This was more favorable to escape,
and to this they now turned their attention with the strange ingenuity
and unwearied patience so often displayed by captives. The reason for
Latude's demand for more shirts was now explained. For eighteen months
they worked unceasingly, unravelling the linen and with the thread
manufacturing a rope ladder three hundred feet in length. The rungs
were of wood made from the fuel supplied for their fire daily. These
articles were carefully concealed under the floor. When all was ready,
Latude took stock of their productions. There was 1,400 feet of linen
rope and 208 rungs of wood, the rungs encased in stuff from the linings
of their dressing gowns, coats and waistcoats to muffle the noise of
the ladder as it swung against the wall of the Tower.

The actual escape was effected by climbing up the interior of the
chimney of their room, having first dislodged the chimney bars, which
they took with them. On reaching the roof, they lowered the ladder and
went down it into the ditch, which was fourteen feet deep in water.
Notwithstanding this, they attacked the outer wall with their chimney
bars of iron, and after eight hours' incessant labor broke an opening
through its ponderous thickness and despite the fear of interruption
from patrols passing outside with flaming torches. Both fugitives
when at large hastened to leave Paris. Allegre got as far as Brussels,
whence he wrote an abusive letter to Madame de Pompadour, and at the
instance of the French King was taken into custody and lodged in
the prison at Lille, thence escorted to the frontier and so back to
the Bastile. Latude took refuge, but found no safety, in Amsterdam.
His whereabouts was betrayed by letters to his mother which were
intercepted. He, too, was reinstalled in the Bastile--after four brief
months of liberty.

Latude's leadership in the escapades seems to have been accepted
as proved, and he was now more harshly treated than his associate,
Allegre. He lay in his cell upon straw in the very lowest depths of the
castle, ironed, with no blankets and suffering much from the bitter
cold. For three years and more he endured this, and was only removed
when the Seine once more overflowed and he was all but drowned in his
cell. The severity shown him was to be traced to the trouble his escape
had brought upon his gaolers, who were reprimanded, fined and otherwise
punished. The only alleviation of his misery was the permission to
remove half his irons, those of his hands or feet.

As the years passed, this harsh treatment was somewhat mitigated,
but the effect on Latude was only to make him more defiant and
irreconcilable. He found many ways of annoying the authorities. He
broke constantly into noisy disturbances. "This prisoner," it is
reported, "has a voice of thunder, which can be heard all through and
outside the Bastile. It is impossible for me to repeat his insults as
I have too much respect for the persons he mentioned." Not strangely,
his temper was irritable. He swore over his dinner because it was
not served with a larded fowl. He was dissatisfied with the clothes
provided for him, and resented complying with the rules in force.
When a tailor was ordered to make him a dressing-gown, a jacket and
breeches, he wished to be measured, whereas, according to the rules of
the Bastile, the tailor cut out new clothes on the pattern of the old.

The conduct of Allegre (who was no doubt mad) was worse. He was
dangerous and tried to stab his warders. Then he adopted the well known
prison trick of "breaking out," of smashing everything breakable in
his cell, all pottery, glass, tearing up his mattress and throwing
the pieces out of the window, destroying his shirts, "which cost the
King twenty francs apiece," and his pocket handkerchiefs, which were
of cambric. He had nothing on his body but his waistcoat and his
breeches. "If he be not mad he plays the madman very well," writes the
governor, and again: "This prisoner would wear out the patience of
the most virtuous Capuchin." The medical opinion on his state was not
definite, but he was removed to Charenton, the famous lunatic asylum,
and confined there in a new cage.

Fifteen years had passed since his first arrest. Latude continued to
forward petitions for his release, and always got the same answer, that
the proper moment for it had not yet arrived. But he was once more
transferred to Vincennes and again managed to escape. Taking advantage
of the evident laxity of supervision he slipped away in a fog. He
could not keep quiet but wrote to M. de Sartine, now the Lieutenant of
Police, offering terms. If he were paid 30,000 francs for the plans and
public papers he had drawn up, he was willing to forget and forgive
the cruelties practised upon him. Failing to receive a reply, he went
in person to Fontainebleau to press his case upon the Duc de Choiseul,
who forthwith ordered him back into imprisonment. After three weeks of
freedom he found himself again inside Vincennes.

As time passed, he also exhibited signs of madness, and was at last
also transferred for a time to Charenton, from which he was finally
released in 1777. He went out on the 5th of June with orders to reside
at Montagnac, and in little more than a month was again in trouble for
writing his memoirs a little too openly. He passed through the Little
Chatelet and thence to Bicetre, the semi prison-asylum, and stayed
there generally in an underground cell and on the most meagre diet for
seven more years, and was then interned once more at Montagnac. The
latest official account of him was in Paris, living on a pension of
400 francs a year from the treasury; but a public subscription was
got up for him, and after the Revolution, in 1793, the heirs of Madame
de Pompadour were sentenced to allow him an income of 70,000 francs a
year. Only a part of this was paid, but they gave him a small farm on
which he lived comfortably until his death at eighty years of age.




CHAPTER XI

LAST DAYS OF THE BASTILE

    Closing days of the Bastile--Latest inmates--Lally-Tollendal
    suffers death for alleged treason--Damiens attempts life of Louis
    XV--Sentence and execution--Dumouriez in the Bastile--Linguet
    and his experiences--Marquis de Sade--Cagliostro--The
    Revolution--Attack upon the Bastile--Weakly defended--Garrison
    massacred--De Launay, the governor, murdered--Demolition of the
    Bastile--Last days of Vincennes--The Temple prison survives in
    part--The last home of Louis XVI--Prisons in great request through
    Revolutionary epoch--Treatment in them more horrible than in old
    days--Unlimited atrocities.


The days of the Bastile's existence were numbered. It had not long to
stand, but it maintained its reputation to the last. Philosophers,
princes, libellous poets, unfortunate commanders and traitors to the
State rubbed shoulders within.

De La Chalotais, the Attorney-General of Brittany, was committed
in connection with a rising in his province and disputes with its
Governor, the Duc d'Aiguillon; but chiefly for his hostility to the
Jesuits,--a circumstance which culminated in the expulsion of the
society from France and many of the Catholic countries of Europe.
The Prince of Courland, Charles Ernest, an undeniable swindler and
adventurer, was arrested and sent to the Bastile on a charge of forgery
and detained there for three months. Marmontel, the historian, was
committed, accused of writing a satire against the Duc d'Aumont, and
has preserved an interesting account of his reception in the Castle.

"The Governor, after reading my letters," writes the historian,
"allowed me to retain my valet.... I was ushered into a vast chamber,
in which were two beds, two baths, a chest of drawers and three straw
chairs. It was cold, but the gaoler made a good fire and brought plenty
of wood. At the same time he gave me pen and ink and paper on condition
of giving an account of how each sheet was employed. I found fault
with my bed; said the mattresses were bad and the blankets unclean.
All was instantly changed.... The Bastile library was placed at my
disposal, but I had brought my own books." The dinner brought him was
excellent. It was a _maigre_ day and the soup was of white beans and
very fresh butter, a dish of salt cod for second service, also very
good. This proved to be the servant's dinner and a second came in for
Marmontel himself, served on china and fine linen with forks and spoons
in silver, and was _gras_, consisting of an excellent soup, a succulent
slice of beef, the fat leg of a boiled capon, a dish of artichokes,
some spinach, a fine pear, some grapes, a bottle of old Burgundy and a
cup of fragrant coffee. After all this he was still offered a chicken
for supper. "On the whole," says Marmontel, "I found that one dined
very well in prison." His stay in the Bastile was for a few days only,
as the libel was the work of another, whom Marmontel would not betray.

Scant favor was shown to French officers of those days who were
unsuccessful in war. One Dutreil was accused of misconduct in the
defence of Martinique, and after trial by court martial was sentenced
to military disgrace, to have his sword broken, the cross of St. Louis
torn from his breast, and to be imprisoned for life. He came first to
the Bastile with two other officers and passed on thence to the Isle of
Sainte Marguerite to occupy the same prison as the whilom "Man with the
Iron Mask." The harsh measure meted out to French officers who failed
is much commented upon by the French historians. Too often disaster was
directly traceable to neglect to provide means and the lack of proper
support. It was seen already in India, and Dupleix bitterly complained
that the government gave him no assistance, kept him ill supplied with
money and sent out the most indifferent troops.

A very prominent and very flagrant case was that of Count
Lally-Tollendal, who was denounced as having betrayed the interests of
France, and caused the loss of her Indian possessions. He was of Irish
extraction, a hot-headed, hare-brained Irishman, whose military skill
was unequal to a difficult campaign. His had been an eventful career.
He became a soldier in his tender years, and held a commission in
Dillon's Irish regiment when no more than twelve and was engaged in
the siege of Barcelona. He rose quickly to the command of a regiment,
and was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-general at the early age
of thirty-seven. At one time he conceived a plan for landing a body
of ten thousand on the English coast to support the rights of the
Pretender, and spent a large portion of his fortune in the carrying out
of the scheme, which, of course, came to nothing. During his career as
commander in India, the Count committed very grievous blunders, and
lacked the tact and diplomacy which had brought success to his great
predecessor, Dupleix. Count Lally began by committing fearful excesses,
and showed his contempt for the native religion by desecrating the
most honored temples and sanctuaries. He triumphed over the English
for a time, and drove them back into the heart of the country, whence
they turned and attacked afresh; and having delayed his retreat he was
defeated with considerable loss. Other disasters speedily followed
until he was eventually surrounded and besieged in Pondichery, which
he defended and held with desperate bravery, but was forced at last to
surrender.

Lally became a prisoner of war at the fall of Pondichery and was sent
to England. He heard there of the storm of abuse that was vented upon
him in Paris, and he asked permission to go over and stand his trial.
He was released on parole for the purpose, and arrived in his native
country, taking with him "his head and his innocence," as he wrote to
the Duc de Choiseul. A man of fierce temper and overbearing demeanor,
he had made numerous enemies and incurred the bitter jealousy of his
colleague, the naval commander in Indian waters, Comte d'Ache. When
brought to trial after a long and wearisome detention for fifteen
months in the Bastile, the long list of charges against him contained
many that were pitiful and contemptible. When at last arraigned,
the trial lingered on for more than a year and a half, when fresh
evidence was found among the papers of Father Lavuar, the superior
of the Jesuits in Pondichery. The priest had gone to Paris to claim
a pension from the government, but died suddenly, and it was found
that he had left a large amount of gold and a number of documents
compromising Lally-Tollendal's character and accusing him of treason
and malversation. This testimony was accepted and led to his conviction
and sentence to death.

His demeanor during his trial won him a certain sympathy with the
crowd. The vehemence of his denials of guilt and his violent temper
impressed people with an idea that he was a much wronged man. In
England he had many apologists and supporters. It was said on his
behalf that he went to India a perfect stranger to the country, he made
native allies who proved false to him, his troops mutinied, he had no
horsemen; yet he took ten fortresses, won nine battles and made a good
fight until he was out-numbered, and all through was badly seconded
by his own officers. Voltaire's opinion of him is worth quoting: "I
am persuaded that Lally was no traitor. I believe him to have been an
odious man, a bad man, if you will, who deserved to be killed by any
one except the executioner." Again, "It is very certain that his bad
temper brought him to the scaffold. He is the only man who ever lost
his head for being brutal."

The sentence of the Parliament was death by decapitation, and Lally
was sent from the Bastile to the Conciergerie to hear his sentence.
Great precautions were taken along the road as it was feared the
populace might make some demonstration in his favor. He resented being
compelled to kneel to hear sentence, and was greatly incensed when told
he must die. "But what have I done?" he vainly protested. The sentence
produced a great effect upon him, but he regained his self-possession
on returning to the Bastile. Many persons interceded on his behalf, but
the King remained unmoved, although public opinion remained the same
and disapproved of his execution. The authorities, however, feared that
the people might be inclined to rescue him, and therefore ordered him
to be gagged while being led to the Place de Greve. The Count strongly
resisted this mode of treatment, but the gag was placed in his mouth,
and he was otherwise held in check. Just before the execution took
place he ordered the headsman, young Sanson, to remove a handsome vest
he (Lally) was wearing, composed of the golden tissue made only in
India, and directed that it should be presented to the executioner's
father, who was also present. The first blow from the younger was not
successful, so the final act was performed by old Sanson, and was
greeted with a cry of horror from the assembled crowds.

A hundred and fifty years had elapsed since Ravaillac had suffered
for the assassination of Henri Quatre and had brought no diminution
of the savage cruelty of the French criminal law. In 1757 the extreme
penalty was inflicted upon another culprit who had dared to lift his
hand against the cowardly voluptuary who occupied the throne, and in
precisely the same bloodthirsty and abominable fashion. Ravaillac
killed his victim; Damiens did no more than prick his man with the
small blade of a horn handled penknife. Louis XV was so frightened
at this pitiful wound that he "trembled between the sheets," under
the strong belief that the weapon had been poisoned. A confessor was
instantly summoned, and absolution was pronounced after the King had
detailed his sins. This absolution was repeated aloud every minute of
the night.

What had actually happened? It was an intensely cold night, the 5th
of January, 1757, and the King, clad in his furs, came down-stairs at
Versailles to enter his carriage. A crowd of courtiers, footmen and
an escort surrounded the doorway as the King emerged on the arm of his
grand equerry. Suddenly the King exclaimed, "Some one has struck me and
pricked me with a pin. That man there!" and as he spoke he inserted
his hand beneath his fur coat, to find it smeared with blood when he
withdrew it. "That is certainly the man," added the King, pointing
to Damiens. "Let him be arrested, but do not kill him." In the wild
confusion that now arose, Damiens might easily have slunk away, but he
stood his ground and was seized by the guards. Immediate vengeance was
wreaked by his removal to the nearest guard-house, where he was put to
the torture by the application of red-hot irons to his legs, but he
would say no more than that he had not desired to kill the King, but
only to give him a salutary warning.

Deep anxiety prevailed when this trifling attempt upon the life of a
worthless, self-indulgent monarch was known through the country. The
story was exaggerated absurdly. "This fearful attempt is of a nature to
cause so just an alarm that I do not lose a moment," writes one of the
ministers, "in diminishing your apprehension and acquainting you with
the facts of this terrible event." After "the terrible accident," the
King was bled twice. "The wound is healthy, there is no fever, and he
is perfectly tranquil, and would be inclined to sleep, were it not that
the wound is on the right side, that on which his Majesty is accustomed
to lie," continued the minister. The provinces were greatly excited.
"I found the whole city of Bordeaux in the greatest consternation,"
writes the Lieutenant-Governor of Guienne. At Aix the courier was
expected with breathless impatience, and good news was received with
shouts of joy and clapping of hands. The delight at Marseilles when
good news came was equal to the terror inspired by the first evil
report.

Damiens was taken straight to the Conciergerie, where the legal
machinery could be best set in motion for his trial and the preliminary
torture. His conviction was a foregone conclusion, and his sentence
in all its hideous particulars was on exactly the same lines as that
of Ravaillac. He was to be subjected to the question, ordinary and
extraordinary, to make the _amende honorable_, to have his right arm
severed, his flesh torn off his body with red-hot pincers, and finally,
while still alive, to be torn asunder limb from limb by teams of
horses in the Place de Greve. The whole of the details are preserved
in contemporary accounts; but having been described in the case of
Ravaillac, they are too brutal and revolting for a second reproduction.

The motive by which Damiens was led to this attempted crime is
generally attributed to his disapproval of the King's licentious life.
Louis so thought it, and for a time was disposed to mend his ways, to
give up the infamous _Parc aux Cerfs_ where he kept a harem, and to
break with Madame de Pompadour. But the favorite was not dismissed
from the apartments she occupied upon the top floor of the palace at
Versailles, and the King still saw her from day to day. Her anxiety
must have been great while the King's wound was still uncured, for she
feigned illness and was constantly bled; but she soon recovered her
health when she was reinstalled as the King's mistress. The occasion
had been improved by the Jesuits, for the King when sick was very much
in the hands of the priests; but de Pompadour triumphed, and the matter
ended in their serious discomfiture and expulsion from France.

Although Damiens did not himself see the interior of the Bastile, many
persons suspected of collusion in the crime were committed to it;
some supposed to be accomplices, others as apologists or as authors
of lampoons and satirical verses. Among the prisoners were Damiens's
nearest relations, his wife and daughters, his father, mother, nieces,
several abbes, ladies of mature years and young children. The detention
of some of these was brief enough, but one or two were imprisoned for
twenty odd years. The Dauphin was charged with complicity, but there
was no more proof of it than that he was little at court, and was known
to sympathise with the Jesuits. As a matter of fact no one was shown
to be privy to the attempt. Damiens, in spite of the most horrible
tortures, never betrayed a soul.

A story told by Jesse in his "Memoirs of George Selwyn" may be related
here to give a ray of relief to this sombre picture. The eccentric
Englishman was much addicted to the practice of attending executions.
He went over to Paris on purpose to see Damiens done to death, and
on the day mixed with the crowd. He was dressed in a plain undress
suit and a plain bob wig, and "a French nobleman observing the deep
interest he took in the scene, and imagining from the plainness of his
attire that he must be a person in the humbler walks of life, resolved
that he must infallibly be a hangman. '_Eh bien, monsieur_,' said he,
'_etes-vous arrive pour voir ce spectacle?_' '_Oui, monsieur._' '_Vous
etes bourreau?_' '_Non, monsieur_,' replied Selwyn, '_je n'ai pas cet
honneur, je ne suis qu'un amateur._'"

Among the latest records affording a graphic impression of the interior
of the Bastile is that of the French officer Dumouriez, who afterwards
became one of the first, and for a time, most successful of the
Revolutionary generals, who won the battles of Fleurus and Jernappes
and repelled the German invasion of the Argonne in the west of France.
Dumouriez fled to England to save his head, and was the ancestor of one
also famous, but in the peaceful fields of literature and art. George
Du Maurier, whose name is held in high esteem amongst all English
speaking races, traced his family direct to the French _emigre_, who
lived long and died in London. It is a little curious that the eminent
caricaturist who long brightened the pages of "Punch" the author of
"Trilby," should be connected with the French monarchy and the ancient
castle of evil memory.

The elder Dumouriez was imprisoned as the outcome of his connection
with the devious diplomacy of his time. He had been despatched on a
secret mission to Sweden on behalf of the King, but the French Minister
of Foreign Affairs suspected foul play. The movements of Dumouriez were
watched, and he was followed by spies as far as Hamburg, where he was
arrested and brought back to France straight to the Bastile. He gives a
minute account of his reception.

First he was deprived of all his possessions, his money, knife and
shoe buckles, lest he should commit suicide by swallowing them. When
he called for a chicken for his supper, he was told it was a fast day,
Friday, but he indignantly replied that the major of the Bastile was
not the keeper of his conscience if of his person, and the chicken was
provided. Then he was ushered into his prison apartment, and found
it barely furnished with a wooden table, a straw bottomed chair, a
jar of water and a dirty bed. He slept well, but was aroused early to
go before the Governor, the Comte de Jumilhac, who gave him a very
courteous and cordial welcome, but, after denying him books and writing
materials, ended by lending him several novels, which he begged him to
hide. The Governor continued to treat him as a friend and companion
rather than a prisoner. "He came and saw me every morning and gossiped
over society's doings. He went so far as to send me lemons and sugar
to make lemonade, a small quantity of coffee, foreign wine and every
day a dish from his own table, when he dined at home," he writes. No
fault could be found with the daily fare in the Bastile. The quality
was usually good and the supply abundant. "There were always five
dishes for dinner and three for supper without counting the dessert."
Besides, Dumouriez had his own servants, and one of them, the _valet de
chambre_, was an excellent cook.

After a week of solitary confinement, which he had relieved by entering
into communication with a neighbor, the captain of a Piedmontese
regiment, who had been confined in the Bastile for twenty-two years for
writing a song about Madame de Pompadour, which had been hawked all
over Paris, Dumouriez was removed to another chamber which he describes
as "a very fine apartment with a good fireplace." Near the fireplace
was an excellent bed, which had been slept in by many notable inmates
of the prison. The major of the Bastile said it was the finest room
in the castle, but it had not always brought good luck. Most of its
previous inhabitants, the Comte de St. Pol, the Marechal de Biron, the
Chevalier de Rohan and the Count de Lally-Tollendal, ended their days
upon the scaffold. Significant traces of them were to be found in the
sad inscriptions upon the walls. Labourdonnais had inscribed some
"touching reflections;" Lally had written some remarks in English; and
La Chalotais some paraphrases of the Psalms. Dumouriez's immediate
predecessor had been a young priest, who had been forced into taking
orders and tried to evade his vows, inherit an estate and marry the
girl of his choice. He was committed to the Bastile, but was presently
released on writing an impassioned appeal for liberty.

Dumouriez was detained only six months in the Bastile and was then
transferred to Caen in Normandy, where he was handsomely lodged, and
had a garden to walk in. The death of Louis XV and the complete change
of government upon the accession of the ill-fated Louis XVI immediately
released him. He came to Court and was told at a public reception that
the new King profoundly regretted the harshness with which he had been
treated, and that the State would make him amends by promotion and
employment.

With Louis XVI began a milder and more humane regime, too late,
however, to stave off the swiftly gathering storm that was soon to
shake and shatter France. The King desired to retain no more State
prisoners arbitrarily, and sent a minister to visit the prisons of the
Bastile, Vincennes and Bicetre to inquire personally into the cases of
all, and to liberate any against whom there was no definite charge. He
proposed that there should be no more _lettres de cachet_, and the
Bastile became gradually less and less filled. The committals were
chiefly of offenders against the common law, thieves and swindlers; but
a large contingent of pamphleteers and their publishers were lodged
within its walls, and one ancient prisoner still lingered to die there
after a confinement of twenty-seven years. This was Bertin, Marquis
de Frateau, guilty of writing lampoons on Madame de Pompadour, and
originally confined at the request of his own family.

A man who made more mark was Linguet, whose "Memoirs," containing a
bitter indictment of the Bastile, from personal experience, were widely
read both in England and France. They were actually written in London,
to which he fled after imprisonment, and are now held to be mendacious
and untrustworthy. Linguet had led a strangely varied life. He had
tried many lines--had been in turn poet, historian, soldier, lawyer,
journalist. He wrote parodies for the Opera Comique and pamphlets in
favor of the Jesuits. Such a man was certain to find himself in the
Bastile. He spent a couple of years there, and the book he subsequently
wrote was full of the most extravagant and easily refuted lies. Yet
there is reason to believe that his statements did much to inflame the
popular mind and increase the fierce hatred of the old prison, which
ere long was to lead to its demolition.

The Bastile also received that infamous creature, most justly
imprisoned, the Marquis de Sade, whose name has been synonymous with
the grossest immorality and is now best known to medical jurisprudence.
Beyond doubt he was a lunatic, a man of diseased and deranged mind,
who was more properly relegated to Charenton, where he died. He was
at large during the Revolutionary period and survived it, but dared
to offer some of his most loathsome books to Napoleon, who when First
Consul wrote an order with his own hand for the return of the Marquis
to Charenton as a dangerous and incurable madman.

One of the last celebrities confined in the Bastile was the Cardinal
de Rohan, a grandee of the Church and the holder of many dignities,
who was involved in that famous fraud, dear to dramatists and romance
writers, the affair of the Diamond Necklace. His confederates, some
of whom shared his captivity, were the well known Italian adventurer
and arch impostor, who went by the name of Cagliostro, who played upon
the credulity of the gullible public in many countries as a latter day
magician, and the two women, Madame de La Motte-Valois, who devised the
fraud of impersonating the Queen before de Rohan, and Mdlle. d'Oliva,
who impersonated her.

We come now to the eventful year 1789, when the waters were closing
over the Bastile, and it was to sink under the flood and turmoil of
popular passion in the first stormy phase of the French Revolution.
Paris was in the throes of agitation and disturbance, the streets
filled with thousands of reckless ruffians, who terrorised the capital,
breaking into and plundering the shops, the convents, even the royal
_Garde-Meuble_, the repository of the Crown jewels; and committing the
most violent excesses. A large force of troops was collected in and
about Paris, more than sufficient to maintain order had the spirit
to do so been present in the leaders or had they been backed up by
authority. But the King and his Government were too weak to act with
decision, and, as the disorders increased, it was seen that no reliance
could be placed upon the French Guards, who were ripe for revolt and
determined to fraternise with the people. The people clamored for arms
and ammunition, and seized upon a large quantity of powder as it was
being removed secretly from Paris. Fifty thousand pikes were turned out
in thirty-six hours.

Two revolutionary committees directed affairs, and it was mooted at
one of them whether an attack should not be made upon the Bastile. The
more cautious minds demurred. It would be neither useful nor feasible
to gain possession of the ancient fortress which, with its guns mounted
and its impregnable walls, might surely make a vigorous resistance.
At last it was decreed to approach the Governor of the Bastile with
peaceful overtures, asking him to receive a garrison of Parisian
citizen-militia within the place as a measure of public safety. M. de
Launay, the veteran Governor, civilly received the deputations with
this proposal, but although inwardly uneasy would make no concessions.
He awaited orders which never arrived, but was stoutly determined to do
his duty and remain staunch to the King.

His position was indeed precarious. The garrison consisted of a handful
of troops, chiefly old pensioners. The guns on the ramparts were of
obsolete pattern, mostly mounted on marine carriages, and they could
not be depressed or fired except into the air. Moreover the powder
magazine was full, for the whole stock of powder had been removed from
the Arsenal, where it was exposed to attack and seizure, and it was now
lodged in the cellars of the Bastile. But the Governor had done his
best to strengthen his defence. Windows had been barred, and exposed
loopholes closed. A bastion for flanking fire had been thrown out from
the garden wall. Great quantities of paving stones had been carried up
to the tops of the Towers, and steps taken to pull down the chimney
pots,--the whole for use as missiles to be discharged on the heads of
the besiegers. Nevertheless the place could not hold out long, for it
was almost entirely unprovisioned.

The attack upon the Bastile appears to have been precipitated by a
cowardly report spread that the guns of the castle were ranged upon the
city and that a bombardment was threatened. A deputation was forthwith
despatched to the Governor, insisting the direction of the guns be
changed and inviting him to surrender. M. de Launay replied that the
guns pointed as they had done from time immemorial, and that he could
not remove them without the King's order, but he would withdraw them
from the embrasure. This deputation retired satisfied, assuring the
Governor that he need expect no attack, and went back to the Hotel de
Ville. But presently an armed mob arrived, shouting that they must have
the Bastile. They were politely requested to return, but some turbulent
spirits insisted that the drawbridges should be lowered, and when the
first was down, advanced across them, although repeatedly warned that
unless they halted, the garrison would open fire. But the people,
warmed with their success, pressed on, and a sharp musketry duet began,
and put the assailants to flight in great disorder, but did not send
them far. Presently they came on again toward the second drawbridge and
prepared to break in by it, when firing was resumed and many casualties
ensued.

At half past four o'clock in the afternoon three carts laden with
straw were sent forward and used to set fire to the outbuildings, the
guard-house, the Governor's residence and the kitchens. A number of
French grenadiers with three hundred citizens now advanced and made
good their entrance; but the drawbridge was let down behind them and
a cry of treachery arose. Fire was opened on both sides and a sharp
combat ensued. The issue might have been different had the defence
been better organised, but the garrison was small (barely a hundred
men), was short of ammunition, had not taken food for forty-eight
hours, and could make no use of the artillery. At five o'clock
M. de Launay, hopeless of success, desired to blow up the powder
magazine, urging that voluntary death was preferable to massacre by
the infuriated people. The vote of the majority was against this
desperate means and in favor of capitulation. Accordingly a white
flag was hoisted on one of the towers to the sound of the drum, but
it was ignored, and the firing continued amid loud shouts of "Lower
the drawbridge! Nothing will happen to you!" The Governor thereupon
handed over the keys to a subordinate officer. The mob rushed in and
the fate of the garrison was sealed. The sub-officers, who had laid
down their arms and were unable to defend themselves, were killed, and
so also were the grand old Swiss Guards, stalwart veterans, who were
slaughtered with but few exceptions.

In the midst of the affray, M. de Launay was seized and carried off to
the Hotel de Ville. Frenzied cries of "Hang him! Hang him!" greeted him
on the way, and the unfortunate Governor is reported to have looked
up to Heaven, saying, "Kill me. I prefer death to insults I have not
deserved." They now fell upon him from all sides with bayonet, musket
and pike, and as a dragoon passed, he was called upon to cut off the
victim's head. This man, Denot (whose own account has been followed
in this description), essayed first with a sword, then completed the
decapitation with his knife. The severed head was paraded through
Paris till nightfall on a pike. This was the first of many similar
atrocities. The people, without restraint, became intoxicated with
brutal exultation. The wildest orgies took place, and the wine shops
were crowded with drunken desperadoes, who were the heroes of the hour.
The now defenceless castle was visited by thousands to witness its
final destruction. Numbers of carriages passed before it or halted to
watch the demolition as the stones were thrown down from its towers
amid clouds of dust. Ladies, fashionably dressed, and dandies of the
first water mingled with the half-naked workmen, and were now jeered
at, now applauded. The most prominent personages, great authors and
orators, celebrated painters, popular actors and actresses, nobles,
courtiers and ambassadors assembled to view the scene of old France
expiring and new France in the throes of birth.

The wreck and ruin of the Bastile were speedily accomplished. The
people were undisputed masters, and they swarmed over the abased
stronghold, filling it from top to bottom. "Some threw the guns from
the battlements into the ditch; others with pickaxes and hammers
labored to undermine and destroy the towers. These smashed in
furniture, tore and dispersed all the books, registers and records;
those laid prompt hands on anything they fancied. Some looted the rooms
and carried off what they pleased. Strict search was made through the
Bastile for prisoners to set free, yet the cells were for the most part
empty. The committals during this last reign had not exceeded 190 for
the whole period, and when it capitulated only seven were in custody.
Gruesome rumors prevailed that several still lingered underground, in
deep subterranean cells; but none were found, nor any skeletons, when
the whole edifice was pulled down."

This demolition was voted next year, 1790, by the committee of the
Hotel de Ville, which ordered that "the antique fortress too long the
terror of patriotism and liberty" should be utterly razed to its very
foundations. The workmen set to work with so much expedition that in a
little more than three months a portion of the materials was offered
for sale. A sharp competition ensued at the auction, and the stones
were fashioned into mementoes, set in rings, bracelets and brooches,
and fetched high prices. The contractors for demolition made a small
fortune by the sale of these trinkets.

Napoleon at first intended to erect his great Arc de Triomphe upon
the site of the Bastile, but changed his mind and selected the place
where it now stands. The Place de la Bastile remained for forty years
a wilderness--in summer a desert, in winter a swamp. The revolution of
1830, which placed Louis Philippe upon the throne of France, was not
accomplished without bloodshed, and it was decided to raise a monument
to those who lost their lives on this somewhat unimportant occasion.
The result was the elegant column, which every visitor to Paris may
admire to-day in the Place de la Bastile.

Vincennes, the second State prison of Paris, survived the Terror and
exists to this day converted into a barracks for artillery. A portion
of the Temple, the especial stronghold of the Knights Templars already
described, still existed in part when the Revolution came. Strange to
say, its demolition had been contemplated by the Government of Louis
XVI, and it had already partly disappeared when the storm broke,
and rude hands were laid upon the luckless sovereign who became a
scapegoat, bearing the accumulated sins of a long line of criminal
and self-indulgent monarchs. When Louis and his family fell into the
power of the stern avengers of many centuries of wrong doing, they
were hurried to the Temple and imprisoned in the last vestige of the
fortress palace. It stood quite isolated and alone. All had been razed
to the ground but the donjon tower, to which was attached a small strip
of garden enclosed between high walls. This became the private exercise
ground of the fallen royalties. The King occupied the first floor of
the prison and his family the second floor. The casements were secured
with massive iron bars, the windows were close shuttered so that
light scarcely entered, and those within were forbidden to look out
upon the world below. The staircase was protected by six wicket gates,
each so low and narrow that it was necessary to stoop and squeeze to
get through. Upon the King's incarceration a seventh wicket was added
with an iron bar fixed at the top of the staircase, always locked and
heavily barred. The door opening directly into the King's chamber was
lined with iron.

Louis was never left alone. Two guards were constantly with him day
and night, as is the rule to this day with condemned malefactors in
France. They sat with him in the dining-room when at meals and slept
in the immediate neighborhood of his bedroom. His guards were in the
last degree suspicious, and he endured many indignities at their hands.
No whispering was allowed, not even with his wife and children. If he
spoke to his valet, who slept in his room at night, it must be audibly,
and the King was constantly admonished to speak louder. No writing
materials were allowed him at first. He was forbidden to use pens,
ink and paper until he was arraigned before the National Convention.
But he was not denied the solace of books, and read and re-read his
favorite authors. In Latin he preferred Livy, Caesar, Horace, Virgil. In
French he preferred books of travel. For a time he was supplied with
newspapers, but his gaolers disliked his too great interest in the
progress of the Revolution, and the news of the day was withheld from
him. His reading became the more extensive and it was calculated on the
eve of his death that he had read through 257 volumes during the five
months and seven days of his captivity in the Temple.

The daily routine of his prison life was monotonously repeated. He
rose early and remained at his prayers till nine o'clock, at which
hour his family joined him in the breakfast room as long as this was
permitted. He ate nothing at that hour but made it a rule to fast till
midday dinner. After breakfast he found pleasant employment in acting
as schoolmaster to his children. He taught the little Dauphin Latin and
geography, while the Queen, Marie Antoinette, instructed their daughter
and worked with her needle. Dinner was at one o'clock. The table was
well supplied, but the King ate sparingly and drank little, the Queen
limiting herself to water with her food. Meat was regularly served,
even on Fridays, for religious observances no more controlled his
keepers, and the King would limit himself to fast diet by dipping his
bread in a little wine and eating nothing else. The rest of the day was
passed in mild recreation, playing games with the children till supper
at nine o'clock, after which the King saw his son to bed in the little
pallet prepared by his own hands.

The time drew on in sickening suspense, but Louis displayed the
unshaken fortitude of one who could rise above almost intolerable
misfortune. Insult and grievous annoyance were heaped upon his
devoted head. His valet was changed continually so that he might have
no faithful menial by his side. The most humiliating precautions were
taken against his committing suicide--not a scrap of metal, not even a
penknife or any steel instrument was suffered to be taken in to him.
His food was strictly tested and examined; the prison cook tasted
every dish under the eyes of a sentry, to guard against the admixture
of poison. The most horrible outrage of all was when the bloodthirsty
_sans-culottes_ thrust in at his cell window the recently severed and
still bleeding head of one of the favorites of the court, the Princess
de Lamballe.

We may follow out the dreadful story to its murderous end. Years of
tyrannous misgovernment in France, innumerable deeds of blood and
cruel oppression, such as have been already presented in this volume,
culminated in the sacrifice of the unhappy representative of a system
to which he succeeded and innocently became responsible for. The bitter
wrongs endured for centuries by a downtrodden people, goaded at length
to the most sanguinary reprisals, were avenged in the person of a
blameless ruler. Louis XVI was a martyr beyond question; but he only
expiated the sins of his truculent and ferocious forerunners, who had
no pity, no mercy, no compassion for their weak and helpless subjects.
Louis' trial, under a parody of justice, and his execution amid the
hideous gibes of a maddened, merciless crowd, was the price paid by
the last of the French kings, for years of uncontrolled and arbitrary
authority.

The day of arraignment, so long and painfully anticipated, came as
a sudden surprise. On Monday, December 10th, 1793, the captive King
when at his prayers was startled by the beating of drums and the
neighing of horses in the courtyard below the Donjon. He could not
fix his attention on the morning lesson to his son, and was playing
with him idly when the visit of the Mayor of Paris roused him and
summoned him by the name of Louis Capet to appear at the bar of the
Convention. He then heard the charges against him, and the day passed
in mock proceedings of the tribunal. The King's demeanor was brave, his
countenance unappalled by the tumultuous outbursts that often came from
the audience in the galleries. As the judges could come to no agreement
on the first day, the proceedings were declared "open," to be continued
without intermission. For three more days the stormy debates lasted and
still the Convention hesitated to pass the death sentence on the King.
In the end it was carried by a majority of five.

Louis XVI bore himself like a brave man to the last. He addressed a
farewell letter to the Convention in which he said, "I owe it to my
honor and to my family not to subscribe to a sentence which declares me
guilty of a crime of which I cannot accuse myself." When he was taken
to execution from the Temple and first saw the guillotine, he is said
to have shuddered and shrank back, but quickly recovering himself he
stepped out of the carriage with firmness and composure and, calmly
ascending the scaffold, went to his death like a brave man.

The Bastile was gone, but the need for prisons was far greater under
the reign of liberty, so-called, than when despotic sovereigns ruled
the land. The last of them, Louis XVI, would himself have swept away
the Bastile had he been spared. He had indeed razed For-l'Eveque
and the Petit Chatelet, and imported many salutary changes into the
Conciergerie out of his own private purse. During the Revolutionary
epoch many edifices were appropriated for purposes of detention, the
ordinary prisons being crowded to overflowing. In the Conciergerie
alone, while some two thousand people waited elsewhere for vacancies,
there were from one thousand to twelve hundred lodged within the walls
without distinction of age, sex or social position. Men, women and
children were herded together, as many as fifty in the space of twenty
feet. A few had beds, but the bulk of them slept on damp straw at the
mercy of voracious rats that gnawed at their clothing and would have
devoured their noses and ears had they not protected their faces with
their hands.

Within six months of 1790, 356 prisoners were confined in the prisons
of Bicetre, Luxembourg, the Carmelites and Saint Lazare, en route to
the guillotine. St. Pelagie held 360 at one time. "In Paris," says
Carlyle, "are now some twelve prisons, in France some forty-four
thousand." Lamartine's figures for Paris are higher. He gives the
number of prisons as eighteen, into which all the members of the
Parliament, all the receivers-general, all the magistrates, all the
nobility and all the clergy were congregated to be dragged thence to
the scaffold. Four thousand heads fell in a few months. A number of
simple maidens, the eldest only eighteen, who had attended a ball at
Verdun when it was captured by the Prussians, were removed to Paris and
executed. All the nuns of the Convent of Montmartre were guillotined,
and next day the venerable Abbe Fenelon. In September, 1792, there was
an indiscriminate massacre, when five thousand suspected persons were
torn from their homes and either slaughtered on the spot or sent to
impromptu prisons. That of the Abbaye ran with blood, where 150 Swiss
soldier prisoners were murdered at one sweep. The details of these
sanguinary scenes are too terrible to print. Every prison provided its
quota of victims--La Force 80, the great Chatelet 220, and 290 from the
Conciergerie.

"At Bicetre," says Thiers, in his history of the Revolution, "the
carnage was the longest, the most sanguinary, the most terrible. This
prison was the sink for every vice, the sewer of Paris. Everyone
detained in it was killed. It would be impossible to fix the number of
victims, but they have been estimated at six thousand. Death was dealt
out through eight consecutive days and nights; pikes, sabres, muskets
did not suffice for the ferocious assassins, who had recourse to guns."
Another authority, Colonel Munro, the English diplomatist, reported to
Lord Grenville that Bicetre was attacked by a mob with seven cannon,
which were loaded with small stones and discharged promiscuously into
the yards crowded with prisoners. Three days later, he writes: "The
massacre only ended yesterday and the number of the victims may be
gathered from the time it took to murder them." He puts the total at
La Force and Bicetre at seven thousand, and the victims were mostly
madmen, idiots and the infirm.

The picture of these awful times is lurid and terrible, and brings
the prevailing horror vividly before us. The prisons of Paris were
thirty-six in number, all of large dimensions, with ninety-six
provisional gaols. In the French provinces the latter were forty
thousand in number, and twelve hundred more were regularly filled with
a couple of hundred inmates. The most cruel barbarities were everywhere
practised. Prisoners were starved and mutilated so that they might
be driven into open revolt and justify their more rapid removal by
the guillotine. Paris sent 2,600 victims to the scaffold in one year.
In the provincial cities the slaughter was wholesale. Lyons executed
1,600, Nantes, 1,971, and a hundred were guillotined or shot daily.
Many were women, some of advanced age and infirm. At Angers, to
disencumber the prisons, 400 men and 360 women were beheaded in a few
days. Wholesale massacres were perpetrated in the fusillades of Toulon
and the drownings of Nantes, which disposed of nearly five thousand
in all. Taine says that in the eleven departments of the west half of
France a million persons perished, and the murderous work was performed
in seventeen months.

Of a truth the last state of France was worse than the first, and
the sufferings endured by the people at the hands of irresponsible
autocracy were far outdone by the new atrocities of the bloodthirsty
revolutionaries in mad vindication of past wrongs.


END OF VOLUME III.




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Transcriber's note:

    Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
    possible, including some inconsistent hyphenation. Some minor
    corrections of spelling have been made.



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