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  The History and
  Romance of
  Crime

  FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES
  TO THE PRESENT DAY

  [Illustration]

  THE GROLIER SOCIETY
  LONDON

[Illustration: _Madame Roland Incarcerated in Sainte Pélagie_

_From the painting by E. Carpentier_

One of the innocent and most distinguished victims of the French
Revolution, whose memoirs were written in prison, and who will be
longest remembered by the exclamation, “Oh, Liberty, what crimes are
committed in thy name!” uttered with her dying breath when facing the
guillotine.]




  Modern French Prisons

  BICÊTRE--ST. PÉLAGIE--ST. LAZARE
  LA FORCE--THE CONCIERGERIE
  LA GRANDE AND LA PETITE ROQUETTES
  MAZAS--LA SANTÉ

  _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._

  [Illustration]

  THE GROLIER SOCIETY




  EDITION NATIONALE

  Limited to one thousand registered and numbered sets.

  NUMBER 307




INTRODUCTION


The period in French prison practice treated in this volume is one of
transition between the end of the Old Régime and the beginning of the
New. It presents first a view of the prisons of the period immediately
following the Revolution, and concludes with the consideration of a
great model penitentiary, which may be said to be the “last word” in
the purely physical aspects of the whole question, while its very
perfection of structure and equipment gives rise to important moral
questions, which must dominate the future of prison conduct.

Throughout the first half of the nineteenth century the combat with
the great army of depredators was unceasingly waged by the champions
of law and order in France, to whom in the long run victory chiefly
inclined. As yet none of the new views held by prison reformers
in other countries had made any progress in France. No ideas of
combining coercion with persuasion, of going beyond deterrence by
attempting reformation by exhortation; of curing the wrong-doer and
weaning him from his evil practices, when once more sent out into the
world, obtained in French penology. At that earlier date all the old
methods, worked by the same machinery, still prevailed and were, as
ever, ineffective in checking crime. An active, and for the most part
intelligent police was indefatigable in the pursuit of offenders, who,
when caught and sentenced travelled the old beaten track, passing from
prison to prison, making long halts at the _bagnes_ and concluding
their persistent trespasses upon the guillotine, but that was all.

French prisons long lagged behind advanced practices abroad, not only
in respect of their structural fitness and physical condition, but also
in the measure in which the method of conducting them effected the
morals of those who passed through them. When the question was at last
presented, it was considered with the logical thoroughness and carried
out with the administrative efficiency characteristic of the French
government, when impressed with the necessity for action in any given
line.

The question for the French prison authorities--as indeed it is the
question of questions for the prison government of all nations--is now:
“What can be and shall be done for the reform of the convict rather
than for his mere repression and punishment?” The material aspects of
the French prison system have attained almost to perfection. These,
as well as the moral aspects of the subject, which that very physical
perfection inevitably presents, it is the purpose of this volume to
consider.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                          PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                      5

  I. AFTER THE REVOLUTION                          11

  II. THE GREAT SEAPORT PRISONS                    46

  III. CELEBRATED FRENCH CONVICTS                  69

  IV. THE FIRST GREAT DETECTIVE                    92

  V. THE COMBAT WITH CRIME                        112

  VI. CELEBRATED CASES                            131

  VII. THE COURSE OF THE LAW                      154

  VIII. MAZAS AND LA SANTÉ                        171

  IX. TWO MODEL REFORMATORIES                     197

  X. A MODEL PENITENTIARY                         222




List of Illustrations


  MADAME ROLAND INCARCERATED IN SAINTE PÉLAGIE      _Frontispiece_

  THE CONCIERGERIE, PARIS                            _Page_ 28

  HOSPICE DE LA BICÊTRE, PARIS                         “    53

  SAINTE PÉLAGIE                                       “   113

  HOSPICE DE LA SALTPÊTRIÈRE, PARIS                    “   200




MODERN FRENCH PRISONS




CHAPTER I

AFTER THE REVOLUTION

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: _The Conciergerie_

The old prison of the Palais de Justice in Paris. When the palace was
inhabited by the kings of France, the name “Conciergerie” was given to
the part of the building containing the home of the concierge.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II

THE GREAT SEAPORT PRISONS

    The _bagnes_, the survival of the old galleys at Brest,
    Rochefort and Toulon--Character and condition of the
    convicts--Day and night at the galleys--Forgery of official
    documents and bank notes--Robberies cleverly effected
    by expert thieves--Severe discipline enforced--The
    _bastonnade_--Cruelties of the warders--Escapes very
    frequent--Petit, a man impossible to hold--Hautdebont--The
    _payole_ or letter-writer, a post of great profit--Usury at the
    _bagne_--Wanglan an ex-banker does a large business in money
    lending, and creates a paper currency--Some convicts always
    in funds--Collet lives in clover--Sharp measures taken with
    usurers.


Some attempt was made in 1810 to improve the French prison system,
and the _maisons centrales_, or district prisons, were instituted;
but no great progress was made with them. At that time the principal
punishment inflicted was labor in chains at the seaports in the
so-called _bagnes_ of Brest, Rochefort and Toulon, or the _travaux
forcés_, the survival of the old galleys, the population of which found
a permanent home ashore, when the warships ceased to be propelled by
human power. These _bagnes_ will now be described. The earlier records
have already been given in the volume immediately preceding.

The name _bagnes_, which was at one time in general use to express
these hard labor prisons, is derived from _bagnio_, the bath attached
to the Seraglio at Constantinople, which was the Turkish establishment
for galley slaves. The _bagnes_ were sometimes known as _prisons
mouillés_, or floating prisons, because the prisoners were for a long
time housed in hulks; but as their numbers increased, buildings were at
length erected on the shore, containing vast dormitories, each capable
of holding five or six hundred prisoners. The grand total at the
Naval Arsenal often exceeded several thousand men. The régime was not
exactly severe. The labor was easy, and consisted of little more than
rough jobs about the wharves, moving guns to and fro, storing shot and
shell, occasionally excavating for new buildings. As described by an
eye-witness, penal labor was a mere farce. “The bulk of the convicts,”
wrote the Director of Naval Arsenals, in 1838, “do no more than doze.
They may be seen, eight or ten of them, following a light cart, not
half laden, which they pull in turn, two and two. The hospital is full
of them as invalids or nurses. They are to be found in private houses
and hotels, engaged as private servants.” In earlier days things had
been much worse.

Under the Directory and under the First Empire many who possessed
private means were allowed to purchase improper privileges. A certain
old convict at Rochefort was allowed to go at large in the town, where
he was admitted into society and welcomed for his affable manners. He
went so far as to make overtures to the authorities to purchase his
release, by building and equipping a ship-of-war at his own expense. It
was said in those days that Napoleon I was willing to forgive crimes
at a price; that big robberies were sometimes condoned by a gift to
the State. One convict, Delage, sentenced for embezzlement, was a
man of large private fortune, which he was allowed to spend freely
in ameliorating his condition. He arrived at Rochefort in a carriage
and pair, escorted by two gensdarmes. He was located in a separate
room at the Hospital, which he furnished comfortably, and later his
wife and children joined him at the _bagnes_. He was in the habit of
leaving the prison every morning at gun-fire to spend the day with
his family, and return in the evening, on the excuse that he had a
situation in the port, and must sleep on board the ship. This man was
known as _le joli forçat_ on account of his good looks and pleasant
demeanor. Others of the same class were to be seen parading the town
in fashionable garb, bearing the badge of their real position only in
the basil, or ankle-iron, which all were obliged to wear. Criminals
with accomplishments or skill in trades could always find remunerative
employment. Private families found tutors for their children and music
or dancing masters in the _bagnes_, while all high officials might
employ convict coachmen, grooms and cooks.

For the rest, life was irksome. The progress of the ordinary prisoner
has been well described by Maurice Alhoy, who paid many visits of
inspection to the various _bagnes_. The journey to the coast was made
in the cellular carriage, which came into use in 1830, in substitution
for the abominable chain gang, by which the wretched _forçats_ marched
through France. The way was long, the coach moved at a foot pace,
there was no rest or ease on the road. On arrival the passengers,
broken with fatigue, were carried to the reception ward, identified,
examined, stripped of their clothes and dressed in the uniform of the
_bagne_,--a crimson blouse, yellow pantaloons and a coarse canvas
shirt. These clothes were covered with marks, the first syllable of
the word _galérien_, “GAL,” in black letters. A woollen cap of red
or green, according to the term of sentence, covered the head. When
dressed and passed fit for full labor (_grande fatigue_), the coupling
took place. For long years French _forçats_ were chained together in
pairs, and the merest chance decided upon the chain companionship. The
pair, thus indissolubly joined for a term of years, might begin as
perfect strangers to each other, having nothing in common, neither ways
nor tastes, not even language. The coupling was accomplished by first
riveting an iron ring above the ankle, to which one end of the chain
was attached, the other end being riveted to the ankle of his fellow.
The whole chain measured nine feet, half of it belonging of right to
each. But if each had different ideas and intentions, they naturally
pulled in opposite directions, the limit of difference being reached
at nine feet. Sometimes, as at the hour of mid-day rest, there was a
difference of opinion between the partners. One might wish to walk, the
other to be quiet; but the to and fro movement of the first dragging at
the chain would disturb the second, and then the matter could only be
settled by a fight or a compromise. To quarrel was to risk punishment,
so the usual course was for one to take out a pack of cards and cry:
“_Je te joue tes maillons_,” “I will play you for your half of the
chain.” The game would proceed calmly while the stake, the disputed
chain, lay coiled between the players; and in the end, according to
the issue, both would walk, or both would lie down to sleep. Often
enough one of a couple was quite indifferent as to the behavior of his
chain-companion. A case was known where a fight was started between
a _chaussette_, or convict, permitted to go about singly, and one of
a chain couple. In the course of the struggle the second and passive
member of the twins, who had watched it quite unconcernedly, was
dragged nearer to the edge of a deep ditch by his companion, into which
both were nearly precipitated. Had not the conflict ceased both would
probably have been drowned.

The first three days after arrival were allowed for rest and recovery.
On the fourth day at gun-fire (6 A. M. in winter and 5 A. M. in
summer) the new arrival’s chain was released from the bar, which ran
the length of the wooden guard bed, the night’s resting-place for all,
and he was marched out with his fellow convict to labor. On passing
through the great gates a blacksmith struck with a hammer upon the leg
iron to test its solidity. A short pause followed for the issue of
a ration of sour wine, and the parties were then distributed to the
various works in hand. It was for the most part unskilled labor, mere
brute force applied to moving heavy burdens. They were harnessed like
beasts to carts, laden with stone, or set to work in gangs at raising
the great weight of the pile driver, or operating the steel drill,
driven down into the solid rock. But work was continued incessantly and
in all weathers, “rain or shine,” in the pelting storm and under the
fierce rays of the summer sun, with a short rest at mid-day; bodies
thrown down anywhere they stood, when the signal was given. Work went
on for ten hours daily until the hour of return to the _bagne_, where
the evening meal, the common feed at the trough, awaited them. Each
squad, a dozen or more, gathered round the same _gamelle_, or great
tub, filled with a mess of bean soup, into which they dipped their
wooden spoons, fighting like dogs over a bone, each for his portion.
The weakest fared worst, and the strongest and greediest carried off
the lion’s share. The same vessel was passed from hand to hand, and
they drank foul water with dirty mouths. After the sorry feast an hour
or two of idleness followed, and the convicts lay on the great wooden
bed (_rama_), conversing with one another. At last the whistle for all
to “turn in” was heard, when every one, without undressing, rolled
himself in his grass blanket, and sought oblivion, often vainly, in
sleep. Nothing now broke the silence but the footsteps of the night
watchman going his rounds under the dim light of the oil lamps, and the
occasional falling of his hammer as he struck the bars and chains to be
certain that they had not been tampered with. When this was done just
before the rising hour it was called “morning prayer.”

Use becomes second nature, and many _forçats_ could bring themselves to
endure the miseries and discomforts of the life at the _bagne_. They
had their hours of relaxation, which they spent in the manufacture of
fancy articles, to be sold for the few francs that helped to increase
and improve their daily rations according to their taste. Some kept
and trained dogs to perform marvellous tricks or taught mice to draw a
carriage. A convict well known in his time, nicknamed Grand Doyen, who
had done forty out of sixty years in various prisons, is remembered
for his extraordinary power of taming rats. By a strange contrast this
Grand Doyen was a man of cruel character and abominable temper, who
was ever at enmity with his fellows. He was constantly in gaol, now
for fraud, now for robbery with violence, at last for murder, with
extenuating circumstances. He spent all his life, from the age
of nineteen, in detention of some sort. No one liked him, and in his
loneliness he captured a young rat, and trained it to live with him.
He began by drawing its teeth and shortening its tail. He taught it
all kinds of tricks, harnessed it to a cart, and secured it with a
collar and chain, which he fastened to a waistcoat button, leaving
sufficient length to the chain to allow the vermin to shelter in his
waistcoat pocket. Once, when at Bicêtre waiting for a chain, Grand
Doyen let the rat loose to run about the yard, where it was pounced
upon by the prison cat. Grand Doyen, in defence of his pet, promptly
killed the cat with his wooden sabot. Then the rat got into trouble by
gnawing a hole in a convict’s clothes, and an order for his execution
was forthwith issued. Grand Doyen, in despair, saved his friend by
substituting another rat, which he had caught on purpose, and decorated
with the chain of his favorite before handing it up to justice. The
warder asked why he had not killed the rat as ordered, and was put off
by the excuse that he had not the heart, so he brought it now to the
warder, who was not so sensitive, and hammered it on the head with his
key. The pet rat was still alive, safely hidden by Grand Doyen, who was
on the point of removal from Bicêtre. How was he to get it past the
gates? Inventiveness was stimulated by the difficulty, and Grand Doyen,
being in possession of one of those enormous loaves in which French
ration bread is baked, tore out the crumb in the centre, and made a
comfortable hole for his pet. Then, carrying his loaf under his arm, he
took his place on the chain, and passed safely through the gates.

[Illustration: _Hospice de la Bicêtre_

A celebrated hospital founded by Louis XIII in 1632 for invalid
officers and soldiers. It is now devoted to the aged, the incurable
poor, and the insane.]

The ingenuity of the prisoners was equalled by their industry. The most
unpromising materials and the rudest tools served to produce the most
artistic pieces. Cocoanut shells, beautifully carved, formed elegant
goblets. Old bones were converted into chessmen or paper knives or
penholders, the tools by which they were shaped being scraps of iron
picked up in the yards. The products of their cleverness were not
always avowable or harmless. The _bagne_ was often the home of false
money makers, and their audacity must have been something marvellous.
That prisoners employed in the workshops should be able to escape
observation and manufacture files, keys and other tools to be employed
in compassing escape, was not so strange; but it was almost incredible,
that, working in the open or under the shelter of a ship’s side, they
could cast metal coins, having first made the molds and melted the
substances, then polish and perfect them so as to deceive any but the
sharpest eye. There were still more marvellous frauds accomplished.
Forgery and all kinds of imitation of signatures, the preparation of
official documents, even the seals to attach to them, were within the
powers of these clever convicts. One case is on record, in which
release was all but secured by means of a forged authority, but at
the last moment one document was missing, and when search was made
for it among the papers in the office, the fraud was discovered. In
this instance several signatures had been imitated, including that of
the Chancellor and the King himself. On another occasion one of the
trade-instructors received a letter, enclosing a note for five hundred
francs, but unhappily found, when rejoicing at his good fortune, that
the bank-note was false, although it had deceived many expert persons.

When a certain tradesman got into money difficulties, and his papers
were seized by a sheriff’s officer, one paper was found amongst
them, which he had been foolish enough to retain. It was a letter
from a convict in the _bagne_ of Rochefort, claiming payment for the
fabrication of a receipt at the instance of the bankrupt. “May I remind
you,” ran the letter, “that at your request I manufactured a receipt,
for which you promised me two louis, if the document served its
purpose. As it was exactly what you wanted I now claim the completion
of your promise. You can pass the two louis in to me by enclosing
them in half a pound of butter, which I can receive at the canteen. I
trust that you will not oblige me to apply to you again.” This letter
was handed over to the police, with the result that the fraudulent
tradesman was arrested and sentenced to ten years for having made use
of the false receipt.

The most adroit thieves were to be met with at the _bagne_.
Extraordinary stories are preserved of the daring ingenuity and
marvellous skill in which the thefts were carried out. The story is
told of a bishop, who visited the _bagne_, and who was moved to great
pity for one unhappy criminal, to whom, after exhortation, he gave his
blessing and his hand to kiss. As usual he carried on his middle finger
his Episcopal ring with a valuable precious stone. When he left the
prison, the ring had disappeared. It is not recorded in what manner it
was abstracted, nor whether Monseigneur recovered his jewel. On another
occasion a convict actually stole a cashmere shawl from the back of
a visiting lady. The victim was Mdlle. Georges, a famous actress,
who, when visiting the _bagne_ of Toulon, spoke kindly to several of
the inmates, and was especially drawn to sympathise with one of good
address, who had once been an actor. This man actually purloined her
shawl, and in triumph started to carry it off, but had the good taste
to bring it back and replace it on her shoulders, exclaiming, “This
is the first time I have ever made voluntary restitution.” At another
time a watch was stolen from one of the visitors, who was examining
the articles which the convicts offered for sale. The chief guardian,
certain that the thief must be among a particular group of convicts,
declared that he would flog them in turn until the watch abstracted
had been given back. The punishment was actually in progress, when
the official received a letter from the visitor who had been robbed,
saying that on his return to his hotel he had been met by a poor
creature, dressed in a ragged old blouse, who approached and handed him
a small parcel containing his watch. It had been passed out, either by
the culprit himself or one of his comrades, and was now surrendered
under threat of the _bastonnade_.

An expert thief known in all the _bagnes_ was Jean Gaspard, who,
although crippled and compelled to walk on crutches, could use his
hands, the only good limbs left him, with wonderful skill. His
ostensible business was that of a wandering beggar, and he relied upon
his infirmities to insinuate himself into crowds of people. He then
worked with ready skill, and managed to pass his plunder to friendly
accomplices, who removed it to a distance. He was a professional thief.
He had inherited his skill from his forbears. His father and mother,
his brothers and sisters, all his relatives, in short, were thieves;
and some of them had suffered the extreme penalty of the law.

Thieving at the _bagne_ was greatly encouraged by the facilities that
offered for getting rid of the plunder. The business of “receiving”
flourished when the gangs marched to and fro, free people hanging
about, who managed to enter into relations with the thieves.

The administration of the _bagnes_ left much to be desired. The
discipline was severe, even cruel, and relied chiefly upon the lash,
the _bastonnade_ as it was called, which might be inflicted for all
sorts of offences. Attempts to escape, extending to sawing through
irons or the assumption of disguises, were punished by the whip; also
a theft of value up to five francs, drunkenness, gambling, smoking
and fighting with comrades. Any convict might be flogged, who made
away with his clothing, wrote clandestine letters, or was found
in possession of a sum of more than ten francs. There were graver
penalties for escape and recapture. In the case of a convict sentenced
for life, the punishment for escape, upon recapture, was three years
of the double chain--that is he was kept in close confinement, and not
allowed to go to work in the open air. An extension of the term of
imprisonment by three years was the punishment for those sentenced to
shorter terms. A theft of more than five francs was met with extension
of term. Last of all the guillotine was the penalty for striking an
officer or killing a comrade, or for entering into any combined plan of
revolt.

Repression and safe custody were the guiding principles of the
_bagnes_. Their supreme rulers, who were always naval officers,
commissaries of the marine ranking with captains, might at times
realise that they had a higher duty than that of keeping a herd of
black sheep, but any idea of amelioration or improvement rarely entered
their heads. They were rough old sailors, of coarse manners, with
little of the milk of human kindness, imposing their authority harshly,
exacting submission with a word and a blow. Some revolting stories are
preserved of the cruelties of the _garde-chiourmes_, the slang name of
the officers of the bagne.

Several couples of convicts were once at work unloading a cargo of
wood. Some sorted out the wood, while others levelled a mound of earth
and piled up the barrows, which were dragged away. One of a chained
couple suddenly struck work, declaring that he could hardly stand,
from fever and weakness. “You shall go to hospital to-morrow,” replied
his officer. “Go on working now. I will give you a dose of medicine
to help,” and with that he applied his stick to the poor creature’s
back. His comrade thereupon charged himself with the whole labor, and
drew the barrow alone, while the sick man staggered along, becoming
worse and worse every moment, and unable even to carry the weight
of the chain. Then his companion lifted him in his arms on to the
barrow, and proceeded to drag it along. The guardian, resenting this
act as defiance of his will, applied his stick to the back of the good
Samaritan, calling forth redoubled effort, which ended in the upset
of the barrow, which dragged over the sick man, who died then and
there. This story is vouched for by an eye-witness of the atrocity. He
rewarded the kindly convict, and would have reported the guardian, but
was afterwards unable to recognise him.

The régime, as we have seen, was tyrannical, but it must often have
been lax, to judge by the frequency of the escapes at the _bagnes_.
The regulations were stringent. Notice of an escape was immediately
proclaimed by three guns, and flags were run up at all commanding
points. At the same time the personal description of the fugitive
was circulated through the neighborhood, and brigades of gensdarmes
were sent in pursuit. Handsome rewards were offered for recapture;
twenty-five francs (five dollars) if it was effected within the
port, double that amount if within the town and one hundred francs
(twenty dollars) for apprehension beyond the walls. In spite of all,
the determination to break prison, a fixed idea with all animals in
captivity, was always present with the inmates of the _bagne_. It has
well been said that the prisoner, in his endeavors to escape, displays
skill and energy enough to win him inevitable success in any reputable
line of life. The stories of the results achieved at the _bagnes_,
the conquest of many difficulties, the triumph over all surveillance,
imperfect, perhaps, but systematic and generally alert, read like a
fairy tale.

One undefeated convict, by name Petit, escaped continually. He was
always getting the better of his gaolers. He took a pride in stating
precisely the hour at which he would arrive at Toulon and the day
upon which he would leave it a free man. The event always came off
exactly. Petit, at one time, when recaptured, after escaping from
Brest, was lodged in the prison at Abbeville. He at once warned the
prison officials that he could not stay in such an unsatisfactory
prison. On the next day he had disappeared. He had broken into a room
where the linen was kept, climbed several high walls, fell at length
into the garden and got out and away, although his two feet were
chained together. He got rid of his irons outside the walls, and had
the audacity to return and sell them openly in the market place of
Abbeville.

Opportunity and good luck usually favored escape. Hautdebont was a
convict tailor employed in the workshops where the guardians’ uniforms
were made up. He caught sight of a new suit hanging on a peg, which he
calculated would fit him, and at a moment when the master-tailor’s eye
was withdrawn, Hautdebont took down the uniform, put it on and walked
out. Unhappily for the fugitive the suit was immediately missed. The
foreman tailor raised an alarm, and Hautdebont was quickly caught and
sentenced, among other penalties, to lose his place in the tailor’s
shop. Excessive bad luck was the portion of the convict who had exactly
calculated that, by surmounting the boundary wall at a particular
point, he would reach a certain retired and solitary street. All went
well till, having surmounted the wall, he lowered himself on the far
side to fall straight into a cart, where a guardian was taking his
mid-day rest. He awoke and snapped greedily at the hundred francs’
reward which had fallen straight into his hands.

Convicts have often to thank their own quick-wittedness and
self-possession for succeeding in attempted escape. One convict at
Brest, helped by a free workman, who had promised him shelter and a
suit of plain clothes, reached the outskirts of the town, where he made
up as a laborer, concealed his closely cropped hair under an old hat,
borrowed a barrow and a pick and started off for Orleans as if he were
in search of a job. His leisurely gait and frequent halts betrayed
no feverish desire to get away. The people gave him _bon jour_ as he
passed, and the gensdarmes whom he met accepted a pinch of snuff; and
he went on his way without interference. He marched thus for a couple
of hundred miles, taking by-roads, still wheeling his barrow before
him, resting by night in the woods, and at last reaching Orleans in
the heart of France, where he found friends, who helped him out of the
country.

Ingenuity and boldness of plan of escape were often equalled by the
limitless patience with which it was pursued. More than once a long
passage was tunnelled underground, leading to liberty beyond the
Arsenal walls, and this in spite of surveillance and the galling
inconvenience of carrying chains. In one case a space had been
contrived at the end, large enough to contain the disguises, into which
the fugitives were to change when the moment arrived, and to store the
food saved up for the journey. The paving stones were taken up, and
places of concealment contrived beneath to hide the intending fugitive
until pursuit had passed on. Once a man got within a heap of stones,
and presently more stones were brought outside to add to the heap. He
narrowly escaped being built in alive. By desperate efforts he broke
through and gained the boundary wall, which he escaladed, and fell into
the arms of a couple of fishermen on the far side, who seized him and
took him back to the _bagne_. The promised reward was generally too
strong a temptation to working men to let a fugitive go free.

There were convicts with no sense of loyalty to their comrades, always
ready to betray an intended escape, eager to gain the reward. Others,
again, had invented a strange business, that of giving assistance to a
comrade, resolved to attempt an escape, by helping him in the work of
excavation, or of standing sentinel to prevent surprise by the guard.
On the arrival of any convict, known to be well furnished with funds,
he was approached by these friends with proposals. Sometimes the kindly
convict made a double coup,--for when he had started to escape he
betrayed the plot and was paid the authorised reward by the other side.
The guards sometimes encouraged an attempt to escape, and then turned
on the would-be fugitive after he had gone so far from the prison to be
worth the full sum of a hundred francs.

Great cleverness in preparing, and promptitude in assuming, a disguise
was frequently shown. One convict manufactured the whole of an
officer’s uniform out of paper, which he painted and completed so as to
escape detection. Petit, who has been mentioned already, whose escapes
were almost miraculous, got away once from the court at Amiens, after
being recaptured, by entering the dressing-room of the advocates, where
he stole a robe and wig, in which he walked out into the street. A
convict named Fichon, at Toulon, disappeared so effectually that it was
concluded he had left for good. But he was still on hand, although the
most minute searches were fruitless. He had hidden under water in the
great basin of the dockyard, and had arranged a leather duct to bring
him air from the surface. At night he emerged from his moist asylum,
landed, ate his food, placed for him by his friends, and at daybreak
took to the water again.

Long brooding on the impossibilities of regaining freedom has been
known to produce mania. An Italian, named Gravioly, at the _bagne_ of
Rochefort, was driven mad by his failures to escape. He was sentenced
for life after three brutal attempts to murder. The hopelessness of his
condition led him to secrete a knife, with which he suddenly wounded
the adjutant of the day, broke his chain and ran amuck through the
prison, brandishing his weapon and attacking all who tried to stop him.
Another adjutant fell before him, and the guard at the gate he killed.
Another murderer, of exemplary prison character, after years of good
behavior in the maritime hospital, struck one of the nursing sisters
a fatal blow, which severed her head. It was supposed that she had
discovered his intention to escape, and he was unable to persuade her
to hold her tongue. In these days we should call this man a homicidal
maniac, but he was executed; and, on mounting the scaffold, smiled
pleasantly at the guillotine.

The disciplinary methods at the _bagnes_ were brutal enough, but the
severity of the system was softened by privileges and concessions,
that would not be tolerated in any modern prison. It was much the same
as in Australia in the early days and at this moment in the Spanish
penal colony at Ceuta. The freedom given to some convicts in service
naturally favored escape, and in one case a high official was robbed of
his full uniform by a convict employé, who, having changed his costume,
mounted his master’s horse and rode off through the principal gate,
after having received the compliments of the sentries and guards at
the grand entrance. When the reins were tightened and these improper
privileges were forbidden, others of a minor and mitigating character
still survived. There were situations in the service of the prison,
as sweepers, barbers, cooks and lamplighters. Some became gardeners,
others coopers, more were nurses and bedmakers in the hospital, and
a few were permitted to act as hucksters in the sale of food and
condiments within the prison buildings. A post of great profit was that
of _payole_ or prison scribe, which was given to an educated convict
who was allowed to write the letters of his comrades. The _payole_
became the confidant of every one, and knew all their most precious
secrets. Often enough he abused his position, and, after eloquently
stating the case to a prisoner’s family, would misappropriate the funds
forwarded by soft-hearted relations. The _payole_ was constantly the
author of the so-called “Jerusalem letters,” the equivalent of the
begging letter or veiled attempts at blackmail, which often issued in
large numbers from the _bagnes_.

Reference has been made already to the ingenious manufacture of
articles for sale, but a less honorable, although more profitable,
trade was that of usury, which long flourished in the _bagnes_. The
business was started by an ex-banker named Wanglen, who was condemned
to _travaux forcés_ in the time of the Empire. He brought with him to
the _bagne_ a certain amount of capital, carefully concealed, and with
the skill acquired in his business he trafficked in usury, and made
advances, like any pawnbroker, upon the goods and valuables secretly
possessed by his fellows as well as upon the _pécule_ or monthly
pittance accorded as wages to the convicts. He had so large a trade
that he created a paper currency to take the place of the specie so
generally short in the prison. But his business suffered seriously
from the competition that might have been expected in such a place;
for after a time his notes were cleverly imitated by forgers, and he
had no redress but to return to cash payments. This man Wanglen is
said to have made a great deal of money by the time he retired from
business, and to have had many successors. When a borrower could offer
no tangible security the good word of a convict reputed to be a man of
substance was accepted instead; and such men were to be found in the
_bagnes_.

A notable one was the celebrated Collet, whose criminal career will
be detailed further on. Collet, strange to say, was always in funds.
According to M. Sers, who wrote at some length on the _bagnes_, from
facts under his own observation, Collet, during the twenty years of
his imprisonment, was never known to hold a single centime more, in
the hands of the official paymaster, than the regulation allowance,
yet he lived luxuriously the whole of these twenty years. He always
wore respectable clothing and the finest underlinen, very different
from that supplied by the prison; he lived on the fat of the land,
despising the mess of pottage, the horrible haricot of beans, that
made up the daily ration. He was supplied always with abundant and
succulent repasts from the best hotel in the town. The source of his
wealth and the means used to bring it to his hand were secrets never
divulged during his long term of imprisonment, although inquiries were
constantly made, and every effort tried to unravel the mystery. The
secret died with him; and even after death nine pieces of gold were
found sewn into his waistcoat pocket.

The authorities in due course set their faces against these convict
usurers, called _capitaines_, whose processes were very properly
condemned as tending to demoralise convicts and aggravate their
miserable condition. A very strict surveillance was instituted, and
when detected the _capitaines_ were severely punished. Sometimes
they were flogged; but other methods were tried, one in particular,
calculated to bring the culprit into ridicule, always a potent weapon
in dealing with Frenchmen. The prison barber was ordered to shave the
culprit’s head, leaving one lock only upon the crown. He was then
dressed as an old woman, and made to sit upon a barrel at the entrance
to the prison, where he was exposed to the jeers of his comrades
on their return from labor. The same measure was meted out to the
_capitaine’s_ assistants, for the big men always employed a number of
agents or canvassers in extending their business.

Thus, it is seen, that ours is a world of worlds, one within the other;
and assuredly the prison world is not less interesting, though much
less inviting than many others held in greater esteem.




CHAPTER III

CELEBRATED FRENCH CONVICTS

    Life history of some noted convicts--Collet travels through
    Europe--In trouble at Montpelier, arrested and lodged in
    gaol--Brought to hotel to amuse the Préfet’s guests--Escapes
    as a cook’s boy--Fresh swindles--Arrested and sent to
    _bagnes_--Other remarkable convicts--Salvador or Jean Ferey,
    full of strange tricks and laughing at iron bars--The
    Marquis de Chambreuil--Cognard, the false Comte Pontis de
    Sainte Helene--Vidocq--His personal experiences at the
    _bagnes_--Escape from Brest--Recapture--Other remarkable
    escapes.


The quality of the criminals upon which the _bagne_ laid its hands will
be best realised by describing one or two of the most notable convicts
who passed through them.

A very remarkable person was Anselme Collet, who has had few equals in
his nefarious profession, that of swindler on the widest scale. He was
essentially the product of his age, which undoubtedly encouraged his
development and afforded him peculiar facilities for the display of his
natural gifts. Chief among these were boundless audacity, readiness
of resource, an attractive person, insinuating address, and skill to
assume many different parts.

Collet was born at Belley, in the department of the Ain, and from his
earliest days gave evidence of a desire to go wrong. He was a born
thief and an unmitigated liar, and as he was constantly in trouble his
family handed him over to a maternal uncle, a priest, on the point
of expatriating himself because he could not take the oath exacted
from all ecclesiastics. Three years later Collet returned from Italy
and entered the military school at Fontainebleau, and was presently
incorporated as a sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment. He had
seen too much of the priests to take kindly to soldiering, and when
in garrison at Brescia, he spent more time in the Capuchin monastery
than in the barracks. Soon after this his regiment went on service,
and he was seriously wounded. While in hospital at Naples he nursed a
French major, who died in his arms and gratefully bequeathed him all he
possessed, a sum of three thousand francs and some valuable jewelry.
When Collet was discharged from the hospital, he joined the monks and
was associated with a body of missioners destined for La Pouille.
Collet’s task was that of treasurer. Returning to his monastery on one
occasion, he found himself short of three thousand francs, which he had
embezzled, and he saw nothing for it but flight. He had been kindly
received by the syndic of the town, from whose office he had stolen a
number of passports signed in blank. He had no intention of staying at
the monastery, and persuaded the superior that he had an inheritance to
claim in France, to which, being a deserter, he dared not return. He
got a letter of introduction to a banker at Naples, and was entrusted
with a valuable diamond ring and commissioned to buy another like it in
that city. Collet managed to swindle the banker out of 22,000 francs,
kept the ring, bought a smart suit of clothes and, filling up a blank
passport as the Marquis de Darda, proceeded to Capua. Here he picked
up a portfolio containing the papers of Chevalier de Tolozan, which
title he now adopted with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and
passed on to Rome. Here he found a French ecclesiastic, a native of
Lyons and an intimate of the Tolozan family, who took Collet under
his wing and introduced him to Cardinal Fesch, Napoleon’s uncle and
the then Archbishop of Lyons. Collet made the most of his time, and
swindled people, right and left,--60,000 francs here and 20,000 there;
5,000 and 10,000 more borrowed under false pretences, with jewels
stolen from tradesmen, and moneys craftily secured. Rome became too
hot for him. He filled up a new passport, called himself a bishop,
changed costume and character and went to live in the city of Mondovi,
safe from the police, already in pursuit of him. Well furnished with
funds Collet threw off his guise of priest, and led a life of pleasure
with the young dandies of the place, among whom he created a desire
to perform in amateur theatricals. Subscriptions were raised, Collet
becoming _costumier_. He got together a large wardrobe made up of
priest’s robes, military uniforms and diplomatic dresses, with sham
jewelry and crosses and ribbons of many orders. He soon made off with
this valuable stock in trade, and the first disguise he assumed was
that of a general officer. He next became a Neapolitan priest, and
thus passed on to Sion, in Switzerland, where he was received with
open arms by the bishop, who appointed him to the cüre of a lucrative
parish. What followed may be told in his own words. “I stayed here five
months,” he says, “performing all the duties of a priest, confessing,
marrying, baptising, visiting the sick and burying the dead. Our church
was in a ruinous condition, and subscriptions had been raised for its
repair and restoration. There were 30,000 francs in hand, but posing
as a man of wealth I offered to make up the sum necessary for the new
works, and my generosity was soon seconded by fresh subscriptions. I
meant to lay hands on all and, starting with the money, accompanied by
my architect and others, proceeded to a neighboring town to purchase
pictures, candelabra, a chalice and so forth. None of these purchases
were paid for in cash. I sent the Mayor back to Sion, but stayed myself
another night, then started for Strasburg.” Thence Collet took the road
to Germany, and, passing the mountains of the Tyrol, reëntered Italy,
changing his costume en route continually. By passing himself off in
various characters he laid everybody under contribution. A banker
at Savona advanced him 100,000 francs, but he was nearly detected,
and he became once more a bishop, by name Dominico Pasqualini, Bishop
of Monardan, and was received most cordially by his confrère, the
Bishop of Nice. Twenty-seven seminarists were to be ordained next day,
and the Bishop of Nice besought his fellow prelate to examine them.
Collet tried to get out of it by assuring his Eminence that he saw no
necessity for doing so, as it was little likely the Bishop would desire
to ordain “incompetent asses;” but the Bishop of Nice insisted, and the
Monseigneur de Monardan put on his robes and assisted in the ordination
of thirty-three abbés. Travelling westward Collet arrived at Fréjus, en
route for Spain, now the plenipotentiary of his Majesty, King Joseph,
representing the Inspector-General, and charged with the equipment of
the army at Catalonia. From Fréjus he went on to Draguignan, preceded
by official orders to await his coming, and there commenced to form
his staff. He appointed a half-pay officer as his aide-de-camp, the
son of the sub-préfet at Toulon his private secretary, named officers
of ordnance, commissioners and pay-masters, and had a suite of twenty
persons by the time he had reached Marseilles. At Marseilles he laid
hands on 130,000 francs in the government treasury and at Nimes secured
about 300,000 more.

His star paled at Montpelier. After spending an hour on an early
parade he went to lunch with the Préfet, to whom he promised promotion
and the decorations of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. Upon
returning to his hotel he found it in the hands of the gensdarmes,
and himself under arrest. Collet’s staff shared his fate, and all
whom he had misled were held in custody for several weeks, while the
villain of the piece hourly expected to be shot. One day the Préfet
had a party, and to amuse them sent orders that Collet should be
brought from his prison under escort. He was left for a moment alone
in the serving-room, from which there was no exit save through the
dining-room. At this door two sentinels were stationed. Collet’s wits
were at work. While he waited to make a spectacle for the guests he
caught sight of the white suit of an assistant cook, which had been
left in the serving-room. Hastily putting it on and taking up a dish of
sweets he knocked at the passage door, and was suffered to go through
without recognition or interruption. He took refuge in a house close to
the Préfecture, and remained there in hiding while the alarm was given,
and search and pursuit organised.

After escaping from the town he wandered about the country devising
fresh swindles. One of the most successful of these was at the expense
of a bank at Tulle, where he cashed a forged letter of credit for
5,000 francs, and got off as far as Lorient. A clerk of the bank
followed him thither, caught him and handed him over to justice. He
was more carefully held this time, and passed on to Grenoble, where
he was sentenced to five years of _travaux forcés_, which by special
favor he expiated at Grenoble. Here he was recognised and denounced
by one of his former staff officers, with the result that he was
sent to Toulon to finish his term. When set at liberty he fixed his
residence at Poussin, in the department of Ain, where he was kept
under surveillance, but managed to evade it, and proceeded to commit
fresh crimes. At Toulouse he imposed upon the superior of a religious
house, where he was given shelter. To show his gratitude he proposed
to endow it with a gift of land. The property was chosen, the purchase
agreed upon, but Collet could not immediately produce the funds, and
his bankers, according to Collet, talked of delaying completion.
Collet meanwhile set himself to borrow from friends he had beguiled,
and managed to extract 74,000 francs in all from them. Next day he
disappeared.

He played the same trick at Rochbeaucourt in the Dordogne. Now posing
as the Comte de Gôlo he desired to purchase a chateau. Using the same
methods as at Toulouse, he again made himself scarce with the moneys
he borrowed. Then he appeared at Le Mans. He acquired property, and
was on the point of exchanging land for diamonds at a jeweller’s, when
the rumors of former fraud reached the place, and the police were set
on his track. He was arrested, tried and convicted, and was sentenced
to twenty years at the _bagne_, after exposure for an hour in the
_carcan_, or iron collar, on the platform of the guillotine. He was
sent first to Brest, but was transferred later to Rochefort, where he
died in 1840, having endured his captivity with philosophy, and not, as
has been said already, in extreme discomfort. “I have but one grief,”
he said in the hospital of the _bagne_, “and that is that I am dying a
_forçat_. My money is of no use to me;” for he undoubtedly possessed
considerable funds, although the secret of their whereabouts was never
disclosed. Collet had no small opinion of himself, and claimed to
be an interesting criminal. His head was turned by the attention he
attracted, and he actually replied in an open letter to the charges
brought against him in the numerous biographies of him published in his
lifetime. He sought to correct the severity of the criticisms passed
upon him, and protested that the standard of his morality was put too
low. “My life has had two sides,” he represented; “and, I am free to
confess, presents features I cannot defend; on the other side I can
point to many good deeds. I have given largely to the poor when I was
in funds, and my conduct in prison has always been irreproachable.”

A few very remarkable convicts contemporary with Collet may well find
mention here. One was Salvador, whose real name was Jean Ferey. His
prison history includes thirty-two escapes from gaol and nine from
the _bagne_. He was originally a respectable man, a tradesman in the
north of France, who, on returning from one of his business journeys,
found his house deserted. His wife, after pillaging the place, had run
away with a young clerk. He fell away at once into evil courses, vowed
eternal hatred to society and instantly adopted a life of crime. He was
taken in Paris and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbery
by means of false keys. He escaped and was recaptured, finished his
term and was again sentenced for a new burglary. He had had a violent
struggle with the police, in which he was mortally wounded, as it
was supposed, and was taken to the infirmary of La Force, where the
surgeon bade him prepare for death. His wounds were deep, his strength
was waning and hope abandoned. Next morning he had disappeared, and
was driving post-haste along the highroad to Switzerland, in company
with a woman, who had assisted in his escape. He had got out through
a hole in the infirmary wall, and had lowered himself into the street
by a rope made out of his blankets. Then followed a fresh offence and
a new sentence, this time of death. The night before his execution he
volunteered, with every sign of contrition, to make a full avowal of
his crimes. A judge came to attest his confession, and, seeing that
the prisoner was suffering acute pain from his chains, ordered his
leg irons to be removed. The story was prolonged far into the night.
The judge, meaning to return the next morning, left Salvador to sleep
entirely unfettered. He was still well guarded and kept under eye; yet
next day nothing was found of him but his clothes, which he had been
compelled to slip off so as to effect his passage through the usual
hole in the wall.

The woman who, in his first escape, had carried him off in a
post-chaise, became his wife and clung to him with every mark of loyal
affection. Once Salvador, when in custody, persuaded his guards to
allow her to dine with him in prison. The dishes were brought in from
outside and carefully examined as they passed the gate, but there was a
file carefully concealed in a stick of celery, with which the prisoner
sawed through his bars and gained his liberty.

Salvador had a certain pride in his nefarious profession as well as
for his fellow criminals. He could not bear the idea that any one
sentenced to exposure in the _carcan_, or collar, upon the scaffold
should appear in a shabby dress; and he was frequently known to provide
them with a suitable costume out of his own private purse. He had the
reputation of being a staunch and devoted comrade, whose loyalty to his
fellows nothing could shake, and who was never known to betray a soul.
On one occasion, in a great robbery of goods in a shop, he had gained
the assistance of one of the salesmen. Salvador was presently taken,
and it was clear that it had been a “put up” job, the slang phrase
for collusion from inside; but when the whole staff of the shop were
assembled, and Salvador was called upon to indicate his accomplice,
he obstinately declined and declared that he had never seen a single
one of them before. He ended his days on the guillotine in a _bagne_.
It was said that he had grown weary of the life of constant escapes
and repeated recapture, and to put an end to it all had attacked and
wounded a warder so as to incur the extreme penalty of the law.

The _bagne_ had its aristocracy, not of crime only, but in the actual
persons of men of rank and title, real or fictitious. There was the
Marquis de Chambreuil, who spent many years at Rochefort, and was
always distinguished by his air of good breeding and exquisite manners.
There was a mystery about him, which was never penetrated, and no one
ever knew his real name. Another pretended nobleman was the so-called
Comte d’Arnheim, who appeared at Rochefort with the badge of his rank
on his convict cap and his coat of arms embroidered in silk.

The most notable of all such pretenders was the famous Cognard,
commonly known at the _bagne_ under the name of the Comte de Pontis
de Sainte-Hélène, a man with a curious history, who passed through
many strange adventures and vicissitudes. He was endowed with many
personal gifts, was of handsome appearance with regular features, had
a firm mouth, a keen eye and a suave voice, which easily assumed a
note of command. He escaped from Toulon, when a convict sentenced to
_travaux forcés_, and found his way into Spain, where he somehow made
the acquaintance of the family of Pontis de Sainte-Hélène, the last
representative of which died suddenly, and Cognard became possessed of
his papers. He had military aspirations, and as one of the old noblesse
he easily obtained a lieutenancy in the French army, in which by varied
service he rapidly rose to the rank of major and leader of a squadron.
As such he served with the staff of Marshal Soult in the Pyrenees. When
the French army retreated he was appointed to the command of the 100th
regiment of the line. He was present at the battle of Toulouse, and
afterwards behaved well at Waterloo, where he was seriously wounded. He
went over at the Restoration and was decorated with the order of Saint
Louis, and was appointed by the Duc de Berry, lieutenant-colonel of the
legion of that nobleman and soldier.

He was playing a bold game and yet he dared to march at the head of
his regiment day after day, through the streets of Paris, constantly
crowded with old comrades, who might at any time recognise him. This
actually happened at a parade in the Place de Vendôme, when an old
friend claimed his acquaintance, demanding blackmail. This was but
grudgingly given, and the false Count and convict Lieutenant was
denounced to the police. He was soon faced with the record of his evil
antecedents and re-committed to the _bagne_ at Brest, where he died.

A strong light is thrown upon the life of the _bagne_ by one who passed
through it in the early part of the nineteenth century. Readers of
French memoirs are no doubt familiar with the autobiography of Vidocq,
who, from an active pursuit of crime in all its forms, went over to the
other side and became a famous thief catcher. His black treachery to
his class, his constant betrayal of his old confederates, may be said
to have been condoned by the services he rendered society by bringing
so many of the worst depredators to justice; but he was a contemptible
character with no redeeming points but his pertinacious courage and
his unflagging pursuit of the criminals, whom, renegade that he was,
he hunted unceasingly. The “Memoirs” he gave to the world have been
widely read, and not less widely discounted as extravagant beyond
measure and probably unveracious. But it is the fact that they never
were contradicted, although many of the people he exposed were still
living when he wrote, and would certainly have refuted the charges
he brought, had they been false. Withal, the “Memoirs” are amusing,
even fascinating to lovers of personal adventure, full of hairbreadth
escapes, thrilling exploits and great dangers incurred and surmounted.
They no doubt present a faithful picture of criminal episodes and the
prison treatment of criminals in his time.

He was confined in the _bagne_ of Brest, from which he speedily made
his escape, and his account of his life as a convict, his journey
from Paris “by the chain” will be read with interest when contrasted
with the experiences of Jean Marteilhe, the innocent Protestant
galley-slave of just a century before. Vidocq started from Bicêtre,
where the travellers, some one hundred and twenty in number, were
assembled in the forenoon in the _cour des fers_, “Court of Irons,” and
medically examined as to their fitness for the march. The commander of
the gang, Captain Thierry, and his lieutenant, M. Viez, were present,
both of long experience and much respected by all. A ring in the
centre of the chain that joined every two men seemed to take the gang
chain, and the whole twenty-five couples were as one man. The act of
fettering seems to have completed the degradation of these miserable
creatures. So far from despairing, they gave themselves up to riotous
and reckless gaiety. The most horrible and disgusting language was
heard on every side, wild shouts and indecent gestures provoked stupid,
senseless laughter. Vidocq himself comments bitterly upon the scene. It
was painfully evident that the criminal loaded with fetters was goaded
into trampling under foot all that is honored and respected by the
society which has cast him off. He feels no restraints, no obligations,
his charter is the length of his chain, his only law the stick of his
_argousin_ (guard). When night came on they began to sing. Imagine
fifty scoundrels, the greater number of them drunk, all screeching
different and timeless airs. Where the few gave way to the horrors of
their situation and wept bitter tears, their abandoned companions fell
upon them and beat them. That night three of the number charged with
the heinous offence of having betrayed the secrets of the prison house
were all but killed. One indeed, a noted informer, was only rescued by
the _argousin_, and he was so misused that he died within four days.

That first night was passed on the bare stones of a disused church.
At daybreak all were afoot, the lists were read over, the fetters
examined. Then the larger number mounted long, low cars, back to back,
legs hanging over outside. They were soon covered with frost and their
bodies were motionless from extreme cold. The balance, made up of the
most robust, were condemned to walk, which at least kept them warm;
and besides they could attack defenceless people and rob, when they
escaped supervision, which was not always exercised, for the guards
shared in the plunder. On reaching the first stage out (St. Cyr), all
were stripped of their clothes and a close search made of their person
and of every article--stockings, shoes, and shirt--for hidden files or
watch springs likely to be used in sawing through their irons. This
examination lasted for nearly an hour, while the convicts undressed and
shivered with unendurable cold.

The night resting-place was a cattle shed. The beds were made on the
impure litter, in the midst of which were set the wooden troughs,
filled with a steaming mess of bean soup, from which each man’s
porringer was filled. At the end of this disgusting meal the sergeant
blew his whistle for silence. “Listen, robbers, and answer me ‘yes’ or
‘no.’ Have you had bread?” “Yes.” “Soup?” “Yes.” “Meat?” “Yes.” “Wine?”
“Yes.” “Then go to sleep or pretend to do so.” In striking contrast to
this mockery of a feast, the guards dined at a table laid out close
by, and abundantly supplied. “It is not easy to imagine a more hideous
spectacle than this stable,” says Vidocq. “On one side were a hundred
and twenty men, herded together like foul beasts, rolling their haggard
eyes, from which fatigue and misery had banished sleep. On the other
were eight ugly ruffians, carousing and eating greedily, but never
losing sight of their carbines or their clubs. A few miserable candles
affixed to the blackened walls cast a murky glare upon the revolting
scene, and the grim silence was constantly broken by the clank of
fetters.”

The toilsome journey occupied twenty-four days and ended at a depot
outside the _bagne_, where a sort of quarantine was performed. The
prisoners were bathed two and two, put in the crimson uniform and
rested for three days. No great vigilance was shown here, and it was
easy to get out and over the outer wall. Vidocq had been meditating
escape, and prepared for it by obtaining private clothes, a shirt,
trousers, and neckerchief, which he concealed in the centre of
an enormous loaf of ration bread. Having secured a steel chisel,
negligently left within his reach, he cut a hole through the wall of
his chamber, while a friendly comrade relieved him of his irons. He
gained the yard and the boundary wall, which he surmounted with the
aid of a pole, which was too heavy to be lifted on top and used for
the descent. At last his only chance was to jump down, and in doing
this he injured his ankles seriously, and could only drag himself to an
adjoining bush, where he lay for hours, hoping the pain would abate and
he might go on. But his feet swelled prodigiously, and he was obliged
to surrender himself. Three weeks were now spent in hospital, and a
charitable Sister of Mercy who nursed him gained him forgiveness from
the commandant.

Vidocq was still bent on escape. An obstacle to his plan existed in his
chain companion, of whose discretion he was afraid. The man was still
young, but already half an idiot from misery and brutal treatment. It
was the rule to blame the remaining half of a couple, when the other
had got away, and Vidocq knew this man, to avoid punishment, would
betray the projected escape. It was necessary to be coupled afresh,
and Vidocq, feigning sickness, was laid by for a few days, and then
given another partner, who had no fears and was full of good-will. He
strongly advised the would-be fugitive to make his move at once, before
the sergeants had come to know his face. He helped Vidocq, who was in
funds, to buy a disguise, a suit of sailor’s clothing, which was put
on the morning of the third attempt, underneath his convict’s frock,
and was undetected as the gang passed out of the gate to labor at
dawn. His fetters, which he had sawn through, only hung by threads, but
these also escaped notice; and on reaching the basin where the works
were in progress, Vidocq slipped aside behind a pile of planks, where
he made a rapid change, and walked off towards the wicket gate, giving
upon the town. Altogether ignorant of the proper way, after threading
many intricate streets and turning continually right and left, he
luckily reached the main gate of the city, where a veteran guard was
posted, who had the credit of being able to tell a convict at a look,
and penetrate any disguise. A telltale hang of one leg, that to which
the chain has been fastened, is an unfailing sign, but Vidocq had not
been coupled long enough to show this. He played his part very coolly.
He was carrying a jug of buttermilk, bought on purpose, and placing
this upon the ground he halted in front of the warder, and carelessly
asked for a light for his pipe. This self-possession served him in good
stead. He passed safely through, and three-quarters of an hour elapsed
before the three guns giving the alarm were fired. He still held on
bravely, and all would have gone well, had not two gensdarmes suddenly
appeared at the turn of the road, and took him into custody, but not as
an escaped convict. With ready wit Vidocq gave himself up as a deserter
from the navy, the _Cocarde_ frigate then in the roadstead of St. Malo,
near at hand,--to which he thought to be returned and to escape from
the escort on the way.

After prolonged detention Vidocq was started for the coast, when he
escaped and passed through many exciting adventures. For a part of the
time he wandered about the country disguised as a Sister of Mercy. Then
he joined forces with a party of escaped convicts, who had recognised
him. Then he became a cattle drover, a business in which he earned
good wages, and which took him to Paris. Danger threatened in the
capital, and he worked north to Arras, in his own country, and on to
Brussels and Rotterdam, where he was pressed into the Dutch navy. He
claimed release as a Frenchman born, and was speedily identified as
the deserter from the _Cocarde_. He was carried back into France as a
prisoner, and his fate seemed so uncertain that he thought it best to
proclaim himself Vidocq, an escaped convict from Brest. He was removed
to Bicêtre on a second visit, and to be transferred for a second time
on the chain to one of the _bagnes_. His second journey, which took
him south, for Toulon was now his destination, was a repetition of
that already described,--the most interesting feature in it being
his companionship with a very noted criminal of that period, Jossas,
better known as the Marquis Sainte Armande de Faral, one of the most
celebrated robbers of Paris. There was very little of the convict about
this prosperous thief. Although fettered, he wore a smart travelling
costume, knitted pantaloons of silver gray and a waistcoat and cap
trimmed with Astrakan fur, the whole covered with a large cloak lined
with crimson velvet. He had ample funds, and fared sumptuously every
evening, when he treated several of his comrades at dinner. He spent
much time daily on his toilet, and was provided with a splendid
dressing-case filled with all necessaries. His line of business was
that of thefts by means of false keys, and he showed extraordinary
cleverness in getting impressions to enable him to open the locks of
doors and safes.

On reaching Chalons by road the gangs were transferred to large
boats, on which they dropped down the Rhône to Lyons, then on as far
as Avignon, where they landed and recommenced the march. Vidocq and
others, who had been guilty of escape, were condemned to the “double
chain” as it was called. This meant unbroken confinement in one part
of the prison, where they were chained to the guard bed, which they
never left except for a short period of exercise. The worst characters
in custody were collected here. Vidocq found himself side by side with
several celebrities, notably revolutionaries who had robbed the royal
wardrobe, a gigantic theft of Crown jewels and priceless treasures
valued in all at half a million pound sterling, among which was the
famous Regent diamond, sometimes called the “Pitt,” which had been
brought from India by Mr. Pitt, Governor of Madras. There was also a
member of the Cornu family, the head of which had long terrorised the
people of Lombardy. Disguised as a horse-dealer he frequented country
fairs and attacked merchants who were carrying large sums of money.
He was greatly assisted by his third wife, who ingratiated herself
with travellers and led them to their death. This family consisted of
three sons and two daughters, all of them habituated to crime from
their earliest childhood. The youngest girl, Florentine, showed some
repugnance to adopt the criminal profession. She was cured by being
compelled to carry in her apron, for two leagues, the decapitated head
of a murdered farmer. So rapid is the degeneration of those who once
go astray that this same Florentine, when her relatives joined a band
of _chauffeurs_, for her part was to apply the lighted candle to the
feet of their victims, when they refused to confess the hiding-place of
their valuables. The brother, who was confined at Toulon with Vidocq,
carried on the assumed business of a journeyman, and was sentenced to
the double chain when caught in the act of committing a burglary.

Vidocq gained the good-will of his guardians by inducing his companions
to pursue prison industries, and the prison of the double chain
became a busy workshop, where children’s toys and other articles
were manufactured in large quantities. The trade was profitable, and
supplied the funds needed for undertaking a fresh escape. Vidocq
collected materials for disguise--a wig and black whiskers and an
old pair of boots. For the rest he trusted to the overcoat, hat, cane
and gloves of the prison surgeon, who was in the habit of leaving
these unguarded within Vidocq’s reach. The first attempt made in this
disguise was a failure, the second was more successful. It had been
arranged with the convict, Jossas, already mentioned, who had provided
him with the plain clothes which he put on beneath his crimson frock.
The rivet in his irons had been removed, and had been replaced by a
movable screw, and one morning, when issuing forth to labor, Vidocq
slipped behind the pile of wood, quickly threw off his red shirt and,
extracting the screw, freed himself from his fetters. He ran at top
speed to the basin, where a frigate was in repair, and jumped into
a boat on the point of starting from the town. Vidocq seized an oar
and pulled manfully towards Toulon, where he landed and made for the
Italian gate. Here he was refused admittance. The production of a pass,
or green card issued by the Magistrate, was demanded, and while he was
still parleying, the three reports of the guns announcing his escape
were heard. He forthwith left the gate and, avoiding the crowd, betook
himself to the ramparts, where he was accosted by a friendly girl,
who had penetrated his disguise, but who sympathised with the convict
fugitive. She promised him a green ticket, which she would borrow from
her lover; but the lover was absent from home, and recapture seemed
imminent, when a funeral procession came past. The girl advised him
to mix amongst the mourners. This he did, and thus passed the gate.
Presently he gained the high-road which led into the open country. It
would be tedious to follow the fugitive in his wanderings, or to detail
the narrow chances he constantly ran of being captured. His story as
a refugee was that of a hundred others of his class, who had broken
prison and infested all parts of France. As a convict turned thief
catcher his story is vastly different and of vastly greater interest;
as will be seen in the following pages.




CHAPTER IV

THE FIRST GREAT DETECTIVE

    France overrun with fugitive galley-slaves--Life and property
    constantly in danger--Vidocq offers his services to the
    cause of law and order--M. Henri refuses to accept his
    cooperation--Vidocq taken again, and again offers M. Henri his
    services--A compact finally made with him--Becomes a “mouton”
    and renders very useful service--Brings about the capture of
    the notorious receiver--Routs out a robbers’ home kept by
    Mother Noel--Does good work in the discovery and arrest of
    Fossard and others who robbed the Royal Library of a great
    collection of old coins and medals--Vidocq, the father of the
    French Detective Police--His portrait--A man of unexampled
    courage, fertility of resource and great physical strength--The
    “police provocative,” an invention of the day--The so-called
    conspiracy of Colmar--Saumur and the betrayal of La Bédoyère.


The state of France during the period which has just been described
was deplorable. There was little security for property, and life
was constantly in danger. Whole bands of fugitive galley-slaves
were at large, pursuing their evil courses with the utmost daring
and effrontery. They were apprehended from time to time, but were
acquitted, when arraigned, for want of evidence; witnesses as to
identity were not forthcoming, and unless caught red-handed there
were no proofs of guilt. To surprise them and take them into custody
knowledge of their domicile was essential; and they were so cunning
and evasive that it was not easy to ascertain this fact. It was under
these circumstances that justice in France, in its eagerness to
check these depredations and to protect the deserving, industrious
population, secretly sought the aid of spies and informers willing
to work against the criminal fraternity. Vidocq was one of the first
to go over. He was weary of the life he led, the unceasing anxiety,
the constant fear of recognition by old associates, the incessant
blackmail to which he was subjected; and to escape re-arrest he was
driven in self-defence to retaliate and offer his services to the
cause of order. Matters were brought to a crisis when he was called
upon to participate in a series of robberies to be perpetrated by old
convicts, whose hands were already bloodstained. Vidocq, realising
that whether he refused this proposal or not he must be compromised
sooner or later in other infamous deeds, resolved to go in person to
the Chief of Police, at that time a M. Henri, an excellent officer,
who rendered eminent service in his day. Vidocq confided in the Chief,
and explained his situation, saying, if his presence in Paris was
tolerated and he was assured immunity from arrest, he could promise
much valuable information. He could lay his hands upon great numbers
of convicts at large, knowing precisely their places of residence
and many of their plans. M. Henri at once declined to enter into any
compact of the kind. All he would say was: “I have no objection to
receiving any information. We will test it and use it for what it is
worth; perhaps we may accept your services in the long run, but we can
make no promises and agree to no antecedent conditions. You must take
your chance.” “Under these circumstances I may consider myself already
a dead man,” replied Vidocq; “for it might come out that I had given
information, and my life would be forfeited.” M. Henri would not alter
his decision, and dismissed Vidocq without even asking his name.

His overtures thus rejected, and himself still closely pressed by
his evil associates, Vidocq passed several anxious months. His fears
were verified by the certainty that the suspicions of the police were
aroused, and that his house was watched. His arrest seemed imminent,
and he was resolved to leave Paris without delay. But he was too late.
One morning, in the small hours, a light knock came at the street door.
Vidocq felt sure that he was immediately to be arrested. He dressed,
and ran quickly up-stairs, got out upon the roof and hid himself
behind a stack of chimneys. His surmises were correct, for the house
was speedily invested by police agents, who hunted for him high and
low, and found him where escape was hopeless except at the risk of
breaking his neck. He was carried at once to the Prefecture and into
the presence of M. Henri, who remembered him perfectly. The chief,
in the interval, had changed his mind. The increase in crime had led
him to believe that Vidocq might be usefully employed in laying his
hands upon the worst offenders at large. Nothing was said, however, and
Vidocq was removed for a third time to Bicêtre, to take his departure
with the next chain gang. At Bicêtre, Vidocq wrote privately to the
Chief of Police, offering his services afresh. He made no condition
but that he should not be sent back to a _bagne_, and expressed his
willingness to complete his sentence in any prison in France. M. Henri
still hesitated. One argument militated against accepting Vidocq’s
proposal. This was the barrenness of the results achieved by others
who had promised largely and performed little. Vidocq in his own
defence appealed to his good conduct when at large, his continuous
efforts to earn an honest livelihood, the production of his books and
correspondence and many letters, bearing witness to his probity and
good character.

Vidocq was detained between Bicêtre and La Force for nearly two years,
and no doubt rendered useful service as _mouton_, the French slang word
for a spy who worms himself into the confidence of his fellow prisoners
and denounces them. In this way he came upon the addresses of numbers
of escaped convicts who were in prison under false names, and was able
to give constant information of plots in progress for carrying out new
crimes. His reports were closely examined and compared with others,
so as to obtain corroboration or the reverse. They were so generally
accurate that M. Henri realised the value of this unofficial assistant,
and came to the conclusion that such a man would be more useful when
free. He was at length released from his probationary detention. To
keep up the deception and to screen him from possible suspicion and
discovery by the comrades he had betrayed, he was removed from La
Force in the ordinary way, handcuffed and under escort, but en route
to Bicêtre was permitted to escape. He went at once into hiding, and
posed amongst his friends as extraordinarily successful in avoiding
recapture. Of course, he carried his life in his hands and would have
been instantly sacrificed to the vengeance of those he betrayed,
had he been found out. But no one doubted him. He enjoyed unlimited
confidence, and was always in high favor with the thieves and bandits,
among whom he constantly lived. He was at home in all the lowest dens
of Paris, and was a trusted member of the criminal fraternity, all of
whom he knew intimately, their favorite haunts and whereabouts and the
schemes in which they were engaged. He was frequently invited to join
in their depredations and seldom refused, but always carefully avoided
taking part in them by failing at the appointed rendezvous or inventing
some flimsy excuse for holding aloof. The strange fact is emphasised
by Vidocq, that the dangerous classes are singularly simple and
unsuspicious. They seemed to take arrest almost as a matter of course,
and seldom paused to inquire, when once in custody, how or through whom
they had been taken. No one blamed Vidocq, who was their friend, often
their hero and model for imitation.

Meanwhile robberies of every description continued to be perpetrated,
and Vidocq was more and more in demand. He made it his business
to undertake a series of rounds through Paris and the immediate
neighborhood, and regularly visited the worst quarters, ever on the
alert to discover and check projected crimes. He was taken on by the
Prefecture as a salaried agent at the rate of 100 francs per month,
with a specially apportioned reward for every arrest, according to its
importance. This salary was saddled with a condition that he should
produce a certain number of criminals at regular intervals; and his
enemies declared that he was capable of any base perfidy in order to
make up his required quota of arrests, and that he heartlessly betrayed
people, to whom he was under obligation--as in the case of the tanner
with whom he lodged, and whom he secretly denounced as a fabricator
of false money. A medical man who attended him was implicated in this
charge, and both were arrested and sent to _travaux forcés_. He was
accused also of instigating crimes of which he gave information, and
saw to it that their perpetrators were taken in the act or with clear
evidence. It may be claimed that in criminal matters all is fair that
may conduce to arrest, although this savors of the argument that “the
end justifies the means.” Vidocq, at least, had no scruples, and would
lay traps and be guilty of any treachery in order to bring an offender
to justice. He had no reason to be proud of the manner in which he
routed out the house of Madame Noel--commonly known as the mother of
the robbers--which was a certain refuge and receptacle, where they
could always find shelter and assistance. Mother Noel provided for
all their wants. She always knew where they could find work, each one
on his particular “lay.” She had blank passports on hand, and could
fabricate papers for any one in want of them. Vidocq visited the house
and acted the part of a convict recently escaped, still bearing the
marks of his chains, with closely cropped hair, worn out and wearied,
his feet lacerated, his whole air that of one hunted and proscribed.
He won the woman’s sympathy instantly, and was made warmly welcome. He
was given a bath, his wounds were dressed and he was put to bed in a
very private room. He soon wormed himself into her confidence, gained
all the knowledge he required, and eventually broke up this refuge and
receptacle so useful to the thieves of Paris.

The way by which he contrived to come upon the secret store of a
notorious receiver of stolen goods was more excusable. This man’s
operations were well known to the police, but they had failed to
bring his crime home to him. Vidocq met him one day and claimed his
acquaintance, calling him by a name different from his own. The
receiver declared it was all a mistake, but Vidocq persisted, adding
that he knew the man was wanted by the police. Whereupon the other
said: “Let us go to the nearest police station, where I shall easily
find someone who can speak positively upon my identity as a resident of
this quarter.” It was an incautious move, for Vidocq, on reaching the
station, still refused to believe that the man was not the person he
had declared him to be, and called upon him with an air of authority
to produce his papers. None were forthcoming, and Vidocq begged that
he might be searched, when twenty-five double napoleons and three gold
watches were found upon his person, somewhat suspicious property. The
man was now detained until he could be taken before a magistrate, and
the articles found in his pockets were wrapped in his own handkerchief.
Vidocq, armed with this, visited the receiver’s house, saw his wife
and showed the handkerchief, which she recognised at once. “I thought
you ought to know,” went on Vidocq, noticing that she was greatly
perturbed, “that your husband has been arrested. Everything found on
him has been seized, and he believes that he has been betrayed. I
come from him to beg you to have all the property, you know what I
mean, removed, as these premises are to be searched immediately, and
something compromising may be found.” The woman, thoroughly alarmed,
begged Vidocq, whom she looked upon as a friend, to go out and bring
back three hackney coaches. When they arrived they were loaded up with
articles of every description, timepieces, candelabra, Etruscan vases,
cloths, cashmeres, linens, muslins, etc. At the proper moment the
police surrounded the coaches, and more than enough was at once found
to convict the receiver.

One of the most remarkable robberies in Paris was that of the
collection of old coins and medals from the Royal Library, now known as
the National Library in the rue Richelieu. This collection is reputed
one of the finest in the world, and, besides a couple of hundred
thousand coins, contains a great number of cut gems and antiques,
dating back into the earliest times. Cameos, crystals, agate goblets,
bronzes, ivories, sacrificial cups of massive gold, choice medallions,
tankards richly chased by artists whose names have not survived, and
so on, are among its treasures. The news of the robbery was received
with dismay at the Prefecture. An immediate inspection made by the
police showed how cleverly the thieves had gained admission to the
cabinet containing the collection of medals. They gained access to a
neighboring house, and ascended to the roof and slid over the slates to
a garret window in the library. They broke through this, reached the
back stairs and slipped down into the principal salon. A solid oak
door at the north end of the salon shut off the medal room, but the
thieves sawed through it, and entered the inner room, which was lighted
by a large window opening on to the rue Richelieu. It was easy enough
to break into the cases, sweep up a large number of the precious coins
and lower them to the confederates in the street below.

With close examination of the premises the detectives were satisfied
that only one of three famous burglars could have accomplished the
theft. The work had been executed most cleverly. The panel in the door
had been cut out by a skilled hand. The saw, left behind, was a very
perfect tool. The candle in the dark lantern, also abandoned, was of
the finest wax, and the rope used was of the best quality. Only the
most expert thief would have expended so much care and capital upon the
enterprise. The three men indicated were Fossard, a notorious convict,
who should have been in the _bagne_ of Brest, but had recently escaped
and was at large; a friend of his, Drouillet by name, ex-convict at
liberty, and Toupriant, believed to be then in England.

Light was suddenly thrown upon the mystery of the theft by the arrest
of the first of these men. Vidocq met him in the street, and remembered
his face, as of one who had passed through his hands on a previous
occasion. This was hardly enough to justify arrest, but the astute
police officer whom Vidocq informed took the responsibility. The man
seemed so confused, and his replies were so unsatisfactory, that he
was carried at once to the Prefecture, where he was at last definitely
recognised by various officials. The fact that this man, Fossard, was
in Paris strengthened the suspicion that he had been concerned in the
robbery of the medals, and he was at once questioned, after the French
manner, to extract some confession. It was all to no purpose. Fossard
stoutly denied all knowledge of the theft. The police next tried to
bribe him in hope of recovering at least a part of the stolen property,
the intrinsic worth of which was nothing to its sentimental value,
which was estimated at a million francs. Fossard persisted in his
denials, and was at length committed to Bicêtre to take his place in
the next chain departing for Brest. He waited there for several months,
in such an abject condition and so destitute of means that his comrades
subscribed a sum to provide him with sabots and a pair of trousers
for his long march. But a clandestine letter of his was intercepted,
in which he begged a friend to forward him 25,000 francs ($5,000) to
Brest, for his use on arrival at the _bagne_. He was therefore clearly
in funds.

The effrontery of a woman who posed as the Vicomtesse de Nays paved the
way to further discovery. This pretended great lady, who was really
the associate of thieves and the wife of one of Fossard’s friends,
was on the best of terms with the Prefecture, and quite an intimate
friend of the Prefect. She passed as a charitable person with many
protégés, whom she was eager to befriend by obtaining places for them
and supplying them with funds when temporarily in distress. At one of
her visits to the Prefecture she pressed the prefect to honor her with
his company at dinner, and it was quite by accident that he discovered
that his fellow guests included some of the most notorious criminals
in the capital. Happily for his reputation he discovered that she was
well acquainted with Fossard; and, yet more, that she had taken places
for herself and maid in the diligence for Brest, where, no doubt, she
was to carry him substantial aid. Other valuable news was forthcoming,
namely; that a number of the stolen medals had been melted down into
ingots, and that some of them were in the possession of the so-called
Vicomtesse de Nays. Others were traced to the Drouillet above mentioned
as a possible thief, and others to Fossard’s brother, a clockmaker of
Paris. Arrests followed, and the clockmaker confessed that his brother
and Drouillet had committed the robbery and had melted down a portion
of the booty and thrown the rest into the Seine--where, as a matter
of fact, it was subsequently fished out. More stolen property was
unearthed in the clockmaker’s cellars.

When the case came up for trial both the Fossards were sentenced, the
elder Etienne, to _travaux forcés_ for life, the younger to ten years.
Drouillet was sentenced to twenty years. Madame de Nays was brought to
Paris and her domicile searched, but no fresh proofs of her complicity
in the robbery were forthcoming, and she was released; but it was clear
that her kindness to the young men she patronised was repaid, both in
the shape of information and assistance in the planning of robberies. A
pretty incident is related of the recovery of these valuable treasures.
A well-known savant who was called in by the Prefecture to identify
them was so overcome by emotion when he saw them again that he burst
into tears and kissed them repeatedly, especially the seal of Michael
Angelo, the cup of the Ptolemies and the “Apotheosis of Augustus,” the
largest cameo in the world.

Before leaving Fossard it may be interesting to note that he had been a
long time at large in Paris, and was the author of innumerable thefts.
His capture was a difficult matter, for he was a reckless character,
who had frequently been sent to the _bagnes_ and as frequently escaped
therefrom. The police report said of him: “Unequalled for intrepidity
and always armed to the teeth, he must be attacked with caution.” He
declared that he would blow out the brains of any police agent who
attempted to apprehend him. Vidocq obtained great credit for making the
arrest. Fossard lived in great retirement at the shop of a vintner, who
was secretly warned by Vidocq that Fossard intended to rob him, and,
if necessary, to cut his throat in doing so. The vintner, alarmed, was
willing enough to admit the police, and Fossard was overpowered by
the gensdarmes and taken in his bed. Fossard’s history was curious. He
had embarked early upon a career of crime. He came of decent people,
and had received a good education, but his nature was vicious and he
speedily lapsed into evil courses. One peculiar characteristic was
useful to him in his nefarious business. He had a natural taste for
the fabrication of keys, and was known as one of the most skilful
locksmiths of his time. He died at Brest, two or three years after his
conviction of the robbery of the medals.

Vidocq, with all his shrewdness and insight into criminal human nature,
was himself capable of being deceived. Later on, when he had secured
a firm foothold in the police and was actually director of the newly
created detective department, a man unknown to him came to offer his
services as an _indicateur_. When asked what he could do he answered,
“Anything.” “Well,” said Vidocq, “take these two five-franc pieces,
and bring me the best two fowls you can find in the market.” The man
returned with the fowls and the money also. “How did you do it?” asked
Vidocq. “I went to the market,” said the messenger, “carrying the
basket on my shoulders, which I had filled with stones with straw on
the top. I also bought some vegetables, which were placed on top of
the straw. When I bought the fowls, I begged the woman, as I stood
before her, to place them on the basket; in doing this her hands
were occupied and mine free, the pockets of her apron were close in
front of me and I soon recovered my two five-franc pieces and thirty
francs besides.” “That was clever,” cried Vidocq, “do you often work
like that? Come again to-morrow. I daresay I shall find you a job.”
The would-be agent went off delighted, taking with him Vidocq’s gold
watch and the contents of his pockets. The thief had made the most of
his time, and, while explaining his action in robbing the woman who
had sold him the fowls, had repeated the trick upon Vidocq as he stood
before him.

Vidocq was no doubt the father of the now famous French detective
police, and its unsavory origin has been often quoted against it.
The authorities themselves were ashamed of using such means for
the repression of crime, and after ten or a dozen years Vidocq was
dismissed from his employment, only to resume it, after the Revolution
of 1830, in a private and unofficial character, secretly approved
of by the authorities. He still hoped to return to the Préfecture,
and sought to bring it about by proving his value. One of his agents
concerted with several old convicts to carry out a burglary in a rich
man’s house. Vidocq was able to give early information, and the police
were in a position to capture the burglars in the act. Such an arrest
brought much credit to Vidocq, who was reinstated in his old office.
But the thieves were in due course arraigned for trial, and one of
them informed against Vidocq’s agent, as having suggested the crime.
The judge ordered the arrest of the agent. Vidocq reported that he
had left Paris, and was not to be found. Again the thieves accused.
The judge now learned that the agent was actually employed under
Vidocq, and the agent was then taken, tried and sentenced. Vidocq was
again discredited, and the detective office or bureau, now known as
the “Police de la Sûreté,” was re-organised on a new and perfectly
straightforward basis.

The character of Vidocq looms large in the annals of French crime.
His was a strange personality, and he did some wonderful, although
unworthy, not to say infamous, things. A good picture of him is
preserved by M. Moreau Christophe, long Inspector General of French
prisons. Vidocq, he tells us, was gifted with extraordinary audacity.
His courage was almost unexampled. He had an amazing fertility of
resource, and was endowed with remarkable physical strength. He
belonged in turn to the two extremes of society. He might late in life
be called an honest man, but he certainly had been a thief. His nature
was strangely contradictory and had two sides, both in manners and in
conduct. He was garrulous yet discreet; always a boaster, yet cunning
and secretive. Although prompt to execute, he was much given to thought
before action; when he seemed to make a chance stroke it was the result
of careful previous calculation. His appearance was peculiar. Of middle
height, but built like a small Hercules, he had a large head, carried
on a short, sinewy neck. His yellow hair was thick and close grown;
he had a flat nose, open nostrils and a large humorous mouth, fleshy
cheeks with salient cheek-bones, small, piercing green eyes, which
glittered under prominent thick eyebrows. A phrenologist was called
in to examine his head without knowing his name, and reported on his
cranium as combining three types: “that of a liar, a diplomatist and a
sister of charity.” To this M. Moreau Christophe adds the suggestion
that he would have been better described as “an ape, a fox and an old
humbug.”

Vidocq’s character was despicable, but his underground methods,
exercised for the protection of society, were largely adopted by
the police of the day. If the ex-thief thief-taker betrayed his old
associates, his action contributed to the reduction of crime; but there
was no such excuse for the official guardians of law and order who
encouraged, indeed actually manufactured, crime. Men who had come into
power at the Restoration stooped to support their authority by seeking
to prove that the monarchy was still threatened by conspirators,
eager to reëstablish the fallen régime. Rumors of dangerous plots
were constantly current, and, as they were mostly insignificant or
imaginary, it was necessary to invent them. For this purpose a special
police was called into existence, known at the time as the _Police
provocative_. Agents were employed to instigate and incite those who
were unguarded in the expression of their Bonapartist leanings to
join in some combination against existing authority. Traps were laid,
sham conspiracies started and simple folk drawn into them, only to be
betrayed and denounced by the treacherous agents, who had led them
on. Often enough honest workmen were persuaded, by specious counsels
and unlimited drink, to band themselves together to overthrow the
government; and when committed beyond explanation or avowal they were
arrested and thrown into gaol. This system of provocation largely
prevailed under the Bourbons. A very shabby trick was played upon
Colonel Caron, who was concerned in the so-called conspiracy of Colmar.
He had been arrested on suspicion, but was released and was living
quietly at Colmar, when a secret agent came to him, pretending to be
in trouble with the police for his known political leanings. Colonel
Caron opened his heart to this traitor, revealed particulars of a plot
in progress, all of which were duly carried to the Prefect, who gave
the agent orders to lead his victim on. A rising was planned, and
everything was ready. Colonel Caron put on his uniform to head the
conspirators, and when he rode out with cries of “_Vive l’Empereur_,”
he was arrested by his own supposed followers, who were agents in
disguise. For this he lost his head, while the police agents were
handsomely rewarded.

The Saumur conspiracy was similarly fatal to General Berton. He
had long been more than suspected of heading a conspiracy centred
at Saumur, for the necessary evidence had been gained through
the abominable practice then in force of tampering with private
correspondence in the post. The warrant for his arrest had been issued,
but he saw the officers approaching from his window and escaped through
a door leading into the garden. The authorities were determined to take
him and sent a secret agent to hunt him up. The agent ran into him
at length at Thouars, where he was in hiding with a supposed fellow
conspirator, an ex-sergeant Wolfen, who was in reality another agent of
the police. The general was presently arrested and tried as a traitor,
and in due course suffered death.

Another case on all fours with these was that of Colonel La Bédoyère,
who, to make the story blacker, was denounced by a police officer under
the greatest obligation to him. This Colonel La Bédoyère was an ardent
adherent of the Emperor Napoleon, whom he had joined on his return from
Elba. He was engaged at Waterloo, and found it advisable to disappear
after the Hundred Days. He took refuge in the country, and was safely
concealed for some months; but then, in the teeth of the strong
protests of his friends, came back to Paris, where he was arrested and
thrown into the Conciergerie. Some devoted friends arranged for his
escape from prison, but they could not see their way to passing him out
of Paris. Release from the prison was to be effected by buying over an
employé with a bribe of 10,000 francs, but the rest was not easy, and
there were no generous English officers to offer the same help that
had been given to La Valette. When the agent, above mentioned as being
under obligation to La Bédoyère, was found, he promised to see the
Colonel safely through the barrier. When all had been satisfactorily
arranged, the scoundrel went straight to the Prefect, and gave
information, both of the intended escape and the persons who were to
assist in it. Shortly after this La Bédoyère was sentenced to death and
was shot, while the agent received promotion and a considerable sum as
a reward. The sequel is worth telling as a proof that Nemesis waits
on such contemptible conduct. The man was looked upon with disfavor
even by the police, retired into private life and became engaged in
a commercial undertaking, which presently failed. His misfortunes
deepened. He was constantly a prey to remorse, and eventually he took
his own life.

Whatever the faults of the system of police espionage and criminal
detection, of which Vidocq was the first to make systematic use, it
was the premier attempt at anything like a well equipped detective
organisation ever made; and as such it must be regarded as the
foundation of the whole detective establishment of the police system of
to-day.




CHAPTER V

THE COMBAT WITH CRIME

    How French justice secures convictions--Services of spies and
    informers utilised--The “coqueurs” or “moutons” largely found
    in French prisons--Baseness of the average “mouton”--One youth
    plans the murder of his own father--Another offers to murder
    his cell-companion to save him from the scaffold--The skeleton
    of Madame Houet brought to light after thirteen years--Clever
    detection in the case of Lacenaire--A whole series of murders
    exposed, committed by this bloodthirsty assassin--Some
    remarkable cases--Detection often follows--The difficulty of
    disposing of the remains--L’Huissier, Prevost, the “woman of
    Clichy” and Voirbo.


French justice has always been open to the reproach of using unworthy
means to arrive at its end, commendable enough in itself--the
conviction of the criminal. The services of spies and informers
have always been utilised in a clandestine fashion. The rule has
long obtained, and indeed is still in force, of employing an agent
to insinuate himself into the confidence of accused persons to worm
out secrets and betray them to the authorities. The most favorable
opportunity is offered by the intimacy of cell association, and it is
seldom that the spy fails to come upon the secret, however carefully
concealed. The system is still in force, and has been tried in notable
recent cases, such as that of the truculent and mysterious Campi,
the murderer. The _coqueurs_, the unofficial attachés of the police,
are as old as the hills, and are to be found in every country; but
their ignoble business is perhaps more widely followed in France
than elsewhere. They are of two classes, those at large and those
in confinement,--the latter being very generally found in French
prisons. The first class live with and on the criminal class, in whose
operations they ostensibly take part, so as to gather the knowledge
that makes them useful to the police; but they are actively engaged in
them when they find it safe and profitable. More often they prefer to
inform and take the reward, but when times are bad they have been known
to invent imaginary schemes and persuade their friends to undertake
them, betraying the dupes when they were compromised and fully
committed.

The treacherous business of provocation is said to have been carried
further in the troublous times of the second Revolution. The police
were then directly charged with having invented a serious disturbance
in order to make short work of a number of political prisoners. In 1832
St. Pélagie was full of such prisoners. There was great unrest within
the prison, mutiny was constantly imminent, and the discontent was
encouraged by an absurd rumor circulated that they were being poisoned
by the authorities. It was a period of great effervescence in
Paris, for the cholera, then a new and fearful epidemic, was raging,
and the story was spread that the government was actually propagating
it in order to reduce the number of its political foes. At last the
disturbance came to a head, and there was a serious outbreak. The
prisoners rose in revolt, smashed the furniture, ill-used their keepers
and by degrees gained possession of the inner gates. At the same time
an insurgent band, consisting of a couple of hundred Republicans,
had assembled and were bent upon breaking open the prison to release
their friends. It was believed to be a concerted movement, and was
on the point of success, when the troops arrived. A large body of
the municipal guard advanced, and, dispersing the crowd, entered
the prison, where their attack was violently resisted. The revolted
prisoners were formally ordered to surrender, but sturdily refused.
The troops felt compelled to open fire, and many casualties resulted.
When peace was restored, the ringleaders were arrested and removed, and
brought to trial at the Assizes, where many were sentenced to _travaux
forcés_. The authorities were then charged, as has been said, with
having instigated the disturbance, but no proof of this accusation was
ever produced, and the Prefect of Police indignantly repudiated the
charge.

[Illustration: _Sainte Pélagie_

Famous as a place of detention in Paris for political prisoners on
their way to the guillotine during the French Revolution, holding at
one time as many as three hundred and sixty persons.]

The business of the _mouton_ is one of great danger, and calls for
considerable address. Detection or even suspicion that a man is
so employed enforces him to vindictive retaliation. He may expect
sooner or later to be roughly handled, probably murdered. These are
the individuals who share the cell of the accused on purpose and
draw him into conversation and unguarded admissions, which will be
brought in evidence against him, or they help the judge in his line of
interrogatories, the French method of prosecution. There is a larger
class of _moutons_ known in prisons as the _musique_, composed of all
who from the moment of arrest are prepared to confess their evil deeds,
name their associates and reveal their whereabouts and how they might
be taken. Often the _musiciens_ are retained on the service of the
police, and inhabit a prison for months together, or so long as they
can be useful during a protracted trial.

The baseness of the average _mouton_ is almost inconceivable. No ties
of blood or association are respected. Brother will denounce brother, a
father his son. Cauler tells a story of a young thief, who interested
him and whom, after receiving much valuable information from him, he
permanently engaged as a _musicien_. One day another prisoner came to
the chief of police to give him some facts about his young protégé. The
latter had confided to him that he knew a certain way to effect his
escape, if he could only lay his hands on a substantial sum of money.
“You can get it for me, if you choose. When you are released go to the
banking house of Monsieur ----. My father is the cashier, and keeps
his safe on the entresol, first door to the right. He is always alone
between four and five of an afternoon, making up his accounts. Ring the
bell, and when he opens the window say you came from me, and have a
particular message for him. He will be sure to admit you, and directly
you enter stab him in the heart. You will find his keys in his inner
breast pocket. Open the safe, take out all the cash, keep half, and let
me have the rest when next we meet.” M. Cauler was greatly horrified,
and sent at once for his _musicien_, whom he taxed with this supposed
crime. The lad tried to deny it, but was confronted with his intended
accomplice, and confessed. “Take him away,” cried the indignant police
officer, “never let me see him again.”

Another story is told that may well be placed along with the above, in
proof of the base ingratitude of which a convict may be guilty. A man
had been sentenced to death, and was awaiting execution with horror,
not so much from dread of the guillotine as of the disgrace that would
fall upon his family from such a case in its records. A fellow convict
also sentenced to death sought to console him. “You dread the dishonor
of the public execution,” said he. “I’ll tell you how you can avoid it,
and die in another way.” “Suicide, do you mean?” “Not at all,” was the
reply. “Listen to me. I have not the smallest hope of a reprieve; the
proofs are overwhelming. Now, no one can be executed twice, so I may
safely kill as many people as I choose. I will tell you what I will
do for you. I have a knife concealed in a safe place, and some night
when you are sound asleep, I will come and make short work of you. It
need not hurt you, for I will do it with one blow.” Strange to say the
man, over whom death hung with absolute certainty, disliked the idea
of losing his life a day or two before the inevitable time. He went at
once to the governor of the Conciergerie, where he was lodged at that
time, and told the whole story, saying he went in fear of his life, and
wished to be put in another part of the prison. The friendly murderer
was highly indignant when he heard of this treachery, and next time a
man complained to him of his impending disgraceful death, advised him
to throw himself over the staircase and take his own life.

The origin of the word _musique_ may interest the curious reader. It
arose from the practice of collecting together all the _coqueurs_ and
spies having secret information in a circle, when the recognition of
some unknown new arrival was considered essential. The latter was then
placed in the middle of the circle, very much as a bandmaster stands
when surrounded by the musicians. An objection to this custom was that
the quality of these informers was thus revealed, and exposed them all
to the vengeance of their victims and their friends. Strange means were
adopted for circulating the news. The same Chenu mentioned above tells
us how, when he was in the exercising yard, a projectile dropped at his
feet, launched by some hand beyond the walls. When picked up it proved
to be a small pellet made of chewed bread. “_Un postillon_,” cried
someone, and all gathered round in a group to hear the message, which
was known by that name, contained in the piece of bread: “Avril, who is
now in Bicêtre through the treachery of Lacenaire, wishes all friends
to know.”

The revelations of an ancient comrade served in a rather remarkable
case to bring home a great crime, which for nearly thirteen years had
remained undiscovered. An old convict, named C----, in 1833, came
to the police, and offered at the price of 500 francs to give them
full information concerning the murder of the Widow Houet, and to
indicate how the body might still be found. This murder had occurred
in 1821, in the rue Saint Jacques, and was that of an aged woman of
seventy, possessed of a considerable fortune. She was the mother of two
children, a boy and a girl. The latter was married to a certain Robert,
who had been a wine merchant, and who was not on the best of terms with
his mother-in-law. One day a stranger, whose identity was not fixed
till much later, called on the Widow Houet, who was alone, having sent
her servant out some distance. The visitor after a short parley left,
taking the old woman with him, and she was never seen again. After
this disappearance suspicion fixed on the son-in-law, Robert, who
was arrested, and with him a friend named Bastien, who had also been
in the wine trade. Nothing came of the inquiry which followed, and
both the accused men were released. Three years later they were again
arrested on supposed fresh evidence, but were again released. At last
the man C---- came forward with full particulars. Robert, it appeared,
had approached Bastien with proposals to murder the old woman, whom
he hated. As Robert had never paid over the share promised, Bastien
confided the whole story to C----, and showed him the copy of a letter
he had written his accomplice, in which were the following words:

“Do not forget the garden of the rue de Vaugirard 81, you know. Fifteen
feet from the end wall and fourteen from the side one. The dead
sometimes come back.” Bastien had carefully preserved the plan of the
garden, on which was marked the spot where the corpse had been buried.
This garden belonged to an isolated house, which had been rented by
Robert, and Bastien was engaged in digging a deep pit in it. He bought
a cord, provided himself with quicklime; then one Sunday morning he
called upon the Widow Houet, with a message from her daughter and
son-in-law, that they expected her to lunch in the new house. Here let
Bastien speak for himself: “The old woman knew me well as a friend of
her children, and accompanied me in a cart to the rue de Vaugirard. On
entering the garden and reaching a quiet corner, I slipped my rope
round her neck and strangled her. When certainly dead I buried her,
threw in quicklime, covered up the grave and went to breakfast. There
was one guest short, but Robert asked no questions. I knew he was
satisfied with me. I had done my part in the business, but he would
not perform his, and never yet has he paid me my price, the half share
of the widow’s fortune. After waiting patiently all these years and
finding him ever after deaf to my demand and unmindful of my threats, I
resolved to denounce him, through you.”

This was the message brought by C----, and in response, warrants
to arrest the Roberts, man and wife, were issued by the police.
The culprits had already left Paris, but were followed and brought
back. Meanwhile Bastien was taken into custody after a hand to hand
encounter. He was searched, and in a pocketbook found upon him were the
plan of the garden and the compromising papers relating to the Widow
Houet’s estate. The case was clear. Nothing remained but to verify
the facts by disinterring the corpse. It was necessary to proceed
with great caution, lest the body should be removed by friends of
the accused. A watch was set upon the house now occupied by a master
pavier, and his sympathies were enlisted by warning him that he was
to be the victim of a midnight robbery. He consented to allow two
agents of the police to be stationed in the garden, and they took post
there for several nights in succession, but nothing happened. At last
after careful examination the position of the buried body was fixed
by Bastien’s plan, and a party of diggers from the great cemetery of
Père La Chaise came, accompanied by a doctor, to open the ground.
The body of a woman was come upon at considerable depth, in fair
preservation thanks to the quicklime. The rope was still around her
neck, and she still wore a gold ring. The evidence was conclusive as to
the murder, but the criminals were allowed the benefit of extenuating
circumstances, and the capital sentence was commuted to _travaux
forcés_ for life.

About this same date a murder was committed in Paris, which will always
fill a prominent place in French criminal records, from the hideous
personality of the principal performer. Few members of the race of Cain
are more widely known than the bloodthirsty monster, Lacenaire, of whom
the saying is preserved: “I think no more of slaying a man than of
taking a drink of water.” His detection and delivery to justice were
due to the help afforded by treacherous confederates, who played the
_musique_. The circumstances, with some account of the central figure,
and the methods pursued, may well find a place here.

On December 14, 1834, an old woman, the Widow Chardon, residing in the
passage Cheval Rouge of the rue St. Martin, was brutally done to death,
and her son, who lived with her, was also killed. Both had been struck
down with the same hatchet. The state of the premises, locks forced,
furniture smashed, their contents strewed about the room, showed
plainly that robbery had been the motive of the murder. A fortnight
later another murder was attempted, and was all but successful, upon
a banker’s clerk, who called, in the French fashion, to collect money
on a bill or note of hand, which had been due, and was payable at
the private address given by the acceptor, by name Mabrossier, No.
66, rue Montorgueil. The clerk climbed to the fourth floor, where he
found the name Mabrossier inscribed in white chalk upon the outer
door. He knocked, and was admitted into an empty room, where two men
were evidently awaiting him. The door was slammed, and he was attacked
murderously. The clerk was young and muscular, and fought sturdily for
his life, uttering such loud cries for help that the miscreants were
alarmed, and fled down-stairs out of the house.

The only clue to the outrage was the name Mabrossier, and he was known
sufficiently well to the concierge, who gave a description of him.
The machinery of the police was set in motion, by which the names
of all who pass the night in hotels and common lodging-houses are
inscribed day by day on the register, and the name Mabrossier was found
finally in a low den kept by one Pageot. Close to it was another name,
Ficellier, recorded the same day, and the landlord remembered and
described his visitor. The portrait exactly fitted a certain François,
at the time in custody, having been arrested within the last few days
for fraud. The landlady, when pressed, also admitted that Mabrossier
had previously been a lodger under the name of Baton.

The police pieced together the scraps that were coming to hand. M.
Cauler, who was in charge of the case, openly taxed François with being
Ficellier, and, on the shrewd suspicion that Baton was Mabrossier,
arrested him, but was forced to release him for want of more definite
evidence. Then a prisoner in La Force volunteered the fact that Baton
was the intimate of one Gaillard, who sometimes passed under the name
of Baton, but who, in one of his disguises, corresponded exactly with
the much wanted Mabrossier. The next step was a hunt for Gaillard,
and the name was soon found on another hotel register. They knew him
well, there, and when asked whether he came often, or had left any
traces, a bundle of songs was produced and a letter, said to be in his
handwriting, containing an offensive diatribe on the prefect of police.
Suddenly a light broke in on the police. The writing of the word
“Mabrossier,” chalked upon the door in the house, where the assault was
committed, was identically the same as in this letter.

It was now well known that Gaillard was wanted, and assistance was
offered by another inmate of La Force, Avril by name, who declared
that if let out for a week he would put Gaillard into the hands of
the police. Nothing came of this boast, and Avril went back to gaol.
Recourse was again had to François, who was fetched from the prison
to be interrogated at the Prefecture. In the cab, en route, François
made a clean breast of everything. He knew all about the murder of
Mother Chardon; he had heard the whole story from the principal actor,
Gaillard, who had thus a second and more serious crime to his charge
than the attack on the bank clerk.

Gaillard’s identity was next placed beyond all doubt. Avril, the same
prisoner who had fruitlessly sought Gaillard through Paris, confided
to the police that the murderer had an aunt of the same name, a
well-to-do person, who lived in great retirement. A visit was paid to
her, and inquiries made as to her nephew, “Gaillard.” “His real name is
Lacenaire,” she replied, “and I never wish to see or hear of him again.
He is a miscreant, and I constantly go in fear of my life for him.” So
the search was narrowed down to the real man Lacenaire, who fortunately
was arrested at this very moment under the name of Levi Jacob, on
attempting to pass a forged bill of exchange. He was brought at once to
Paris, and, when visited in his cell by the head of the police, readily
confessed himself the author of the crimes, of which he was suspected.
When asked to name his accomplices, he refused until he heard that both
François and Avril had informed against him, when he turned upon them
and gave them completely away. They had betrayed him, and he would not
spare them! It served him right for taking accomplices!

This was the burden of his recital in the many interviews he had with
the police. “Always work alone, it is the only safe method. Partners
and comrades can never be trusted.” Lacenaire gave many proofs of this
from his own personal experience. Once at Lyons he was returning home
from an orgie, when he met on the bridge of Morand a well-dressed
gentleman, upon whose white waistcoat glittered a fat gold chain. The
man staggered slightly, and was clearly under the influence of drink.
They were quite alone together upon the bridge, and Lacenaire fell upon
him, seizing his throat with one hand and emptying his pockets with the
other. Then, after he had secured the watch and chain and well-filled
pocketbook, he lifted the victim in his arms and threw him bodily into
the river Rhone, which flowed rapidly beneath. “I never heard who this
man was, nor did I think of the incident again,” said he. “Having
worked alone, I was never discovered.” Again, when residing in Paris,
just after his release from prison, he frequented the gaming-house,
Palais-Royal, and watched the lucky players with the idea of following
them in the street to rob and murder them. He followed a man, who had
won 30,000 francs, and, catching him in a lonely place, threatened
him with his life unless he surrendered at once the contents of his
pockets. The approach of a passing patrol frightened Lacenaire, who
took to his heels without the plunder. He escaped because he was alone.
Had he been trammelled with an accomplice they would probably have got
into each other’s way, or at least Lacenaire would have been obliged to
think of some one beside himself. “Had I not worked with Avril in the
murder of Mother Chardon, he would never have been able to betray me.”

The life and death of Lacenaire attracted considerable attention. There
was much to interest the public, albeit unhealthily, in the personal
record of this remarkable criminal, who came of decent parents, had
been well educated, and yet yielded to the most ignoble passions; who
from petty thief passed through all the phases of commonplace crime
until he threw off all restraint and became a wholesale murderer.
While honest society viewed him with horror, he became a hero to his
fellows, who would have imitated him had they dared, but were satisfied
to glorify him, to tattoo his name upon their breasts and to accept
him as their chief and model. He was born in a village near Lyons, and
graduated with honors at the college. Then he went to Paris and read
law. When his father’s failure in business left him without resources,
he enlisted, served for a time, came back to Paris and soon lapsed into
crime. He could not bear the idea of an empty pocket, and was ready
for any evil deed, that would fill it. The first committal to prison
introduced him to friends, by whom he was willingly led astray, and
prepared him for the criminal designs that took possession of him.
When finally tried for his life, he was no more than thirty-five, and
had been guilty of at least thirty heinous offences. His execution
undoubtedly rid the world of a monster.

Some of the more atrocious and abominable crimes of French evil-doers
will fitly find a passing reference here. They are mostly characterised
by the traits peculiar to the worst side of the Frenchman,--of devilish
ingenuity in design, savage resolution in performance, cynical apathy
and indifference in the face of the forthcoming results, alternating
often with sham emotion and hypocritical grief. Types re-appear
constantly, crimes are repeatedly reproduced, generation after
generation, by criminals who lack all originality in their actions,
generally inspired by the same motives. The greed for gold, the craving
for sensual self-indulgence, consuming passion and bitter jealousy
and an unappeasable thirst for revenge, have at all times influenced
the weakly moral sense and accomplished the most diabolical deeds. In
murder cases, the disposal of the body is one of the chief difficulties
that faces the perpetrator of the crime. It may be possible sometimes
to leave the tell-tale evidence upon the theatre of the crime, but the
danger of detection is greatly enhanced thereby, and murderers have
therefore usually adopted some other plan of concealing or removing the
corpse. There is nothing new under the sun, and some of these methods
of disposal are to be met with in the earliest criminal records, and
have found imitators down to the present day. One case may be quoted
in which a number of workmen repairing the Pont de la Concorde fished
a large parcel out of the water, and on opening it found it contained
human remains. The bundle had been cleverly packed and tied in a common
corn-sack, with an outer cover of packing-cloth. Shortly afterwards a
second parcel, exactly similar in form and contents, was found at no
great distance from the first. It was presently learned that a woman
named Ferraud, otherwise Renaudin, who had lived in the street des
Egout Saint Martin, had recently changed her domicile, and had been
helped in the move by a certain L’Huissier, a furniture maker. Nothing
more had been heard of him until a near neighbor vouchsafed his new
address. L’Huissier was found there, in bed, surrounded by the effects
of the murdered woman. He had let her an apartment in the same house,
and accompanied her there; had secured her property and promptly killed
her. Then he had made up his parcels, and, hiring a hand-barrow,
wheeled his burden to the river, to which he consigned it. The case is
interesting as one of the first instances of dismemberment as a means
of disposal.

Forty years later human remains were found in the bedroom of a hotel
in the rue de Poliveau, and were presently discovered to be those of a
milkwoman, who employed Barré, a notary’s clerk, who concerned himself
with the investments of any one who would trust him. The milkwoman
was one of the number. She had come to Barré’s rooms to charge him
with the sale of certain scrip, but was murdered when off her guard.
Other similar cases were those of the “Woman of Clichy,” whose husband
murdered her and buried her on the banks of the Seine. The criminal
here was an old soldier, wearing the military medal, and nicknamed the
“decoré.” A third case was that of Prévost, a police sergeant, who had
killed a tailor’s traveller, who had called upon him in the hopes of
disposing of some of his stock. When arrested and brought to trial it
was proved that this was the second murder of which Prévost had been
guilty. His first victim had been a housekeeper to a gentleman, who
had made her his heir. She desired to buy the good-will of a small
business, and consulted Prévost, at whose advice she realised part of
her property, and brought it to him to complete the purchase. She dined
with Prévost, having the money in her pocket, and was put out of the
way that he might secure it.

The most famous case of all is one of the most recent, and made the
reputation of M. Macé, the well-known chief of the French detective
police. Here a suspicious parcel had been found in a well in the
centre of an apartment house. A second parcel was presently recovered,
with identical contents. Both parcels were tied up in black glazed
calico, the ends of both were knotted in a peculiar way, and both
were stitched with black cotton. These facts threw suspicion upon
some journeyman tailor. It was soon discovered that an inmate of the
apartment house, who was a working sempstress, received the visits
of a tailor, who brought her work. Attention was thus directed to
this man Voirbo. His antecedents were investigated, and it was found
that an aged man, a miser with means, often in Voirbo’s company, had
disappeared. The crowning point in this case was the cleverness shown
by M. Macé in discovering that the dismemberment had taken place in
Voirbo’s own rooms. The tiled floor in the living room sloped in
one direction, and M. Macé, readily judging that if a body had been
disposed of in the room, the blood would have flowed that way, at once
emptied a decanter upon the floor. The running water led him to a spot
under which, when laid bare, a quantity of dark matter, proved later
to be dry human blood, was disinterred. Voirbo was challenged with the
crime, and confessed, but before execution committed suicide.

Crimes of the character indicated above are numerous enough in the
criminal annals of France, but they by no means constitute the whole of
her calendar of crime; and in the next chapter we pass on to others not
less fearsome.




CHAPTER VI

CELEBRATED CASES

    Parricide--Benoit and his mother--Donon Cadot--Combinations
    for crime--Soufflard and Le Sage--The mysterious case of
    Madame Lafarge--A strange story--The Duc de Choiseul-Praslin
    kills his wife in the faubourg St. Honoré--Evidence clearly
    against him--Poisons himself and escapes justice--Suspected
    in Paris that special favor was shown him on account of his
    rank--Failure of justice in this case one of the supposed
    causes of the French Revolution of 1848.


The crime of parricide was so little conceivable in ancient law that no
mention of it appears in the early codes. Six centuries of civilisation
elapsed before the Roman law-makers devised a special penalty for
the child who slew his parent. The guilty offspring was sewn up in a
leather sack, and drowned in the sea; in this it was the custom later
to enclose a dog, a cock, a viper and a monkey. The case of Benoit,
quoted below, was by no means isolated. At the trial of Edward Donon
Cadot in 1844, the public prosecutor admitted that there had been
ninety-five parricides in France in the course of ten years. Only a
short time before had the special penalty inflicted in addition to
death, that of mutilation by striking off the offending hand, been
suppressed.

The causes that have inspired this horrible offence are in all cases
generally the same; either the impatient heirs, weary of waiting for
their inheritance, have hastened the departure of the obstacle, or they
have resented the duties imposed on them by the prolonged existence
of an aged and useless parent. These reasons have too often weighed
in France, especially with the peasant class, at once avaricious and
greedy, and the most hideous stories of the savage cruelty of children
towards their parents are to be found in French criminal records; and
this even in quite recent times.

A singularly savage instance of matricide is on record; that of
Frederick Benoit, who murdered his mother at Vouziers, in 1832, and
committed a certain murder at Versailles, for which he suffered death
in Paris. This Benoit was the third son of the Justice of the Peace
at Vouziers. The father was in the habit of visiting a mill he owned
at some little distance, and passing the night there. Madame Benoit,
when left alone, was always a prey to apprehension, for they kept a
considerable sum in cash in the wardrobe, near her bedroom. This fact
was known to young Benoit. One night, when the judge was absent, an
alarm of robbers was raised, and several neighbors rushed in. Frederick
met them on the threshold with the news that the thieves had escaped
by the window, but he begged some one to rouse his mother at once. On
entering her room she was found lying dead upon her bed, with her
throat cut from ear to ear. Death must have been instantaneous, but her
head was enveloped in a woollen petticoat, undoubtedly to stifle her
cries.

Circumstance did not support the theory that thieves had broken into
the house. All the windows had been securely closed at bedtime. The
shutters could be opened only from within. Besides there were no signs
of muddy footmarks brought in from outside, where it was raining hard.
Nor, last of all, was the existence of the money in the cupboard, 6,000
francs in gold, known to any one outside the family circle. The inquiry
seemed naturally limited, therefore, to the persons actually occupying
the house that night,--Frederick Benoit and a young girl, a cousin,
who served as domestic. As the boy was barely twenty and the girl not
seventeen, the police could not bring themselves to suspect them.
Several arrests were made, but guilt could not be fixed upon any one.
Then all at once the second murder was committed by Benoit, who killed
a youthful companion, with whom he was on the most intimate terms. They
had occupied a room together in a small hotel at Versailles. At midday
Benoit had gone out, but no sign was made by the other. In the evening,
about 7 o’clock, the servants went up and found the door locked from
the outside. They entered by another door, and discovered the body of
the second young man with his throat cut. “Precisely as my mother was
killed,” remarked Benoit, when subsequently arrested, and brought into
the presence of the body at the Morgue.

Witnesses now appeared, who had heard the deceased declare that
his life was in danger from Frederick Benoit. “I know what he has
done, and he will certainly kill me some day to save his own skin.”
Benoit was accordingly arrested. A search in his lodgings in Paris
revealed a razor case, from which the razor had been removed, and a
quantity of gold inserted, wrapped up as _rouleaux_ in fragments of
the _Constitutionnel_ newspaper, to which his father, the judge, was
a subscriber. Further incriminating evidence now came from the last
confession of the girl Louise Feucher, his cousin, to the effect that
she had been his accomplice in the murder of Madame Benoit. She had
fled from the house in Vouziers to Paris, and fallen into bad ways,
which had led to her imprisonment in Les Magdelonnettes, where she
entered the hospital, and died.

Frederick Benoit was duly convicted, sentenced to death and executed.
It came out in the course of the trial that his mother had had a
strong presentiment of impending evil. On the night of the murder,
when her husband was absent, she carefully inspected the house with
her son, the intending parricide, and made all secure. “The nights
are long (it was the month of November); we never know what might
happen,” she said, closing all doors and shutters, and looking to the
locks and fastenings. She could not protect herself from the danger
already within the house. Her murderer was in a room close by, and he
accomplished his purpose with a single blow, while she still slept, and
passed, without a struggle, instantaneously from life to death.

M. Donon Cadot, a prosperous banker of Pontoise, was found murdered in
his offices on January 15, 1844; and suspicion fell upon his second
son, who lived with him. He was a widower. His household was limited to
one general servant, and his economy was so rigid that he passed for
a miser. No doubt he was very illiberal to his son. On the day named,
one for the settlement of bills and notes of hand, the banker was at
his desk by 9 o’clock, ready to meet his engagements, and transacted
business for a time, but at the half hour the doors were found closed,
and the son, answering for his father, declared that he had been called
away for a time. He had not returned by four in the afternoon, and the
son on the premises, Edward, summoned an elder brother, who lived in
the town, to attend to the business of the bank. Together they found
a sluggish stream of mingled blood and ink, flowing under the office
door. Forcing it they discovered the lifeless corpse of their father
within. He had been battered to death by some heavy instrument.

The motive of the crime was revealed by the forced safe and empty
drawers of the desk. Everything of value, bills, bank-notes, cash
and a quantity of plate had been carried off. The first named, many
hundred in number, and amounting in all to some 300,000 francs, being
unnegotiable, were returned by post. Other bills, however, were
presented, and the bearer of one of them was traced to his home, where
a number of the papers were found in the same handwriting as the
envelopes which had come through the post. This fixed the suspicion
on a man named Rousselot, and he was brought to confess that he had
participated in the crime. He had committed it at the instigation of
the son Edward, who was moved by greed and jealousy. A long trial
followed, resulting in the conviction of Rousselot and a sentence of
life at the galleys, but the evidence was not deemed conclusive against
the son, and he was released.

A common feature in French crime has always been the systematic
organisation of offenders in bands, where a number of them contrive
to act in concert under chosen leaders. There have been many of these
associations from time to time working on a wide scale and doing
enormous damage. The _chauffeurs_, so called from their methods of
torture to extort confessions of hidden wealth, were a product of
the revolutionary epoch, and a revival of the baneful bands, that
have constantly ravaged France from the Middle Ages. The extensive
operations of Cartouche, one of the most daring and successful of
thieves on a large scale, were rivalled by the terrible band directed
by Hulin in the forest of Montargis, and the exploits of Pontailler,
who worked close up to the walls of Paris.

The depredations of a number of the worst criminals spread terror
through the capital in 1836 and the years immediately following. Now
again, as when Vidocq was charged with pursuit and discovery, serious
robberies were of constant occurrence, and were rightly attributed to
associated action. Very many ex-convicts, those regularly released,
and yet more who had made their escape from durance, were at large.
Some five or six thousand infested Paris alone. The police were ever
on the alert, but failed to put their hands upon the ringleader, until
all at once an atrocious murder was committed in broad daylight in the
populous quarter of the Temple.

Among the respectable dealers of that neighborhood was a family named
Renaud, father, mother and daughter, who kept a shop for the sale of
mattresses and bedding. One afternoon in June, Renaud meant to take
his wife and daughter for a walk, and sent the girl to their private
residence, hard by, to help her mother to dress. She found the rooms
securely locked, and, thinking her mother was within, asleep, went down
to ask her father if she should be awakened. On her return she met a
man coming down in a hurry, and a second, following. But still her
mother’s door was closed. Still no answer came to her knocking, and
she again sought her father, who now ascended and broke into the room
with a hatchet. Madame Renaud was lying dead upon the floor, bearing
many wounds. It was subsequently found that a bag of gold had been
abstracted from the room, a quantity of silver money and several pieces
of plate. Beyond question the strange men first seen were the authors
of the crime. As the men reached the street a woman had met them,
and heard a sound of silver rattling down on the pavement. Some one
also cried after them: “Here! You’ve dropped a silver spoon;” and the
smaller of the two paused to pick it up and run on. Others noted them
as they passed, and that their clothes were much stained with blood.
But they went on, and entered a café, where they called for two glasses
of sugared water. Their haggard looks attracted attention, and they
were seen using the water bottle to wash their hands below the table.
Evidently disturbed, and dreading further observation, they got up and
hurriedly left the café.

The description given of these two men fitted with that of a couple
of convicts recently released from Toulon. Search was made for them,
and, as it progressed, the police came upon several confederates, all
members of a gang in which these two, by name Soufflard and Le Sage,
were leading spirits. With a third, called Micaud, they formed the
executive of this criminal association. They had all been at Toulon
together, and were known there as the most violent and intractable
prisoners. When a new act of insubordination was planned, a new series
of thefts, this trio always originated or were concerned in it. Le Sage
in particular was a terror to his keepers. He had a sister of the same
type as himself, a half savage peasant woman, who hawked bread about
in a basket, but whose real occupation was that of spy, who hunted out
jobs for execution, promising great profit to those who could bring
them off. She had trained a small son to assist her, a precocious
child, who was an adroit thief on his own account. Inspired and guided
by these chiefs, a number of lesser practitioners were kept constantly
busy. Crimes multiplied throughout Paris; jewellers’ shops were broken
into, and private apartments by force or with false keys; shops were
explored by pretended purchasers of goods, and their weak points laid
bare and a descent made next night.

Le Sage, who had been locked up for a brief space in La Force, was,
on his release, informed by his sister of the chances offered by the
Renaud establishment in the Temple. He saw at once that robbery could
hardly be effected without violence, which he did not shrink from, but
he wanted a stalwart companion. Soufflard, who was also at large, was
thirsting for some “big thing,” and willingly joined in the attack upon
the Renauds. The crime once committed, the police were soon on the
track of the murderers, guided by the indications of false friends. Le
Sage was taken first, and easily identified. Soufflard, who had three
separate domiciles, and was very wary, was only caught through the
help of a jealous comrade, who denounced him. Trial and conviction
rapidly followed, but Soufflard after the sentence, evading the
supervision of the warders, who were removing him to the Conciergerie,
swallowed a quantity of arsenic, and died of the effects. Le Sage also
committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell.

Crime is of no class, and in all countries and in all ages, high born
offenders, as well as low, have stood in the dock to answer for their
misdeeds. There are two cases about this period that may be quoted
here in proof of this particular statement; one the alleged poisoning
of her husband by Madame Lafarge; the other, the horrible murder of
the Duchesse de Choiseul-Praslin by her husband, the Duke, at their
mansion, the Hotel Sebastiani in the Faubourg St. Honoré, Paris. Both
take rank with the most celebrated cases, and attracted extraordinary
interest, which has but little abated even now.

The case of Madame Lafarge is still an unsolved mystery. Grave doubts
as to her guilt prevailed, and many learned lawyers have maintained
that she was the victim of judicial error. The accused, Marie Fortunée
Cappelle, was a young lady in good society, well educated and well
bred, who had married a manufacturer at Glandier in the Limoges
country, not far from Bordeaux. She was the daughter of a colonel in
Napoleon’s Artillery of the Guard. She was well connected. Her aunts
were well married, one to a Prussian diplomatist, the other to Monsieur
Garat, the General Secretary of the Bank of France. Her father had
stood well with Napoleon, had held several important military commands,
and was intimate with many of the nobles of the First Empire. Marie
lost her parents early, and, being possessed of a certain fortune,
a marriage was sought for her in the usual French way. She was not
exactly pretty, but was distinguished looking, with a slim, graceful
figure, a dead white complexion, jet black eyes and a sweet, sad smile.

The husband chosen was a certain Charles Pouch Lafarge, a man of fair
position, but decidedly the inferior of Marie Cappelle. He was in
business as an iron master, and was deemed prosperous. He said he had
a large private residence in the neighborhood of his works, a fine
mansion, situated in a wide park, where his wife would be in the midst
of agreeable and fashionable society. Great, almost indecent, haste
was shown in arranging and solemnising the marriage. Within five days
the bride started for her new home, and quickly realised that she had
been completely befooled. M. Lafarge at once showed himself in his
true colors as a rough, brutal creature, who treated his wife badly
from the first. The family seat at Glandier was a fraud. It was a
damp, dark house in a street, surrounded with smoky chimneys. The park
did not exist, nor did the pleasant neighbors. She had been grossly
deceived, and the reality was even worse than it appeared, for Lafarge
was in serious financial difficulties, and had been obliged to issue
forged bills of exchange to keep his head above water. The unhappy and
disappointed wife, when face to face with the truth, made a determined
effort to break loose from Lafarge. On the very day of her arrival at
Glandier, she shut herself up in her room, and wrote him an indignant
yet appealing letter, in which she threatened, if he would not let her
go, to take arsenic. And this, her first mention of the lethal drug,
was remembered against her in later days, when she was tried for her
life.

Peace was patched up between the ill-assorted couple, and Marie was
persuaded to withdraw her letter and promise to do her best to accept
the position, and make her husband happy. “With a little strength of
mind,” she wrote to an uncle, “with patience and my husband’s love, I
may grow contented. Charles adores me, and I cannot but be touched by
the caresses he lavishes on me.” He must have been willing enough to
secure her good graces, for he wanted her to part with her fortune to
improve his business. He had discovered a new process in iron-smelting,
which promised to be profitable, and his wife lent him money to develop
the invention. Then he hurried to Paris to secure the patent, and while
absent from Glandier, where his wife remained, the first event occurred
on which the suspicion of foul play was based. Madame Lafarge was now
so affectionately disposed that she desired to send her portrait to
her husband. The picture was to be accompanied by a number of small
cakes prepared by the mother-in-law, and Marie Lafarge wrote to beg
her husband to eat one at a particular hour on a particular day. She
would do the same at Glandier, and thereby set up some mysterious
_rapport_ with her husband. When the parcel arrived, the picture was
found within, but no small cakes, only one large one. The box had been
tampered with. When it left Glandier, it was screwed down. It reached
Paris fastened with long nails. Lafarge, on opening it, broke off a
part of the large cake, and ate it. That night he was taken violently
ill. The cake presumably contained poison, but the fact was never
proved, still less that Marie Lafarge had inserted the arsenic, which
it was supposed to contain. The evidence against her was that she
had bought some of this baneful drug from a chemist at Glandier. The
charge was definitely made, but on weak evidence, the chief being the
purchased arsenic and her manifest agitation when the news came from
Paris that her husband had been taken ill. On the other hand, there was
nothing to show that she had substituted the large poisoned cake for
the small ones, or that no one else had handled the parcel. Here crept
in the notion of another agency, and the suggestion that some one else
might have been anxious to poison Lafarge. This idea was by no means
extravagant, and it cropped up more than once during the proceedings,
but no proper attention was paid to it. Had the clue been followed, it
might have led inquiry to the possible guilt of another person.

Lafarge returned from Paris a good deal shaken, but the doctor promised
that with rest his health would be restored. On the contrary it got
worse, and with symptoms which to-day would undoubtedly be attributed
to arsenical poisoning. Marie Lafarge would have constituted herself
sole nurse, but the mother-in-law would not agree, and would never
leave her alone with her husband. Witnesses deposed to having seen
Marie take a white powder from a cupboard, which she mixed with the
chicken broth and medicine given to Lafarge. Another witness declared
that the patient cried out “that his medicine burnt out like fire.”

All this time Marie Lafarge did not conceal her possession of arsenic.
She bought it openly to kill rats, she said: a very hackneyed excuse.
It had been bought through one of Lafarge’s clerks, Denis Barbier by
name, upon whom rested strong suspicion from first to last. Barbier
was a man of bad character, passing under a false name. He had been
the secret accomplice of Lafarge in passing forged bills, and a shrewd
theory was advanced that all along he was scheming to supplant his
master and take possession of his property after he (Lafarge) had been
made away with. Barbier’s conduct was such that the Prussian jurists
who investigated the trial afterwards declared that they would have
accused him of the crime rather than Madame Lafarge.

The trial was no doubt conducted with gross carelessness. A post-mortem
was made, but not until it was insisted upon, and it was very
imperfectly performed. When at length the corpse was disinterred,
only an infinitesimal quantity of arsenic was at first found in
the remains, but when the most eminent scientists of the day were
called in, it was established by M. Orfila that the deceased had been
poisoned. The circumstances of the case fixed the guilt upon Madame
Lafarge. She was very ably defended by the famous Maitre Lachaud, but
the jury had no doubt, and condemned her by a majority of voices. At
the same time she was given the benefit of extenuating circumstances,
and sentenced to _travaux forcés_ for life, with exposure in the
public square of Tulle. This decision, although supported by science,
was not universally approved. Many believed in her innocence to the
last, and the number of her sympathisers was legion. She endured her
imprisonment at Montpelier, where she remained for many years, engaged
almost continually in literary work. Her “Memoirs” and a work entitled
“Prison Hours” were largely read. She also conducted an enormous
correspondence, for she was permitted to receive and send out an
unlimited number of letters. No less than six thousand passed through
her hands. At length in 1852 she petitioned the head of the State, and
was released with a full pardon by Napoleon III.

It is impossible at this length of time to settle a question so keenly
debated by her contemporaries. The possibility of her having served
for another’s crime hardly rests on any very strong basis, and the
circumstances that led to her arraignment were very much against
her. It must not be forgotten, moreover, that she was charged with
a crime other than that of theft, and was convicted of it. In this
again she may have suffered unjustly. A school friend, who had become
the wife of the Vicomte de Leautaud, accused her of having stolen her
diamonds, when on a visit at her house. Marie Lafarge freely admitted
the diamonds were in her possession, and pointed out where they might
be found at Glandier, but she refuted the accusation of theft, and
declared that the Vicomtesse had entrusted the diamonds to her to be
sold. Her former lover threatened blackmail, and Madame de Leautaud
was driven to buy him off--this was Marie’s explanation, which Madame
de Leautaud repelled by declaring that it was Marie Lafarge who was
threatened, and that the diamonds were to be sacrificed to save her
good name. In the end, the case was tried in open court, and Madame
Lafarge was found guilty, although there were many contradictory facts.
It was strange that the Vicomtesse so long refrained from complaining
of the theft, and made so little of the loss. Marie, on the other hand,
scarcely secreted the jewels, and was known to have a number of fine
loose stones, for which she variously accounted--one story being that
they were a gift, another that she had owned them from childhood. A
sentence of two years’ imprisonment was passed upon Madame Lafarge, but
it merged in the larger term, when she was convicted of having poisoned
her husband.

The murder of the Duchesse de Choiseul-Praslin by the husband shocked
all Europe, not only on account of the horrible details of the deed,
but from the high rank of the parties concerned. The Duke held his
head high as the representative of an ancient family, and his unhappy
victim was one of the leaders of French fashionable society. She was
the daughter of one of the first Napoleon’s famous generals, the Count
Sebastian, and when in Paris they resided at the Sebastian Hotel in
the Faubourg St. Honoré, in the Champs Elysées. In August, 1840, the
family came from their country seat, the magnificent Chateau of Vaux,
constructed by the famous Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance minister, who
fell into such irretrievable disgrace, and died after long years of
close imprisonment.

It was not a happy marriage, although ten children had been born to
them. But the Duke and Duchess had become estranged as the years passed
by, and were practically separated. Although still residing under the
same roof, they held no communication with each other. What is now
called incompatibility of temper was the cause, and the Duke was a
masterful, overbearing man, who wanted his own way, and had his own
ideas as to the bringing up of his children. He would not suffer his
wife to have any voice in their education and management, but claimed
to control them completely through their governesses, who were quickly
changed if they failed to give satisfaction. One at last was found to
suit, and the fact served to suggest a motive for the crime. Whether
or not there was really an intrigue between this Madame Deluzy and the
Duke, it was strongly suspected, and the Duchess certainly detested
her. The Duke put the governess in a false position. He preferred her
society, and lived much with his children committed to her charge, in a
remote wing of the house.

These relations continued unchanged for several years, and the Duchess,
although consumed with jealous rage, would have ended them by pleading
for a divorce. Here the King and Queen intervened, and sought to
reconcile husband and wife. Madame Deluzy left the Praslins to take
a situation at a school, the head of which, not strangely, asked for
a personal character from the Duchess. Curious stories had been put
about, which must be cleared up before the new governess could be
engaged. The Duchess refused pointblank to give a certificate, although
the mistress came in person with Madame Deluzy to seek it. No doubt the
Duke took this refusal in very bad part, and it is believed a violent
quarrel ensued, although no record of it was preserved. But it is a
fact of the utmost importance as supplying the motive for the crime
committed the same night, or rather in the small hours of the following
morning.

At four o’clock agonized cries disturbed the sleeping household. They
proceeded from the Duchess’s apartment, and were compared by those
who heard them to the yells of a lunatic in a fit of fury. Frantic
ringings of the bell, rapid and intermittent, were the next sounds,
followed by deep groans, the thud of blows and the fall of a heavy
body. The servants rushed down, and found an entrance through doors,
which had been locked from within. All the external doors and shutters
giving upon the gardens were closed, their fastenings intact; only that
of an antechamber, leading to the staircase which communicated with
the Duke’s bedroom on the floor above, was open. He was apparently
still undisturbed, and it was not until the servants had penetrated
to the inner apartment, where they found the Duchess lying prone in
her nightdress and deluged with blood, that the Duke appeared on the
staircase. He was greatly agitated, asked excitedly and repeatedly what
had happened, and struck the wall and his head with his hands. When he
saw the corpse he cried: “Who can have done this? Help! Help! Fetch a
doctor. Quick!”

The doctors arrived, and close behind them the commissaries of police,
who began their investigation immediately. That murder had been
committed was clear from the slashed and stricken state of the corpse.
There were quite a dozen wounds. The throat was cut down to the bone,
the carotid artery and the jugular severed. Gashes in the hands showed
that desperate attempts had been made to ward off the murderous blows
by catching at the blade of the knife used. The poor woman had fought a
hard fight for her life. Later, a close examination of the Duke proved
that he had been wounded. His left hand was lacerated, and the thumb
had been bitten, deep scratches with nails convulsively used,--all
these bore witness to the struggle, and turned suspicion to the Duke.
This was strengthened by other telltale facts. His bedroom was in the
utmost disorder, water had been poured into the basin to wash off
traces of blood, and several garments wringing wet were hung up in the
place.

When called upon to state the facts as he knew them, the Duke made a
very lame defence. He had roused from a sound sleep by loud cries, but,
believing they came from the street outside, he waited until he thought
he heard steps in the garden; then he rose, put on a dressing-gown,
took a loaded pistol, and went down to his wife’s room. He called to
her, but received no answer, and then lit a candle, by the feeble
light of which he discovered her where she lay bleeding to death.
Overcome with horror, he said, he ran back to his own room to wash
off the blood with which he was now covered, and again descended to
join the servants, who had now arrived upon the scene. The replies
to the many serious questions put to the Duke were considered highly
incriminating, and as by this time the highest officers of justice had
reached the spot it was decided that the supposed murderer, whose guilt
seemed clear, should be taken into custody. The King (Louis Philippe)
was absent at his seaside residence, the Castle of Eu, and a special
messenger was despatched to the coast, asking that the House of Peers
should be summoned as a high court of justice to deal with the crime.

Meanwhile an order of arrest was issued, and the Duke would have been
conveyed to the nearest prison but that a disturbance was dreaded.
Great crowds had assembled near the Hotel Sebastian, and feeling ran
high against the aristocratic criminal. A day was thus wasted, and when
the Duke was removed at length to the Luxembourg lock-up he was too
weak to walk, and could barely speak. It was thought at first that he
had been attacked with cholera; for that dread epidemic was just then
ravaging Paris, and he exhibited some of the symptoms of that disease;
but there was presently little doubt that when left unobserved in his
own house he had contrived to become possessed of some poison, and had
attempted his own life. When searched, on leaving his house, a phial
was found in his pocket, containing laudanum mixed with arsenical
acid. Remedies were promptly applied, but failed to counteract the
evil effects of the strong dose.

The “instruction,” or preliminary inquiry, was, however, continued,
despite the condition of the accused and the constitutional
difficulties which demanded the intervention of the House of Peers.
But the Duke grew weaker hourly, and could frame no replies to the
questions, and was beyond doubt dying. At the last, just three days
after his commission of the crime, he made full confession of his
guilt. Nothing had been proved against Madame Deluzy. She had been
charged with complicity, but was in due course discharged.

The crime of De Choiseul-Praslin occurred at a time when political
passion ran high, and the reign of Louis Philippe was approaching its
term. The feeling against the aristocracy was greatly embittered; the
republican opposition was strongly moved by this atrocious murder
committed by a Duke and Peer of France upon an unoffending wife. A
report gained ground and could not be discredited, that the authorities
had permitted him to evade justice; that the story of his death was
quite untrue, and that he had been allowed to escape to England. There
were people who afterwards declared that they had met the Duke, walking
with Madame Deluzy in a London street, and when the funeral took place
an attack was threatened upon the hearse so as to verify the matter.
All this increased the popular excitement, and the government was
fiercely denounced for daring to shield a titled criminal from the
consequence of his acts. No doubt the Praslin murder was a contributory
cause of the Revolution of 1848 and the downfall of Louis Philippe.




CHAPTER VII

THE COURSE OF THE LAW

    The depot of the Prefecture--Procedure on arrest--Committal
    to Mazas--Origin of Mazas--First inmates victims of the coup
    d’état second of December, 1852--Description of Mazas--The
    régime--The cells--The prisoners and their dietaries--Method of
    conducting divine service--Escapes from Mazas--Chief Parisian
    criminals have passed through it--Demeanor of the convicted
    upon arrival and while waiting the extreme penalty--Abadie and
    Gilles--How affected.


He of whom the law falls foul in Paris finds himself in due course
at the depot or prison of the Prefecture. This has been called the
universal prison, for it is the portal through which all offenders, all
actual or suspected law breakers, must necessarily pass. It receives,
examines, rejects and releases, or commits for further proceedings,
a whole world of people. The continuous stream passing in and out
includes all classes, men and women, old and young, the healthy and the
infirm, Parisian and provincial, natives and foreigners of nearly all
nationalities. It has well been called a place of deposit, in which
all are impounded who have gone astray under suspicious circumstances.
Every one is brought here,--the criminal and the degenerate; the
luckless and the unfortunate; the vagabond, the lost or abandoned,
the weakminded and the unprotected. Three times in every twenty-four
hours, the cellular omnibuses lodge all they find in their rounds of
the sub-police stations, the _violons_, so called from the well-known
musical instrument, and also from an instrument by which prisoners’
feet are bound.

The process of arrest and treatment at the _violon_ has been
graphically described by one who has been through it. “As soon as
my name had been inscribed on the register, the brigadier in charge
promptly ordered me to empty my pockets, and not to forget anything.
After this, to make quite sure, I was personally searched, and
everything of value, and much that was not, was taken from me; my
collar, my necktie, one cigar, my penknife, watch, purse and even my
braces, were all put into my pocket handkerchief and tied up. As they
were taking me away to the cell I begged that my braces and pocket
handkerchief might be returned. The rude answer was, ‘You must hold
up your trousers with your hand, and blow your nose as best you can.
That’s enough;’ and I was very summarily locked up in one of three
cells at the end of the passage; a dirty looking place, smelling like a
rabbit hole, and already occupied by a ragged creature, who immediately
demanded tobacco; and, on my saying I had none, asked me to stand treat
for some food as he had not eaten since the day before. I ordered this
out of compassion, and he devoured it voraciously, then went soundly
to sleep upon the wooden guard bed. It was bitterly cold, and towards
morning my companion, saying that he was half frozen, battered at the
door, and asked permission to go out into the large room and warm
himself by the stove, a privilege accorded to me also.

“At an early hour the omnibus came, and I was taken to the depot,
where I was registered in the outer office, and then passed in to
undergo the ordeal of the _petit parquet_, where I was subjected to
the interrogations of one of the substitutes of the Procureur of the
Republic. The work is done quickly. Time presses. There are many cases
to be examined and disposed of.”

The plan of procedure is the same for all. Where the offence is venial
the culprit is speedily set at large. Others whose guilt is clearly
proved, or who make a clean breast of it, are passed on without a
moment’s delay to the correctional police. It is only for those who are
charged with grave crimes, with robbery, forgery, murderous assaults,
and the like; whose cases are surrounded with doubt, or who obstinately
refuse to confess, that the whole machinery of the French law is set
in motion. The accused is then handed over to the tender mercies of
one of the _juges d’instruction_, in order that, at all costs, the
ends of justice may be assured. The examination was conducted until
recently in a manner abhorrent to all ideas of fair play. It is the
rule in a free country that no man need incriminate himself. In France
the accused was fully expected to do so. He was, indeed, forced into
it if he would not do it of his own accord. Under the system which
prevailed till quite recently the judge in turn cajoled, beguiled and
hectored the accused. He set pitfalls and wove snares; he repeated his
questions in a dozen different forms; he had recourse to _coups de
théâtre_, and openly produced the _piéces de convictions_, the weapons
used in a murder to confront a supposed criminal, or brought him face
to face with the reeking and revolting remains of the victim. Sometimes
judge and accused were fairly matched, and there was as much fence and
finesse, as much patient cunning and persistency on the one side as on
the other. Sometimes the moral torture was more than the prisoner could
bear, and he abandoned his defence. It is of record that a murderer,
maddened by the assiduity of the interrogating judge, cried suddenly:
“Yes, I did it. I can deny it no longer. I’d rather be guillotined than
be bullied like this.” But in most cases the process of investigation
ordinarily extended over many days. The prisoner was brought up
again and again before he was finally arraigned. Even then there was
a further delay before he was convicted and received sentence. All
this time he spent at Mazas, the old _maison d’arrêt cellulaire_. He
now goes, after sentence, to Fresnes, on the outskirts of Paris, the
imposing prison recently erected to replace Mazas.

But Mazas had a history. It was associated with the chief criminality
of Paris for more than half a century, and a detailed account of it
should be preserved. It was the first tardy effort of the French to
follow in the path of prison reform, and was first opened on the
nineteenth of May, 1850, to receive the seven hundred inmates of
the then condemned La Force. Elsewhere prisons and their inmates
had occupied a large share of public attention in the first half of
the nineteenth century. The United States led the way with plans of
amelioration, and the prisons of Auburn and Sing-Sing were conspicuous
examples of the new order of things. In England, Millbank Penitentiary
had been erected regardless of cost, after a scheme originated by John
Howard and Jeremy Bentham, and had given place after thirty years
of experiment to Pentonville, built under the auspices and personal
supervision of some of the most distinguished Englishmen of the
day. France alone lagged behind. The question was discussed there,
but little more than talking was done. Two eminent publicists, MM.
Beaumont and De Tocqueville, had visited America in 1837, and published
a valuable monograph upon the penitentiaries of the United States.
In 1840, an energetic and philanthropic prefect of Paris, Gabriel
Delessert, converted, by his own authority, the boys’ prison of La
Petite Roquette into a place of cellular confinement. Still, it was
not till 1844 that the principle of isolation and separation for all
prisoners was accepted even theoretically, in France. Five years more
elapsed before Mazas, the first French prison built in accordance with
modern ideas was ready for the reception of prisoners.

It must be confessed that, although French prison administrators were
slow to put their hands to the work, when once it was undertaken they
did their best to make the new establishment a success. The best
models of the time were adopted and closely followed. The architect
of Mazas, if he did not exactly imitate Sir Joshua Jebb, the eminent
English engineer who gave the model for prison construction to all the
world, was clearly inspired by him. In its main outlines Mazas greatly
resembled Pentonville. The ground plan was much the same. There was
the same radiation of halls or divisions from a common centre. The
same tiers of cells rise story above story. The size of the cells (ten
feet by six), the method of ventilation and warming, by means of hot
water pipes with extraction flues and furnaces in the roof, are nearly
identical in the French and English prisons. Nor was it only in the
construction of Mazas that the French authorities sought to secure the
perfection of the new arrangements. With a tenderness for the welfare
of the occupants of the prison, which contrasted almost violently with
their previous apathy as to the treatment of criminals, they tested its
sanitary fitness by filling it for a time with paupers, before it was
opened for prisoners. No evil effects having appeared among the former
it was deemed safe for the latter and presently became the place of
detention for all male _prévenus_ or prisoners awaiting trial. Such it
long continued, and has only been replaced by Fresnes since 1898.

The newly constructed prison of Mazas played its part in the Napoleonic
_coup d’état_ of 1853. It became for the time being a political prison.
When the Legislative Assembly was invaded and the Chamber forcibly
dissolved, two hundred of its members met at the Mayoralty of the Tenth
Arrondissement. The place was surrounded by the troops. An order to
disperse was issued, with the alternative of a transfer under escort
to Mazas. Their leaders were already imprisoned, among the number
Generals Cavaignac, Lamoncière and Bedeau; Colonel Charras, MM. Thiers,
Broglie, Odillon, Barot and Remusat. It was feared that to commit a
larger number to gaol might create a disturbance, and the deputies now
arrested were confined in the barracks near the Quai d’Orsay. The only
interesting fact connected with this high-handed treatment of political
opponents by the founders of the Second Empire was that M. Thiers had
been the minister who, in 1849, had decreed the building of Mazas, and
was, as we have seen, one of the first to occupy it. History repeats
itself. Often before, as in the cases of Hugues d’Aubriot at the
Bastile and Cardinal La Balue at Loches, men had been cast into cells
of their own creation.

Mazas, in the half century of its life, was always a striking object
on the boulevard of the same name, which had been so called after a
distinguished soldier of the First Empire, the Colonel Mazas who was
killed at the Battle of Austerlitz. It was well known to all travellers
to the South of France from the busy Gaol de Lyon, and with its grim
façade of dark granite was in strong contrast to the bright boulevard
crowded with vehicles and animated passers-by. It was the privilege of
the present writer to pay it a lengthened visit in its palmy days, and
he may be permitted to draw upon his own experience in describing it.

The outer approaches were easily passed. A first gate was unlocked by
a warder in dark green uniform, with white metal buttons, bearing the
badge of an open eye. This gate led into an inner courtyard, surrounded
by storerooms and waiting rooms with the façade of the director’s
residence--bright with masses of green creeper growing luxuriantly
on one side. On the ground floor was a second portal where another
Cerberus kept guard. To the right of this second entrance was the
office of the _greffier_, or registrar of the prison, whose business it
was to examine the credentials of all who would penetrate into the body
of the prison. It was his business also to take a minute description of
all prisoners on their reception, a formality known as the _écrou_, or
enrolment upon the prison books. These books are voluminous, but are
very accurately and carefully kept. The _signalement_ of the prisoner
gave all information concerning him, a full account of his personal
appearance, of the clothes he was wearing, and of his position in life.

The _greffier_ satisfied, a few more steps led us to another door,
and this passed, we were in the _rond point_, or central hall of the
prison. In the middle of this was a circular office and observatory,
with sides entirely of glass, where a superior warder was posted
to exercise a general supervision over the long corridors of the
radiating wings. There were six of these wings arranged in three
tiers or landings, each containing two hundred cells, after making
due deductions for cells appropriated as bathrooms and _parloirs
d’avocats_, or places where prisoners have private interviews with
their attorneys. The whole prison at that time accommodated some
eleven hundred souls. Although displaying a strong family likeness to
prisons of its class, there was nothing particularly striking about
the interior of Mazas. The prison was not very trimly kept. There was
an absence of that spick and span cleanliness, that glittering prison
polish, that freshness of paint and whitewash, which are generally
deemed indispensable in every first-class prison. Untidy bales of
goods, containing work just completed by the prisoners lay here and
there awaiting removal; there was a good deal of litter about, and
a suspicion of dust and soot. The walls throughout were stained a
muddy, yellowish brown, which could not have been renewed for years.
The passages were floored with brick, as were also the cells. Odors
the reverse of fragrant in places assailed the nostrils. The system
of introducing fresh air and extracting foul, although based on sound
principles, did not seem to be thoroughly effective. Flushing was
carried out by hand from water-cans supplied to the prisoners, and was
altogether unsatisfactory. But with the cells and their furniture no
great fault could be found. The former were light and airy, the latter
supplied their occupants with those bare necessaries which are usually
conceded to the inmates of prisons. The prisoner’s bed was a hammock
with a mattress stuffed with wool or hair, and he had sheets and one
blanket; in winter two blankets. A small table was built into the wall,
about the centre of the cell. Over it was a gas jet, and close by was a
straw-bottomed chair, attached to the wall by a chain just long enough
to allow the prisoner to move his seat to and fro. Besides these he
had an earthenware basin, a tin dinner dish, a large tin bottle for
water, a drinking cup, a wooden spoon and spittoon. The cell walls
were adorned with official notices: the regulations of the prison, in
which all that the prisoner must and might not do was set forth with
considerable prolixity; an inventory of what the cell contained and a
list of prices, approved by the Prefect of the Police, of the articles
of consumption which the prisoner might buy at the prison canteen with
the money he earned or was sent him by friends. Prisoners unconvicted
were, naturally, not compelled to work in prisons, but they were
invited, even persuaded, to do so, and were at liberty to expend half
the money they might earn in purchasing small comforts or adding to
their daily fare. Those who preferred it were permitted, as elsewhere,
to supply themselves altogether with food; and in cases where the
_prévenu_ was of good family, if he or his friends were in funds, his
meals came straight from a good restaurant or his own home.

The inmate of Mazas could not well complain of the neglect of the
authorities, nor, judging by outward appearances, of the harshness of
their rule. In addition to many minor indulgences, he was permitted
to purchase a certain fixed quantity of wine, three double decilitres
of good ordinary Bordeaux,--“_vieux, pur, naturel, franc de goût_,”
it is set forth in the canteen notice,--and as much tobacco as he
could smoke when and where he pleased. He had an excellent library
of books at his disposal, and might see his friends from outside
when he chose. In some respects, indeed, he might deem the official
solicitude for his welfare a little exaggerated and misplaced. The
law was before all things anxious that he should do himself no harm.
The precautions against suicide were many and minute, and included
the deprivation of all dangerous weapons, with constant observation,
extending, if necessary, to the unceasing companionship of two or more
fellow-prisoners. With the recalcitrant _prévenu_ who refuses to plead
guilty these cell-comrades had other duties to perform. They acted also
as _moutons_, (the prison spies already spoken of), and wheedled the
unconscious prisoner into incautious confessions, of which full use was
made later. Thus the notorious murderer, Troppmann, confided his secret
to his prison attendants, and greatly assisted the prosecution thereby.
In his case the most extraordinary care was taken to prevent his laying
hands upon himself. During his long detention he was not allowed to
shave, lest he should injure himself with the razor. He appeared in
court with a long beard, which his advocate insisted should be removed.
The demand was only reluctantly conceded; and the operation was carried
out under the close surveillance of a number of officers after putting
him in a strait waistcoat and tying him into a chair.

Except, however, where the ends of justice seem to require a special
departure from the rule, isolation, that is, the complete separation
of prisoners one from the other, was strictly maintained at Mazas. All
the arrangements of the prison were based upon this idea--the private
boxes of the _parloir_, or visiting cell; the separate compartments
in the exercising yards, where each prisoner ranges like a beast in a
menagerie up and down a narrow cage, in shape like a wedge cut out of
a plum cake; all are meant to secure the great end. Even the method of
conducting divine service was such that every prisoner could attend
mass without seeing or being seen by his neighbors or leaving his own
cell. This was effected by establishing an altar on the top of the
office in the _rond point_, or central hall. The _aumonier_, or prison
chaplain, who officiated here, could be seen from every cell in the
prison. All the doors were bolted ajar by a very ingenious arrangement.
The long steel bar which usually secured the cell was shot for the time
being into a ring projecting from the casing of the door, and thus a
long, narrow aperture was left facing the altar, but only a few inches
wide. This system no doubt prevented the intercommunication possible
in an open chapel; yet, while this can be reduced to a minimum where
discipline is strong and supervision effective, the prisoner alone in
his cell was under no surveillance at all. He could behave just as it
suited him. A close observer, Maxime du Camp, examined thirty-three
cells, and observed what their inmates were doing while mass was being
said. Three only were reading their missals and following the priest;
one was on his knees; one was standing uncovered, looking towards the
altar; one had opened his prayer book, but for choice was looking at
the _Magasin Pittoresque_; one other, with his head buried deep in his
arms, was shaken by a paroxysm of tears.

Escapes were rarely attempted at Mazas, and if tried were scarcely
ever successful. Once a practised locksmith contrived to remove the
fastenings of his cell during the night, to get through the bars beyond
and lower himself into the yard, where he found a scaffold pole, and
raising it against the first wall climbed up by it to the top. It
helped him also to descend to the far side, where he came upon the
night watchman wrapped up in his cloak and sleeping peacefully. The
boundary wall had still to be surmounted, but the scaffold pole was too
short. Foiled in this direction the fugitive retraced his steps and now
attacked the grating of the chief sewer which passed under the outer
wall, flowing towards the river. He climbed down it, but unhappily for
him found that the Seine was in flood, and, being unable to swim, was
all but drowned. He managed to extricate himself, however, and, being
now thoroughly worn out and disheartened, he returned to his cell,
where the evidence of his fruitless efforts remained to convict him
next morning. Two other prisoners made a somewhat similar attempt. They
also removed their windows, lowered themselves by ropes made from their
bed sheets, and, gaining the yard, forced the grating of the sewer by
means of bars taken from their iron bedsteads. They entered the sewer,
and, traversing it for some distance, were stopped by a much larger
grating, which separated the prison branch from the main sewer. This
they also forced and were at liberty to issue forth, if they pleased,
upon the Seine. But by this time the alarm was given; the fugitives
were traced into the prison sewer; all the sewer mouths were closely
watched, and the two men were re-captured a couple of days later.

Mazas as the prison of the _prévenus_, the receptacle of all persons
accused of serious crime and detained on reasonable presumption of
guilt, was intimately associated with the passing criminality of Paris
for fifty years. Every Ishmaelite, charged with raising his hand
against his fellows, passed through its forbidding portals to emerge
once more, if fate was kind to him, or if convicted, to disappear into
its inner darkness. Confinement in a trial prison is the most painful
phase in the criminal’s career. He is a constant prey to sickening
anxiety, or the plaything of exaggerated hope. He alternates between
overmuch confidence and dreadful despair. His surroundings affect him
according to his quality. The cellular isolation, which is his almost
invariable lot, may be grateful to the victim of circumstance, whether
really innocent or by no means hopelessly bad. The old offender, on
the other hand, suffers acutely, it is said, not so much from remorse
as from boredom and disgust; less from the prickings of his conscience
than self-reproach at having played his cards badly and failed in his
latest attempt at depredation. In any case the days are long when
spent in a separate cell, awaiting judgment, the nights dark and often
sleepless and interminable. We have authentic assurance that the end
of it all, the very worst,--conviction, sentence, the heaviest, the
extreme penalty of the law,--comes as a distinct relief, and although
a certain, shameful death is now before him, the condemned prisoner
sleeps soundly on his final return from court. The prisoner condemned
to death is generally worn out with the struggle for life. He is
wearied, mentally and physically, and wishes, as a rule, to forget the
horrible episode which has kept his faculties tense-strung, and, for a
time at least, he sinks into apathy and is more or less callous of his
impending fate. Now and again, and this is specially characteristic
of the French prisoner, he is defiant with cynical bravado. He may be
passive, or active, as in the case of Camp, who, when he reached his
cell on return from the court which had sentenced him, was seized with
a fit of fury, and, catching up a log of wood as a weapon, rushed at a
warder and attempted to murder him. A curious trait in all condemned
men is the survival of hope to the very last.

In France, where in capital cases an appeal to the law for the revision
of the proceedings is the rule, the convict is always buoyed up by
the chance of reprieve, and never finally yields until the officials
enter his cell on the last dread morning, and he is awakened to hear
the words, “It is for to-day.” This means that death is imminent, and
that within a few minutes, half an hour at the outside, the guillotine
will have done its work. It is a cruel process, that of postponing
all knowledge of the exact day until it has arrived; although in
France murderers will exhibit the most ferocious tiger-like attitude
when it comes. “Dread anticipation never leaves them,” a French
chaplain, l’Abbé Crozes, of the Grande Roquette, has recorded. “As the
inevitable day approaches they are consumed with the liveliest fears,
and are possessed with one single idea, that of escaping death.” Two
miscreants, guilty of the most bloodthirsty murders, Abadie and Gilles,
who waited for three months before the end came, told the same good
priest that every morning at four o’clock they awoke in an agony of
terror, and only recovered about six, when the hour for communicating
the dread news had passed for the day. A similar story is that of the
French noble, lying with the rest of the prisoners in a Revolutionary
prison, who, as often as he heard the list for execution each morning
and missed his name, cried out with intense relief: “The little man has
another day to live.”

The French practice of withholding from the criminal information as to
the day of his death until almost the moment for execution has arrived
is cruel enough; but this chapter has shown an amelioration in French
prison conditions of such extent that the cruelty of that practice may
be condoned.




CHAPTER VIII

MAZAS AND LA SANTÉ

    Notable inmates of Mazas--Dr. de la Pommerais,
    the poisoner--Execution--Strange story of
    execution--Troppmann--Massacre of the Kinck family--Father
    suspected--Found to be Troppmann--His motives and
    measures--Troppmann’s trial and conviction--The theft of
    the Duke of Brunswick’s diamonds--La Santé Prison similar
    to Mazas--Its interior described--Labor on “contract”
    system--Objections--Variety of products--Mild rule--Religious
    tolerance--Prison library--Dietaries--No canteen and extras.


The great prison of Mazas received criminals of all sorts and of all
degrees of atrocity in its day; and we may here review the cases
of several of the most notable of these. The crimes of the French
poisoner De la Pommerais followed so closely on those of Palmer, the
English doctor who ruthlessly dealt death to so many of his friends
and relations, that it is quite possible that the first named owed
something of his inspiration to the example of the latter. The
facilities offered to medical practitioners for the administration of
lethal drugs have often tempted doctors to commit murder when greedy
for gain. This Frenchman came to Paris from Orleans in 1839, when four
and twenty years of age, and set up in practice as a homœopathist.
He gave lessons in that branch of science, opened a dispensary, and
gave medical advice for small fees to the poorer classes. He was a
pretentious youth, who sought to pass as a man of title, and called
himself the Count de la Pommerais. He also craved the decoration of St.
Sylvester from Pope Pius IX and the cross of the Legion of Honor, but
obtained neither, as may well be imagined.

His fictitious rank, however, brought him a wife; the orphan child of a
military doctor, whom he married much against the wish of her mother,
a lady of some private means. Madame Dubrizy as she was named, lived
only a couple months, and died in horrible suffering after having dined
with La Pommerais. She had retained her fortune in her own hands, for
she distrusted as well as disliked her son-in-law. He had produced
securities as his contribution to the marriage contract, which she
found were only borrowed for the occasion: by her death he came into
her money.

Strong suspicion of foul play was aroused when a second sudden death
occurred among his acquaintances. A Madame de Pauw, widow of one of his
patients, died suddenly, although she did not appear to have suffered
from any previous illness. The police had kept an eye on La Pommerais
for some time past. His _dossier_, “social character,” was recorded at
the Prefecture, and spoke of him as a dangerous intriguer, who was in
the habit of visiting this Madame de Pauw frequently, although they
were in very different stations in life. He made a great show, and was
well received in society, but she was reputed a mere pauper. On this
same _dossier_ it was stated that he had probably poisoned his deceased
mother-in-law, although there was no direct proof that he had done so.

Now the police ordered a post mortem on Madame de Pauw, which was
entrusted to the eminent toxicologist Doctor Tardieu, who expressed
his belief that she had been poisoned, but could find no trace of the
drug. The cause of death had been certified as a fall down-stairs.
Then the deceased’s sister informed against La Pommerais, stating that
he had effected a large insurance upon her life. Here the influence
of Palmer’s evil example was obvious. Next the criminal himself gave
ground for fresh suspicion by his greediness in seeking payment of
the policies which he held. They had been effected in eight different
offices, and for a total amount of 550,000 francs. The guilty intention
was clear, for the woman was in great indigence, and the first premium
of 18,840 francs had been produced by La Pommerais. Further evidence
was abundantly forthcoming when the doctor was presently arrested.
A great quantity of different poisons was found in his surgery,
especially digitaline, a preparation from the common foxglove, well
known for its baleful effect upon the heart.

The actual arrest was made by the then head of police, M. Claude, who
has told the story in his “Memoirs.” They were acquaintances, and La
Pommerais had so far presumed upon it as to ask M. Claude to back him
in soliciting the appointment of medical officer at Mazas prison. When
the law was to be set in motion Claude kindly thought to break the blow
to the man at whose table he had dined, and went in person to serve the
warrant. He found the two, man and wife, at breakfast. “Good news,” he
began, “you are to have Mazas. I want you to come there with me now.”
The criminal changed countenance for a moment, but the police officer
reassured him. “The fact is,” he went on, “the director of Mazas has
never been favorably disposed towards you, and he may object, still,
to your appointment. You must let me bring you together, and we will
talk him over.” La Pommerais yielded with rather a bad grace, and,
on reaching the cab at the door in which two policemen were already
seated, he knew his fate. This miscreant had one redeeming quality; he
was devotedly attached to his wife, and it is said that when about to
kneel down at the scaffold under the fatal knife he gave a last kiss to
the priest in attendance, “pour Clothilde.”

A very curious story was communicated to the press immediately after
his execution, which has since been definitely contradicted. It was
to the effect that a certain Doctor Velpeau had obtained a promise
from La Pommerais that he would make him some sign after he had passed
the threshold of the grave. Velpeau is reported to have said to La
Pommerais: “When the knife falls I shall be there, just in front of
the scaffold, and I shall arrange that your head, when decapitated,
comes at once into my hands. I propose to whisper into your ear,
‘Monsieur, as we have agreed, will you now, on hearing my voice, lower
your right eyelid three times, keeping the left eye open?’” Velpeau
declared that he carried out his part of the compact, and was prepared
to swear that the severed head had twice made the sign as arranged;
but the eyelid would not lift a third time, and, although Velpeau
again and again asked for the sign, none came, and the head assumed a
fixed rigidity. Death had put an end to the convulsive spasms by which
possibly the previous signs had been produced. The story is extravagant
and apocryphal, for the Abbé Crozes, when invited to give his opinion,
settled the matter by declaring that Velpeau had never had any
conversation with the dead man, and as a matter of fact was not present
at the execution at all.

France contains in her criminal records one of the worst murders ever
committed in any civilised country. The Crime of Pantin, as it was
called at the time, was the wholesale massacre of a family--father,
mother and six children--with the sole idea of becoming possessed
of property to which no survivor could lay claim. Troppmann, who
perpetrated it, laid the plan with such devilish ingenuity that for a
long time the guilt was attributed to the father, Jean Kinck, assisted
by his eldest son, and the first inquiries were centred upon them.

On the morning of the twentieth of September, 1869, at an early hour a
workman, in crossing the plain of Pantin beyond the Buttes-Chaumont, to
the northeast of Paris, noticed the traces of much blood spilt upon the
ground, and near them a blood-stained handkerchief. Further on he saw
protruding above the ground a human arm imperfectly buried, and using a
spade he dug up, first one body and afterwards five more,--the body of
a woman and those of five children. Some of the clothes carried buttons
with the address of a tailor in Roubaix, who recognised them as having
been ordered by a fellow townsman, by name Jean Kinck. This Kinck was
absent from home. He had summoned his wife and children to join him in
Paris on the nineteenth of September. They had duly arrived and taken
rooms at a hotel near the Northern Railway Station, where the husband
was already staying, having registered himself the week before under
the name, Jean Kinck of Roubaix. He did not meet his wife on arrival,
and she seemed much upset, but went out almost immediately with all her
children, and never returned. Next morning, however, Jean Kinck came
in, went up to his room, changed his clothes and again left, but before
the discovery of the corpses was generally known.

Suspicion was soon drawn to this supposed Kinck, and it was found that
some one like him had bought a pick and shovel at a toolmaker’s shop,
which, later in the evening, he had carried off in the direction of
Pantin. No doubt he was bent on digging the graves of his victims. Full
details of his appearance, his condition and ways of life presently
arrived from Roubaix. He was fifty years of age, gray haired, short
of stature and well built, an industrious, enterprising brush maker,
anxious to extend his business; for which purpose he had left Roubaix
five weeks previously for Alsace, where he already owned a house. He
meant to sell it and buy a larger one, in which he could live, and, at
the same time, carry on his trade. Madame Kinck, a native of Turcoing,
did not favor this project. She did not want to move to Germany, as
she did not speak the language, and differences had arisen between the
pair, supplying some motive for the murder. Three days passed before
any satisfactory information came to hand. Nothing had been heard of
the father, Jean Kinck, nothing of the son, but the father had left
Roubaix in the beginning of September, the son Gustav eight or ten
days later: it was generally believed that the Kinck who appeared at
the hotel of the Northern Railway Station was Gustav, as the personal
description tallied with him better than with the father.

Now, as so often happens in mysterious criminal cases, a bolt came
from the blue. Jean Kinck, or some one passing for him, was suddenly
arrested at Havre. Chance had strangely intervened in the interests of
justice, and detection followed in an entirely unexpected manner. News
was telegraphed to Paris that Jean Kinck had been arrested at Havre
under peculiar circumstances. On the morning of the twenty-third of
September a young man entered a café on the sea front at Havre, and
became engaged in conversation with a sailor, whom he met there. He was
anxious to know what steps to take to secure a passage for America.
“Your papers must be in order,” was the first answer he received, and
it came, not from his friend, but from an officious gendarme, who
was loafing about the place, and inspired by the restless spirit of
interference which so constantly disturbs the official mind. “You have
your papers of course?” He received a negative reply. “No? Then you
must come with me to the police office.” There was nothing for it but
to obey, and they started off together, chatting pleasantly, but the
stranger was manifestly uneasy, and when there was a sudden stoppage
in the traffic he slipped aside and ran towards one of the basins of
the dock. The gendarme followed close in his tracks, shouting, “Stop
him, stop him! He is a murderer,” and there was little hope for the
fugitive amidst the gathering crowd. But with one bound he sprang into
the water, caught a floating buoy, and hung on there between life
and death until he was fished out by some of the sailors with ropes
and boat-hooks, and brought to shore half drowned. He was carried
to the hospital, where he was put to bed and interviewed at once by
the Commissary, to whom he would make no reply. He was a young man
of about twenty, short, dark, with black eyes, a long beaky nose and
close cut hair, a description which answered in many respects, save
that of youth, to the missing Jean Kinck. His identity was established,
however, beyond all doubt by the papers found on him. All of them
were documents connected with the Kinck family. There was a contract
for the sale of a house in Roubaix; notes of hand signed by Kinck in
favor of people of the town; the contract of a house from another
proprietor, and a number of private papers and letters in a pocketbook
with a morocco purse, trimmed with copper, containing several coins; a
silk handkerchief and some five-franc pieces; a valuable gold watch, a
second watch, a small ring, a medallion and a pocket knife. Doubts were
still expressed as to the identity of Jean Kinck, and it was generally
supposed that he was Gustav. But then other letters were found in his
possession, addressed to a certain Troppmann, and eventually it was
proved that this was really his name.

The police paid an immediate visit to Roubaix to make further
inquiries, and found that this Troppmann was a personal friend of Jean
Kinck. In the house were a number of letters purporting to be from
the husband, but, as was explained in one of them, written by another
hand because Kinck had injured his wrist. These were the letters that
had persuaded Madame Kinck to come to Paris. When the judges undertook
the interrogation it was proved beyond doubt that these were from a
mechanical engineer, an Alsacian by birth, who had long been intimate
with Kinck, and constantly visited him at the drinking shop of the
“Re-union of Friends,” of which Kinck was proprietor. Troppmann, when
questioned, freely admitted these facts, and it was soon plainly seen
that he bore the marks of a recent struggle with some enraged female.
His cheeks were torn and scratched with many wounds; there were marks
of nails that had gone deep into his flesh. Troppmann, who was brought
without delay to Paris and confronted with the corpses in the Morgue,
made no difficulty of recognising and identifying them; and he went so
far as to confess that the murder had been organised by the Kincks,
father and son, with his knowledge, although he had taken no active
part in it. He refused to throw any light upon the whereabouts of the
Kincks. As the inquiry proceeded, witnesses came forward who recognised
Troppmann as the person who had bought the pick and shovel at the
tool shop, and all that was now needed was to prove a motive for the
crime. His possession of Kinck’s watch and valuables was _prima facie_
evidence, and there were those who spoke as to the close relations
that had existed between them. Troppmann was greedy for money, and was
continually proposing schemes, promising great profit to Kinck if he
would go into them. He was for ever begging him to advance capital, but
Kinck was cautious, and would not risk a sou. Not less did Troppmann
devise plans, by which he might bleed Jean Kinck, and the last seemed
likely to succeed. He declared that he had discovered in the Alsacian
mountains a plentiful supply of precious metals, gold, silver and
mercury in large quantities, ready to be extracted by any enterprising
hand.

Jean Kinck’s movements were at last traced. He had left Roubaix on
the twenty-fourth of August, three or four weeks before the discovery
of the bodies at Pantin, saying he would return in a few days. He
went into Alsace, and was met by Troppmann, with whom he travelled by
diligence to Soultz. This was the last heard of him, although letters
not in his own hand reached Madame Kinck at Roubaix. A search had been
made, however, in the neighborhood where he had last been seen, and
his body was at last found, not far from Wattwiller, in a forest at
the foot of the ruins of the ancient stronghold of Henenflung. It had
been buried beneath a heap of stones raised high above the grave. The
cause of death was not immediately apparent, but doctors presently
reported that he had been poisoned with Prussic acid administered
probably from a flask. No doubt he had been inveigled to this spot by
fictitious reports of the presence of gold. Thus the last victim was
accounted for, Gustav Kinck, the eldest son, having been disinterred
some days before at no great distance from the other bodies in the
plain of Pantin. The chain of damning evidence was complete. Link by
link it wound round the accused, and definitely secured conviction upon
trial. But every point had first been elicited beyond all doubt by
the “instructing” or interrogating judge at Mazas, although Troppmann
long took refuge in persistent denial of every fact or in obstinate
silence. At last came the confrontation. The prisoner, who was examined
throughout at Mazas in a large cell in the infirmary, was taken down
to the Morgue, and suddenly brought into the presence of the corpse
of Gustav Kinck, but then just discovered. He was seized with violent
emotion, hid his face in a handkerchief, and refused to look at his
murderous handiwork. “Come now,” insisted the magistrate, “confess that
you struck the blow.” “No, no, it wasn’t I.” And he repeatedly asserted
that the elder Kinck had taken his son’s life. This was his line of
defence in court, greatly elaborated by his counsel, Maitre Lachaud,
perhaps the most famous and eloquent advocate who has practised at
the French bar; but he also asserted that Troppmann had accomplices,
who should have been arraigned with him, and he insisted that it was
wickedly unfair to allow one culprit to bear the whole brunt of the
crime. The jury, however, remained unmoved by his impassioned appeal,
and almost immediately found Troppmann guilty on all counts, on
which the judge, never having accepted the theory of accomplices and
satisfied that the law had laid its hand upon the real perpetrator of
the crime, sentenced him to death. He was sent to the Conciergerie to
await removal to the Grand Roquette.

Troppmann spent his last hours in a vain combat with the authorities,
but after maintaining it for some days he fell into a state of
prostration, and, when he came out to die, was already a broken-down,
worn-out, old man of fifty, more than double his years. When they came
to warn him for execution, he essayed to appear unconcerned, and,
throughout the remainder of the painful scene, fought hard, but of
course fruitlessly, for his life. Although subjected to the “toilette”
and secured by straps and cords, he managed to break loose when on the
scaffold, and strenuously resisted as they led him to the block. When
his neck was laid under the axe of the guillotine, he pushed it so far
forward that the axe on falling would have struck his shoulder, but the
executioner held him in his place and deftly touched the spring which
released the knife, and all was over. But the dying man in his frantic
resistance had managed to get the executioner’s hand into his mouth and
bit it fiercely.

The trial of Troppmann was in its way a public scandal. The court was
crammed with curious spectators, whose morbid minds drew them to stare
at the hero of this horrible tragedy as though he were a wild beast
in a menagerie, about to be subjected to physical torture. People of
the highest rank and fashion demeaned themselves to gain places in the
audience by any means; by social intrigues, by using private influence
with the judges and officers of the court. Troppmann was the centre
of attraction, the cynosure of every eye. His features and demeanor
were closely scanned, his dress was commented upon critically. It was
noted, also, that he was clean shaved. This was on the demand of his
counsel, who hoped that his small, youthful face, which when smooth
and hairless looked like that of a lad of fifteen, would impress the
jury with the idea that he could not possess the strength to handle a
knife with such deadly effect as had been exhibited in the cruel wounds
of his victims. Before the barber, however, was permitted to use the
razor, Troppmann was put into a strait-waistcoat (_camisole de force_);
he was tied down in a chair, with one warder on either hand, ready to
seize him and check any attempt at self-destruction. Troppmann laughed
at these precautions, and plainly hinted that he had means of suicide
at his disposal, of which they had no idea. It was known that Troppmann
had himself manufactured the prussic acid he gave to Kinck. But he
disdained to use them or to bring discredit on his family, a rather
far-fetched nicety in a miscreant who had been guilty of such crimes.

They were not all murderers who passed through Mazas, although some
were top-sawyers in the criminal business, such as Shaw, the Englishman
who stole the Duke of Brunswick’s diamonds. It will be remembered that
one of the most marked features in the eccentric character of the
late Duke of Brunswick was his passion for precious stones. He long
made Paris his principal home, and resided in a quaint old mansion in
the Beaujour quarter, a house with red walls, massive gateways and
innumerable bolts and bars. The Duke, a worn-out voluptuary, a faded
old beau, who, on the rare occasions when he showed himself in public,
came out painted, made up and bewigged, lived here quite secluded among
his treasures, which he kept in an enormous iron safe. These jewels
were valued at £600,000, a splendid collection, accumulated at great
cost, and carried off by him when he fled from his principality. They
served no purpose but to gratify his greedy passion for possession.
Except when he had taken them out to gloat over them, these priceless
gems never saw the light. He took the most painful care of them. They
were lodged in an inner apartment, to reach which it was necessary to
pass through the Duke’s study and bedroom. There were electric wires
communicating with many bells to give warning of the approach of
any unauthorised person; other bells were attached to the triggers
of revolvers to fire them off automatically at any intruder. It was
the Duke’s craze, not altogether unfounded, that thieves were always
aiming at him. He thought that all the world wanted to rob him. At
his particular request two police officers watched constantly over
him, seldom letting him out of their sight, and keeping a careful eye
upon his treasure house. The fact that the Duke of Brunswick’s house
was full of rich booty was known to every depredator in Europe, and a
thousand plans were devised to break in and rifle it. At last England
acquired the questionable credit of overcoming all obstacles, and
carrying off the Duke’s diamonds.

In 1863 the Duke had an English valet, a very confidential personage
named Shaw, a native of Newcastle-on-Tyne. He had got the place in
the ordinary way through a registry office, supported by first-class
references, all forged; he proved himself to be a very excellent
servant, quiet, attentive, much liked by both his master and his
fellows. He was really the agent and confederate of a gang of thieves
who had especially selected him for the job they had in view. It was
his business to become familiar with the safe and its surroundings,
taking the first opportunity to “lift” its contents when he could do
so without danger to himself. The safe stood in a receptacle behind an
iron door in the wall at the head of the Duke’s bed, and a silk curtain
hung in front of this door, which was secured with special locks.
These might be picked some day, but in behind was the great safe with
its alarm bells and automatic batteries of firearms. There was infinite
danger in interfering with these. Only the practised hand of some one
in the secret of the machinery would dare to risk it. Shaw was patient
and bided his time.

One day (December 17, 1863) the Duke sent for a working jeweller he
employed, meaning to have certain changes made in the setting of some
of his stones. In anticipation he opened the inner safe and, contrary
to his custom, left it open. This did not escape Shaw, who was in
attendance, but he hoped little from it until he saw his royal master,
wearied of waiting for the jeweller, go out without relocking his safe.
The Duke was satisfied to secure the external door at the head of the
bed.

This was Shaw’s opportunity. He had a picklock, and soon used it with
good effect on this the first obstacle. There was no second or inner
defence, and the safe door being ajar the machinery did not work. He
was, in fact, master of the situation, and with all haste made the most
of it. The Duke’s treasures lay at his mercy, jewel-cases, diamond
stars, bags of gold. He soon filled his pockets and hurried out, being
careful to close the outer door and pull the curtain across, hoping
that the abstraction might not be immediately observed. Having packed
a small valise with a few effects he told a fellow-servant to take up
his service with the Duke, on the ground that he was unwell, and then
slipped out of the house.

The theft was, however, quickly discovered, and the French police were
put on the alert. Shaw immediately betrayed himself by addressing an
anonymous letter to a royal personage in London, in which the writer
offered to restore to their rightful owners, the English royal family,
certain jewels wrongfully detained by the Duke of Brunswick, on
receiving a reward of 100,000 francs. This letter was at once handed
over to the authorities in Scotland Yard, who passed it on to Paris.
A postscript was added to the letter, stating that the writer would
meet any messenger sent with the money at Boulogne. Acting at once on
this clue, the French detectives hastened to Boulogne, and, visiting
every hotel, soon found a young man answering the description, who
was arrested and taken back to Paris. The diamonds were found in his
possession. This Shaw, a tall, very thin young man, with a pale,
intelligent face, and very bold, prominent eyes, was soon recognised
by the police as a professional thief of English extraction, who
had worked much abroad, and was indeed a cosmopolitan rogue, having
committed many great robberies in the capitals of Europe, generally by
the same means. He was sentenced to twenty years (_travaux forcés_),
although the Duke, dreading the publicity of the Assize court, would
not appear to prosecute.

The prison known as La Santé was situated in the rue de la Santé close
to the Boulevard Arago, upon the left bank of the Seine. Founded and
completed in the palmiest days of the French Empire, it was the newest
and certainly long the best prison in Paris. Enthusiastic Frenchmen
have, indeed, declared that it was the best and most beautiful building
of the kind in Europe, but the statement is rather far-fetched.
Coming twenty years later than Mazas, it was a marked advance upon
that penitentiary, which it resembled in many respects. It consisted
of two distinct divisions, or “sides,” and the inmates of each were
subjected to different systems of imprisonment. In one, unbroken
cellular confinement was the rule, in the other, prisoners occupied
separate sleeping cells at night, but took their food and exercise,
and worked together during the day. The former régime was applied to
all sentenced for the first time, the latter to _récidivistes_, or
habitual offenders, who fell into trouble again and again. The cellular
division, that first reached when the threshold of the prison, with
its sleepy gatekeepers and punctilious _greffier_, was passed, was
cleaner and tidier than Mazas as I saw it, and altogether better kept.
There were the same radiating wings, extending like the spokes of a
wheel round a central nave, the _rond point_; in which was the same
glass house or observatory, with an altar on top, towards which all
the cell doors, as to their Mecca, religiously turned for the Mass.
The cells were warmed and ventilated by an arrangement of hot water
pipes and fresh air flues, just as is seen in every modern prison since
the days of Sir Joshua Jebb. The cells at La Santé were spacious and
fairly clean; their furniture and fittings of more modern design than
those of Mazas. The hammock was replaced by an iron bedstead, the table
was a flap, fastened on hinges to the wall, and a three-legged stool
replaced the rush-bottomed chair chained by the leg. The floor was
boarded, not paved with bricks, and no small pains were taken to polish
the oak planks, which were rubbed vigorously till they shone like
parquetry. All parts of the cells were not so entirely above reproach,
and a severely critical eye would detect a certain want of neatness in
the interior economy of many. Here and there rubbish was suffered to
accumulate and lie untouched. Upon a shelf in one cell was a quantity
of broken bread; in another several clay pipes and a half empty wine
carafe; the walls of a third, occupied by a prison bookbinder, were
hung with scraps of tawdry decoration, crucifixes, hearts, monograms
shaped out of the gold leaf and colored paper which he used in his
trade. Prisoners were permitted, too, to deface their cells with
impunity by scribbling on the notice boards and writing on the walls.
Remarks upon the articles supplied from the canteen appeared upon
the price list. Expressions of regret, vows of vengeance, even, were
recorded upon the boards of rules. The prison almanac, prepared by the
good chaplain for the special behoof of prisoners, with appropriate
texts and maxims, served really as a calendar, such as school boys
keep, to mark off the days as they slowly dragged along towards release.

Behind and beyond the cellular quarter of the prison was the
“associated” prison, consisting of two spacious quadrangles, in which
were the exercising yards and the lavatories, while around it were
arrayed the ateliers, or workshops, and the dining halls. Upon an upper
floor were the sleeping cells, each containing a bedstead, and nothing
more, each lighted by means of a large barred opening above the cell
doors, through which shone the light of gas lamps in the corridors.
The crowded ateliers of La Santé, instinct with busy life, were an
interesting and instructive sight, and from them a fairly good idea
could be obtained of the peculiar conditions under which prison labor
is utilised in France. This is everywhere accomplished through the
intervention of a contractor or employer from outside, who provides
tools, materials and instructors, and takes in return half the earnings
of the prisoners. The other half, known as the _pécule_, goes to the
prisoner himself, and this is again sub-divided into the _pécule
disponible_ and the _pécule reservé_, the former of which can be drawn
upon and expended by the prisoner in adding to his creature comforts
whilst incarcerated; the latter, accumulating from day to day, to be
handed over to him upon his release to provide means of support during
those early days of freedom, when a man is hesitating between honesty
and the temptation to relapse into fresh crime.

The contract system appears open to many grave objections; for
instance, that it introduces “lay” or outside influences, erecting in
the prison a second authority, to which prisoners look for praise or
blame rather than to the constituted chiefs of the place. At times a
certain antagonism might arise between the two; the one looks naturally
to profits, the other to maintenance of effective discipline, and where
the first was affected, the latter would no doubt sensibly suffer. As
an instance of this may be quoted the case of prisoners sentenced to
very short terms, who, if they are not already acquainted with some
trade, do absolutely nothing at all whilst in prison. To teach them a
_metier_ would be to waste time and materials, and there is in France
no “penal labor,”--as it is commonly understood in England,--no sharp,
correctional employment, such as the treadwheel, stone breaking, or
oakum picking, the execution of which requires no special previous
knowledge or skill. As a matter of fact, therefore, prison has but few
horrors for the offender committed for less than a week, except in the
temporary loss of liberty; and in all that relates to physical comfort,
indeed, in food, shelter and clothing, he is often far better off
inside than out. His confinement may be irksome and monotonous, time
may hang rather heavily on his hands; still he manages to get pretty
comfortably through his days, lounging lazily about the refectories,
or ranging up and down in the exercising yards, pipe in mouth, and
gossiping with any one he meets.

These idlers, it must be confessed, were, at La Santé, the exception
and not the rule. There was no little stir and bustle in the workrooms;
the occupations were many and varied; the prisoners were industrious
and often exhibited no mean skill. Parisians are naturally a
quick-witted and nimble-fingered race, whose talents, when in durance,
prison contractors know well how to turn to the best account. At
La Santé we found tailors at work upon clothes for the slop shops,
shoemakers and cobblers making excellent slippers and shoes. Here a
cabinet-maker completed a drawing-room chair; there, by his side, an
upholsterer covered another in damask or silk. Long rows of prisoners,
seated upon benches, manufactured feather brushes for dusting
furniture, or dolls and children’s toys, or paper boxes for bonbons
and patent medicines, or frills of the same material for the cooks and
confectioners. Some were staining and coloring sheets of paper for the
bookbinders, to be subsequently varnished and polished; others, in
large numbers, were employed upon the manufacture of papier-mâché boot
buttons through all the various stages of inserting the eyelet holes
in rows upon the pasteboard, stamping out the buttons, trimming them,
hardening them and varnishing them. A certain air of contentment, if
not of actual good humor, was visible on every side. Prisoners met my
eye, and did not immediately hang their heads and look down. Silence
was the general rule, but they talked _sotto voce_ to one another, and
to me if I cared to address them. One man, proud of his English, told
me of “another English gentleman,” who recently came to La Santé. “As
a visitor?” “Oh, no, as a _detenu_ (prisoner).” Others, if I appeared
interested in the work in hand, would explain all its intricacies, and
return my salutation with the bow of a finished courtier when I took
leave. All the while the warders in charge exercised an easy-going
surveillance, and were evidently neither hard taskmasters nor severe
disciplinarians.

In the workshops, as elsewhere, it was obvious that the prison rule
did not err on the side of severity. Every care was taken to assure
the moral and physical comfort of the prisoners. There were chaplains
of all persuasions, and intolerance was unknown. For Roman Catholics,
naturally the largest number, there were the regular services in the
_rond point_, with which a large associated chapel communicated.
There was a special chapel for Protestants, and a synagogue for Jews.
A well-stocked library, annually replenished, provided literature
of nearly every kind for all who cared to read. The books were
carefully selected, but included works of fiction, which are often
forbidden in the prisons of some countries. The only novels permitted
however at La Santé,--and the choice implies a high compliment to
English literature,--were translations of Dickens, Fenimore Cooper,
Bulwer-Lytton, Marryat and Scott, which were admitted confessedly on
account of their morality and purity of tone. These, it was said, were
the books in most constant demand.

The hospital arrangements at La Santé, which was long a central depot
for all male prisoners requiring prolonged treatment, were also
excellent of their kind. The wards were large and lofty, and were well
warmed by a clever contrivance, consisting of two concentric iron
cylinders, one within the other, between which hot water circulated,
while fresh external air was passed in at the base and diffused from
the centre and top after being warmed. The clothing of all prisoners
was good and sufficient, although custom had nicknamed the prison shirt
_la limace_ because it had all the rasping roughness of a file. As to
food, the inmates of La Santé certainly could not complain. The diet
of English prisoners of similar category may have been more varied,
but it was scarcely more replete. There were two regular meals at La
Santé, one about eight o’clock in the morning, the other at three.
Both consisted of a pint, or more exactly, two-thirds of a litre, of
thin soup, not unlike a poor Julienne, but tasty and carefully made
by officer cooks, who winked pleasantly when I praised it, and agreed
with me that it was _pas mauvais_, “not so bad,” after all. Twice a
week, on Sundays and Thursdays, four ounces of cooked meat, without
bone, were added, and on these days the prisoner got about twenty-seven
ounces of bread. When there was no meat the bread ration was nearly
thirty ounces. But the foregoing did not comprise all that the prisoner
had to eat. Those who were in funds, whether from private sources or
from the _pécule disponible_ already referred to, were permitted to
sweeten prison life and eke out prison fare by various articles of
food on sale at the canteen. The list was long, and the prices were
not extravagant. For a few centimes smoked herrings could be bought,
or a slice of cheese, fresh and salt butter, sausages, cooked ham,
liquorice, boiled potatoes and a fair allowance of red wine. Tobacco
unlimited could also be purchased, a privilege often peremptorily
forbidden elsewhere in many prisons, as are indeed all such toothsome
additions as those just enumerated.

But La Santé passed away, absorbed into the new and extensive
establishment at Fresnes on the outskirts of Paris, designed to remodel
the entire penal system of the French government. La Santé was a long
step forward in penology; and Fresnes, the next and a still longer
step, has now to be described.




CHAPTER IX

TWO MODEL REFORMATORIES

    Long survival of two ancient prisons, St. Pélagie and
    Saint Lazare--Both now doomed--The former used for debtors
    and political prisoners--Saint Lazare principal prison
    for the female criminal--A detestable place--Originally a
    convent--Warders are nuns--Piety of inmates--Prayer before
    trial--Devout inscriptions--Convict marriages with brides from
    Saint Lazare--Female criminality in proportion to male--Crimes
    of passion and greed most numerous--Stealing in shops and large
    stores--The better side of the female in custody--Maternal
    affection--Universal love of children within the walls--The two
    Roquettes--Alpha and Omega of crime--Juveniles in La Petite
    Roquette--Reformed régime--Separate cells replace associated
    rooms--First agricultural colony--Juvenile depravity largely
    due to La Petite Roquette.


Among the prisons of Paris two long survived which were really a
standing disgrace to France. These were St. Pélagie and Saint Lazare.
They were types of a bygone age. Both were ancient edifices, centuries
old, planted in the very heart of crowded localities. They were
radically vicious in construction and very backward in the system of
discipline in force. In both, continuous association and unrestrained
intercourse were permitted among prisoners, so that contamination and
deterioration were the inevitable results.

St. Pélagie received only males--those sentenced correctionally to
terms of thirteen months and less, and with them were incarcerated
offenders against the adulteration laws, fraudulent bankrupts for small
sums, and traders who used short weights. All were herded together
indiscriminately, the only exception being made in favor of journalists
sentenced for contravention of press laws, all of whom came to it,
where they were subjected to a special and entirely different régime
from the ordinary prisoners.

St. Pélagie stood in a quiet and retired part of Paris behind the
Hôpital de la Pitié and the labyrinth of the Jardin des Plantes. It was
essentially a prison on the associated plan and found no favor in the
sight of French prison administrators who are warm adherents of the
principle of cellular separation.

Nothing much can be done with a building not originally intended
for the uses to which it is applied. It dates from the seventeenth
century, and the charity of a good lady, Marie Bonneau, widow of
Beauharnais de Miramion, who created it as a refuge for her unfortunate
sisterhood, and gave it as patron the dancer who turned saint,--with
whom Charles Kingsley made us acquainted in his novel of “Hypatia.” It
was also appropriated for debtors and later for political prisoners,
more especially those who offended by their too critical pens. A
block known as the “Pavilion” was given over to them exclusively,
to which no strangers were admitted; but these litterateurs might be
seen all over the prison at any time and beyond their own quarters,
commonly called “greater” or “lesser Siberia;” the “big” or “little
Tomb.” Their confinement was not irksome, and we are told that they
often obtained permission to leave the prison and visit the theatre
at night, even to sleep out, always on their solemn promise to return
honorably. The famous Proudhon was allowed to take an afternoon walk
unattended, beyond the walls. Some of the inmates amused themselves by
playing blind man’s buff in the dark passages, and once a mock trial
was organised at a sham revolutionary tribunal. By and by the play was
repeated in grim earnest. During the Commune there was another trial
within St. Pélagie, ordered by Raoul Rigault, the Communist Prefect of
Police, on a prisoner who was promptly sentenced to death and shot.

A good deal of work was done at St. Pélagie. Prisoners were very
industrious and produced good results. One form of trade was the
manufacture of paper lamp-shades. Another was that of chignons when
this particular style was in fashion. The raw material came from all
quarters; the hair merchants bought it from living heads and the
chiffoniers picked it up out of the streets. Possibly had the origin
of these adornments been better understood, ladies would have been a
little loath to wear them. St. Pélagie has now disappeared and cannot
be greatly regretted.

Saint Lazare was long the principal prison for females in Paris. Within
its vast _enceinte_, which includes gardens, fountains and trees, and
which is now doomed to early abolition, were collected women of all
categories,--those awaiting trial; those sentenced for short terms, and
those doomed to go beyond the seas; young girls, some of them quite
children, committed to prison at the instance of their parents, “for
correction;” and last of all, the unhappy, “_filles publiques_,” who
whether “_soumises_” or “_insoumises_,” whether officially inscribed
on the police rolls or independently practising their profession, have
offended against one or other of the stringent enactments by which the
fallen sisterhood are controlled in Paris. The various classes, it is
true, are kept as far as possible, even scrupulously apart; but all
are practically under one and the same roof and really do intermingle
rather freely. The system cannot but be demoralising in the extreme.
It is strongly condemned by all earnest, thoughtful Frenchmen, who
characterise Saint Lazare as a detestable place, which should forthwith
cease to be a prison. “Every young girl,” says Du Camp, “who enters
Saint Lazare for correction, leaves it corrupt and rotten to the
core.... She is lost unless a miracle intervenes, and the day of
miracles is past.” While such association continues, all efforts, and
they are many, to protect the still pure or win back the fallen to
virtuous ways, cannot but be made in vain.

[Illustration: _Hospice de la Salpêtriere, Paris_

Hospital or almshouse for helpless and insane women. Formerly it was
a house of detention as well as a hospital, and the treatment was
extremely brutal. As many as ten thousand persons have lived within the
walls at one time.]

Saint Lazare was originally a convent, and with its spacious interior,
great dormitories and wide refectories was well suited for a religious
house, but it was quite unfit to serve as a prison. The hideous herding
together of so many classes, of innocent and guilty, of the absolutely
bad and vicious with the young and still unspoilt, is a disgrace to
civilisation. Yet great attention is paid to discipline, and ghostly
ministrations abound at Lazare. Priests and chaplains there are many to
preach and confess; philanthropic ladies come from outside to exhort
and expound, and the whole establishment is under the watchful control
of a religious sisterhood, that of Marie Joseph, an order which has
continuously charged itself with prison labors, and whose devotion and
self-sacrifice are beyond all praise. A religious atmosphere prevails.
These poor women exhibit often a remarkable piety, very touching in
such a place. When a party of prisoners is on the point of starting
for the Palace of Justice, every woman expecting sentence kneels
before a sacred image and prays for mercy from her earthly judge. This
sentiment is further exhibited by the writings on the walls, which are
not strictly forbidden as in most gaols. One familiar with them has
collected some of the most striking, such as: “God is good, He will
have pity on the unfortunate.” “Holy Virgin, I give you my heart;
deign to take me under your protection and do not visit my early sins
too hardly upon me.” It has well been remarked that the moral effect
of Saint Lazare and its surroundings works wonderfully in aid of
conversion and reformation. The spectacle of the sisterhood, brought
there by a high sense of duty and not merely to earn a living, has
an excellent influence upon the fallen and misguided creatures who
are under their charge, to whom they devote their unstinting efforts.
Another note, that of hungry, unsatisfied affection, can also be read
in these inscriptions: “Whoever comes into this cell, your sufferings
will never be so acute as when you are separated from the person you
love;” again, “My love languishes in this cell, and far from thee whom
I adore I constantly groan and grieve.” Sometimes the very opposite
feeling finds voice: “Henriette loved her man more than any one, but
to-day she hates him.” “I am dying to see him, and if I find he is
unfaithful when I come out I will have his neck broken. It is through
him that I am here, but I love him all the same with all my heart.” “I
cannot forget my dead love which has lodged me here; when I am released
my lover may expect to meet me armed with a revolver.” Some are buoyed
up by inexhaustible hope: “This is the first day of my instruction
(interrogation); the judgment of God is everything, that of man
nothing.” “Let us endure our tribulations without murmuring; if they
are undeserved our sins will expiate.”

Too often the male sex exhibit a very different spirit. With them it
is an ardent passion for vengeance, inditing hatred for a treacherous
companion, misplaced pride in their evil deeds. It is “Death to the
judge!” “We will avenge our sufferings!” “Vive anarchy!” “Vive the
revolution!” “Some day we will blow up all the prisons!” Innumerable
phrases like the following are to be met with: “I will kill you when I
get out;” “Death to the spy Fernand, who got me here; I will cut him
open.” “I should have been acquitted, but my wife betrayed my real
name; let her look out!” “B---- the victim missed his vengeance on his
miserable brother, but it will come yet,” and so on. The régime of
isolation apparently does not stimulate very edifying thoughts.

Reference has been made in another volume of this series to the
marriages of convicts under the sentimental idea of regenerating
society in New Caledonia. A matrimonial agency was set up in the
office of the Marine and Colonies. It was the rule to send a call for
the names of female prisoners selected by governors as suitable to
be sent out as wives. As might have been expected, no great success
attended this scheme. The marriages were never idyllic and seldom even
happy. Here are a few of the brides and their antecedents: Catherine
P., twenty-four years of age, a bad character, had three natural
children, strangled the last with the strings of her apron; Angelique
F., hopelessly bad, had two children, last crime, scaled the wall
surrounding the house of an aged woman of eighty, robbed her, and on
leaving, set fire to the house, not only burning her victim to death,
but causing the destruction of three neighboring houses; Julie Marie
Robertine C., twenty, a hopeless drunkard, stole a child and buried it
alive. Nevertheless applications were made by convicts on the eve of
embarkation to be supplied with a wife from Saint Lazare. One wrote,
“I am under sentence of eight years for forgery and daily expect to
embark for New Caledonia. My family have cast me off, but I am in great
hopes that if they thought I was on the way to rehabilitate myself
they might be willing to help me. The only way I can see of recovering
my position is to marry before I start for the Antipodes. I can have
no hope that any respectable person would accept me, and I must have
recourse to some one who like myself has come within the grip of the
law. Will M. Laumonier (this letter was addressed to the chaplain of La
Grande Roquette) put my proposal of marriage before any inmate of Saint
Lazare, who might be disposed to accept it?” Unfortunately orders for
removal came before any matrimonial alliance could be arranged, but it
was by no means an isolated case.

Another letter was received by the chaplain (l’Abbé Crozes) much to
the same effect. A convict sentenced to six years’ hard labor and ten
years’ supervision was equally anxious to marry before his departure,
and had already made his choice, but he appealed to the chaplain
to assist him in arranging the preliminaries. He is described as a
horrible looking ruffian, pale faced and weakly, who pretended to be
very much in love; but he would make no admissions as to where he had
met the girl who was barely sixteen years old. The chaplain interviewed
her and found that the girl had obtained the consent of her parents,
and the convict was greatly rejoiced. But next day a letter came from
the father directed to l’Abbé Crozes, to the effect that his daughter
had been deceived, and that he could not consent to her marriage with
a convict under sentence of six years. The chaplain then sent for
the man to communicate this refusal. But it was evidently no great
disappointment. “You are not upset?” he asked. “Not the least in the
world,” replied the philosophical bridegroom. As the abbé left the
prison he saw his friend sitting at the bar of the canteen with three
companions merrily employed on a substantial repast.

One more story of a proposed convict marriage. A cunning plot underlay
this. The convict’s scheme was that when taken to the church and
afterwards to the mayor’s office, he proposed to escape. His intention
was to call a halt at a wine-shop and ply his escort, two police
inspectors, with drink, and when he had succeeded in making them drunk
to get away. But his escort shrewdly penetrated the design, which
failed entirely, and the wedding party ended in the return of the
bridegroom to his gaol.

The whole question of French female criminality centres within this
prison of Saint Lazare. It is a remarkable fact that fewer crimes
are committed by females than males in France, and the rule obtains
the world over. The proportion varies, according to the statistics
presented at the Prison Congress in Stockholm some few years ago. It
is more than three per cent. in every hundred of both sexes combined,
in some parts of America, North and South, in Japan and India, but
it rises to ten per cent. in the United States, to twenty per cent.
in China, and throughout Europe it ranges from ten to twenty-one per
cent., the latter being the rule in Switzerland. The proportionate
number of women accused of crimes in France is between fourteen and
fifteen as against eighty-five and eighty-six men. A very intelligible
explanation is offered. There are many crimes which women are not
tempted to commit, for which they miss the opportunity, or lack
facilities and strength. For example, they are seldom convicted of
peculation and embezzlement, forgeries and robberies with violence and
resistance to authority. Their crimes are mostly inspired by passion
and greed. This last named motive reached its climax in the case of
the woman concerned in a singularly atrocious murder, who, when asked
why she had been a party to the crime, coolly answered, “I wanted a
new bonnet very badly.” There is one crime, however, that specially
recommends itself to the woman criminal,--that of poisoning,--a fact
attested by criminal records in every country and notably in France.
It is hardly necessary to quote the numerous instances in which women
of all classes have taken advantage of facilities so freely offered
to those constantly concerned in domestic affairs. The mistress of a
house; the cook in her kitchen; the nurse by the bedside; each of these
has it in her power to administer noxious drugs without interference
and not seldom without detection. For centuries the crimes of the
Marchioness de Brinvilliers, a Frenchwoman, have shocked the world and
rivalled the wholesale misdeeds of Lucrezia Borgia. The mystery of
Madame Lafarge has already been referred to in these pages. The most
determined poisoner ever known was the French woman Helene Jegardo, who
dealt death to all around her with a white powder which was always kept
by her for use in preparing food in her kitchen.

As regards crime in general it is universally agreed that a woman’s
influence for evil is often exercised over others. “_Cherchez la
femme_” is constantly quoted by French officers of justice, and it is
asserted that the woman plays a commanding part in all associations
of criminals so commonly encountered among the Latin races. The
organised “band” is very characteristic of the criminal methods in
France. It is recruited from all classes and all categories; the
lowest classes, habitual thieves and depredators, have no monopoly.
There have been bands like that of the “Habits Noir,” the well-dressed
people who ravaged Parisian society for some time, and who were
directed and assisted by ladies in good position. This band worked very
systematically. It had its own agents and men of business, bankers and
money lenders and a whole army of blackmailers. A long list might be
drawn up of the organisations that have flourished in France. We need
not go back to the _chauffeurs_, the product of the general unrest
after the French Revolution, when provincial France was at the mercy of
the most active and determined gangs of robbers. The females of these
bands rendered the most valuable assistance in seeking outlets for the
exercise of their evil practices. After them there was the “Thiebert”
band, the largest ever known, numbering some eight hundred members and
admirably organised with an effective subdivision of labor. Again, the
“Graft” band, a corporative society not unlike the well known firm of
English notoriety and addicted mostly to commercial frauds. The Lemaire
band was peculiar, not only in its extensive depredations, but because
it was mainly composed of the members of two families, a curious
instance of the effect of heredity toward the criminal bias.

The organised band still exists, and some of the most baneful have
flourished in modern times. That of Vrignault and Chevalier was broken
up in 1786 in a trial in which a hundred and fifty culprits were
charged. Chevalier with a certain Keippe, a devoted friend, were the
moving spirits, and they were well served by women who had passed
through Saint Lazare. Two of the women, Piat and Conturier, are said
to have surrendered and allowed themselves to be condemned, although
really innocent, in order that they might also be transported to New
Caledonia--an act of devotion which, according to the director of Saint
Lazare and the Parisian police, was by no means rare. Abadie, who
subsequently suffered on the guillotine with his confederate Gilles
for murdering a woman at Montreuil, desired to revive this method and
re-organised the broken up band of Chevalier in a systematic fashion.
He was a lad (no more) of extraordinary intelligence and possessed
the keenest criminal tendency. It is said of him that he had been
educated on criminal fiction and studied his business in the well-known
novels of Ponson du Terrail. He had a mania for writing, and, having
been reprieved, it was thought that he might assist in the conviction
of accused persons by becoming an official informer. He spent his
time in addressing letters to the instructing judge, full of false
confessions and unsupported charges. In forming his band he adopted
the code established by Chevalier, which has been preserved. It is a
curious document, showing his logical mind and his practical methods.
He formed his society of fourteen, twelve men and two women, and he
strictly forbade any of the members to enter into close relations with
others. No one was permitted to commit a crime without the express
consent of his chief. They were armed with revolvers, hunting knives,
loaded canes and knuckle-dusters. They were obliged to possess a
certain number of disguises; among others, a workman’s blue blouse, and
they were ordered to work when not at their business. They were fined
if found drunk in a wine-shop. A daily wage of six francs was accorded
to them with an additional ten francs out of the day’s thieving. The
women were to act as spies, and to take places as servants in the
neighborhood in houses marked for plunder. Those who joined the society
were not at liberty to leave it under pain of death. Other regulations
of the same tenor laid down strict rules of conduct, and there is
little doubt that had the society lasted it would have added greatly
to contemporary crime; but it was broken up by the discovery of two
murders committed within the first year. Abadie had many imitators,
such as the band of the “Bois de Boulogne,” organised by Houillon and
Leclerc. In all these it was abundantly proved that the females were
the moving spirits. They seldom acted themselves where violence was
necessary, but they advised, indicated and encouraged the crimes. They
were obeyed readily by their confederates, who were afraid of them,
knowing that if dissatisfied or distrustful they would pitilessly
betray any one. They were often impelled by jealousy, that powerful
incentive in the female character which has led to the invention by
French women of that cowardly method of obtaining revenge, the throwing
of vitriol in the face of those who offend them.

Of the minor crimes committed by the feminine offender, that of theft
is the most common, abundant opportunities for practising it being
afforded them, especially in the great shops of Paris. In many cases
prevention is preferred to prosecution. A very close supervision is
exercised by private police agents disguised as floor-walkers and
salesmen, who watch the counters and promptly lay hands upon the
light-fingered, who are haled at once to ransom, obliged to surrender
the goods or pay for them and fined in proportion to the value of
the article stolen. It has been calculated that out of a hundred
shop-lifters taken red-handed, quite one quarter are professional
thieves, another quarter are impelled by dire necessity, and the
remaining half are believed to be kleptomaniacs.

The worst side of the female criminal has now been indicated. She
is not all bad, and will exhibit pleasanter traits. She is full of
sympathetic kindliness for the unhappy sisters she meets, and is
especially affectionate towards the small children and the babies in
arms, who are plentiful enough in this abode of misery. The maternal
instinct is strong in Saint Lazare, and there are to be seen within
its walls many evidences of the deep natural affection a mother has
for her offspring. It is pretty to see the pride of the most degraded
when one takes notice of her child and praises its looks. How she
bursts into jealous rage if her neighbor’s child gets more attention!
The strongest help to discipline is exercised through the child, and
a woman otherwise incorrigible, whose evil temper no punishment can
bring into subjection, will yield abjectly and display exemplary
conduct if threatened that she shall be separated from her child. One
wretched woman who had been sentenced to a long term bore it quite
unconcernedly until her child died, and then, in despair, sought to
take her own life. Another woman fiercely refused to part with her
dying child. She covered it constantly with kisses, and said more than
once in heart-broken tones: “Forgive thy mother, sweet, for having
brought thee to die in a prison.” In Saint Lazare as elsewhere, the
humanising influence of the child is greatly felt; the prison nursery,
the babies’ yard, are bright spots of the dark picture. Everybody wants
to pet them, the wildest and most intractable creature has been known
to control herself and mend her ways by being entrusted with the care
of a child, not necessarily her own, and even to lavish extravagant
affection upon it.

It has been said that Saint Lazare will shortly be emptied and a new
prison erected on more satisfactory lines. Much greater care will be
shown in classification, and the evils of promiscuous intercourse will
be as far as possible removed. The wholly abandoned will no longer
be able to corrupt the youthful offender who enters prison for the
first time. At the same time, prolonged cellular confinement will be
inflicted with such judgment as to avoid the dangers that might affect
the mental balance of easily impressionable women.

The stranger in Paris, who, whether impelled by morbid fancy or the
desire to pay a tribute of respect to the illustrious dead, proposes
to visit the great cemetery of Père la Chaise, must approach it
by the street of La Roquette. The street runs straight from the
Place de la Bastile, and through a great portion of its length is a
narrow, mournful thoroughfare, bordered by tumble-down tenements and
small shops, devoted mostly to the sale of white, yellow or lilac
immortelles and to the preparation of tombstones and other gloomy
adjuncts of the undertaker’s trade. But within a stone’s throw of
the gates of the cemetery, where the street widens a little, stand
two imposing edifices, face to face, one of which is the Prison des
Jeunes Detenus, the other the Depot des Condamnés. Both take their
names from the street of La Roquette. It was chance, perhaps, which
thus planted these criminal resting-places upon the very threshold of
death’s domains, but there is bitter irony in it. Still more bitter
is the administrative accident, if such it be, which has decided
the separate uses of the two establishments. They are the Alpha and
Omega of crime. One, La Petite Roquette, as it is called, receives
the embryos, or first beginners, the little gamins of Paris, children
with inherited tendencies, perhaps, towards vice, but who are as yet
only on its brink; the other, styled La Grande Roquette, was long
confined to the _haute volée_ of Parisian crime, to the old stagers in
this nefarious profession, whose misdeeds had earned for them either
lengthened imprisonment, transportation beyond the seas, or the extreme
penalty of the law, for La Grande Roquette was “the antechamber to
the guillotine.” The first-named owes its origin to the philanthropic
desire of the authorities after the Bourbon restoration to improve the
prisons of France, which were in deplorably bad order. The food was
insufficient and unwholesome, the inmates when sick in the hospital
slept three and four in a bed. Especially did the prisons for juvenile
offenders need betterment. A so-called Prison Society was created to
work to that end. A first measure was to give the young a quarter in
the various _maisons centrales_. The prisons were better ventilated and
kept cleaner; regular rations were issued, and employment found. The
moral side alone was neglected. There was no separation, no distinction
between classes, and the young and untainted associated freely with
old and hardened offenders. In July, 1831, lads under sixteen years
of age were collected in a wing of St. Pélagie and afterwards in the
Magdelonettes. At the same time the Government authorised a society for
the protection of young criminals, to place them out with employers
where they might complete their sentence.

A distinguished publicist, Gabriel Delessert, now came in office as
prefect of police in Paris, and was so deeply impressed with the
existing evils of the children’s prison of La Roquette that he entirely
reconstructed it and revised its discipline. This prison of La Roquette
had been built in 1825 for females, and had served as such until 1836,
when it was adopted as a receptacle for ill conducted and weakly boys,
broken by poverty and precocious vice. Here they consorted with others
of their class, steadily deteriorating, so that those who entered
bad were discharged much worse, and soon fell into fresh and more
serious crime. M. Delessert made a strenuous attempt to save them, and
decided to seek their amendment at some reformatory establishment in
which they could be kept aloof from evil surroundings, isolated and
carefully educated by a system of useful labor and good advice from
teachers of unquestioned moral character. The interior of La Petite
Roquette was completely transformed. Separate cells took the place of
the large associated rooms, a marked improvement was seen in the young
prisoners, both in demeanor and conduct, with an immediate diminution
in the percentage of reconvictions. He was greatly assisted in these
most creditable reforms by a worthy priest, the same Abbé Crozes,
chaplain of the Grand Roquette, whose name and deeds already have been
frequently mentioned. Strict separation was the leading principle of
treatment. These children were for the most part kept alone, living in
single cells, working in seclusion and seldom meeting their fellows,
even for exercise or play, until the Abbé Crozes introduced the method
of exercising singly, and fenced off portions of a yard and the
separation at chapel into individual boxes, shutting off the sight of
neighbors and concentrating attention in front.

This was the time when prison reformers were crazy about preventing
personal contamination, and the régime as applicable to those of tender
years did not please all. M. De Metz, the founder of Mettray, that
famous agricultural colony for French juveniles, was a magistrate of
advanced ideas, who had been sent by his Government to examine and
report upon the cellular régime as recently established in the United
States. He came back satisfied that it was wholly unsuited for youthful
offenders. He much preferred the associated life for them as it
obtained in Holland and Belgium, and he strongly advised its adoption.
In 1839 he planned a _société paternelle_,--a farm school in fact, to
receive young criminals and if possible amend them. His motto was “the
moralisation of the man by the cultivation of the soil,” and he set
himself to collect friends to put his ideas into effect. With another
philanthropist, who was a landed proprietor, he secured and endowed the
institution known as Mettray on an estate near Tours. Good progress was
made, and in 1840 a first house was built, in which forty juveniles
were received as into a private family, the head of which was the
“father” or master, who was always with his boys, exercising parental
control. He knew them by heart; their character and disposition. Each
family (there are now twenty houses) is distinct, and has no connection
with any other except during work, recreation or divine service. The
houses stand in their own ground; they are three stories, divided into
living rooms, studies and dormitories.

Mettray was planned on a sound basis, and attained such excellent
results that it has been made a model for general imitation, especially
in France, where many such agricultural colonies are now to be found,
all on the family principle, with numerous houses and extensive
well-managed farms. The results obtained at Mettray have been highly
satisfactory. Fully half of those who have passed through it have taken
to honest labor, as artisans or in the fields. Many have entered the
army and the Government service, earning decorations and promotion. A
large percentage have married and become respectable citizens. Some
hostile critics--notably the Russian Prince Kropotkine, who spent
some time in various prisons--speak ill of the Mettray system as cruel
in its discipline, but general opinion in France does not condemn it,
and admits a great debt of gratitude to M. De Metz, in which indeed
the whole world joins. Mettray was the starting point in the movement
towards child rescue and the systematic efforts for the protection and
reclamation of the juvenile with a natural bias towards crime, so often
encouraged to evil deeds by the misfortune of birth and heredity, the
evil influence of home surroundings, or worse still the absence of good
example or moral training.

Juvenile depravity has unhappily long been prevalent in France, and
is strongly marked. This is largely due to a faulty system, mistaken
methods of treatment in the various prisons and especially in La Petite
Roquette. Intercommunication between its inmates, despite strict
discipline, is easy and frequent, and the most depraved exert a baneful
influence over the whole. Most youthful crimes have originated in
La Roquette. “My parents ought not to have sent me here” (under the
law which permits a parent to try imprisonment to mend incorrigible
children), said one lad. “They thought to reform me; it has been
altogether the reverse.” “My first offence,” said another, “was
stealing fruit, and it brought me to La Roquette. When one comes once,
one returns often.” “The cell does not keep us apart, and we go out far
worse than when we enter,” said still another. Hence the prevalence
of serious juvenile crime. “A French child,” writes an experienced
magistrate, “organises a murder as he would a pleasure party.” One was
so light-hearted on his way to commit a great crime that an accomplice
rebuked him saying, “If you laugh too much our coup will fail.”
Another, who had already committed murder, wrote on his cell wall:
“When one’s pockets are empty it is easy to understand why there are
criminals.”

This prison as it now stands covers much ground and has considerable
architectural pretensions. It consists of six wings grouped round a
central building, with which they are connected by light iron bridges.
This central building is circular and three storied. The lowest, or
basement, contains the kitchen. The _parloir_, or place where the
prisoners see their friends, occupies the second. The chapel is on the
top floor. The wings have also three stories, and the cells on each
story open from a central passage, lighted at the end, while the whole
interior is warmed very indifferently by stoves. The régime of the
prison is based upon the principle of isolation; a system which might,
if carried to any extreme of severity, prove cruelly harsh to prisoners
of tender years. The solitude enforced is not unbroken, however. Each
boy, whatever his age (and this varies from eight or nine to sixteen
or seventeen), works in his cell, sorting flowers for immortelles, the
staple product of the neighborhood; polishing brass work, manufacturing
and gilding chairs; but he is visited constantly by the _contremaître_
or contractor’s foreman, who teaches and superintends; by the brigadier
and wardens of the wing, or by the Director--the governor and chief of
the establishment, who is continually going his rounds. The present
head of the boys’ prison is a kindly and sympathetic person, who
tempers the rigors of discipline by the warm and lively interest he
takes in his flock. It is almost touching to see how the eyes of the
little waifs brighten as he enters their cells; how one greets him with
a cheery “_bon jour_,” and another catches his hand and kisses it.
They will prattle to him of their doings or the homes where they are
probably unhappy and which they scarcely regret. They will lament their
misdeeds, and make many promises to behave better another time.

After all, they are not badly off in La Petite Roquette. Ill-used,
half-starved gutter children have been heard to speak in high praise
of a place where they were well housed, well clothed, treated kindly
and,--strange experience for them,--where they got something to eat
every day of their lives. The confinement within four walls, at an age
when life is full of spring and movement, is no doubt irksome to these
little Arabs of the streets; but the Administration does its best to
provide them with certain regulation amusements. In the exercising
yards they may be seen behind the iron bars trundling hoops; and
squads of them, each standing alone in his own separate compartment,
are exercised in the “extension motions” by word of command--“_un_,”
“_deux_,” “_trois_,” and so forth; words which they are obliged to
repeat in a shrill treble, with the double idea of enforcing attention
and, by tiring their voices, of removing all desire to chatter among
themselves.

In many respects, the establishment is a model one; and it does, in
fact, serve as such for those who conduct juvenile reformatories in all
civilised quarters of the globe.

Saint Lazare, indeed, is still in use; and only in December, 1905,
after having been repeatedly condemned, could it be said that its
days were numbered. A General Council of the Department of the Seine
at that time voted a sum for the erection of an entirely new prison.
The authorities were urged to begin at once the demolition and
ex-propriation of the establishment. No doubt the cost of the new site
and new buildings will be sensibly assisted by the sale of the present
premises, situated in the heart of Paris and on very valuable property.




CHAPTER X

A MODEL PENITENTIARY

    Fresnes--Final stage in the criminal career--The last chosen
    site for the guillotine--History of the guillotine--Earlier
    models of the instrument--The Italian “mannaia”--The “Maiden”
    used in Edinburgh and some cities in Yorkshire--Opinions on
    capital punishment--The alternative--Condition of eighty
    murderers who escaped the death sentence, when seen at Ghent
    ten years later--La Grande Roquette--Its inmates--The condemned
    cell--The march to the scaffold--Principal executions in late
    years--Verger murders the Archbishop of Paris in 1857--Avinain
    and other cruel murderers--Campi and Marchandon who took
    life boldly in the best parts of Paris--Execution of the
    hostages during the Commune--The site still preserved and
    honored--Passing of La Roquette--New and imposing prison of
    Fresnes on the outskirts of Paris--Opened in 1898--Closing
    considerations.


France, in building the prison of Fresnes, may be said to have given
to the world a model penitentiary. It is the perfection of penal
architecture and structural fitness for the purpose intended. Before
proceeding to its consideration, however, let us take up the story of
La Grande Roquette and the later annals of criminality with which it is
identified.

Immediately opposite La Petite Roquette is the great prison of the
same name. As I have already suggested, it is the final stage in the
criminal career which began in some minor offence, punished by a few
days’ detention in the boys’ prison, and here ends at the scaffold
upon the Place de la Roquette. It is more by administrative design
than definite design that these two extremes, the criminal cradle and
the place of final doom, are thus brought into close juxtaposition.
Various sites in Paris have been used from time to time for the dread
performance of “law’s finisher” commonly styled in stilted legal
language the “_executeur des hautes œuvres_,” the official instrument
for completing capital punishment. He was the agent of High Justice and
might hold his head above his fellows who feared and hated him because
he was the vindicator of the law. The office was not exactly honorable,
but it was lucrative, and its holder enjoyed many privileges. He was
entitled to levy taxes on food, upon all the corn brought into the
market, and on fruit, grapes, nuts, hay, eggs and wool. He collected a
toll on all who passed the Petit Pont (the bridge near the Châtelet).
Every leper paid him a fee, and he acquired, by right of office, all
the clothes of which his victims died possessed. But he carried a badge
of shame, a ladder embroidered on the breast of his coat and a ladder
on the back. His office was hereditary; son succeeded father, and if
the next in succession was of tender years a substitute was appointed,
but the rightful executioner, sometimes no more than seven or eight,
stood by the headsman as if to sanction his proceedings. The Sansons
filled the awful post for seven generations, nearly two hundred years.
They were for the most part in good repute and highly esteemed by
their royal masters. Louis XI indeed made a chosen companion of his
executioner, Tristan L’Hamitte, whom he ennobled.

The ceremony of inflicting death was performed anywhere in early days,
often from choice in the theatre of the crime. For a century or more
the Place de la Grève was the favored spot, and was used until the
revolution of 1830, but the scaffold was sometimes erected at the
Halles (the central markets) or the Croix du Trahoir or in almost any
wide street or square. The Barrier of Saint Jacques was substituted
for the Place de la Grève in 1832. It was a convenient distance from
the Conciergerie, in which prison the condemned found their last
resting-place. The execution was fixed always for the afternoon, and
the drive through the crowded streets was considered a scandal, so that
a further change was decreed.

The prison of La Grande Roquette had spare accommodation available.
This place had been in existence some years under the name of Little
Bicêtre, and had been used as a _dépôt des condamnés_, in which were
lodged all sentenced to _travaux forcés_ while awaiting further removal
to the seaport _bagnes_ or the great central prisons. The concentration
of so many desperate characters under one roof led them to feel their
strength and measure it against authority in a serious outbreak in
1886, in which the Director would have lost his life, but for the
courageous intervention of a veteran chief warder. From that time
forth the worst criminals were no longer sent to La Grande Roquette,
but retained in the central prisons after sentence, from which when
condemned to transportation they were collected by agents and taken on
to St. Martin de Ré to take ship for the Antipodes. The _bagnes_ were
abolished some time before those of Brest and Rochefort in 1850, and
Toulon in 1872.

But one quarter in La Grande Roquette was especially appropriated to
convicts condemned to death, and they proceeded after a more or less
lengthy detention direct from their cells to the guillotine. These
were in all cases the most notable murderers only, for increasing
reluctance to inflict the extreme penalty has been exhibited in France,
and successive presidents of the Republic, from President Grévy on,
have constantly commuted sentences to penal exile and spared lives that
were clearly forfeited. For the last forty years all who were actually
executed passed through La Grande Roquette, and a brief survey of the
principal malefactors and the circumstances attending the last dread
event will be given here.

A few words as to the guillotine; that instrument now invariably used
for capital punishment in France. It has played so large a part in
the modern French history that it will be interesting to trace its
origin back to the days of its godfather and supposed inventor, a
certain Doctor Guillotin, who in the Revolutionary times was very eager
to improve the system of capital punishment, which he desired should
be uniform for all; and he had fixed upon decapitation as the best
and simplest process. But the headsman had always been an uncertain
performer, a bungler often who could not command his nerves, and who
often slashed and wounded his victim without dealing the death blow.
Doctor Guillotin earnestly recommended in the Convention that every
criminal should be decapitated by means of some mechanical contrivance.
This passed into law, but before the contrivance had been settled upon,
Guillotin, at his wits’ end, applied to Charles Sanson, at that time
the official executioner, for guidance. In their joint researches,
they came upon an old Italian wood cut giving a presentment of the
“mannaia,” an ancient machine much used in Genoa and particularly for
the execution of Guistranin and other conspirators. The picture might
have served also for the Halifax “Maiden” of which more directly. In
both, the axe was suspended between two uprights, the culprit knelt
beneath it, and the executioner held the rope. It was also found that a
French Marshal, De Montmorency, had been beheaded in 1631 by means of a
sliding axe.

Difficulties of detail remained; chiefly, that of retaining the person
about to suffer in the proper position long enough for the descending
blow to take fatal effect. Then a friend, one Schmidt, a manufacturer
of musical instruments, brought Sanson a rough sketch which met all
objections and was in fact the model for the real machine. It seems
very closely to have followed the lines of the Halifax “Maiden.” It
was immediately accepted by the Convention, not without laughter.
Dr. Guillotin in describing his machine made use of some strange
expressions. He assured his audience that with it he “could drop off
their heads in a twinkling, and they would not suffer in the very
least.” The only sensation might be that of a “slight freshness about
the neck.” Before closing finally, the Assembly desired other opinions
and applied, among others, to a Doctor Louis who was at that time
physician to Louis XVI, still seated upon his tottering throne. The
following curious incident is touched upon in the Sanson “Memoirs.”

While discussing the model, Doctor Guillotin and the executioner paid
a visit one day to Doctor Louis. A stranger came into the room, who
seemed greatly impressed with the invention, but disapproved of the
shape of the axe, which was that of a crescent. He did not believe it
would act properly upon all kinds of necks; “not on mine for instance,”
said the objector, taking up pen and ink, and drawing an oblique edge
instead of the half moon. Sanson, the expert, was consulted, and
gave it as his opinion that the question should be tested by actual
experience. When the machine was completed, it was taken to Bicêtre
and set up for trial on three corpses in the presence of a numerous
company, including that of a number of prisoners, who looked out from
the windows above. The oblique knife edge was found to be by far the
more effective, and that model was adopted for all time.

The most curious part of the story is, that the stranger who suggested
the improvement in the axe was King Louis XVI, himself, a skilled
locksmith and mechanic, having learned a trade after the manner of
all royal children. His own neck within a few months’ time was to be
subjected to the supreme test, which succeeded perfectly. I have no
wish to deprive Doctor Guillotin of any credit that may attach to this
invention, of questionable utility, except in simplifying the act of
killing and minimising the pain inflicted upon the victim; but he was
certainly not the first inventor of the manslaying apparatus with which
his name is for ever associated.

Two centuries before the Revolution, an instrument very similar to the
guillotine was in use in Scotland, and known there as the “Maiden.”
James Douglas, Earl of Morton, died by it in Edinburgh in 1587, thus
adding to the long list of inventors who paid the penalty of death by
their own contrivance. The “Maiden” had been often used in Yorkshire
for the summary execution of thieves taken in the act, and the best
account of it extant is found in “Holinshed’s Chronicles,” which
describes the custom prevailing in Halifax and the machine in use. He
records the law or custom, that whosoever commits a felony or steals
to the value of fourteen pence or halfpenny shall be beheaded in the
market. “The engine wherewith the execution is done is a square block
of wood which does ride up and down in a slot between two pieces of
timber that are framed and set upright, of five yards in height. In
the nether end of the sliding block is an axe keyed or fastened with
an iron into the wood, which being drawn up to the top of the frame is
there fastened by a wooden pin, to the centre of which a long rope is
attached, that cometh down among the people, so that when an offender
hath made his confession and hath laid his head over the nethernmost
block, every man seizeth the rope to show his willingness that judgment
should be executed, and pulling out the pin the axe is released to fall
with such violence that had the neck below been that of a bull the head
would be dissevered and roll away to a great distance.” If the theft
had been that of any fourfooted beast the rope was to be fastened to
it, so that when driven away it would extract the pin.

France was then anxious to make a change in the method of carrying out
execution, if indeed capital punishment were to continue in force. But
there is now a strong tendency to abolish it altogether, as is the
rule already in Italy and Belgium, the substitute in both countries
being prolonged solitary confinement, which is really synonymous with
a death sentence of a lingering and painful kind. The life spared on
the scaffold must be passed in solitary confinement with the inevitable
fatal consequences of such treatment. I shall never forget the painful
impression made upon me when I came across some seventy or eighty
murderers collected in one apartment in the prison of Ghent, all of
whom had spent ten years or more in the cells of another prison, that
of Louvain. They were all either senile idiots or imbeciles prematurely
aged. They had been kept alive in deference to ultra-humanitarian
sentiment, but at the price of something worse than death. It does not
seem probable that the death penalty will disappear from the French
criminal code, but a strong feeling prevails that better arrangements
should be made for carrying out the sentence. Many are strongly in
favor of adopting the British practice of performing the execution in
private, within the limits of the gaol, that is to say, and in the
presence of only a few officials. The selection of these last presents
some difficulty, although it has been overcome in England, and is
after all no more than the justifiable demand on public servants to
perform their duty, however trying. One suggestion has been, to make it
incumbent upon the jury that convicted to be present; but the fear of
grave consequences has put this aside. It has been thought, not without
reason, that juries would hesitate to find a verdict of guilty if
they were to be compelled to witness the dread consequences of their
judgment. The desire for private execution has been emphasised in
France by a scandalous incident that occurred at Dunkirk towards the
end of 1905. A double murder of the most cruel and dastardly character
had been committed, resulting in a double execution. A great mob had
assembled, and, under the influence of strong excitement, stormed
the scaffold when the second head fell, determined to carry off the
decapitated corpses. The police were powerless to prevent the outrage.
An extraordinary and probably unparalleled incident occurred at this
execution. The victim had been a woman, and the widowed husband,
thirsting to avenge her, had offered the authorities the sum of 10,000
francs, to be paid to the funds of any public charity, if they would
allow him to act as executioner,--to the extent at least of touching
the spring by which the knife of the guillotine was released. The
strange request was refused; but as a particular favor a special place
in the first row of spectators was secured for the aggrieved husband.

The prison of La Grande Roquette, when I visited it, struck me
painfully from its gloomy and imposing architecture; and the effect
was heightened as I passed into the inner yards, where behind a tall
iron railing the bulk of the prison population were at exercise. As
they patrolled it in couples, backwards and forwards, their wooden
sabots made a hideous clatter on the stone pavement, which did not,
however, drown the hum of their voices as they gossiped idly with one
another, smoking their pipes in pleasant company. They were a rough,
evil-visaged lot, for this was at a date anterior to the disturbance
of 1886, before mentioned, and they were mostly habitual criminals
(_récidivistes_), who had been convicted again and again. They could
only be ruled by a strong hand, and the director, M. Beauquesnes, a
resolute and determined man, had been specially selected for this
responsible post. Before his time murderous assaults by prisoners upon
their officers were common enough. Many trades are carried on in the
prison, and desperate ruffians bent on mischief always found tools and
dangerous weapons of offence ready to their hand. Outrages of this
kind are now unknown. “How did you get the better of them?” I asked M.
Beauquesnes, almost anticipating his answer as I met his clear gray
eyes. “By constant surveillance, by being always on the lookout for
mischief, and crushing it before it could make head.” “Your warders
are all armed, of course?” “Not in the least. It is better to depend
upon moral than physical force.” It did not seem to me fair or safe to
leave officers entirely defenceless among so many desperate and easily
excited prisoners without even the protection of a baton or club, and
the evil result was presently seen in the outbreak already mentioned.

From the yard I passed into the workshops,--long, low, dark rooms in
which gas is never lighted, for labor begins and ends with daylight.
The trades followed were of the prison class, such as shoemaking,
tailoring and so forth. Industry and orderliness were generally
observable, but I seemed to detect a certain unsettled air. The
prisoners gazed furtively from under their peaked caps at a strange
visitor and seemed continually on the lookout for something to happen.
They were in fact constantly expecting the order to “move on,” and any
day the van might arrive to take them elsewhere. It might be to the
other end of the world.

This kind of removal, still known at La Grande Roquette, is horrible,
because it is final and irretrievable, and the journey is to that
unknown bourne from which no traveller returns. The French system of
dealing with condemned prisoners cannot be commended. It is cruel in
the extreme, from the long uncertainty in which the individual is left
as to his ultimate fate. He has made his last petition, the final
appeal from the legal tribunal to the possibly more merciful Chief
of the State, and he awaits the decision for weeks and weeks in the
condemned cell. The delay is sometimes horribly prolonged. One man
waited forty days, and was a prey the whole time to painful visions at
night. He dreamed of the guillotine and saw his head rolling in the
sawdust. He awoke with screams of terror and cried out perpetually,
“The knife! The scaffold! I see nothing else!” The agony of the delay
is intensified from the well-known fact that the dénouement, when it
comes, will be abrupt and with the briefest possible notice. Only on
the very morning of execution is the prisoner roused, generally from
profound slumber, and warned suddenly to prepare for immediate death.
All this time, since his sentence and reception at La Roquette, he has
occupied the condemned cell, one of three rather large chambers near
the hospital at the back of the prison. He has never been left for one
instant unattended. Two warders have been with him, and have watched
him closely day and night. Time was when, to render assurance doubly
sure, the convict was kept continually in a strait-jacket or _camisole
de force_. The priest of the prison has also been his constant
companion. From the condemned cell the prisoner is taken by a rather
long and circuitous route to the outer office, near the inner gate of
the prison. Here the executioner and his assistants receive him and
commence the “toilette of death.” The man is pinioned and bound by a
variety of intricate straps. Thence, when he is ready, the procession
passes across the courtyard to the outer prison gates. It is but a
step. Once through them, the scaffold is immediately reached, the last
act commences, is soon played, and the curtain promptly falls. Barely
fourteen seconds elapse, it is said, from the time the convict steps on
the scaffold to the moment when decapitation is effected. There is but
a short fruition, therefore, for the sightseers whom morbid curiosity
has attracted to the spot, even if they see anything at all, which
is doubtful, as the guillotine is placed on the ground level, and is
surrounded by a double line of mounted gensdarmes.

On the very night that the guillotine was being erected in the Place
de la Roquette for the execution of the poisoner La Pommerais, a
marvellous escape was effected by a child prisoner from the reformatory
prison opposite, the little Roquette.

At nine o’clock in the evening a lad of barely thirteen years, by
using his knife, cut away the metal covering of his window in which
the ventilator worked, then climbing up on a chair placed on top of
his bed he got his head through, and looked down into the courtyard;
it was quite empty, the night was dark; the only sound within was
the monotonous footstep of the night watchman. But beyond the wall,
there was a movement as of a crowd collecting, and from time to time
the sound of a hammer and other tools. The boy knew what was on foot,
for the story of La Pommerais and his approaching execution was known
within the reformatory, and it was also known that the dread event
was fixed for next morning. “Everybody is busy,” said the fugitive,
“no one will think of me.” So he worked his little body through the
ventilator, and reached the cornice between the first and second floor.
Resting his feet on this narrow ledge and holding to his window by one
hand, he stretched the other towards the next window and caught it,
creeping thus from window to window till he had passed six of them. He
was every moment in the utmost danger, for he hung on merely by his
fingers and the soles of his heavy shoes. He said long afterwards that
he suffered agonies in the hour occupied in thus creeping along. A
single slip would certainly have precipitated him into the yard below.
He was almost at the end of his strength, his arms ached horribly, and
his hands were torn and bleeding. He took courage, however, saying to
himself: “If I fall I shall be killed, if I stop I shall be recaptured;
I must certainly go on.”

Now the moon came through the clouds, and he knew that his shadow would
be seen from below. At that moment he heard his name called, “Molutor,
Molutor,” and he shivered, feeling sure he had been detected. But the
voice was that of a fellow-prisoner, the occupant of the cell, the
window of which he was passing, who had recognised him. But with true
loyalty to his class he did not betray him. On the contrary he tried
to help him, and after reconnoitring around encouraged him by saying
there were no warders in sight. Stimulated by these encouraging words,
the lad, who had already reached the fifth window, made a renewed
effort, and passed on to the sixth, next the angle of the building,
and there seized the water pipe. At this moment the clock struck
midnight. Then followed strange noises. Looking down, he saw beneath
him the open space of the Place de la Roquette, in which a crowd
was slowly gathering, and some workmen were moving forward an oddly
shaped machine, which he easily recognised. They were about to erect
the scaffold. The machinery for the guillotine and its purpose were
perfectly well known to the fugitive. At this moment it is said he
shuddered, not so much at the pressing danger of his situation, and the
near certainty of death if he slipped, but with inward despair at the
life that lay before him. Surely it was useless to compass his escape,
to risk so much to get away now, if some little time ahead he would
inevitably arrive at the guillotine, led step by step, passing from
court to court and judgment to judgment, until he mounted this same
scaffold, and expiated his offences as this same La Pommerais was about
to do. Not the less did he complete his escape. He slipped down to the
ground on the other side, gained the outer wall, and climbed it. Then
he waited until the square was thronged to get away. When the crowd was
seized with horror at the sound of the falling knife and the thud of
the severed head in the basket he would escape. At the supreme moment,
when a shiver of horror affected the spectators, he alone kept his
head, and, with sure, cautious step, slipped in amongst the people and
passed unchecked to the boulevard Voltaire.

A criminal drama which horrified all Paris in 1857 and had its
suitable dénouement on the Place de la Roquette, was the murder of the
Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, a dignified ecclesiastic,
who was universally loved and esteemed in his diocese. The Archbishop
was on his way to put on his vestments for the mass in the church of
St. Etienne du Mont. The procession was on the point of entering the
sacristy when a man, dressed in black, rushed in behind the Archbishop,
who was carrying aloft the Episcopal Cross, and with his left hand
caught hold of him and twisted him sharply round, while with his right
he struck him in the ribs with a knife. The wound was mortal, and the
Archbishop almost immediately fell dead, while his murderer was seized
and roughly handled by the indignant crowd. The police proceeded at
once to interrogate him and soon learned who he was. In appearance
short and thin, with a not unpleasing countenance, carefully dressed
in black, he proved to be one Louis Verger, an unfrocked priest. He
confessed that the murder was premeditated, and that he had come to
the church with the set intention of committing it. He had no animus
against the Archbishop, but desired to aim a blow at the dogma of the
Immaculate Conception. Thence his outcry when he struck the fatal blow,
“No more goddesses!” “Down with the goddesses!” He was quite calm and
self-possessed afterward, and the suggestion that he was insane quite
fell to the ground. When he was received at Mazas his mental condition
was inquired into, but there was no symptom of derangement. His first
demand was for food, for he had eaten nothing that morning, fearing
to interfere with the steadiness of his nerves. When questioned as to
the motives of his crime, his answers were clear and logical, except
that he was fanatically hostile to certain doctrines, and especially to
that of the celibacy of the clergy. In his parish he was constantly at
difference with his parishioners, with whom he had many quarrels, and
he was at length removed to another parish. He went to London to work
under Cardinal Wiseman, the new Archbishop of Westminster, and on his
return to Paris obtained fresh preferment at Saint Germain L’Auxerrois.
He was still turbulent and constantly a thorn in the side of the
Archbishop. His state of mind was held to be doubtful, but the doctors
declared him more dangerous than mad. He preached the most violent
diatribes against ecclesiastical authority, and richly deserved the
sentence of suspension that was decreed against him within a week of
his murderous attack upon the Archbishop.

No doubt excessive vanity and the desire to pose as a public character
were strong temptations to the crime he committed. He was always
greatly pleased when people came to see him and he gloried in his crime
as a new _cause célèbre_ which long would be the talk of the town. He
maintained this attitude all through his trial, and at times behaved
scandalously by insulting the judge and ridiculing the procedure. The
audience was furiously incensed with him, and more than once it was
necessary to suspend the proceedings. Public feeling was entirely on
the side of the murdered Archbishop. At the same time there can be very
little doubt that he was an irresponsible being, a maniac suffering
from exaltation, eager always to “show off;” and it would have been a
bitter disappointment to him if he had been put away in an asylum.

His conviction came as a matter of course, but he did not accept
it without protest, exclaiming contemptuously, “What justice! What
justice!” He cried out that he would appeal to the Emperor (Napoleon
III), and he assured his father, when the old man visited him, that
he would not abide by the sentence. Nevertheless he was removed from
the Conciergerie to La Roquette, and here in his last abode he tried
to play the hero, and with much satisfaction frequently repeated the
details of his crime. He denied that he felt any remorse for having
struck down “_ce pauvre Monseigneur_,” but was not glad that he had
done it. “My work was over,” he would say, “and I dropped my arms to
my side like the workman who has finished his task.” The appeal made
for reprieve was very ably maintained by his advocate, but was quite
fruitless. There could be no doubt as to his guilt, and no pity for the
criminal in the Emperor. Again and again the condemned man prayed to
be permitted to write to the head of the state, and was very indignant
when the privilege was denied him. Still he had access to friends
outside, and hoped for some reversal of sentence through their good
offices. He could hardly believe his ears when they came to him on the
morning of execution to make the last dread announcement, which was
conveyed by the Abbé Hugon, who was acting as _aumonier_, and who was
accompanied as usual by the Chief of the Police, the director of the
prison and other officials. “It is useless,” he repeated, “I know you
all; you are not speaking the truth and have only come to see what
effect the bad news would have on me. I do not, I cannot believe it. I
know the Emperor, and feel sure he will not abandon me.”

At last the dread reality forced itself on him, and his demeanor
completely changed. His air of nonchalant bravado suddenly disappeared,
and a fierce passion for self-preservation seized him. He grew livid
with fury, and with a wild gesture of repulsion he waved them away.
“Be off, I want no priests, no relics, no cross,” he cried. “Do not
think that I will go quietly to the scaffold. I’ll have no scaffold.
You will have to carry me there in pieces,” and he set himself to
resist vigorously, clinging to his bed, rolling himself in his
blankets, struggling with the warders, shouting, roaring, swearing
and blaspheming. Then the director of La Petite Roquette thought
of calling in the executioner, although by law he is not permitted
to enter the condemned cell. M. Heinderich came when summoned, an
embodiment of superior force, a perfect Colossus, six feet in height,
with broad shoulders, clear-eyed and full of resolution, the picture of
a self-reliant veteran. “Come, Verger,” he said quietly, “you will not
come of your own accord? we must take you then by force!” The prisoner
was conquered, and without more ado allowed himself to be secured.
Then he was led like a lamb to the outer office where his “toilette of
death” was quickly performed. At length he broke down, and cried with
bitter tears, “How terrible it is to die without relations or friends.”
He listened with gratitude to the consoling words of the priest,
confessed, received absolution, and almost immediately was a dead man.

A notability of the guillotine was Avinain, executed in 1867 for a
series of murders, all having similar features. Several corpses were
picked up, all of which had been very carefully dismembered by some
hand practised in dissection. In all, the head and limbs had been
skilfully removed from the trunk; but death had first been inflicted
by strangulation or many terrible wounds. The remains had generally
been found in the neighborhood of the Seine, and suspicion at length
attached to a certain Jean Charles, otherwise Charles Alfonse, who
had lived in four different houses on the riverside. The police now
discovered that there were stables and sheds forming part of these
several dwellings. In one building they picked up a saw, a hammer and
an axe, which evidently had been used for the purpose of dismembering
the bodies. These, according to French custom, had been exhibited at
the Morgue, and one of the articles was recognised by a young man
as having belonged to his father, who had recently disappeared. The
deceased was a forage merchant. He had come to Paris to sell a cartload
of hay, and had met Charles, with whom he agreed on a price. The
purchaser very civilly offered him the accommodation of his stables
for the night and a bed at his house, so that the purchase might be
completed next morning. It appeared in the trial that before this
another person had sold forage and had accepted hospitality for the
night, but when the host came, insisting that the light should be
extinguished for fear of setting fire to the barn, he carried in his
hand a hammer; and the guest, a little suspicious, declared that he
always slept with a light burning, and in a very significant fashion
took out his knife as though to use it in self-defence. There was
little doubt that this man with the hammer was the same Charles already
indicated, and the police proceeded to inquire into his identity. He
proved to be one Charles Avinain, a butcher by trade, who had recently
been a convict in Cayenne. Since his return from transportation he had
frequently been in trouble, and was now easily traced and arrested by
means of clues furnished by his wife and daughter. He still lived at
the riverside, and nearly made his escape from the police by means of
a trap door in the floor of the basement which opened on to a passage.
Several murders were brought home to him, committed either with hammer
or knife. His victims were mostly forage merchants, and he had dealt
with the bodies in the same barbarous fashion. It is recorded of him
that he never exhibited the slightest remorse, until the very last
moment, and then it was under the influence of overwhelming terror as
he trod the steps of the scaffold. He had always repulsed the chaplain,
but in the end accepted his ministrations, confessed, and received
absolution.

Moreux, who had murdered a girl to rob her and give a present to his
beloved, put down his pipe quietly, when he received the news, saying,
“I did not think it would be before next Wednesday,” ascended the
scaffold quickly, and remarked to the chief warder in bidding him
good-bye, “You see what comes of evil behavior.” Toly, who tried to
kill a warder when first locked up, took his sentence very calmly, and
faced death with great self-possession. He spent his last night at
cards, but received the chaplain with great emotion and deep sentiments
of repentance. Coutalier had murdered his wife with one blow of a
hatchet, and bore up well until he saw the guillotine, when he threw
himself back violently, but soon regained his impassiveness. Many were
at great pains to proclaim their innocence. It was so with Boudas,
an ex-priest, whose consuming desire was to become rich. He poisoned
two wives in succession, so as to secure their inheritances. It was
clearly proved against him, but he reiterated as he knelt and laid his
head on the block: “Let every one know that I am not guilty.” Gervais
sacrificed an aged companion, a well-to-do dealer in antiques, because
he wanted means to marry. His awakening on the last morning was a
frightful scene. “I can’t, I won’t believe it. It is impossible. The
law is about to commit a terrible crime.” He fought the executioner so
hard that he had to be led twice to the block. But he died smiling with
that curious, artificial grin that relaxes the muscles of the face at
moments of great nervous derangement, and has no connection with real
laughter. Billoir hated his wife for her extravagance and slovenliness,
murdered her, and threw the body into the Seine. He was an old soldier
of good character and distinguished service, but Marshal MacMahon, the
President, positively refused to pardon him. He was quite overwhelmed
with the shock when told the fatal news, but speedily recovered
himself, and, crossing his hands on his breast, respectfully saluted
the chaplain.

Welker, one of the worst and most inhuman of his class, who had
murdered a pretty child of eight, showed the most abject cowardice. It
was necessary to carry him bodily to the scaffold, and place him in
position under the knife. A corpse was really guillotined, for he was
already dead with fright, and had pardon come at the eleventh hour it
could not have benefitted him. Menesclon has left a name more execrable
than Welker, for his victim was an infant of four, whom he was believed
to hold in strong affection, lavishing gifts upon her constantly. One
day she went into his room, and the child was never seen again. After
many denials that he knew anything about her, a neighbor was drawn to
his room by the nauseating smell of burning flesh, and on forcing his
door he was found stirring up a blazing fire in his stove. Menesclon
was barely saved from the fury of the people when the story became
known. He was interrogated, and gave his own account of the affair. He
had invited the child into his room to give her some flowers. But she
irritated him by crying, and, being unable to quiet her, he suddenly
seized her by the throat and choked her. When she was dead he thrust
the body between his two mattresses, and slept the whole night through.
Early next morning he set himself to get rid of the horrible evidence
of his crime in the manner already described. This miserable creature
was one of the lowest type of his class. He had been graduated in the
lowest schools of vice, beginning as a child at La Petite Roquette, to
which he had been committed at the instance of his parents as perfectly
unmanageable at home. He passed thence into the navy, after having
been the despair of many workshops in which he had been employed, at
last having assaulted and robbed his father. He had developed into an
undersized weak creature with a hideous, pimpled face, low forehead,
furtive manner and foxy eyes. He was quite indifferent at his trial,
showed no remorse for his crime, and rarely answered the questions put
to him, which threw into strong relief the enormity of his conduct.
Service in Senegal had left him with an incurable deafness, which
heightened his stupidity. He gazed without flinching at the _pièces de
conviction_ lying on the table before him. Close by was a copy-book
filled with verses, for he had poetical aspirations and was a bit of
an artist. His cold-blooded unconcern culminated in his last answer
to the question why he had committed the crime. “I can’t tell you,”
he replied, “but you are at liberty to do the same to me.” Menesclon
exhibited the same impassibility at the last hour. He heard his fate
with his hand to his ear, the better to catch the words, and merely
said, “_Ah, bon!_” when he understood; and then walked quietly to the
scaffold.

One or two later cases possessing some of the same features may be
included here,--those of Michel Campi and of Marchandon,--which throw
up into strong relief the insecurity of life, even in the most crowded
parts of a large city. In the first instance a peaceable old gentleman
and his sister were murdered at three o’clock in the afternoon in the
rue du Regard, not far from the avenue de Clichy. In the other a lady
of good position and ample means was done to death in the middle of the
night by her own man-servant, whom she had only engaged the day before.

The case of Campi is as follows: On the afternoon of a tenth of
August, a man rang at the door of an apartment in the rue du Regard
where resided Du Cros de Sixt with his sister. They were both old
people. He was well to do and secretary to a religious society. Their
residence was in a pavilion apart from the principal building. Mlle.
du Cros answered the door in the absence of their maid, and Campi
at once struck down the old lady with a succession of violent blows
with a hammer. Mlle. du Cros fell screaming and her brother rushing
out was treated in the same manner. Then the miscreant, opening a
large knife, cut the poor woman’s throat and next wounded M. du Cros
mortally. Now the concierge came to the rescue, found the two bodies
lying in a pool of blood, and hurriedly called in the police. When
they arrived they found the murderer in one of the rooms hunting for
plunder. He was forthwith arrested, and without difficulty, although
he later explained this to the instructing judge by saying that had
he not broken the handle of his hammer, he would have taken other
lives. Robbery was judged to be the motive of the crime, but Campi’s
advocate wished to suggest an idea of vengeance, although no proof of
this was ever forthcoming. There was some mystery about the man and his
relations with M. du Cros which never came out. Campi was certainly
acquainted with M. du Cros and his sister, who survived for a couple
of days. When questioned, she begged piteously not to be forced to
reveal the secret of the man’s identity. Campi was perfectly well known
to the police as a criminal, who had been in prison frequently, but
his secret antecedents were never brought to light. He was said to
have served in the Carlist ranks in Catalonia. He belonged originally
to Marseilles, and his connection with the Spanish insurgents was
attested by Carlist officers who recognised him. The mystery about him
was never definitely cleared up, and it served only to increase the
interest attached to him at the time of his trial. The account given
of his last appearance differed little from those of other executions,
but he was most anxious to show no weakness, declined all assistance,
and cried: “I would rather walk alone. I am not in the least afraid.”
When he saw the guillotine, he exclaimed contemptuously, “Is that all!”
The exact truth as to his identity will never be known, but those who
knew him maintained to the last that he was not a thief; that he was
essentially an honest man, who would not stoop to murder for mere
gain; and that some family scandal would have been revealed if the
whole story of the crime had been laid bare.

In the case of Marchandon, his intention to murder his new mistress
without loss of time was shown by the fact that he only hired for a
single day the clothes in which he presented himself in the rue de
Sèze. He had secured employment in many houses by means of a forged
certificate of character, which was so unsatisfactory that it roused
the suspicions of the Princess Poniatowski, who had engaged him, but
would not allow him to enter her house. She had gone at once to the
registry office to warn them, but found that Marchandon had already
been placed elsewhere, in fact, with Madame Cornet, his future victim.
He proceeded promptly to carry out his crime. Having secured a livery
coat as already described, he waited at table, and, after receiving
his orders for next day, he went up to bed in the garret. About one in
the morning he went down again and entered Madame Cornet’s apartment
by means of a key which he had secured, and hid himself between the
salon and the bedroom. When Madame Cornet had undressed and gone to
bed, Marchandon attacked her. Her piercing screams disturbed the
concierge who slept above. He got up to call the chambermaid, believing
that Madame Cornet was taken ill. The two came down-stairs together
and knocked at the door, but received no reply. They listened at the
door for a time, and then left, thinking all must be right, as she was
moving about. It was the murderer whom they heard, busied in getting
rid of his blood-stained clothes, and hunting for valuables.

The first clue to the detection of the crime was the discovery of
the hired livery coat, which was recognised by its owner when he was
found. With it came the identification of the man-servant. He had a
snug little home of his own in Compiègne, where he lived with his
wife very comfortably. When arrested in the course of the day, he was
just sitting down to a little dinner of croutons and roast fowl. The
establishment was run with the means Marchandon acquired in Paris and
brought down to his wife, the proceeds, no doubt, of his thefts. At one
time he was in the service of the well-known M. Worth, the dressmaker
of the rue de la Paix, but always managed to get down to Compiègne
in the evening for dinner, bringing with him fish or fruit, or some
other delicacy. He was a man of simple tastes, very popular in his own
neighborhood. The raising of poultry was his favorite amusement, and
he delighted in growing flowers. He was not without a certain sense of
grim humor; and a witness deposed in court to his having exclaimed,
when reading his newspaper the day after the murder of Madame Cornet,
“Why are people so careless as to engage their servants without proper
characters!”

The two Roquettes, small and great, were much mixed up with the painful
drama of the Paris Commune. The junior prison was for some time
appropriated to military prisoners. Paris, as the insurrection grew,
became more and more crowded with troops, and some penal establishment
was much needed. When the Commune was in full swing, La Petite Roquette
contained about four hundred soldiers of all branches of the service,
who in their turn gave place to the juveniles brought back from other
prisons. These, to the number of 127, were retained until the end of
May, when they were released and sent out armed to take part in the
defence of the barricades. They soon returned clamorous for shelter.
Later, La Petite Roquette was utilised as a place of safe custody for
all regular soldiers found in Paris who had refused to ally themselves
with the Commune. Some twelve hundred of these more than filled the
prison.

A darker shadow lies upon La Grande Roquette, for it was made the place
of detention for the so-called hostages of the Commune. Many persons
of rank and authority were arrested by the Communal authorities as a
means of imposing respect upon the government of Versailles, now moving
its troops forward to recover Paris and re-establish law and order.
Some idea of the savage and bloodthirsty spirit that possessed the
insurgents had already been seen in the murder of the two generals,
Clément Thomas and Lecomte, who had been arrested and mercilessly shot
at Montmartre. Early in April it was decided to arrest Monseigneur
Darboy, Archbishop of Paris. It is said that the same priest, Abbé
Lagard, Archdeacon of St. Genevieve, who had warned Archbishop Sibour
that Verger had threatened to take his life, now desired to put M.
Darboy on his guard. The trustful prelate could not believe that anyone
wished him evil, but the very next day after the fight at Châtillon,
an order was issued to two Communist captains to secure the persons
of the Archbishop and some of his clerics, and convey them to the
Conciergerie, where they were arraigned before three members of the
Committee of Public Safety, Rigault, Ferré, Dacosta. “My children,”
began the Monseigneur, “I am here to render you any satisfaction.”
“We are not your children, but your judges,” replied Rigault. “For
eighteen centuries you and men like you have been locking up humanity;
it is now your turn.” Sentence of death was then and there passed upon
them. “These are not men, but wild beasts,” protested the Archbishop,
who was forthwith removed with his secretary to the depot of the
Prefecture, whence they were transferred to Mazas. The possession of
these and other hostages inspired the Communists to open negotiations
with Versailles, backed by the threat that they would kill their
prisoners unless their terms were conceded. But indeed, this political
murder had been resolved upon the first moment of their arrest, and on
the morning of the twenty-fourth of May, 1871, they were all brought
from Mazas to La Grande Roquette, where the Governor gave a receipt
for their bodies worded as follows: “Received forty priests and
magistrates.”

By this time the troops stationed at La Roquette had been strongly
reinforced, and on the evening of the twenty-fifth of May another
detachment arrived. It was frankly admitted that they were the “platoon
of execution.” A list was handed to François, a low creature who had
been a carpenter, containing the names of all his prisoners. These
names were called out one by one, Darboy, the Archbishop, first. “Let
me get my coat,” said Monseigneur, but some one called out, “You will
not want it,” and taking him by the arm they led him down to the garden
that runs round the interior of the prison. This was the first _chemin
de ronde_. The second was reached by turning to the left, and again
to the left, and was well out of sight of the ordinary prison and the
hospital. The hostages then appear to have been arranged according to
rank from right to left. The Archbishop first, then M. le President
Bonjean, and then the rest of the priests. Just before the final act,
the Archbishop raised his hand to bless and absolve his companions, six
in all, who faced the firing party at thirty paces distant. At the word
of command the execution was completed. In those days of massacre the
guillotine was deemed too slow, and the bullet took its place.

At daylight next morning the same process was repeated with the fifteen
remaining hostages, who were led out one by one and formed up under
the same wall. Nowadays the many sympathisers with the victims of this
dastardly act, who come from all parts of the world to visit the scene
of the murder, will find a marble tablet fixed in the wall over the
exact spot where they fell. It bears the inscription: “Respect this
place which witnessed the death of the sainted and noble victims of the
24th of May, 1871.” An iron balustrade keeps off irreverent feet, and
is constantly adorned with wreaths of immortelles. A large number of
hostages remained, many of whom were gensdarmes. They were removed from
prison and massacred in a body at Belleville.

After many essays at improvement the prisons of Paris have entered upon
a stage of approximate perfection, and the capital is now possessed of
a penal establishment that compares with any in the civilised world.
The great prison of Fresnes, after four years in building at immense
outlay, was completed and occupied in July, 1898. It is situated on the
very outskirts of Paris, replacing a number of old-fashioned prisons.
It covers a wide extent of ground. The entrance is on the Versailles
road (on the left of the visitor coming from Berny station), where
the great edifice with its imposing, but not too florid, architecture,
presents a view of many lofty parallel blocks, flanked by smaller
buildings appropriated to the service of the prison.

Passing first the gatekeeper’s lodge, in front of which stands the
Governor’s residence of ambitious dimensions, we enter a long avenue,
well planted with trees, and find on the left other dwellings occupied
by the superior staff, and on the right a great block of 156 cells in
three tiers. This cell house is the _quartier de transfèrement_; in
other words, the place of passage in which are accommodated all the
classes till now found in La Grand Roquette. Those sentenced to long
terms exceeding one year will in due course move on elsewhere to the
colonial establishment beyond the sea, or the _maisons centrales_, the
district prisons in or near Paris. Further on is the main building,
housing close upon two thousand cells, arranged in three grand
divisions, each separate and distinct and containing 508 cells. Each
affords ample provision for the different categories of prisoners to
be lodged, _prévenues_ or those waiting trial, short term prisoners
and juveniles. The first design was to receive females at Fresnes,
but Saint Lazare is eventually to be replaced by another especially
constructed prison for their reception. The main entrance of this
principal quarter is in the centre, with a gatekeeper’s lodge on
one side and a military guard under an officer on the other. Beyond
and behind them are the extensive yards and buildings required in
attending to the services of the prison, the storehouses for food
and clothing, the kitchens and bakeries and laundries, and the plant
for the generation of electricity. All these are on the left, while
on the right is the reception ward with four hundred cells of ample
dimensions, each having a cubical content of eighteen yards.

With such an extensive acreage the inconvenience of great distances
to traverse is met by transverse tunnels and many lines of railways
serving all parts of the prison. On the prison galleries too, there are
the trams to carry the day’s rations and necessaries from cell to cell.
There are lifts everywhere, and many staircases in the most convenient
places. The cells are all very spacious, their decoration and fittings
artistic, and in the best modern style, with varnished walls, washing
arrangements in porcelain, and a plentiful supply of water. The warming
and ventilation are on the best principles. The only fault to be found
with the modern plan of prison management is that over-much attention
is paid to material comfort. The condition of the wrongdoer in durance
is far superior to his way of life when at large. He goes back to it
improved in physique, better able to endure its hardships, and possibly
fortified against relapse.

Whether when he finally emerges he has benefitted morally may be
doubted. It is impossible with so large a population, spread over so
large an area, that there can be any reformatory process as applied to
individuals. Fresnes is open to the serious objection that it is too
large for effective moral discipline, and that government of some 2,500
persons, four-fifths of whom are criminals of many varied classes,
would make excessive demands upon even a heaven-born administrator and
philanthropist.

As we have seen in the closing paragraphs of this volume, the great
prison of Fresnes exemplifies the best practice of modern penology in
the incarceration and discipline of those whom society, for its own
protection, isolates from itself. But punishment is not necessarily
reform; and it may be doubted whether the redemption of the criminal
will ever be accomplished by model prison structures alone. France, in
common with all other nations, has this further step of reformation yet
to take. But little indication of what its nature shall be, in France
or elsewhere, has been given; for its revelation we must look to the
future.


END OF VOLUME IV.


[Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The History and Romance of Crime.
Modern French Prisons, by Arthur Griffiths

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