The Project Gutenberg eBook, Prison Journals During the French Revolution, by Louise Henriette Charlotte Philippine (de Noailles) de Durfort, duchesse de Duras, Translated by Martha Ward Carey
| Note: | Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See [ https://archive.org/details/prisonjournalsdu00dura] |
Frontispiece
PRISON JOURNALS
DURING
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
BY
THE DUCHESSE DE DURAS
NÉE NOAILLES
Translated by Mrs. M. Carey
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1892
Copyright, 1891,
By Dodd, Mead and Company.
All rights reserved.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
CONTENTS.
| Page. | |
| Prison Life during the French Revolution | [7] |
| Addenda | [139] |
| Madame Latour's Memoir | [159] |
| Events of the 21st of July, 1794 | [199] |
| Narrative of an Eye-witness of the Affair | |
| of July 22, 1794 | [209] |
| Letter from Madame la Duchesse de Duras, | |
| née Noailles, to Monsieur Grelet | [227] |
| Extract from the 'Mémorial Européen,' | |
| April 24, 1809 | [229] |
PRISON LIFE DURING THE
FRENCH REVOLUTION.
I was put under arrest, together with my father and mother, on August 23, 1793, at our château of Mouchy-le-Châtel, in the Department of the Oise. I was taken to the prison at Saint-François à Beauvais, in the old convent, on the 6th of October of the same year and to that at Chantilly on the 20th of the same month. There I remained until the 5th of April, 1794, when I was transferred to Paris, to the Collège du Plessis, from which I was liberated on the 19th of the following October.
PRISON LIFE DURING THE
FRENCH REVOLUTION.
WRITTEN IN 1801, THE YEAR IX. OF
THE REPUBLIC.
The period of my confinement in different prisons during the Reign of Terror was so harassing that the idea of writing out its details did not then occur to me; but when I had the consolation of seeing my son once more, he was desirous of learning all about it. I feared that I should be overcome by my feelings if I tried to relate the details to him, and consequently determined to write the following memoirs.
My parents retired to their estate of Mouchy-le-Châtel, in the Department of the Oise, in the month of September, 1792. I accompanied them thither, and was their sole companion. They resolved, from prudential motives, to receive visits from no one. This privation cost my father nothing, for he was naturally shy, though the positions he had occupied had forced him to live constantly in the great world. My mother, who loved him dearly, accustomed herself to retirement with submission to the will of Providence, with the naturally happy disposition maintained through all the events of her life.
She loved system in all things, and she introduced it so successfully into our daily life that it passed rapidly. Reading, work, play, and walking filled up every moment. My parents took pleasure in furnishing refreshment to the harvesters during their weary labour, in sympathizing with their troubles, and in helping them by kindnesses. In spite of the position in which the Revolution placed my father, and the natural repugnance which he declared he felt for those who were engaged in it, he gave volunteers the means of paying their way. My father had, if I may so express myself, a passion for charity. His hands were always ready to bestow, and whenever he received a sum of money he would in a few hours declare, with satisfaction, that he had none of it left.
He could keep nothing when he knew that others were suffering; hospital visiting, aid rendered in private, all sorts of kind deeds and comforting words,—in fact all good works were familiar to him; in these alone he found happiness.
I have seen him refuse things which he might have considered necessary for himself in order to add to the number of his charities. Yet my father was born with a very unhappy disposition; the fortune, the honours, and all the pleasures that his position secured him were spoiled by the most miserable discontent. I frequently endeavoured, firmly and respectfully, to show him that Heaven had bestowed every gift upon him, and that nothing was wanting to his position. He listened patiently to what I had to say; but I did not succeed in convincing him. I worried myself and gained nothing. My mother, on the contrary, often said to me that if she should return to society she would not desire to change her manner of living in the least. She had a charmingly happy disposition, and was never out of humour for a moment.
Several times during the Revolution it was proposed that I should emigrate. One of my relatives sent for me at different periods, and urged me to consent to do so. I always refused, having a great repugnance to leaving my country, and desiring to watch over the old age of my parents, who were already separated from some of their children.
How great would have been my regret had I not remained with them up to the moment when I was deprived of my liberty. I shall retain to my latest breath the memory of their kindness, and the tenderest gratitude for the good example and daily lessons in virtue which I received from them.
But to return to the details of our family life at Mouchy. Every day I was filled with wonder to see my father, who from his youth had been accustomed to command (he had at the age of seven been given the reversion of the governorship of Versailles, after his father's death), obey without complaint the Revolutionary laws and all those who executed them. Everything worried him under the old régime, yet during the Reign of Terror he was calm because he was entirely resigned to the will of God. Religion had regulated all the actions of his life. It was really, for him, eternal happiness.
We suffered great anxiety during our sojourn at Mouchy. We were utterly ignorant of the fate of my elder brother.[[1]] A price had been put on his head and the notice of it posted at the corners of the streets of Paris, and the newspapers had stated that he had been guillotined. One afternoon, in the month of October (the 10th), we saw approaching us quite a large body of troops composed of Hussars and National Guards from different villages of the estate of Mouchy. It was preceded by a commissioner of the Committee of General Security, named Landry, who came to arrest my brother, believing that he was concealed in the castle. We were surprised, but not frightened. It was absurd to suppose that he would have chosen his own father's house for his hiding-place. They searched everywhere under pretext of taking him and of seizing arms, but they found nothing.
The official report made by the commissioner and the municipality proves this.
The drawing up of the report and the search lasted from five o'clock in the evening to eleven. Landry, called upon my father to denounce his son, though he could not even know whether he was alive or not. He answered with much dignity that such a demand was as harsh as it was unusual, and that he would not accede to it; yet he asked Landry, to take something to eat, and lent him one of his saddle horses to take him back to his carriage. My father, who was naturally very fiery, knew how to control himself when the importance of the occasion required it.
The officer of the Hussars who commanded the detachment was a very excellent man. He told us that he was marching with his troop along the highway from Beauvais, to Paris; that being required by the commissioner of the Committee of General Security to accompany him to Mouchy, he had been obliged to obey him, though with great repugnance, and that he came with the kindest intentions possible. He gave me an immediate proof of this; for he whispered in my ear that if my brother was in the house he would advise me to hasten his escape, and that he would be very glad of it. I have retained a feeling of real gratitude for this officer, whose name I do not know; he was from the region of Rouen.
The intense animosity which was shown in the attempt to capture my brother increased our anxiety concerning our own fate. A report, circulated by the newspapers, that he was in England somewhat allayed our anxiety; and Monsieur Noël (my father's man of business, who has given proof of the strongest attachment to our family) afterward assured us of its truth. When he entered the drawing-room we were much agitated, not knowing what news he was about to announce to us.
Various accounts have been given of the manner in which my brother escaped the scaffold. Some have said that he escaped from prison by the payment of a hundred thousand crowns to Manuel, then Procureur, of the Commune; others, that he left Paris disguised as a wagoner, and had been seen passing along several roads.
The truth is that he was never arrested, and that he found good and brave men who were kind enough to hide him in their houses; that he remained for several hours in the very top of the Louvre, stretched upon a beam, at the very moment when the famous search of September, 1792, was made; and that afterward he escaped by means of a passport to Granville, where Monsieur Mauduit, his son's old tutor, a naval commissioner, assisted him to embark for Dover.
Monsieur Mauduit, was guillotined, but he made no mention of my brother's affairs at his trial. My poor brother, having sailed from port, thought he had escaped death. A storm compelled his vessel to return to the port. He was obliged to hide himself in a place so close that his suffering for want of air came near causing him to betray himself. The search ended just in time to save his life, and he again set sail. It is also false that he used large sums of money to get out of his danger. He was not forced to spend more than two thousand crowns. The knowledge that he was out of danger diminished our daily increasing anxiety.
We had peaceful consciences, but the condition of affairs was becoming very threatening, and the future very disturbing. We often talked it over. I had the comfort of alleviating the situation of my dear parents, and they showed great pleasure in receiving my attentions. I concealed from them the terrible thoughts which constantly came to my mind, and occupied myself in distracting them from those by which they were sometimes agitated. We had not even the consolation of religious worship, the curate of the parish having taken the oath to the civil constitution exacted from the clergy; but we had had until our arrest opportunity to hear Mass from a Catholic priest. I prayed to God with all my heart for grace sufficient to endure all the terrible things that I foresaw in our future experience. About the 15th of August, 1793, Collot d'Herbois, and Isoré were sent en mission into the Departments of the Aisne and the Oise. They immediately put into execution there the decree regarding suspects, though this was not done in Paris until the 18th of the following September. Consequently all the priests and nobles were arrested. On the 23d of August the municipality of Mouchy, notified us of the order to remain under arrest in our residences until the houses of confinement were ready to receive us. The mayor, who was a zealous patriot, disposed to enforce an extreme rather than a moderate execution of the severe laws, told us that this was a measure for the public safety,—a phrase much in use during the Reign of Terror,—and that we need not be alarmed. We were allowed a space of a hundred paces in the park to walk in, and the free use of the courtyard, provided the grating was closed. We went there sometimes to talk with the people. This way of living was only an apprenticeship to the slavery that was impending. One quite singular fact was that, the population of Mouchy, being small, our own dependents acted National Guardsmen, and stood sentinel at our gates. I suppose there were those among them who took pleasure in doing this; for charity's sake I pass over their conduct in silence.
A very few of them, however, gave my parents strong proof of their attachment. I will give a list of their names at the end of these memoirs.
The municipality of Mouchy, sent a petition to the Department of the Oise, asking to be allowed to keep us within its limits and on its own responsibility. It referred in kindly terms to our wise and prudent conduct, and to our submission to the laws. The Department of the Oise, acceded to the petition relative to my parents; but they did not consider me old enough, and it had been said at Beauvais, that they wished to have a titled woman at Chantilly. Consequently a sergeant of the national gendarmes came with four horsemen to take me to Beauvais. I was at that moment sick in bed. The village surgeon, named Marais, and my father's physician considered that I was in no condition to be moved; but their attestations were not sufficient, and the sergeant sent for the physician of the Department, who decided that it was necessary for me to remain at Mouchy, and drew up an official paper in regard to my condition. I remained about five weeks to recuperate, during which time several petitions were sent to the Department in my favour. Monsieur Legendre went to see Collot d'Herbois, and Isoré. But all these efforts were fruitless.
I was so fully persuaded that I was going to be incarcerated that I packed up all my belongings, and hoped that my punishment would suffice for all. It cost me great suffering to leave my honoured parents to whom I had the comfort of being useful.
I was a little better, and had been for a few days going down into the courtyard to take the air, when I saw a man arrive dressed in the uniform of the National Guard,—he was the commander of the Guard at Beauvais, and his name was Poulain. I immediately suspected with what mission he was charged, and arranged with him that my parents should not know of the time of my departure. We agreed that at a signal which he would give me I should under some pretext leave the drawing-room and not return to it. It was important that my parents should not undergo too much emotion. I went up to them quietly and told them of my arrest. At first they bore the announcement bravely. I avoided saying anything to them which could agitate them, and conversed with the officer upon ordinary subjects. He searched neither my packages nor my papers. At last the moment came when I was obliged to leave them.
I seemed to foresee that I should never again behold my parents.
I went away, saying nothing, but feeling broken-hearted. I felt as though my limbs were giving way under me. And that scene of grief, which I am describing on the very spot where it took place, still causes me deep emotion as I recall it; but there are feelings which it is impossible to express. I have been told since, and Madame Latour also relates it in her journal, that my father and mother remained in a frightful state of dejection; they would take no nourishment, and passed the nights weeping and constantly reiterating that they had been deprived of half their existence when their dear daughter was taken away.
It was on the 6th of October, 1793, that I left Mouchy, at five o'clock in the evening, in one of my father's carriages, with Monsieur Poulain and my maid. We reached Beauvais, after a drive of two hours. The carriage tilted as we drove along; the officer endeavoured to assure me there was no danger. I somewhat insolently replied, 'I fear God, dear Abner, and have no other fear.'[[2]]
I was, however, suffering intensely inwardly. Fortunately the darkness concealed the tears that fell from my eyes. I prayed Heaven earnestly to sustain my courage.
The officer had orders to have me alight at the prison. He went to the Revolutionary committee to ask permission for me to spend the night at his house; it was granted him. I learned afterward that this kind act, done without my knowledge, and the irreproachable manner in which he had treated me had brought persecution upon him, and that he had been obliged to flee from Beauvais. His wife received me very politely. She tried to make me take some supper; I accepted a very little, but it may easily be imagined that my appetite was not of the best. I passed a wretched night. The desolate situation of my parents weighed constantly upon my mind and heart,—their age, their loneliness (they who so short a time before had been surrounded by so many relatives and friends), and the uncertainty of their future, which left so much to be feared.
I did not have the grief of awakening, so terrible to the unhappy. I received all sorts of care from my kind hostess, who had me breakfast with her husband and herself. After that I set out for a convent of nuns of the third order of Saint Francis, which was occupied by some sick soldiers, and by prisoners who were placed here temporarily until a sufficient number were collected to form a convoy and be sent to Chantilly. I entered a drawing-room where the company was assembled; it was composed of ecclesiastics, a few nobles, and some women. The most important ones were, among others, a man named Poter, head of the manufactory of Chantilly, a nun, a sutler, etc. They scrutinized my countenance. I took pains to please my new companions, and then asked to be conducted to my lodging-room, which was a former linen closet, far away from every one, so that if I had wanted anything it would have been impossible for me to make myself heard.
Monsieur Allou, our neighbour from Mouchy, who frequently came to see my parents, rendered me all the service in his power, and persuaded me to have a young girl, a prisoner, sleep in my apartment. I agreed, though with extreme reluctance, for I greatly preferred being alone. Sad thoughts prevented my sleeping, besides my being so unaccustomed to lying upon sacking for a bed. I at once had to give up the habit of having a light, upon which I was very dependent; but being destined to undergo great privations, I from that moment renounced the conveniences of life and set myself to learn how to attend to my own wants. As a beginning, I made some chocolate, which was horrible. Seeing my incapacity, I took some lessons, and after a day or two I ventured to invite one of my neighbours to breakfast; and she felt herself obliged, for politeness' sake, to praise my new talent. I arranged my employments so that the days might not seem so long. I read, I wrote, and I fixed a certain time to walk in the cloisters. They were always filled with the odour of sulphur, which was much used in the house for treating the soldiers afflicted with the itch. The air was not good on account of the gutters of stagnant water which crossed the yard. We were not allowed to go into the garden; it was appropriated to the use of the convalescents. The old chapel of the nuns was still in existence, and most of the prisoners went there to say their prayers. I sometimes thought how great in the eyes of Heaven must be the difference between us and the pure spirits who had gone there before us. They had voluntarily given up their liberty to consecrate it to God, while I felt that the loss of mine was a great sacrifice. Formerly the walls of this sacred place echoed only the praises of God, and now within them the soldiers blasphemed undisturbed. One day while I was at confession I was deafened by the songs of the Terror, the guardhouse of the Revolutionary army being just back of my room.
Among the prisoners there were some venerable priests, who set us an example of perfect submission to the will of Providence. I tried hard to imitate them. Shortly after my arrival at St. François the steward of Mouchy, named Legendre (whom I shall set down at the end of these memoirs among those persons who have been most devoted to us), was arrested and thrown into our prison on account of his attachment to my parents. I was particularly distressed at this, because if I had sent warning to him at Beauvais, when Monsieur Poulain came to arrest me at Mouchy, he would have had time to escape. I told him all I felt on this point. I shall have occasion to speak of him again more than once.
Upon a petition from Monsieur Poulain to the Revolutionary committee of Beauvais, my waiting-woman (Mademoiselle Dubois) was granted permission to come for an hour each day to St. François, to assist me in making my toilet. To that I have never attached the slightest importance; but it was a real satisfaction to me to receive through her some tidings from my parents, and to send them information concerning myself, and which they too received with kindest interest. Imagine how terrible a shock it was to me when I heard through Monsieur Allou, our neighbour from Mouchy, that they had been carried off on the 16th of October, by order of the Committee of General Security and taken to Paris to the great prison of La Force. I knew none of the details (they are recounted in Madame Latour's memoirs), and was completely overwhelmed. This poor man was moved also, and we wept together. I had hoped that the advanced age of my parents, their virtues, and the voice of the poor would appease the anger of the established authorities; but Robespierre, having learned that the great proprietors who had estates in the environs, had retired to them, and were living quietly upon them, resolved to drive them away and have them put in prison.
My parents passed only twenty-four hours in La Force. They were transferred to the Luxembourg, which they left only to pass into eternity.
Every day I heard sad news through prisoners who read the public papers, and who desired to communicate it to me. I refused to listen, thinking that to do so was only to incur additional pain. One day, when I was wondering what my parents were undergoing, I saw enter the cloister Monsieur d'Aryon, a captain of the National Guard (a very honest man, to whom I was afterward under many obligations), who seemed anxious not to meet me, so entirely was he dismayed by his mission. He sent a prisoner to deliver to me my order of imprisonment, of which the following is a copy:—
Beauvais, this 19th of October,
28th day of the 2d month of
the year II. of the Republic.
You are informed that you are to start for Chantilly on the night of this day, Saturday to Sunday. You would do well to make all your preparations to take with you everything absolutely necessary to you.
If you have occasion to procure a carriage, let me know.
(Signed)
E. Portier. Michel,
Taquet, Dufour,
Procureur, of the Commune.
To Madame Duras [la dame Duras], whose carriage is at the Golden Lion. She can use it if she wishes to do so.
It was addressed to 'Madame Duras, St. François.'
As soon as we had been informed of the order to leave, we became anxious to know whether all the prisoners at St. François were to be of the party. Only a portion of them were destined at that time for Chantilly. We passed the whole day in packing our belongings. Mine were taken there from Mouchy, which spared me for that time the worry of moving them, to which I was afterward compelled to accustom myself. I forgot to say that the keeper of St. François was the most humane of all under whom I was placed. I could not determine whether I was sorry or glad to change my prison. Those to which I was going were infinitely more wretched; but I did not then know their terrible methods.
About eleven o'clock at night we were told to get into the carriage, but the train did not start till midnight. It was composed of wagons and carriages of different sorts. I took in mine Monsieur de Reignac, an officer of the King's Constitutional Guard, who was afterward guillotined, a nun from the Hôtel-Dieu at Beauvais, and my waiting-woman. My coachman, to whom this journey was exceedingly distressing, wept the whole way. We were escorted by the Beauvais, National Guard, part on foot and part on horseback. As it was moonlight the people came out in front of their doors to hoot at us and throw stones at us. The train which had preceded us had been insulted infinitely worse. Monsieur Descourtils, an old and very estimable soldier, who had on all occasions rendered services to the town of Beauvais, and also Monsieur Wallon, the kind patron of the poor, were treated in the most outrageous manner.
Our procession moved so slowly, and we stopped so often, that we did not reach Clermont until eleven o'clock in the morning, after having come six leagues. My nun, who was not accustomed to travelling in a carriage, was almost nauseated all the way. I read throughout almost the whole journey.
We dined at an inn in Clermont. The people watched us dismount with an expression of pity. This feeling, which it is generally so undesirable to inspire, gave us pleasure on account of its rarity during the Reign of Terror. Nothing worthy of remark took place during our short stay at Clermont, unless it was the manner in which we were guarded. Our escort, being obliged to rest and get something to eat, confided us to the care of the National Guard of the city, among whom there were some prisoners who had been placed there to increase the size of the troop. The vicinity of Fitz-James made me sadly recall memories of the past. I had been so happy there from my earliest childhood; now nothing was left me but to regret it; all those with whom I had spent my life there were either dead or gone away. But while I was giving way to these sad thoughts, we were told it was time to leave. The train started, and we reached Chantilly at three o'clock.
It would be difficult to describe the confusion caused by the unpacking of the many vehicles loaded with mattresses and other things belonging to the prisoners, all thrown haphazard in the court, without other order than to unload them, and that the bundles should not be taken upstairs till the next day, when there would be time to examine them.
Consequently it was the custom to go to bed on a chair the first night, after a very scanty supper, or to accept the mattress of some prisoner willing to deprive himself of it. As we passed the iron grating at the entrance of the place, I recalled the 2d of September, and said to Monsieur de Reignac that it was quite probable that we were being gathered together to be made to submit to the same fate; he seemed to think so too. Several attempts had been made to invent conspiracies, which had in fact no real existence at Chantilly any more than in other prisons. In order to render the name prison less terrible, they were called houses of arrest, of justice, of detention, etc.; but as during the Reign of Terror these words were synonyms, I shall make use of them without distinction. The whole party was taken into a beautifully gilded chapel, where I had heard Mass in the time of the Prince de Condé. It was quite filled with bags of flour; I found one which was placed in a comfortable position, and seated myself on it. Then the steward of the house, by name Notté, member for the Department of the Oise, mounted on the altar steps to call the roll, holding in his hand the list of those who composed the party; he had on his right a man named Marchand (who was the son of a very respectable waiting-woman of my aunt, Madame la Maréchale de Noailles), an agent of the Revolutionary army, who was in the confidence of the Committee of Public Safety. He seemed to take pleasure, as the names of the priests and nobles were called, in saying the harshest and most cutting things to them. A village vicar from the environs of Beauvais, and I had the worst of it all. This poor priest was quite in a tremor; but as for me, I did not mind it at all. This man Marchand asked Notté if he had taken care to see that I was very poorly lodged, and he replied that he had selected for me the smallest room to be had. When the roll-call was over, Mademoiselle Dubois, my waiting-woman, asked permission to remain in prison with me. The commissioners refused her request, and declared their determination of sending away all those not prisoners who up to that time had remained in the place. She was much grieved at parting from me. I was not sorry to give her up, for I had been extremely worried to see her suffering and deprived of liberty on account of her attachment to me. I remember with gratitude the feeling she showed for me at that time, and I am very glad to record it in this memoir. After a very long and wearisome discussion we left the chapel, quite curious to see our new quarters. I was agreeably surprised when they conducted me to a small room, neat and prettily gilded, where I was to be alone. Notté had had the good manners to keep it for me. I valued it the more when I saw the lodgings of my travelling companions. Several prisoners came to see me. I was not acquainted with one of them. I seemed to have been shipwrecked on an island inhabited by good people. They welcomed me heartily, and I was permitted to have my belongings, which had come from Mouchy, sent up to me at once. Consequently I had the pleasure of sleeping on a bed,—a rare thing on the day of one's arrival. Several of my neighbours were kind enough to help me make it up. I was quite overcome, and terribly fatigued. I received all these kindnesses as graciously as possible, but was impatient to be left to repose. Mademoiselle de Pons, now Madame de Tourzel, came with a message from her mother, asking me to supper; and Madame de Chevigné invited me to breakfast next morning. I accepted the second invitation with pleasure. I had never known these ladies intimately. They were the only ones belonging to the court who were in the house. I had only met them at the houses of my acquaintances.
The fatigue I had undergone the day before made me sleep. I had scarcely risen when Mademoiselle Lèfvre, the sister-in-law of the steward of Mouchy, came to my room to give me information concerning the inhabitants of our prison, and advice about my own arrangements,—all of which was very useful to me. It is a very sad thing to find oneself utterly alone in the midst of a crowd. Monsieur Notté paid me a visit; I did not find his face so severe as it had seemed on the arrival of our party, when he stood beside the commissioner of the Revolutionary army. He spoke pleasantly to me, and told me that, as the prisoners were very much crowded in their lodgings, he thought it best to put some one with me in a little cabinet which was under my control. In order to enter it one had to pass through my room. He allowed me to select the person, and I chose the hospital sister who had come from Beauvais, with me. She was a good woman, the daughter of a village farrier, without education, but a great help to me in the daily needs of life. I had an opportunity to show her my gratitude for it all during a severe illness of hers, when I acted not only as her nurse, but also as her physician, as she was not willing to see a doctor. She frequently gave me proof of the fact that when one has not received certain ideas in youth it is impossible to comprehend some of the simplest things. I would alter my phrases in every possible way in order to enable her to understand what I meant,—among other things respect for opinion, etc. She remained with me until I was removed to Paris, and was never annoying to me. This was a great blessing, since our companionship was enforced. I soon began to pay visits among our colony, which was composed of very incongruous material. There were priests, nobles, nuns, magistrates, soldiers, merchants, and a large number of what were called 'sans-culottes,' from all parts of the country, and who were excellent people. I had near me a mail-carrier, a barmaid, and other domestics, whom I highly esteemed. They had become greatly attached to a venerable curate from Beauvais who lodged with them. They called him their father, rendered him many services, and took perfect care of him during a serious illness which he had while in prison. I first learned something of the character and habits of our companions, and which of them seemed most honest. They told me that we had among us samples of all sorts of persons and opinions. There were priests, real confessors of Jesus Christ, to be revered on account of their patience and their charity, others who had renounced their profession, and declared from the pulpit that they had formerly only uttered fables. One of these unprincipled priests, a man still very young, who had served in a regiment, often said that he did not know why he was kept in prison, for on every occasion since the Revolution he had done whatever he had been desired to do. When civic festivals were given in the village of Chantilly he had been the composer of couplets. He wore habitually the national uniform. We had two abbesses,—the abbess of the Parc-aux-Dames and the abbess of Royal-Lieu, Madame de Soulanges, who was nearly eighty years old, and had been under-governess to Madame Louise at Fontevrault, and was tenderly beloved by her. During her sojourns in Compèigne the princess used to go to see her every day. (Madame Louise, daughter of Louis XV., a Carmelite at St. Denis, had been brought up at the abbey of Fontevrault, together with Madame Victoire and Madame Sophie.)
I discovered, soon after my arrival at Chantilly that loss of liberty unites neither minds nor hearts, and that people are the same in prison as in the world at large,—jealous, intriguing, false; for there were among us many spies,—an epithet, however, which was often lightly bestowed. I endeavoured to be polite to every one, and intimate only with a very small circle.
I made some visits every day, and received visitors after dinner, during which time I also worked. Sometimes some patriots whom I recognized quite well, pretended to be aristocrats, so as to make me talk; it was without doubt the most disagreeable part of the day. The time passed without great weariness, for I filled it up with prayer and reading, and a little walking in a courtyard, walled on four sides, and very dreary looking. At first we were able to go to the grating and talk with persons outside; but it was not desired that we should do this, and to prevent it planks were placed over the grating. These concealed the outer view and made communication impossible. On the third story there were terraces on the leads, upon which all our windows opened; and these windows, in several instances, also served as doors; only one person could pass through them at a time. It was really a comical sight, this file of prisoners, dressed in all sorts of costumes, and going around and around like a panorama. We were frequently obliged to stop on account of the great number of promenaders. Mademoiselle de Pons, who played on the piano, accompanied on the violin by Monsieur de Corberon (an officer of the French Guards, who was afterwards guillotined), entertained us most agreeably; she occupied one of the apartments of which I have just spoken. The view from it was very pleasant,—the most beautiful rippling waters, numerous villages, a superb forest, fine buildings belonging to the château, and a green lawn most charming to look upon. I thoroughly examined every portion of our prison. Several of the large rooms had been divided by plank partitions which were only six or seven feet high. Those who occupied these compartments during the winter suffered excessively from cold. In the rooms which were not so divided there were put as many as twenty-five persons. I noticed the arrangement of one of these communities, in which the curtain-less beds were placed so close together that during the day the prisoners, in order to move around, were obliged to pile them up on top of one another. Here is a list of the individuals occupying this room: A republican general and his wife, a curate from Noyon, twenty-seven years old, several young men, two estimable mothers of families, with five or six daughters from fourteen to twenty years. In another there were a soldier with two or three nuns. The one next to mine contained a general, called Monsieur de Coincy, eighty-three years old, who still retained his strength, his wife, his son, his daughter, a nun of the Visitation, and Mesdemoiselles de Grammont-Caderousse, the eldest of whom was about fourteen. A special annoyance in our prison was the mingling of the sexes in the same lodging. I was the more thankful for my little cell. Marchand, the commissioner of the Revolutionary army, came to make me a visit; he found nothing to complain of in the furnishing of my apartment, which was composed of a servant's bed, two chairs, and a table. The beds and the trunks served as seats when the company was too numerous. Generally luxury was an offence to him. I told him he could find no fault with mine. I was mistaken; he answered that I as well as my parents had once had too much of it. He went from one end to the other of the place, and took it into his head, in order to annoy those ladies who seemed somewhat careful of their toilets, to order them to have their hair cut off; and he also sent sans-culottes to sleep in their rooms. These poor fellows were as much worried at this as those who were compelled to submit to it. They used to come as late as they possibly could and go away very early in the morning. They were very well behaved, with the exception of a cobbler from Compiègne, of whom his hosts complained bitterly; he was ill-tempered and annoying. One of his comrades, probably better reared, came near dying of colic through his politeness in not wishing to awaken those with whom he was forced to lodge.
Care had been taken, in order to avoid too active a correspondence between the prisoners and outsiders, to send those who were inhabitants of the district of Senlis to the abbey of St. Paul at Beauvais, and those of Beauvais, to Chantilly. We could not write even to our parents, nor could we receive news from them without a great deal of trouble. Of all the privations we were forced to undergo, this was the hardest to bear. While Notté was at the head of the house, the prisoners continually complained of him, though our situation was endurable. The wretched are naturally fault-finding.
I assured them that if he went away it would be worse for us; and so it actually happened. This man was passionate but not wicked. I had found out that one should never ask him anything in the presence of other persons, because he feared lest they might be indiscreet; but in private he was quite accommodating. I never had any reason to complain of him. By one of the strange chances of the Revolution, he is now in want, and at the very time when I am writing this memoir, is soliciting my protection, which I would willingly grant him if it were better worth having.
I was generally strictly obedient to the rules of the household, and consequently had to endure fewer annoyances than those who strove to evade them. It is true that they changed so frequently that it was difficult to keep the run of them.
We were guarded at first by the gendarmerie, afterward by the National Guard of Chantilly. I was informed of this by a carpenter who, while doing some work in my room, told me he was now our military commander. I found it necessary to ask his permission to do something the next day, and I did so in such a serious manner that Madame Séguier, who was present, could not help laughing.
The Revolutionary army succeeded the National Guard, and made its entrance into the house in a manner suitable to the functions with which it was charged. At ten o'clock in the evening we learned that there were cannon pointed toward the château, and at the same moment we heard the grating open amid songs which sounded more like rage than joy. The van-guard was preceded by cannon, drums, and torches. Women mingled with the procession. The refrain of 'Ça ira, les aristocrates à la lanterne!' was repeated with stubborn animosity. My neighbours were seized with terror, and rushed trembling into my apartment. I reassured them as well as I could without knowing why, except that the feeling of fear is one to which I do not readily yield.
When the troop had finished its dances and songs in the courtyard, and gone through a sort of march, it placed its sentinels and retired. I had the full benefit of the performance, as my windows opened on the courtyard.
I cannot now remember the exact time, but a few days after the scene I have just described took place, several prisoners were sent to the prisons at Paris, among them Monsieur de Vernon, Master of Horse to the king, who had gout in his hands, but on whom they put handcuffs. A curate named Daniel was sent off with him. They were taken to the prison of the Carmelites on the Rue de Vaugirard. A party of thirty persons followed them immediately. Madame de Pontevès seeing them carrying off her husband, asked a commissioner named Martin for permission to go with him. He answered her roughly, granted her request, and then separated them when they reached Paris. One of them was put in the Madelonnettes, and the other in Ste. Pélagie. In order to fill the prisons of Paris it was sometimes necessary to draw recruits from the neighbouring prisons; for this purpose different pretexts were made. Evil designs were imputed to the prisoners,—such as anti-revolutionary projects; for instance, one was called an agitator if he spoke to the keeper or to the commissioner in order to make known his wants.
When any one came to inspect us I kept in the background. I was obliged, however, to appear before Martin, the commissioner extraordinary, who was accompanied by a man with a red cap, and had a roll-call of all the prisoners. He only asked me my name. A sort of officer who was with them said that he had dined once at the house of Monsieur de Duras, at Bordeaux, and had been very well entertained. I did not continue the conversation. Some of the prisoners pleaded their causes, and petitioned to be allowed to go free. I withdrew as soon as I possibly could.
Monsieur de Saint-Souplet, the king's esquire, who was constantly worrying about getting the news, was taken away, arraigned before the Revolutionary tribunal, and perished on the scaffold with his father, who was eighty years old, and one of his brothers. He was denounced by one of his servants; but the latter was guillotined with him for not having betrayed his master sooner. We now began to hear of a great many executions; that of Madame de Larochefoucauld-Durtal caused me intense sorrow, and also made me extremely anxious for the future. She was a widow of thirty years, lived a most retired life, caring for her parents, and occupied solely with their happiness and with works of charity. She was carried off from the Anglaises, where she had been imprisoned with her mother, who was very old and extremely infirm. She was taken before the Revolutionary tribunal as a witness for her uncle, Monsieur de l'Aigle, whose mind was affected. He compromised her in consequence of his weakness of mind, and the address of a letter which did not belong to her was made a pretext to remove her from the position of witness to that of criminal. Sentence was passed at once upon her. As something was the matter with the guillotine that day, she spent twenty-four hours in the record-office awaiting her execution; during this time she lovingly and zealously exhorted her uncle to meet death bravely. She assured him many times that she forgave him for being the cause of her own death; and after having somewhat aroused his senses, she showed him how to die resignedly.
I could not understand how it was that the prisoners who were every day hearing sad news should feel the need of being amused. They assembled to play with high stakes, have music, dance, etc. A Monsieur Leloir, an architect from Paris, and quite facetious, was the leader of all the amusements. I was constantly invited to join them, but always refused.
Notté was sent away from the place, and a grocer from Chantilly, named Vion, became our keeper. This was the golden age of our house. Leloir had influence over him, and as he was one of the prisoners, we reaped the benefit of it; but the commissioners of the Revolutionary committees of the neighbouring villages, the greater part of whom were employed about us, were able to persecute us. In fact, any one could do so who chose to take the trouble. I will give an example of this which is ludicrous enough: A man named Bizoti, employed as a wagoner, had the curiosity to pay us a visit, and took real pleasure in abusing all the priests. There was an old maid from Vandeuil, once fond of the chase, who was in the habit of wearing a costume somewhat masculine, composed of a man's hat and a dressing-gown. The wagoner-citizen said to her: 'I know you; you are a curate;' and then he addressed to her the same abusive language he had used to the priests. Loud bursts of laughter followed this. I sometimes went to see this spinster, who was very original.
I was very fond of the family of Monsieur de Boury, a captain of the French Guards, who had a wife and ten children. They are examples of every virtue; the father is truly religious, honourable, and well instructed; the wife is sweet and good. The harmony that pervades their life recalls that of the old Patriarchs. They were entirely resigned to the decrees of Providence, and preached to us by their example. A number of pious prisoners used to gather in their apartment for prayer and edifying reading. In all the house it was the spot I enjoyed most. It seemed to me that there one breathed purer air than anywhere else.
My chief amusement was to watch from my window the young people of fourteen or fifteen, who played foot-ball in the courtyard, forgetful of their captivity, and never dreaming that execution could await them. Alas! The Terror laid hold on one of them. Young Goussainville, only fifteen years old, was beheaded with his father. Several of the prisoners had brought their children with them, even nursing babies. (Madame de Maupeou was nursing one.) These children were of all ages; I could never understand how any one dared bring them into houses so full of dangers, to say nothing of the bad air. The laws now forbid persons to be received among the prisoners who desire to be there for the purpose of caring for those they love, which is very wise. We had at Chantilly several examples of that sort of devotion. The spirit of everything there was, in general, better than in the prison where I have since been.
Our keepers took a notion to put us at a common table, and this custom was afterward elegantly called 'eating in mess.' At first, during our sojourn at Chantilly, we were fed by eating-house keepers, established at the château. The keeper Désignon was one of the number. He served, beyond comparison, the worst fare to his customers; but I took it from motives of policy, knowing that he had more consideration for those whose food he furnished. He never failed in respect to me. Although he was only the subaltern of the commissioner, he arrogated the right to abuse those of the prisoners who asked to change their lodgings or to be less crowded together in the rooms they were occupying. The new arrangement was a calamity for him, since he had contracted with the government to supply all those who could not pay for their own food, and of these there was a large number.
A table was set in the gilded gallery of the Petit Château,[[3]] without a cloth, and with two hundred covers. The tables were reset three times, for there were many more than six hundred prisoners in the house; but the old and infirm were allowed to remain in their apartments. One of the tables was occupied by priests and unmarried men, the second by married people and children, the third by those who were alone; and this was my situation. The places were all numbered, and each of us had a duplicate number. When the bell rang, we came like children going to school, with baskets, in which were our plates, goblets, etc. Often the previous dinner was not over, and we had to stand a long time in groups in the drawing-room, which was next the gallery. We ate soup, which was only water with a few lentils such as are fed to horses, grass for spinach, sprouted potatoes, and a perfectly disgusting stew called ratatouille. I suppose that this word is not in the dictionary of the Academy, and that the Institute is not likely to put it there. We rose from the table hungry. There was a very hearty young man to whom we used to send all that was left at our table, in order to appease his hunger in some degree.
The members of the Revolutionary committee, with the officers of our guard, marched around our table with their red caps on their heads. There was one of them—the peruke-maker for the whole company—who watched us closely, to see if any one abstained from meat. Under such circumstances it was not easy to keep Lent. Many persons, however, did keep it strictly, although the grand vicars of the diocese had exempted three days.
Our tables were surrounded by sentinels of the Revolutionary army. I sometimes conversed with them. I found one among them to whom his service was extremely disagreeable. He was a servant whom want had compelled to take such a wretched position. He pitied us, and would willingly have afforded some alleviation of our terrible condition. One of the guards' duties was to accompany, with drawn sabres, the washerwomen when they came to bring and carry away our linen. This performance was truly humiliating, and I made some effort to avoid its most embarrassing details.
One day a commissioner delivered a most atrocious reproof to the keeper. He told him that there did not enough prisoners die in the house. In fact, through lack of care, the bad food, and the incapacity of the health officers, a great many would have died; but Providence protected them, and their constitutions held out much better than could have been expected.
One day as we were dining in the gallery of the Petit Château, I recalled the beautiful pictures which formerly adorned it, the armour of the great Condé, pierced with bullets, his victories represented by the great painters, all the festivals I had attended in that place; but happily these ideas came to me rarely. I generally had there very commonplace thoughts; those which concerned my bill of fare,—such as the endeavour to introduce into it, by means of bribery, a pound of butter or a few eggs,—absorbed me. In this connection I had a very amusing encounter with our new commissioner, named Perdrix. This man had a grotesque figure, and wore a costume not less so. His former profession had been to paint the dogs of Monsieur the Prince of Condé. He probably imagined it would add to his dignity to be more severe than his predecessors. We were allowed to speak to him only through an opening made in the wall. I one day presented myself at this strange parlour to ask him to allow me to have six pounds of chocolate which he had held back; he replied with dignity that he would allow me exactly as much of it as was good for my stomach. I assured him that in order to have the dose exact the only way was to have me breakfast every morning with the surgeon, and said moreover, that I wanted to give it to a sick man. He did not grant my request, and I went away somewhat angry at not being able to obtain the nourishment which kept up my strength. My charwoman, who fortunately was also his, brought back to me the full supply the next day.
I will leave off these small details, and tell how a poor soldier of the Revolutionary army, the father of a family, being unacquainted with Chantilly, arrived there in the night, and losing his way, fell into one of the moats which surrounded the castle. At daybreak some of the prisoners saw the man struggling and screaming. Monsieur de Bouquerolle, an officer of the navy, who knew how to swim (he was the eldest son of the much respected family of Boury), started to go into the water after him. The sentinel prevented his doing so, telling him that it was a prisoner who had escaped, and left the man to perish. His body was found afterward, and it was recognized as that of one of their own men. Monsieur de Corberon and a curate asked that the body should be brought into the house, in order to try the usual means of restoring the drowned to life. This was granted them; and they used every means in their power for several hours, but without success. After this act of cruelty one can imagine how incensed the prisoners were. Well, they had their revenge in taking up a collection for the widow and children which amounted to six hundred francs. These were the people who during the Revolution were called criminals.
The parties sent off increased in number to an alarming degree. Each day when one went off we were filled with consternation. Husbands were separated from their wives, mothers from their children; and those who had no interests so dear had to regret some one of their companions. We did not know where they were taken, nor what took place in the prisons at Paris. For my part, I imagined them to be still worse than ours; and I was quite right, in spite of the continual vexations, hunger, and daily anxieties which we experienced.
One evening as I was taking a walk on the terraces in the delightful moonlight, which gleamed over the forest and made the waters sparkle, my ears delighted by the rippling sound, my eyes taking in all the beauty which surrounded me, I congratulated myself upon being, after all, less unfortunate than a great many persons whom I loved and respected. The wretched situation of my parents came over me at that moment so terribly that I shed tears. I scarcely ever received news from them, or from any of the friends who were dear to me.
Eatables were forbidden to be brought to us, lest letters should be concealed in them; and this reduced us sometimes to the necessity of eating soup made of salt and water only.
The Revolutionary guard took it into their heads to go on patrol from ten to eleven o'clock in the evening. They put out the lights, and made the prisoners go to bed. One day the soldiers came with drawn sabres into the apartment of Madame de Boursonne (former lady-in-waiting to Mesdames), who was very ill from hemorrhage, and had a constant fever. They went up to her bed, examined her closely, and said aloud 'that they would not have the trouble of visiting her long.' She came near dying after they went out. These kind fellow-citizens frequently had the goodness to forget to come to see me, because they knew that my cell was somewhat apart from the others.
Suddenly a party of forty prisoners were set at liberty in accordance with a command from their communes, under a law which granted the communes this right. There was general rejoicing among those who departed, and sweet hope for those who remained; but it was seen that by this means the prisons would be emptied, and the law was repealed. I was glad to take leave of two good Sisters of Charity from Noyon, thinking of all they would do for the poor whom they cared for so tenderly; but scarcely had a few prisoners been set at liberty when a larger number came to replace them. The districts of Beauvais, Noyon, Senlis, and Compiègne were most zealous in gathering recruits. We never had any vacancies. One day I met an old nun whom I did not know, bent with age and infirmities, who seemed to be suffering terrible pain in the side of her face. One of her companions told me that as she was getting into the wagon which brought her to Chantilly she made the sign of the cross; and one of the soldiers of the escort was so indignant that he gave her a frightful blow on her cheek which broke several of her teeth. How horrible! I took great pleasure in visiting these holy virgins, who were inconsolable at being compelled to leave their retreats where peace and innocence reigned. In order to console them for this, they were lodged so close to the coarsest men in the house that they constantly heard things said which made them very unhappy. They endured their strange and terrible situation with perfect resignation, and never failed to read their office as though they were in their convent.
My companions in misfortune differed very much; there were some who, in the hope of obtaining their liberty, undertook the rôle of informer. Several of them tried to sound me; they were not rewarded for their trouble. When they told me tales I would not listen, but immediately changed the conversation.
One thing which astonishes me as I look back is how little I suffered from ennui during my captivity. My thoughts were confined within a very narrow sphere. They dwelt upon my regret at being separated from those I loved and upon the needs of my daily life. The want of exercise, which is absolutely necessary to me from habits contracted in my childhood, gave me too great fulness of blood. I had violent rushes of blood to the head, and also rheumatism. Once on awakening I felt so stunned that I called the hospital nurse, who lodged near me. She thought I was dying, and went for help. This condition, which was really dangerous, was relieved by vomiting. I fell asleep; and when I woke I found myself surrounded by kind people, to whom I acknowledged my gratitude, and then burst into tears. They did not know what to make of it. I excused myself, and explained to them that once several years before I had had a similar attack, when I was surrounded by friends and relatives, and now I was terribly alone. I regained my composure, and then went out into the air.
The weak condition to which I was reduced made me unable to restrain the feelings and emotions which these sad memories aroused, though generally I have an aversion to speaking of what grieves me. The health officer of the prison was sent for; he was a violent revolutionist, small, very dark, uneducated, and dressed in a carmagnole, the uniform of the sans-culottes. Being difficult to bleed, I dared not have him bleed me, although I was in great need of it. He put leeches on my neck, which eased the pains in my head.
Very disturbing news reached us from Paris, and those were the only tidings which could come to us. It was reported that we were to be interrogated by means of blanks, which must be filled up. I had a great dread of this kind of torture on account of my love of truth, which might compromise both myself and others. Heaven did not allow them to realize this base project.
One of the prisoners died from the mistaken treatment of that imbecile surgeon, who, without asking him if he had hernia, gave him an emetic, which caused his death in twenty-four hours.
The treatment of the sick was terrible; no medicine was given them, no one was appointed to nurse them, and even the prisoners were forbidden to show them any attention. I once saw five cases of putrid fever in one room. A respectable girl from Crépy, who stayed in the apartment, was obliged to spend every night waiting on the patients. A good schoolmaster, who also was in the room, helped her as well as he could. I have seen him since, with great pleasure, and I entertain a real esteem for him.
Madame de Boursonne, who had recovered from her illness, and from the visit of the revolutionists, heard that Monsieur d'Ecquevilly, her father, was dying at Amiens. One may imagine her great desire to go to him and hear his last words; but an insurmountable barrier was placed between us and those dear to us. She could only hope to hear frequently from him, being very near him; but our keeper, Perdrix, refused even this, and kept all letters addressed to her. After a fortnight of terrible suspense had passed, he sent for her to come to him; this was for the purpose of reading to her, in the presence of every one, the letter announcing the death of her father, without even allowing her to have it, which at least would have given her the consolation of learning the details. Poor Madame de Boursonne was in a terrible state. I did everything in my power for her, and took her back to her own room.
One day as I was sitting alone in my chamber some officers of our guard came in with Monsieur Lambert, the Commissioner of War. The dread of something frightful was the first thing that flashed across my mind; but I was mistaken in my fear. This Monsieur Lambert, to whom I had rendered services under the old régime, had expressed a desire to see the place and my little cell. I made no sign of recognition because of the fear I had always had since the Revolution of compromising those who wished me well. When the officers were going out he let them pass before him, and said to me that if I had need of his services and wished to send off any letters he would take charge of them, and would be delighted to do me any kindness. I cannot tell how touched I was by this proposition, which, however, I was unwilling to accept. During the Reign of Terror the slightest kindness offered to persons of our rank was so dangerous that I still feel grateful to him for his good will.
Perdrix did not spoil us. Several of us asked him for a copy of our entry in the jail-book; this seemed a small favour, but we could not obtain it. The clerk of the commune of Chantilly came quite frequently to the château, in order to give certificates of residence. He showed a sort of interest in the prisoners. Whenever they were not harshly treated it was on account of the natural amiability of individuals. Monsieur Wallon, of Beauvais, having confidence in the clerk, commissioned him to procure some money for him; he accepted the commission graciously, and disappeared. I never should have imagined it necessary to have one's residence in a prison certified. It seemed to me that to make a list of those who were there would have been sufficient; but it turned out very well for me that I took the precaution I thought superfluous, as I was inscribed upon the list of émigrés during my imprisonment.
I was not pleased at the reception given a fat curate from Noyon who had apostatized, and had denounced and caused to be imprisoned a good many of our fellow-prisoners. He was hooted at from the head of any stairway he attempted to ascend; and the crowd pushed him back, and used syringes upon him. I was very sorry to see a man so lost to principle among us; but I should have preferred not to see any unfortunate being insulted. Any one is unfortunate who has lost his liberty; and those who are wicked are the most to be pitied under such circumstances. I was sorry also for those who, instead of thinking of more serious things, fed themselves with vain hopes concerning the future, and the possibility of shaking off their fetters.
I grew accustomed to living at Chantilly, and my companions in misfortune treated me with great kindness. Madame de Séguier and Mademoiselle le Caron de Troupure, now Madame Flomond, both amiable and excellent women, were a great comfort to me. I tried to help those who needed courage. The Coincy family, who lodged near me, were good company. I had great consolation from a religious point of view. A venerable priest undertook to confess me, and even to give me the communion. He had had the courage to bring a large supply of consecrated wafers, and had kept them in spite of the danger he ran should the fact have been discovered.
I was quite content with my fate, since I was compelled to endure a hard one. I could not have asked to be in a better prison; Providence had placed me there, and six months sojourn had accustomed me to it.
Toward the end of March, 1794, I received a letter from my mother, full of kindness, but which grieved me very much. She told me that she had thought it astonishing that I made no application to the government commissioners who came to Chantilly, to be allowed to join her. This intimation seemed to be an order and a command of Providence which altered my destiny. I immediately inquired when Citizen Martin, who inspected our house, was to come. I presented him a petition, asking to be sent to the Luxembourg by the first train destined for Paris. He assented, and then occupied himself in getting ready a most atrocious party, composed of young girls who were torn from the arms of their mothers without knowing for what they were destined.
Many persons believed, and it was really talked of, that the intentions of the Terrorists was to marry them to sans-culottes. To this party were added some priests, women, laymen, etc. The unhappy mothers were in despair. I was a witness of the scene with Madame de Pons (formerly Vicomtesse) at Perdrix's apartments. She fell on her knees before him and before Martin; she said everything to them that the desperation of such a moment could suggest, using the most touching expressions; they would listen to nothing. She fell fainting at their feet. After she recovered her consciousness, she implored to be permitted at least to follow her daughter; they refused her.
I forgot to say that a moment before Madame de Pons came to see Perdrix the latter had sent for her daughter, and in the presence of Martin and two gendarmes said to her,
'What is your name?'
'Pons.'
'Yes, but give your Christian names.'
'You should speak to my mother; I will go for her.'
'No, no; I ask you for your names.'
'There they are. May I know what use you have for them?'
'You will leave here with other prisoners to-morrow, to go to another prison.'
'Without mamma! O God! What will be my fate?'
'Go, or I will have you carried out.'
Madame de Pons wrote several letters to Martin, asking only for a delay; she offered all her property to the Republic; and the only answer she received was, 'Your daughter must go!'
I busied myself in arranging my trunks and packing them for the Luxembourg, so as to have with me only what was strictly necessary. On the 3d of April, 1794, we were told to hold ourselves in readiness to leave the next day or the day following, as the carriages were expected. My travelling companions were in despair at leaving their parents, but I delighted at going to see mine once more; every one said pleasant things to me. I received many testimonials of interest and regret from the prisoners. There were some from whom I was grieved to part, and a secret presentiment (though generally I do not believe in them) seemed to warn me that the reunion with my parents would never be effected. The days of the 3d and 4th were passed in leave-taking. I did not know that the train was to start early on the 5th, the anniversary of the birth of my son. I was summoned at ten o'clock in the morning. I found the wagons almost full; consequently I had a wretched seat next a vile woman who boasted of being a friend of Robespierre, and told us that she would receive on the way some marks of public interest. She sat almost half on top of me; and to add to our suffering, the straw which is usually put in the bottom of the carts for calves, was left out. When we left, the courtyard was filled with our companions in misery, who were mourning and sighing over our fate. They concealed their tears, fearing to let them be seen.
Our procession stopped as it passed out of the gate, in order to have the roll-call, lest some prisoner should have escaped; we were as accustomed to it as the soldiers were. We were surrounded by the National Guard, and remained an hour under the windows of the château, in sight of mothers disconsolate at the removal of their daughters, and who, with their hands raised to heaven, were giving them their blessings. That sad sight is still distinctly before me. How many of those who gave those blessings and of those who looked on were sacrificed on the scaffold! I should like to be able to depict and describe fully all that terrible and touching scene, but I cannot. As for me I was terribly overcome, but I struggled to hide it.
The train was put in command of a printer's apprentice from Beauvais, who went ahead of us. The first cart was filled with young girls, the second with women, and three others with men. The vehicles were surrounded by musketeers. We started at eleven o'clock in the morning, in very bad weather. A terribly cold wind was blowing, and there were no covers to our wagons.
At the entrances of towns and villages our escort was gathered together, and we entered with dignity, drums beating.
In some places, particularly at Creil-sur-Oise, gestures indicating the cutting off of the head were made to us. In a village called La Mortaye a dozen persons suddenly appeared, who came to see my heavy neighbour, and whispered to her that she would not be much longer in prison.
When we reached Mesnil-Aubry we were made to get out at an inn,—that is, the women and young girls at one, and the men at another. It was Saturday. I obtained the favour of an omelette. Immediately after dinner it was demanded of us that we should pay on the spot the expenses of our removal; I refused to do this, saying truly that I had no money. Mademoiselle de Pons obeyed, and gave a hundred and ninety-two francs. The women whose husbands were in the train asked permission to go to see them while the horses were resting, but could not obtain it. The notorious Martin, of whom I have already had occasion to speak several times, came to inspect us, and placed himself at the head of our train when it started off. He was in a gilded berline, drawn by post horses, and seated in front was a small clerk, about twelve years old. I said to myself, 'Unfortunate child, what an education this Terrorism is!' Along the way he reviewed us as though he were a superior officer, going from end to end of our melancholy column, to see if it was coming up in order. Sometimes our horses began to trot, and we were terribly jolted. As we were approaching Paris, my side, which was pressed against the wagon, with nothing between, began to hurt me very much. My love of books, and the fear of being without them, had caused me to fill two pairs of pockets with them, and they thumped against me. If we had been obliged to go any farther I should have been compelled to change my position, but I could not make up my mind to ask any favour of the friend of Robespierre.
The train stopped about eight o'clock in the evening at St. Denis. Martin left us. The officer of the guard separated the men from the women, in order to take the former to the Luxembourg. It began to rain, and continued until we reached Paris. Our conductors did not know the streets. We implored them to tell us where we were going; their reply was that they knew nothing about it. After driving us around until eleven o'clock in the darkness, they came to the gates of the Madelonnettes. We had great difficulty in making the porter hear, and he said that no women were received in that house, that Ste. Pélagie, which was set apart for them, was quite full, but that we would find room in the Plessis, an old college of the University, Rue St. Jacques, next to that of Louis-le-Grand. Our guards, who were but human, were overcome with fatigue, and impatient to put us down in some prison or other. I saw that we were taking the way to the Conciergerie; then frightful thoughts rushed over me, and also a suspicion that our end was near at hand if we were to be confined there. But we passed by without stopping, and I felt more tranquil the remainder of the way.
The gate of the Collège du Plessis was the end of our journey. Our conductor knocked there a long time without attracting any notice; perhaps no one heard, or perhaps the porter did not wish to be aroused. It was one o'clock. At last in the darkness the gates were opened; we did not know where we were. I feared lest the cart in which the young girls were had been separated from the train. I perceived it as we were entering the courtyard, and had a sad satisfaction in seeing them again even in so wretched a place. We passed under an archway and stopped. Our guards were kind enough to assist us to descend from our rude vehicles; we should scarcely have had strength to do so without their help, weary and bruised as we were from our fourteen hours' journey.
The first object to attract my attention was a man dressed in a sort of dressing-gown, who said he was the porter. He had an enormous bunch of keys hanging from his belt, and carried a lantern, by the light of which I saw gratings, enormous bars of iron, heaps of stone and other materials,—in short, the general appearance of a prison which was being enlarged. We were taken through several gratings, and were immediately surrounded by drunken jailers,—great heavily built men, half naked, with their sleeves rolled up, and red caps on their heads, and whose speech was suited to their costumes. I trembled at the sight of these creatures, who seemed to wish to be familiar with our young girls. I immediately proposed to the ladies who came with me that we should each take one of them under our care, so as to protect them against this vulgar herd. They agreed to my proposition. Mademoiselle de Pons, who has since married Monsieur de Tourzel, fell to my charge. I warned her not to get behind me, but to hold on to my dress, and not leave me for a moment. One of the jailers, who was a regular Goliath, began to read the list of those who composed our train, and could scarcely decipher it. Detention in the gate-house being impossible, he conducted us to a large hall where there was not a single pane of glass in the windows, and only wooden benches to sit on. We were suffering terribly from thirst; the worst of the jailers, named Baptiste, brought us a bucket of water, which we hailed with intense delight. A moment after he brought another for other purposes. The visit of this man, Baptiste, was accompanied by speeches such as we had never before heard, and which filled me with horror, particularly on account of our young friends. About two o'clock in the morning our keeper appeared; he had been absent when we arrived. His name was Haly; his face was pale and livid. He smiled as he saw the young girls, and said to them, 'My children, you have not yet been entered in the jail-book. I keep you here only for humanity's sake. This house is at the disposal of the public accuser, Fouquier-Tinville, and is only destined for the anti-revolutionists; you do not seem to be such. To-morrow your report will be made out, and I will inform you of your destination.'
Every one tried to speak to him. I had my turn, and told him that as I had never been denounced I was only to be classed among the suspected; that I ought not to be kept in his prison; and that I had left Chantilly in order to be transferred to the Luxembourg. I implored him to have me sent there. Several persons told him he had no right to keep us; he paid no attention to what they said, and had the mattresses, which had been brought in the wagons, brought in. I had not taken the precaution to bring one, and consequently passed the night seated on a small wooden bench, occupied in trying to conceal the small amount of paper money I had with me. I did not sleep a moment; neither did my companions. As the day dawned I saw with delight that our young girls were sleeping sweetly and peacefully. I said to myself, 'At their age one has had neither the experience of misfortune nor the anxiety born of foresight.' The thought of seeing my parents during the day cheered my sad heart. It was extremely cold. Baptiste came in, accompanied by several of his comrades, who regarded us with a ferocious sort of pleasure, judging that we were good recruits for their house, and that they would have a good share of our purses. One of them, a former lackey of Madame de Narbonne, recognized me, and behaved very properly toward me. A gendarme, whose name I never learned, came up to me and whispered in my ear, 'Hide your money and your jewels. They will leave you only fifty francs in paper money, and will take away your knives and your scissors.' I thanked him, and he retired. Although the great mental agony we endured caused us to pay but little heed to our physical needs, we nevertheless became extremely hungry. We had taken nothing to eat since the day before, and had endured excessive physical and mental fatigue. We petitioned our jailers for food, and after keeping us waiting two hours they brought us some coffee and chocolate. I breakfasted with the pleasant feeling of alleviating suffering for a moment at least. Martin came in afterward to get a cloak which had been lent to Madame de Vassy; he looked at us sternly. Several went up to him to ask something of him, among them the young girls, who were extremely anxious to let their mothers know what had become of them. They gave him some notes for this purpose, but these never reached their destination.
I implored the said Martin (I may speak of him in this way under the circumstances) to send me to the Luxembourg; he gave me some hope, but I regarded it as slender. His visit was soon over. Up to this time the National Guard of Chantilly had remained with us; it was now replaced by jailers who never left us. A new face appeared; it was an inspector named Grandpré, who had quite a pleasing countenance. Being astonished at seeing us in this prison, and a little touched by our forlorn situation, he promised to endeavour to have us transferred to a house for suspected persons, and me in particular to the Luxembourg. Haly, our keeper, now came in, and said that our fate had been decided,—that we were entered on the jail-book as agitators and as refractory to discipline at the house at Chantilly. A cry of surprise and grief arose, but our keeper was deaf to all complaints. My companions deserved such terms as little as I did; and I declare that after my conduct there, submitting as I did to all the wishes of the commissioners, meddling with nothing, complaining of nothing, being taken to Paris at my own request, I was more completely astonished than I can express. The false accusations were certainly the least of my woes,—innocence easily consoles itself; but to see myself deprived of the delight of rejoining my parents made my heart ache, and all the more because I was very sure that they would fully share my sorrow.
We were obliged to resign ourselves to remaining under the immediate rule of Fouquier-Tinville, shut up with those directly accused, and consequently treated more severely than the suspected. We remained fifteen hours in that hall, into which we had been thrown rather than conducted. If we went out for necessary purposes we were escorted by two musketeers; most of us preferred to suffer rather than take such a promenade. The day wore away; we saw a movement among our jailers. Following the example of one of my pious companions, I had got into a corner of the hall to recite my mass and office. It was Passion Sunday; following the example of our divine Master we forgave insult, and tried to imitate his patience.
We were given to understand that we could write and receive letters, a pleasure of which we had been deprived at Chantilly. Mademoiselle de Pons received one letter, which gave us some little hope. Toward evening a rumour spread that we were to be searched and put in lodgings. We sought new means of concealing our watches and our paper money. The keeper ordered us to appear before him two by two to be registered; he then informed us that it was the custom of the house to turn over to him all scissors, knives, forks, and watches, because such things could be used to file away the bars. Afterward he demanded all our jewels and money with the exception of fifty francs in assignats. He had the politeness not to search us, saying that he would dispense with that out of respect for us. I gave up to him all he required, except a few assignats and a small and very ugly brass clock, which was precious to me because it had sounded in my hearing the last hours of the lives of my dear friends Mesdames de Chaulnes and de Mailly. The keeper would not leave it with me, in spite of the sorrow I assured him I felt in giving it up, alleging the same reason that he gave when he demanded the watches. When this agreeable operation was over we were told to follow the jailers. They made us mount to the very top of the building, passing through a grating on each floor, fastened by enormous bolts and guarded by four men. We had to go through these two at a time.
At last we reached our own rooms. Mademoiselle de Pons had not left my side since we reached Plessis; we took the measure of our habitation, and found that with some management we had room enough for two beds, placing the head of one at the foot of the other. This sweet girl burst into tears when she saw our poor little establishment, sat down on a mattress beside me, and said, 'We shall surely die. It is impossible to live in such a contracted place. O God! may none of my friends ever come here!'
I did my best to arouse her courage, which had quite vanished, and to remove her dislike at living so intimately with an old woman by assuring her that I had no disease. Our furniture consisted of two chairs; our mattresses were on the floor, and the wall served as our pillow. Fortunately it was freshly whitened, and consequently clean. The bolts were fastened,—a sad moment; for the sound they made told us that until morning, no matter what happened, it was impossible for us to receive any assistance. We were told that a jailer of the guard would answer if we called; but I heard one of my neighbours cry all night with pain, and no one went to help her.
My first night's rest was excellent. The intense fatigue I had suffered the preceding days made me sleep. My young companion slept soundly and late. When daylight appeared I found we had a fine view; I could see the whole city of Paris. I reflected sadly upon the terrible condition of my unhappy country, once so far-famed as a place where one could spend peaceful, happy days. I thought of all the horrors which were being committed there; the tears rose to my eyes, but I dried them quickly so as not to discourage Mademoiselle de Pons when she first awakened.
About eight o'clock in the morning the bolts were drawn and the keeper, Haly, came in, followed by an enormous dog. This strange man greeted us as though we were in one of the old-time châteaux where abundance, peace, and pleasure reigned. He even seemed astonished that we were not charmed with the pleasant lodgings he had given us. After he was gone, and our companions' bolts were drawn, we eagerly gathered together, and had no trouble in finding one another, as the corridor on which we were lodged was only three feet wide. The first thing to be done was to arrange about our meals. It was only after repeated requests that we received permission to go down six steps to get water. The jailer who had charge of us, as well as his comrades, assumed the title of warden, thinking thus to render their office more honourable. There were three classes of them, and almost all were drunkards, selfish, rapacious, lying, while a few were absolutely ferocious. We specially noticed one of them, who had taken part in the massacre of the 2d of September, 1792. This man, who at this time was our despot, was a sculptor; and I was astonished that he should have accepted so miserable an employment. After he had granted us permission to go for water, the need of having something to eat made itself felt. The mess-table had not then been established. I inquired how we could procure provisions at a moderate price. An eating-house keeper sent us our dinner; but before he could reach the floor on which we lodged, which was the highest in the house, the food he carried was often taken from him as he passed along on the other floors. Finding that I could not possibly live in this way, I sent to learn whether my dinner could be sent me every day from my own house. Lucas, my father's former clerk, was very anxious that this should be done; but it was very difficult to find any one in the house who was willing to bring it to me, as it was considered a dangerous thing to do, and not very 'civic'. At last an old postilion named Lerot, whose name I mention with gratitude, had the courage to undertake it. A neighbour of the Hôtel Mouchy, said openly in the street, when she saw him go by, that it was not worth while taking me anything to eat because I was going to be guillotined. Two respectable ladies clubbed together with me, and we divided our provisions,—they furnishing some also; and we set about getting them cooked. Mademoiselle de Pons did not find our fare good enough, and joined with a woman from Beauvais, and two young girls.
I enter into minute details which would be very tiresome if this memoir was intended to be read by strangers; but it is for my own relatives that it is written, and I am too sure of the interest they take in what I have suffered to omit to mention the least thing.
The rules of our prison were extremely strict. At eight o'clock in the morning the keepers opened the doors; this was a truly agreeable moment,—if I may use such an expression in such a connection; then they wrote our names on the registers, but being so little accustomed to such matters they never made the list as it should be, and so were obliged to have the roll-call two or three times a day. One moment they ordered us to remain inside our rooms, and another we were told to stand like sentinels at our doors. The locking up, and ascertaining that each prisoner was in her place, seemed a more solemn affair. The keeper, followed by the turnkeys, gendarmes, and some large dogs, came about ten o'clock in the evening or at midnight. This goodly company made pleasing jokes and a great deal of noise. I always pretended to be asleep, and made no reply to what they said. It seemed sad that our sleep, which alone had the power to cause us to forget our troubles, should be interrupted by that sound which most quickly recalled them.
During the first days after our arrival we spent our time mostly in sending petitions to Fouquier-Tinville, asking to be reunited to our families. We have since learned that not one of them reached him. I eagerly sought for some opportunity of sending or receiving communications from my parents. At last I discovered that in sending some trifling thing to the Luxembourg I could add two or three lines, which at least served to say we were alive. The notes were sent open, and passed through the hands of the registrars and jailers of Plessis and the Luxembourg. I suffered intensely at having to inform my parents that I should not have the consolation of joining them; they tenderly expressed their deep regret for this. The sight of their handwriting, after having been so long deprived of it, moved me profoundly; I received a few words from them every two or three days.
The commissioner, Grandpré, fearing lest our crowded condition should cause sickness, proposed that we should take the air in the courtyard. We had a great aversion to going down a hundred steps, passing six grated iron doors, preceded, accompanied, and followed by keepers. We refused to do it for some time. Then he told us that if we paid no regard to his request we should be charged with aristocratic opinions; consequently, we were obliged to yield, and take the walk. The place appointed for our promenade was very confined, enclosed by plank fences, and surrounded by gendarmes, who kept their eyes upon us. We found there about twenty women who had come from the Conciergerie, and who were lodged under us without our knowing anything about it. After conversing with them our fears were redoubled; for they gave us a most fearful account of that terrible prison, which has been called the anti-chamber of death. They told us that every day a large number of victims for the scaffold were sent from there, and that our house was considered a sort of annex to the Conciergerie. We were entirely ignorant of what was going on outside our cells. Madame de Vassy, a pupil of J. J. Rousseau, and daughter of Monsieur de Girardin, had induced a jailer named Launay, the best of our keepers, to bring her some newspapers; but this was found out, and was considered an unpardonable crime. He was taken to another prison and put in irons, and but for the death of Robespierre would have perished. This man, who is still living, actually wept when he took us out on our compulsory airing, which rather seemed like leading out a pack of dogs. Rain or shine we were taken out for the prescribed time. If some of us wished to go in sooner than others, we were forbidden to do so, and we were taken out whenever our keepers chose. The men who lodged near the stairway were obliged to retire when we passed in front of their gratings; but their windows looked out upon the space where we were allowed, or rather ordered, to walk, and there they often recognized their wives and children,—all those whom they loved, and of whose very existence they were ignorant.
Only prisoners from Chantilly were now lodged on our corridor. Among those who came from the Conciergerie were Mesdames de Grimaldi and de Bussy, from whom we had a full account of all the horrors which were being enacted there. A few days later Madame de Bussy was carried off, to be indicted by the Revolutionary tribunal; but her case was not pressed, and she returned to Plessis. We were just congratulating her on the subject when she was sent for again, and led to the scaffold. She had scarcely gone when the jailers seized upon all her effects, and tried to sell them to us,—an incident which shocked us greatly. We repelled their disgusting proposition with horror.
The condition of affairs grew worse every day. Parties came to us from all the Departments; our prison was terribly crowded; the faces constantly changed. Those who arrived told us of the death of persons of the highest reputation. We questioned the keeper, but he would give no explanation of the vague rumours which reached us. I implored him once more to effect my reunion with my parents, but with no result. He replied to my earnest solicitations compassionately, 'You do not know what you are asking; you would certainly not be better off at the Luxembourg.' He seemed to foresee the horrors which were to take place there. Alas! I was not thinking of the strictness of the prison rule, but of the longings of my own heart.
A garden was given us for our promenade-ground instead of the courtyard surrounded by the plank fence. One day as I was passing very near the building in which we were living, accompanied by Mesdemoiselles de Pons and Titon, I saw them pick up a scrap of paper which was thrown out of the vent-hole of an underground apartment, the window of which they had neglected to close. There were a few lines written upon it, which were almost illegible, but which we made out to be, 'Three unfortunate beings, completely destitute, implore your pity.' The paper was tied to a string, which was withdrawn. Mademoiselle de Pons, much moved, said to her companion, 'Is it possible that we are surrounded by such miserable beings?' She asked my permission to throw them some money, and I granted it. She wrapped it in a tiny package, and pretended to pick up a stone, while Mademoiselle Titon let it drop quietly into the dungeon. We heard a clapping of hands. The eyes of the young girls filled with tears; and the evening was passed in the satisfied feeling that they had been able, for a moment at least, to render the situation of those suffering creatures less wretched.
We never learned what became of them.
A month had passed since we left Chantilly when a party arrived, among whom was Madame de Pons, to whom I restored the precious charge which I had been so happy as to keep for her; I was then left in sole possession of my room, which I enjoyed very much. I was informed that it was proposed to separate the suspected persons from those indicted by the Revolutionary tribunal, and to place us in a building facing that we were now occupying. This change seemed so advantageous to us that we urged the keeper to carry it out as quickly as possible. To do him justice, he behaved very well on this occasion, using his influence with the terrible Fouquier-Tinville to prevent our being mistaken for the indicted prisoners, and to effect our removal without delay. I regretted for a moment the loss of the beautiful view from my apartment; all the fine buildings in Paris were before me,—the cathedral, St. Sulpice, the Val-de-Grâce, etc. I remembered that on Easter Day, as I was grieving over the thought that the holy sacrifice was no longer offered up in those temples made so venerable by their antiquity, and the prayers of the faithful, I joined in the prayers of those whose faith was strong, and who were sharing my sad thoughts, and found that I was really more edified than I had often been on that holy day when at the foot of the altar.
At last the order came for us to leave our apartments, and carry our effects with us. One person was sufficient to assist me in my moving; a wretched pallet, a straw chair, and a few dishes composed my only furniture. The moment of our departure was very trying to those who remained still under the power of the public accuser. Several of them wept when we left them. The separation was final.
When I reached my new prison it seemed to me a mansion, since there were only two gratings instead of six, as before; and as the men were entirely separated from the women, we were allowed to go all over the building, from top to bottom, without a keeper. I was lodged on the fifth floor, in what was called formerly 'the philosophers' warming-place'. The names of the scholars were, as is customary, written in charcoal on the walls; I recognized a few of them. There was a fireplace in this pretty room, and I think it was the only one in the corridor. It was immediately made use of to warm all my neighbours' coffee-pots, which occasioned a continual procession not at all agreeable.
Before my detention, I had thought that a prison would be at least a place of repose, where I could give myself up to study; but this was not the case at all, at least not in those where I stayed. Every moment the keeper, the jailers, the turnkeys, the purveyors, etc., came in. We were made to go down to the clerk's office to attend to our commissions. I could not read one single hour without interruption. One thing which I have heard spoken of, and which I have certainly verified, is the habit prisoners have of being destructive. It arises from their standing in need of a thousand things. I had no shovel, so I broke a piece of slating and used it for one; I took a floor-tile for a lid. It was very difficult to procure wood, so I burned up my chairs. We could not send a keeper down-stairs without paying him a hundred sous.
In spite of the admiration inspired by my new dwelling-place, I was forced to sigh for the one I had left. We slept where the plaster was quite fresh, which gave me such a raw sensation in my throat that I could swallow nothing but milk. On the stairways there was a very unwholesome smell of oil; all the windows, above and below, had been grated, and boards adjusted, so as to make it impossible to throw letters out. The outer aspect of our building was frightful. We lost by our transfer the promenade in the garden, and had instead one no better than in the courtyard at Plessis, so that one could not make up one's mind to go out except when it was absolutely necessary to go in the open air. The men and women went there at different hours. They were shut in on every side; and walls had been erected so that the prisoners could not be seen by their neighbours, and could make no sign to them. One little alley-way, however, which it was impossible to shut out from our view, allowed us to see human beings at liberty, or who at least believed themselves to be. The windows which procured this little view for us were very much sought after and always occupied. Persons interested in the prisoners came to assure themselves of our existence. Our numbers increased each day, and brought us some detestable recruits. I had very near me some vulgar creatures,—young women from the Rue de Chartres, some persons with the itch, the hangman's mistress, and a drunken creature, who said she was a person of quality belonging to the family of Désarmoise, to whom in manner at any rate she bore not the slightest resemblance. She assumed the right to come into our rooms every day, make a great noise, and deliver herself of the most abusive language, for which she afterward asked pardon. I was, of course, very much touched by her repentance, but her visits were still very disagreeable to me. Another of my neighbours, a lady of the court, was insane; and unfortunately for me, she took a great fancy to me. She lay down to sleep one day just in my doorway, and could only be gotten away by force. The sort of care that I was obliged to take of her was as disagreeable as it was fatiguing, and it was a real calamity. One of her fancies was to write to Robespierre. I suppose her letters suffered the same fate as ours,—never to reach their destination. Only the two lines added to the requests which we made for necessary things ever found favour at the clerk's office.
The mess-table, the nature of which we had experienced at Chantilly, was established. We were placed in the rhetoric class-room, and grouped at tables of twelve covers each. Each of us had a wooden spoon, but no fork; and we were given to understand that the latter was a dangerous thing. We also had a wooden bowl given us from which to eat our soup; and I have kept it as a curiosity. I never used it. It seemed as though pains had been taken to do everything which could excite our disgust. The tables had no cloths, and were never washed; as a great deal of wine was spilled the smell was insupportable. Hairs were often found in the food; and the dirtiest of the prisoners were detailed to wait upon us. Pigs ran about the refectory while we were at dinner. A notice was posted one day, saying that it was only necessary to give us enough to keep us alive.
Supper was entirely done away with. Mesdames de Courteilles, de Rochechouart, and de Richelieu ate with the lowest creatures, and Madame and Mademoiselle de Pons with Mademoiselle Dervieux, of the Opera, a negress, and what were called feminine sans-culottes.
The men ate in another refectory. My mess-mates were hard to please in the matter of food, among them the daughter of one of the Duke of Bourbon's grooms. Such people were never content. The keeper, angry one day because they tried to throw their plates in his face, pointed me out to the commissioner who examined us, as well as others of my class, and said, 'You can ask those ladies; they never complain of anything.' He greatly preferred to have charge of us than of the common people. The keepers at Plessis were not at all like those at Chantilly, who were kind, attentive, obliging and attached to us. Those at Plessis persecuted us to get money, demanded services of us, and reproached us when we had two garments for not giving them one of them. They were very hard to get along with. I often served them as secretary in writing to their relatives or making applications. Once while doing something of this sort a very amusing thing happened to Madame de la Fayette. A woman asked her to compose a petition for her, which she did immediately, with the readiness and kindness which characterized her. But as her handwriting was bad, she charged the person to have it copied; and she had the stupidity to send it to a prisoner, who, good patriot that he was, was indignant at the want of civism evinced in it, and sent it back with some words effaced, and the following remarks: 'This petition is aristocratic; one never uses such phraseology. This is not civic; it has the odour of a château. This person does not know how to draw up a petition,' etc.
We laughed a great deal at the severe criticism aroused by this kind action.
A convoy from La Force brought Madame de la Fayette to us at Plessis. The van-guard was composed of Madame des Réaux, who was eighty-four years old, Madame de Machaut, and other women who were at least seventy. These were, as a great favour, put into a carriage; the others, as was the custom, came in a cart. It was a long time before they were put into lodgings, and we were allowed to approach them. At last I was able to see one of my cousins, who found the rules in this prison less severe than in the one from which she came; and all the girls of the street from Paris collected there presented a spectacle so indecent that one so pure as she could scarcely endure it. Besides, she slept in a room where there were four other persons whom she did not know; I was able to get another room for her, which she thought quite palatial. She has often told me of the extreme pleasure she felt on awaking and finding herself alone. The room was so small that she could not put a chair between her bed and the wall; there was fortunately a recess, however, where with some trouble she could sit down. Having Madame de la Fayette so near me was very pleasant. Her virtues and kindliness, which had suffered no change from the life she had been compelled to live during the first years of the Revolution, the possibility of opening my heart to her with regard to my family, concerning my anxiety for whom I had never spoken to any one, did me much good; we wept together over her own fate. She seemed to me to be much less prepared than I was for the general and particular evils which threatened us. She thought, for instance, that she could defend her cause and that of her husband before the Revolutionary tribunal, and that only those were in danger who had committed some serious or trifling injury to the Republic. It took me at least a fortnight to set her right on this subject, and enable her to realize her true situation; but, indeed, what passed before our eyes was more eloquent than anything I could say.
The number of victims carried off became larger and larger; they generally went away during the time we were taking our walk in the courtyard. It seems to me now, that I can see the unfortunate Monsieur Titon, a counsellor in the parliament of Paris, as he passed beneath the windows of the room of his wife and daughter, who were not even permitted to bid him a last farewell. He went out at five o'clock in the evening, and the next day at noon he was dead. Carts and Fouquier-Tinville's carriage arrived at all hours, and were crowded with the accused. This man's coachman was well worthy of such a master; while the victims were getting into the wagon he drummed out dancing tunes, and his costume was that of a Merry Andrew. It is almost impossible to describe the terror excited by the opening of the great gate, especially when it was repeated several times a day. I can hear now the sound of the drum beating. The bailiffs of the Revolutionary tribunal went before the wagons with their hands full of warrants. Then there was a moment of deathlike silence. Every one thought the fatal order had come for him; faces were filled with terror, hearts and minds overwhelmed with fright. The bailiffs went up into the corridors to call for those who were to go off, and only allowed them a quarter of an hour to prepare. Each bade the other an eternal farewell; we were in a stunned condition, being only sure of living from ten o'clock in the morning until seven o'clock in the evening. Sleep was light when one suffered such anxiety, and was frequently interrupted by the arrival of convoys. That containing the famous prisoners from Nantais created a great sensation. It was the custom to receive the prisoners with lighted torches; and the keeper, accompanied by jailers and big dogs, dragged the poor prisoners from the wagons in the roughest manner. They were so much afraid of losing some of the prisoners that they called the roll two or three times in succession, then put them in the "mouse-trap,"—a new name for a receiving-place. There was no calculation as to whether there was room enough in the house; room was made: and there have been as many, so we have been assured, as seventeen hundred at one time in the colleges of Plessis and Louis-le-Grand. Twenty-five persons were put in the same room, even in the entresols, with grated windows. The severity of the treatment increased constantly. One day about three o'clock in the afternoon I heard my bolts shot to, and could not understand the reason; it was unusual. It was on account of a servant having thrown water out of a window into the courtyard, after having been forbidden; and for this great crime we were punished.
We were not allowed to have any light in our rooms; this was a very great privation. To room in front of a street lamp was a great piece of good fortune. In the corridors were placed chaffing-dishes, on which we warmed our suppers. Those of us who had fireplaces kept the fires bright, so as to give light. Some one would light a candle for a moment, then extinguish it the next, for fear of being punished. To eat with our fingers was intolerable. To go to the jailer every day to ask him to cut up our chocolate was neither amusing nor satisfactory. I remember a large penknife which belonged to Madame Vassy which was our delight. She was a lovely woman, bright and intelligent, and extremely obliging. She said she liked variety. She married, on leaving the prison, a Prussian, who took her to Berlin.
On the 18th of June I witnessed a heart-rending scene. I was in Madame de Pon's apartment, playing a game of chess with her, when some one came and called me; I went out. A person who felt an interest in Madame de Pon's daughter told me that her father had been transferred from the private hospital where he had been, to the Plessis, and that as he was getting out of the wagon he had received his bill of indictment; that he implored most earnestly to be allowed to see his daughter, but was refused, in order to avoid such a harrowing interview. The windows of the keeper's apartment opened directly upon the courtyard where Mademoiselle de Pons was then walking; they were ordered to be closed. Monsieur de Pons gave himself up to the most frenzied despair, saying that the most precious treasure he had in the world was taken from him. We did not know how to get his daughter out of the courtyard without arousing her suspicions. Haly had caused her to suspect that something was going on, by forbidding her to go under the windows on account of the arrival of some new prisoners. I made some pretext to persuade her to go into our building with one of my friends; and the latter led her to a place quite away from her unfortunate father. Then I returned to Madame de Pons's room, and from the change in my countenance she perceived that something had happened. I said nothing, but began playing chess again, in order to gain time to prepare her for it. The state of affairs between herself and her husband rendered this less terrible for her than for her daughter. She urged me to tell her the cause of my emotion. As Monsieur de Pons had been ill of consumption for a long time, I told her that he was about to die. She begged me not to tell her daughter of it, and I promised. This unhappy man was not sent for to be taken to the Conciergerie until nine o'clock in the evening, and consequently he was in the same building with his child for five hours without being able to take her in his arms, comfort her, or bid her a last farewell. He spent all of the time in seeking by threats and prayers to excite the compassion and interest of the keeper, telling him of her youth, of his affection for her, and that his last prayer was that happier days might be in store for her. He cast a farewell glance toward the courtyard, and then was led away. I spent the evening in extreme trouble and agitation; although I knew Monsieur de Pons only very slightly, the thought that he had not in his last agonized hours been able to see his daughter and bless her, and the grief I knew she would feel, all caused me to pass a terrible night. The young girl has since told me that she suspected that something sad was being concealed from her, by the embarrassment in our manner toward her. She came the next day as usual to my apartment to comb my thin white hair, and I could scarcely restrain my feelings while I was dressing when I remembered that her father was at that very moment before the tribunal or mounting the scaffold. She went away immediately. Madame de Pons had asked me to tell her the whole truth, and I had done so. She had sent for news of her husband's trial, and learned that he and also Messieurs de Laval, de Rohan-Soubise, de Monterrey, and fifty others had been condemned to death as conspirators against Robespierre, and were to be executed at the Grève, wearing red shirts, though these by law were required to be worn only by murderers. It seems that in order to make this so-called conspiracy more noted, the most celebrated names of the old régime, had been made use of, and that in fact those who bore them had never thought of conspiring.
All day means were employed to increase Mademoiselle de Pons's anxiety on account of her father's illness as she knew he was in great danger, and feared his end was approaching. She says in one of her prison memoirs, of which a few copies have been printed, that I asked permission of her mother to tell her of her father's death. She did not know that, on the contrary, it was Madame de Pons who earnestly implored me to undertake to break it to her, and that for a long time I refused. At last she gave me some very good reasons for doing so, and I consented. Mademoiselle de Pons, in whose presence I no longer concealed my emotion, suspected her misfortune. She questioned me; I made no reply, but threw my arms around her and burst into tears.
Another calamity befell us, the small-pox broke out. Madame des Réaux, eighty-four years old, died of it; and an only son also died, almost in sight of his father and mother, who were cruelly refused permission to go into another prison to weep over their unhappy child. They drank their cup to the dregs. Two very old ladies by the name of Machault were also attacked by this horrible disease, which naturally was greatly dreaded by all those who had not had it. Fortunately the contagion did not spread, which was extraordinary in a place where so many persons were crowded together. Besides, the manner in which the sick were treated was horrible. No money could procure medicine for them, or even a cup of tea. I saw a very strong woman die, who could have been cured with very little care. It required two days' negotiation to gain permission to have a warming-pan brought into the house. The prison surgeon was a Pole, named Markoski, who had come to Paris to study medicine, of which he was entirely ignorant. I needed to be bled; he found that it was difficult to do this in my arm. I let him try my foot, and he was successful. I pardoned his want of skill and his ignorance on account of his kindness of heart. He was really obliging; he brought us news of persons of our acquaintance who were imprisoned in other houses of arrest. And he was particularly kind to me because I gave him an account of the sick, and because, as I knew some medical phrases, I spared him the trouble of making out certificates of infirmity for persons who hoped by that means to escape close imprisonment; it was only necessary for him to sign what I had written. One day when I was feeling very badly, I said to myself, 'It would be so sweet to die in my bed.' What a terrible condition it is when one rejoices over an illness which may bring death!
I omitted to relate a very ridiculous incident. The day before the Feast of the Supreme Being[[4]] all the prisoners were sent down into the courtyard, which we found filled with an enormous quantity of branches and leaves. I pretended to work upon them for a few minutes, and then I withdrew into my own room; several of our wretched companions worked away zealously, and even offered to plant a liberty-pole in the middle of the courtyard. The keeper, less absurd than they, forbade it, saying that such a decoration would not suit a prison. They danced in the court; the jailers attended this strange festival,—it was the day of Pentecost, on which Robespierre permitted God to be adored provided He should not be called by that name. One of them praised me very much (he was not very bad), and said that he thought I would carry myself very well going to the guillotine; I answered him coolly that I hoped I should. Another boasted of the rapidity with which the Revolutionary tribunal got through with its trials; and he added that in order to set things right, it would be necessary to cut off seven thousand heads. One day as I was sitting alone in my room two gendarmes entered; I thought that my last moment of life had come. They questioned me about my father and my brothers; and as the conversation progressed, I hoped that the mere curiosity to see a person of my rank destined for the scaffold had attracted them. They went away, and I was much relieved by their departure. A little while after, a female who had the appearance of a woman of ill-fame came to tell me that she had been ordered by the keeper to lodge in my room, and that she was going immediately to bring in her bed. For a moment I felt extremely irritated, but I restrained myself. I told her that I would leave the room and she could have it all to herself. The women and young girls who were poor had entered into a speculation which I now found useful: they took possession of very small cells, and for money gave them up to other people, finding some way of crowding in elsewhere. I thought of one occupied by the daughter of the Prince of Condé's groom, and she let me have it for a louis in assignats; she boasted a great deal of her kindness to me, and indeed it was very fortunate for me. I regretted my fireplace very much on account of its convenience for my neighbours; moreover, it was both inconvenient and dangerous to light fires in open braziers in so narrow a space, though under the circumstances it was absolutely necessary. My new lodging possessed one advantage over those of Madame de la Fayette, in that I could put a chair between my bed and the wall. I could without rising lift the latch of my door, and even look out into the court. My prison life taught me that even the smallest power is precious. The difficulty of procuring light and fire enabled me to succeed in striking a light with steel. I carefully concealed the possession of this treasure, fearing that it might be regarded as a dangerous weapon in a Revolutionary arsenal. The keeper, learning that his name had been used in order to turn me out of my apartment, came to tell me that he had had nothing to do with that enterprise, and requested me to denounce the woman who had contrived it. I replied that I had such a horror of denunciations that I would not give her name. He then proposed that I should return to my room, but I refused to do so; the prison was getting so full that I feared I should be compelled to receive some one into it. Convoys were constantly arriving from the different Departments. One came containing eighty peasant women from the Vivarais, who wore very singular costumes. We questioned them concerning the cause of their arrest; they explained to us in their patois that it was because they went to mass. This was considered so enormous a crime that they were put in the building belonging to the tribunal which was called by our wags Fouquier's shop. Some ladies from Normandy came to our prison. They seemed countrified, though they did not wear their local costumes; they spent their time from morning to night writing memoirs and petitions,—a very dangerous habit during the Reign of Terror, and one which was likely to hasten the hour of death.
I received a letter from my father which made my heart ache. I always awaited and read his letters with deep emotion. He told me that Madame Latour, who was their only consolation, who lightened the burden of their old age, had just been taken away from them; that she had been forced to leave the prison in spite of the efforts she had made to remain or be allowed to return. She begged for imprisonment as earnestly as one usually does for liberty.
All this caused me great grief. I felt more keenly than ever how much my parents needed me, and I again sent in applications to be allowed to go to them; they were fruitless. Fortunately they had with them my sister-in-law, the wife of Louis, Vicomte de Noailles, whom they valued as she deserved; but as she was obliged to take care of Madame d'Ayen, her mother, and Madame la Maréchale de Noailles, her grandmother, who were lodging with her, she could not do very much for my parents. Consequently they were left entirely alone, my father then eighty and my mother sixty.[[5]] Their forlorn situation was constantly before my mind. One day as I was intensely occupied with thoughts of them, I heard a great noise in the courtyard; I looked out, and saw a convoy enter containing a hundred and fourteen persons from Neuilly-sur-Seine. They had been compelled to pass by the camp of Robespierre's disciples, who had shouted terrible threats at them. As they had received no orders to kill the prisoners, they contented themselves with overwhelming them with threats and insults. The convoy was composed of a great many nobles who had established themselves in the village of Neuilly on account of the lettres de passe. (A decree had compelled all nobles who were not imprisoned in Paris to go away several leagues from the city.) A most strange thing to happen at such a time was, that some persons who were not of noble blood, but who wished to be considered so, obeyed this decree, which had no reference to them at all. The servants of the nobles had been arrested with them; and with them were also people of all conditions, among them six nuns of the Visitation,—one of whom was Madame de Croï, sister of Madame de Tourzel. All of these unfortunate creatures were left a whole day in the 'mouse-trap.' I learned that Madame de Choiseul, the mother, Madame Hippolyte de Choiseul, and Madame de Sérent were also of the party. The whole company were searched in the strictest manner. At last, at seven o'clock in the evening, they were put into lodgings. The nuns, to their dismay, were put on the sixth floor, with twenty-five persons; and to make them more wretched, they were put with the lowest creatures. All belonging to this convoy suffered extremely from hunger. We gave them what we could. I remember that I made for Mesdames de Choiseul a panado which they thought delicious. Bread and wine were usually all that was allowed to be offered to the new-comers. This is a minute detail, and is intended to show the destitution which existed in our prison. I have seen poor women, brought from the suburbs of Paris, sleeping on the tables in the refectory. The greatest attention we could bestow upon people was to give up our mattresses to them while they were waiting for theirs.
All those composing the convoy from Neuilly, though scarcely settled in lodgings, came very near being sent in a body to the Conciergerie to perish the next day. About midnight I heard the sound of carriages,—a not uncommon thing, as I slept lightly. A melancholy curiosity, inspired by fear, induced me to rise and see what was going on.
I saw by the light of a number of torches a great many gendarmes and bailiffs, and at the same moment a frightful noise was heard in our corridor. Loud voices cried, 'Let all who belong to the convoy from Neuilly prepare to depart.' I trembled all over, and went out to go and see my neighbours, who, little accustomed to the rules of the house, were quite undisturbed, since they had been told that this was only a removal. I do not remember whether I told them of the fate which immediately threatened them, so they might prepare for it, or whether I left them in ignorance of their death-summons. For some time they remained in suspense; then the jailers came to say that there was a mistake. We afterward learned that it was by mistake that they had come that night to the Plessis. The executioners did not let their wagons remain empty, but went to another prison to fill them. It was necessary to have a certain number of victims every day, except from our prison, where the number varied. I have known as many as sixty-four to be sent from us in one day.
One thing seems almost incredible unless one witnessed it: it is that constantly one could hear the prisoners playing on different instruments, and singing in chorus the Republican airs; and again, that one could see women caring for their dress, and even coquettish, while, besides the guillotine, they were threatened with death by fire and water. We heard that we were to be shot as the Lyonnais were, against a wall which was newly erected in our courtyard and was destined, it was said, for that purpose. In addition to these rumours, the fire in the library of the abbey of St. Germain,—which we saw very plainly,—as well as the explosion of the magazine at Grenelle, gave us a great deal of anxiety. As far as I myself was concerned, I am sure these two events disturbed me but little; but I was terribly anxious on account of those dear to me. The walk in the open air, which was necessary for our existence, became almost intolerable. One day when I was out, I saw several persons dismount who came from Angoumois. It was about six o'clock in the evening; the name of one of them, an old lady named De Boursac, reminded me of two of the king's equerries who bore the same name, and I gave her some information concerning them which seemed to afford her great pleasure. She told me they were her children, and that she had two others with her. My first conversation was a last farewell, for she was executed with them the next day. The pretext of conspiracies began to be fashionable in order to cause the death of a great many persons of different classes at the same time. I comforted myself sometimes with the hope that my parents' advanced age and their virtues would save them, and that I only would perish; for I saw clearly from all the refusals I had received that I should be obliged to renounce entirely the happiness of joining them. This was for me the greatest possible sorrow, but each day brought others. I could never have endured my situation with fortitude had I not resigned myself entirely to the will of God. The charity which we were so frequently called upon to exercise helped to distract our minds. One day, for instance, I met a poor woman who arrived overcome with fatigue from her long, miserable journey, having slept by the way only in infected prisons. The jailer, in order to force her to go to her apartment, which was very high up, spoke to her in most abusive language, and even kicked her, to rouse her from the prostration which overcame her as she mounted the stairs. I begged this cruel citizen not to treat her as a beast of burden, but to put her in my charge. I had great trouble to gain this favour from him, but succeeded with the help of one of my companions in getting her away from the barbarian. I think she was Madame de Richelieu.
Madame de Rochechouart, her mother, was a singular example of the well established fact that prison life cured several very great invalids. When she was arrested at Courteille she was spitting blood so constantly that it was thought she would never reach Paris. On reaching Plessis her health became much better, though she lived in a room where the plaster was still fresh, without fire, and exposed to every wind. I believe it was the strict diet forced upon us by the poor food which produced this happy effect. One ate only what was just necessary to sustain life. The mind was so agitated that the body felt the effects of the strain. I remember that one night I was so hungry that I got up to get some chocolate, wondering that a physical need could distract me from the sad thoughts which beset me when awake. One day I spoke to Madame de la Fayette on this subject, saying to her that I could not conceive how, occupied as we were constantly with thoughts of death, and having it continually before us, we could provide for the next day what was needful to preserve our lives. While we were in the refectory we were informed that a poor woman had thrown herself out of the only window without a grating in the whole house, and that she was dying in the courtyard; it was surely despair which had urged her to this act of folly. I ran to the spot where they had carried her, and found her crushed, and showing no signs of consciousness. The keeper was beside himself, fearing lest this accident should compromise him, and never thought of doing anything for the unfortunate creature. I implored him, as our surgeon had made his rounds and lived at a great distance, to send for one of the physicians who were imprisoned in the building used as a court. He granted my request very unwillingly; and the officers from the hospital could scarcely be induced to come to see the injured woman, as they said it was the duty of the surgeon of the house to attend to her. They found she had no money, and made no attempt to do anything for her. I was extremely irritated at this. My companions in misfortune shared my desire to be of some assistance. I enter into these details only to show that deeds of kindness were the only distraction from our own sufferings.
I always waited with impatience, mingled with fear, the notes that came to me from the Luxembourg. I received one on the morning of June 26. My father wrote me (I transcribe the note): 'Your mother is suffering from severe indigestion, brought on by eating salad, which is all she has for supper; at first I treated her myself, and afterward our neighbours rendered her all sorts of services. We have a good physician here among the prisoners; he has given her two grains of an emetic which have done her much good. She will be able to take liquids to-morrow, and is improving rapidly. You shall hear from her to-morrow. Our tenderest love and kisses, my dear daughter.'
On reading this my heart ached; I thought of my mother as suffering from something like apoplexy, of my father as heart-broken, while I was utterly powerless to help them. I spent the whole day and night in great agitation, and it seemed so long before the sun rose! I went down and sent message after message to the clerk. Finally, when the time when we usually received letters had passed without my getting one, as a great many of our prisoners had husbands at the Luxembourg I went to inquire if they had had their letters; some said no, others manifested a sort of embarrassment which seemed like compassion. I was struck by it, and a suspicion of the calamity with which I was threatened immediately flashed across my mind. I talked of it the whole evening to Madame de la Fayette and other persons. Their terrified expression confirmed my suspicions. I said to them, with extreme emotion: 'You are hiding from me to-day what I shall learn to-morrow. I know what you wish to keep from me. My cousin, you must tell me the dreadful news.'
Accordingly she came into my room early in the morning, and I no longer doubted what my misfortune was. I read the whole story in her face. She did not tell me of the death of both at once; she waited awhile before telling me of the other. I can never express the grief I felt,—the horror of thinking of such virtue, perfect charity, and honour upon the scaffold! My parents' goodness to me, their tenderness, the immense force of their examples, the lessons they taught me,—all came to my mind. My sobs choked me. It was the day before the fast of Saint Peter. I observed it strictly, swallowing only my tears; it is impossible to describe what one feels under such circumstances. I could learn no details, except that they had been beheaded as conspirators. I did not go down-stairs for several days, and it was some time before I went to walk in the courtyard. My neighbours showed me every attention. From that time the thought of death was always before me,—everything recalled it to my mind; and this perhaps soothed the violence of my grief. One of the first visits I made was to a lady who had on the same day lost her husband and her only son, a youth of sixteen. I was told that I might perhaps comfort her; and I tried to do so as well as I could. I continually repeated the prayers for the dying for others and for myself; I repeated them so frequently that I knew them by heart. I felt sorry to end my life without spiritual aid. This was all the sadder since there were two hundred priests in our house; but they were absolutely forbidden to hold any communication with us. Some persons were in despair on this account. I told them that when it was impossible to confess, one should make a sacrifice of one's life and arouse oneself to perfect contrition, and one would obtain pardon. I was not greatly disturbed, because I felt entirely resigned to the will of God.
Three peasant women from Berry, who slept just back of my bed, received their indictments just as they were going to bed. One of them had spit upon a patriot's cloak; another had stepped upon the arm of a statue of Liberty, which had tumbled down; I do not know the crime of the third. They were in a terrible state all night. Their sobbing prevented my sleeping at all. I got up and endeavoured to encourage them, and exhort them to submit to the decree of Providence. After a while they grew more calm, appeared before the tribunal, and were acquitted. This was for the purpose of making it appear that the decisions were rendered with some sort of equity.
These pretended conspiracies multiplied in a frightful manner. After that of the Luxembourg, one was invented at St. Lazare, and another at Bicêtre. The victims collected at the last mentioned prison, as a dépôt, were brought to ours, and kept there twenty-four hours. The convoy was escorted by forty gendarmes, armed with guns. There were a good many priests. These unfortunate beings were chained together by twos and threes, like wild beasts; most of them held their breviaries in their hands. All of them were put in the dungeon to sleep, and they were taken away in a body the next day to the Conciergerie. It is even doubted whether they were ever condemned before being beheaded. I cannot explain the barbarous curiosity which incited us to go to the windows to see these itinerant hearses come and go. I remarked one day to some of my companions that under the old régime, we should have gone a long way to avoid meeting a criminal who was going to be hanged, and now we gazed upon every innocent victim. I think we grew somewhat hardened from constant contact with those who were so. The famous Osselin, author of all the decrees against the émigrés, was in the party from Bicêtre; he had concealed a dagger under his coat with which he wounded himself several times during the night he passed at the Plessis. These wounds were dressed as well as was possible, and he was carried to the tribunal on a litter. He was guillotined the next day. The sight of this man's suffering, criminal though he was, inspired me with horror beyond description. He was literally cut to pieces.
On the 22d of July it was rumoured in the prison that some of the ladies of the house of Noailles had been condemned. I did not speak of it to Madame de la Fayette, but tried in vain to learn the truth of the report. A little while after, however, I read in a newspaper that Madame la Maréchale de Noailles and Madame la Duchesse d'Ayen had been guillotined. Nothing was said about my dear little sister-in-law.[[6]] The difficulty of procuring news from outside was extremely great. The servants of the Reign of Terror even trembled for themselves. When I questioned them, they answered vaguely. I no longer doubted the truth of this new calamity; but I wanted to be sure of it before announcing it to Madame de la Fayette, whose fears I sought in vain to arouse, and who was always hoping for the best. At last I paid a jailer to gain for me the confirmation of what I feared.
It was a sorrow to me the whole time I was hiding it from my cousin, and my spirit was crushed. I loved the Vicomtesse de Noailles as a daughter and friend. She possessed every possible virtue and charm, and was the member of my family whom I most loved and confided in.
To find myself bereaved of five members of my family within so short a space of time seemed almost incredible. And how could I tell Madame de la Fayette that she no longer had mother or grandmother or sister! At last she became conscious of the embarrassed manner of those whom she questioned. She asked me the reason; and I answered her by a flood of tears. It was a sad service which I rendered in return for what she had done for me, under the same circumstances. She comprehended the death of her parent and grandparent, but she could not be persuaded of the death of the angel sister whom she adored. I shared all her sorrow, and our hearts bled for each other. Her situation was terrible, and awakened anew my still fresh grief. We frequently talked together of our revered parents; and we were only roused from our stunned condition by misfortunes more recent than our own, which urged us to comfort those who were suffering from them. The indispensable duty of preparing food is a real, though wretched, distraction when the heart is aching.
We were now threatened with a domiciliary visitation; the keeper, who was quite kind to me, advised me to put my devotional books where they would not be seen. I concealed them carefully, as well as my assignats, a few of which still remained, between the beams of our cells. This visitation did not take place. One night (I do not exactly remember the date) I heard a great noise of horses' feet; the great gate opened and shut every moment, and horsemen came in and out. At daybreak I found the courtyard filled with gendarmes. They went away without doing anything, and I have never learned why they came.
I had some business to transact with Haly, and we talked afterward of what was going on; and he informed me that soon all persons of my rank were to be beheaded. I realized that I had but little time to live, and profited by the conversation. I set a strict watch over myself, and prayed God to sustain my courage,—a prayer which was fully granted me.
I did not think it necessary to overwhelm my companions with the weight of my griefs and fears. Some of them deluded themselves as certain sick persons do during epidemics, though already attacked by the disease, saying, 'He who just died had a hemorrhage; I have not. The other complained of a pain in his back; I have not felt anything of the sort.' Just so with the prisoners; they said to each other, 'Those who were beheaded were in correspondence with the émigrés, they were aristocrats, money was found on their persons,' etc. They tried to persuade themselves that they were not in the category of those who were every day being condemned. I looked at the situation in a different light; it appeared to me impossible, if the Reign of Terror continued, that any one of our class should escape. I felt sure I should suffer the same fate as my parents; I sought to imitate their resignation, and to honour their memory by dying in a manner worthy of them. I thought that terrible armchair[[7]] had been honoured by the many virtuous persons who had occupied it. Every evening when I went to bed I repeated my In manus. I arranged for the distribution of all my small supply of furniture among my companions. I constantly strove to forgive injuries. My parents, who had been very admirable in this respect, were my models. How beautiful, how Christian, how truly worthy of emulation it is to feel no resentment against those who, after having overwhelmed us with insult, conduct us to the tomb in a manner so atrocious! It is only by following the teaching of the Gospel in every respect that one can be enabled to practise a charity so perfect.
One more sacrifice remained for me to make,—the saddest of all: it was, never to see my son again. I can never express what I felt then, or what an effort it cost me to be resigned to it. I believed that God would pardon me; and I was in as peaceful a state of mind as could be expected under such cruel circumstances. I resolved that when I should be called before the tribunal I would make no answer to the questions of the iniquitous judges, but after hearing my sentence read, I would say, 'You are condemning an innocent person; as a Christian I forgive you, but the God of vengeance will judge you.'
I grieved to think that I was not to die for the faith. Ah! how delightful, when one finds one's last hour approaching, to be able to be sure of possessing a crown of glory and dwelling in that country of which Saint Augustine says that 'Truth is the King, Charity the Law, and the Duration, Eternity.' The idea that I was to die only because of the ineradicable stain of aristocracy displeased me inexpressibly.
On the 8th Thermidor, July 27th, 1794, we perceived toward evening an extreme degree of the usual terrible watchfulness. The prisoners were not allowed to go into the courtyard; the gratings were closed. One would have been anxious under any circumstances; but when one is daily expecting one's fate, one has no other fear. I had still, however, a great dread of being killed by piecemeal, as was done on the 2d of September, with pikes, bayonets, and such infernal weapons. I slept as usual; and the next day, the 9th Thermidor, the sound of cannon was heard. The keeper and jailer were in a state of great excitement; their eyes looked haggard and their faces downcast. We knew nothing of what was passing, but we presumed it must be something frightful. That evening their countenances seemed more human, and there was a rumour of the death of Robespierre.
The next day, the 10th, the inhabitants of houses adjoining the Plessis made from their windows signs of satisfaction. Our keepers appeared more serene. We heard cries of joy and clapping of hands in the courtyard; a man named Lafond, who had been in close confinement for five months, and of whose very existence we had been ignorant, had been set at liberty. This was the dawn of less terrible days for us. We believed for the first time that we might possibly be released from our tomb. On the 11th, Madame Rovère's waiting-woman was set at liberty. The moment a prisoner approached the grating, cries of 'Liberty' resounded through the prison; and this word sounded very sweet to our ears. I could not imagine what was going on outside. We learned that the famous Terrorists continued to take the lead in the Convention, that the terrible Collot d'Herbois, who had had us imprisoned, was one of the number, which made me think that people of our class in society would still be imprisoned. The thought of death never left me nor my companions. Madame de Pons was very anxious to leave the Plessis; she obtained permission to go to a private hospital. (The private hospitals were the prisons where prisoners were best lodged and fed.) It was proposed that I should send in the same petition; but I refused to do so for two reasons: first, because I did not wish to act contrary to the will of Providence, which had placed me in the Plessis; and second, because it was very expensive living in the private hospitals.
The men were now allowed to walk in the courtyard with the women; I was disgusted at this. One can easily imagine the unpleasantness of such a mingling of hussars, spies, women and girls of the street. I advised the good nuns not to appear. It was a horrid sight for any decent person, still more for a holy Carmelite. I lent my chamber to these good women that they might say their prayers in peace. One of them told me she could not endure the language of the vulgar creatures who were lodged with her; I told her her only resource was to stop her ears, since she could not alter their conversation. Another went quite out of her mind because she was not set free. One of her companions came for me to quiet her. I went to her and undertook to treat her as though she were ill, persuaded her to take something to drink, and comforted her with the hope of liberty, and after a while she became calm. It was terrible to see her.
As the number of persons who were set at liberty increased every day, we began to hope for escape from our bars, which up to this time we had expected to see open only for us to pass to the scaffold. The women of the lower classes were favoured first; and six months elapsed before any one dared say a word for one of the nobility. I felt real gratification when I saw Monsieur Legendre, the registrar of Mouchy, go out. Every time I had seen him, I had said to myself, 'He is one of the victims of our family; 'and I had felt quite heart-sick on account of it.
Our seclusion was so strict that when I met two men (the men were never allowed to enter the building appropriated to the women) on my corridor it astonished me greatly. They seemed curious, and asked questions. I inquired about these new people, and was told that they were attached to the Committee of General Security, and had considerable influence there. One of them asked me if I belonged to the nobility; I replied that I did. One of my companions reproved me for this, considering it an imprudence. I told her that I never kept back the truth, and besides it would be perfectly useless to do so. These men returned for several days following; they showed a desire to gain the confidence of the prisoners in order to interfere in their affairs. Those who were set at liberty were now frequently of a higher class. Among them were priests, soldiers, and land owners. We had very miserable recruits in their places,—some Terrorists, and a legion of spies. The judges of the Revolutionary tribunal came again to the clerk of our prison to inquire for accused prisoners, who were given permission to go and confer with their defending counsel. As for us, being only suspected, we had no right to do so; but we pretended to have, so as to hear something from those who were dear to us. The first person who came to see me was Madame de la Motte; and the first who succeeded in sending me a letter at this still most dangerous period was the Vicomtesse de Durfort. She offered me her aid and money. I shall never forget this great kindness. Madame de Grimaldi, her mother's sister, who was with us the day she set out for the tribunal, saw Mademoiselle de Pons as she was getting into Fouquier's wagon; she pressed her hand as she bade her good-by, and said, 'I am content; my troubles will soon be over.'
Monsieur Noël inquired for me at the clerk's office; and I was very glad to be able to show my gratitude to him for the proofs of affection he had shown my parents. He proposed to make application for me to be set at liberty. I refused to allow him to do so, urging as my objection that I had read in one of the newspapers a denunciation against Lecointre, of Versailles, issued by the Convention on account of his having secured the release of Madame d'Adhémar from La Bourbe (the convent of Port-Royal, on the Rue de la Bourbe, had been converted into a prison under the appropriate name of Port-Libre), which made me fear to compromise those who took an interest in me and our class generally; and I determined to wait patiently a while longer. Next, the entire convoy from Neuilly was set at liberty amid the cheers of the prisoners. The nobles were not excluded from this measure,—a fact which made me really believe, for the first time, that I should not remain forever in the Plessis; and I wrote to Monsieur Noël that he might bear me in mind. He had sent me tidings of all the members of my family except my son, of whom I could learn nothing; the children of my unfortunate sister-in-law came to see me.[[8]] Others were present; and I could not utter a single word, so great was my emotion. I embraced them and then retired to my chamber, completely overwhelmed by the heart-rending memories awakened by their presence.
There was now great excitement among the prisoners. When one has no hope, there is nothing to do but to be resigned; but we had laid aside the thought of approaching death and had conceived the idea of being released from captivity.
One day as I was sitting in my old room with the fireplace, which had been vacated, and the possession of which once more was a real pleasure to me, I saw a man come in from outside who was named Fortin; he told me he was a lawyer frequently employed by Monsieur Legendre, a deputy from Paris, and member of the Committee of General Security, and that he could be of service to me. He asked me a great many questions, and inspired me with confidence; he came to see me for several successive days, and asked me for my papers. I showed him proofs that I had never emigrated; that I had not gone outside of the Departments of Paris and the Oise, from which I had certificates of civism and residence; that I was imprisoned only as a noble, and that there was not the slightest accusation against me. I afterward entered into correspondence with him.
Letters circulated more freely; and we could send them out by the prisoners, who were leaving every day. I commissioned the governess of Madame de Chauvelin's children to carry tidings of me to my mother-in-law. We had learned that deputies had been sent into all the prisons to release the prisoners, and that Bourdon, of the Oise, and Legendre had charge of ours.
On the 16th of October, 1794, the great gate opened, and we saw the carriage of these deputies enter,—which seemed a strange and pleasant sight, since hitherto whenever a vehicle entered the courtyard it departed loaded with victims. The deputies ascended to the clerk's office, where the prisoners of the lower class were called up. Eighty of them were at once set at liberty. The nobles were still ignorant whether or not they would soon be numbered among the elect. The deputies adjourned their second sitting to October 18. I felt that this would probably be the day on which we would be subjected to our examinations, and I dreaded it on account of my love of the truth. I feared that I might be unfaithful to it, or that if I spoke the truth plainly I might remain several years more in captivity. As I was turning these thoughts over in my mind, which was very much troubled (it was the famous 18th of October), I received orders to present myself at the clerk's office. As we entered the room where the deputies were, they said to us in a severe tone: 'Let the ci-devants leave the room; it is not proper to examine the good sans-culottes in their presence.' We retired and waited almost three hours, most of the time standing. I conversed all this time with Madame de la Fayette. At last my turn came. Bourdon asked me my names; I told them to him. He jumped up out of his chair and exclaimed, 'These are terrible names! We cannot set this woman at liberty; her case must be carried before the Committee of General Security.'
I silently implored the aid of Heaven to enable me to watch over myself at this moment and not to violate the truth.
Bourdon asked me several insignificant questions with regard to my abode, the time of my imprisonment, etc. Legendre, whom Fortin and Monsieur Noël had interested in my behalf, assumed a kindly manner, and pointed out to his colleague that 'my papers were good, that I had been spoken well of to him, that he knew that I had been a member of the charitable board of St. Sulpice.' I felt a real satisfaction in being under obligations to the poor. Fortin asked me what I had done to aid the Revolution. I replied, 'All my life I have done any kind act that I could; and I gave money to poor volunteers on my father's estate when they set out for the army.' A prisoner who was present at my examination had the kindness to bestow a panegyric upon me which the keeper approved and added to, praising my submission to the rules of the house.
I leaned quietly upon a table on which were all the judges' papers. I learned afterward that my manner was considered haughty. No sentence was pronounced upon me, and at last I told them that the unparalleled miseries I had endured gave me a right to justice from them. Legendre seemed somewhat moved, but I went out of his presence a moment after feeling that my cause was lost. He treated Madame de la Fayette in a most insulting manner. He told her 'that he had great fault to find with her, that he detested her husband, herself, and her name.' She replied with equal courage and nobleness 'that she would always defend her husband and that a name was not a crime.'
Bourdon asked her several questions, to which she replied with firmness. Legendre finally ended this pleasant dialogue by telling her that she was an insolent creature. They decided to liberate the greater part of our companions. I retired fully persuaded that I should be again entered in the jail-book. But one of my neighbours assured me that I was on the list of those who were to be set at liberty. I received on this occasion strong proofs of the interest my companions took in my doubtful fate; I returned to my own room sure that I was to resume my fetters; I was resigned to this, as was also Madame de la Fayette. It is not nearly so hard to feel so when one has experienced many misfortunes, and when one has no hope of being restored to those one loves.
I have noticed that it is better, when one is about to give up life, not to be surrounded by those who make it so dear. What one suffers for others and on one's own account is, taken together, too much to be endured.
On the 19th of October, 1794, at ten o'clock in the morning, while I was busy with my morning duties, I heard my door open suddenly. A little while before I should have been sure that it was the announcement of my death, and I did not even now think this sudden interruption brought me good news; but some one, whose name I do not remember, said to me delightedly, 'You are free!' My heart, so unused to pleasurable emotions, was slow to entertain the idea. The keeper entered, confirmed the news, and brought me my acte de liberté. I then thought sadly of how little use it would be to me. Deprived of every comfort, separated from my son and my parents, from Madame de Chimay,—the only friend that Heaven had left to me,—without a home, and in want of the very necessaries of life, I felt irritated by the congratulations of the jailers and the gendarmes who had formerly threatened me with the guillotine, and was very much afraid that they would, according to their usual custom, manifest their feelings by embracing me; but I fortunately escaped. In this confused condition of thought and feeling, the memory of my dear son and the thought of what I could be to him aroused my courage, which had succumbed at this terrible crisis. It was necessary to pack up my small wardrobe, which took only a short time. All my effects were put in two bundles. I bade farewell to Madame de la Fayette, who, with several other persons, was destined to remain in prison. I felt very grateful for the pleasure which, despite her unfortunate situation, she showed at seeing me released from bondage. I engaged a commissioner at the grating, who helped me with my baggage. We arrived safely at the house of my mother-in-law, who then lived on the Rue de Bellechasse. She received me most kindly and tenderly. I found her with my niece; they did not expect me, and neither did Monsieur Noël, who had on account of his interest and attachment for me laboured to have me liberated. He came to see me, and assured me that Madame Drulh (a former governess of Madame de Mailly) was very anxious to have me stay at her house. I accepted the kind offer for a few days, though I feared to compromise her, since there was still great ill-feeling entertained against our class. I went to see my nurse, Royale, who was much moved at sight of me; she had saved all she could for me. I asked her for some mourning dresses, as I had not worn any since the death of my parents. Madame Latour came to see me. Our interview was interrupted by bitter weeping. It is impossible to imagine what I felt at seeing the person who had last seen my parents, and who had shown them such true affection; it carried me back to the first hours of my bereavement. She thought me frightfully changed; I looked ten years older, and like one risen from the dead. A few of the servants of our house also came to see me. The number of those who were faithful was very small, the Revolution having made a portion of them 'patriots,' and some of them even Terrorists.
It was a great pleasure to me to see my old friends once more,—among others, Madame de Tourzel, who had gone through more terrible scenes than any of them; she had made the fearful journey from Varennes, had been sentenced by the 'bloody tribunal' of the 2d of September, and had been six times imprisoned. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I embraced her. She showed under all the trying circumstances in which she was placed a courage beyond all praise. It was really pitiful, after the solemn scenes in which we had been actors and witnesses, to see the value we attached to the small necessities of life after having been so long deprived of them. It was an intense pleasure to me to be able to use a knife, a clean plate, scissors, to look in a mirror, etc.; but the greatest delight of all was to be no longer subjected to the low and wicked. I feel some gratitude, however, to Haly, the keeper, and Tavernier, the clerk, for having preserved and restored to me the clock I mentioned before, which I valued very much.
The deliverance from all my past ills was very pleasant to me, but a pall seemed over everything; I felt a distaste for everything, as one does for medicines. Accustomed as I had been to be surrounded by sympathizing love, the thought of my isolation overwhelmed me. It seemed that though the period of my misfortune was becoming more remote, liberty increased the intensity of my feelings; and my thoughts grew sadder every day. The thought of death necessarily most effectually blunts the edge of grief, since it brings us near to the moment when we find what we have lost, and we cease to regret. My mind returned to its former grief with renewed constancy, and I could no longer open my heart to my friends. I was not sure that my son was alive until I had been a long time out of prison. I had planned to retire to a village, with one servant, and there mourn for my loved ones. The consolation of rendering to the precious remains of my parents the duties observed in all ages, and by all religions, was refused me. Their ashes are mingled with those of criminals in the cemetery of Picpus, the ground of which has been bought by Madame la Princesse de Hohenzollern, sister of the Prince of Salm-Kirbourg. But at the last great day when all hearts shall be opened, God will know how to recognize his elect, and show them, resplendent in glory, to the assembled nations.
I was one of the first, after the re-establishment of the church, to have prayers said for my parents. A Mass was said for them at the Foreign Missions. We have need of their protection. I trust that their heavenly blessing may rest upon their children and grandchildren to the latest generation.
The forlorn situation of my mother-in-law, who, though she had not been in prison, had been under arrest in her own house with a dozen jailers, who never left her until their pay failed, determined me to devote myself to taking care of her; but I could not do this as the law exiling nobles was not abrogated. We were allowed only two décadis[[9]] to make our preparations, and immediately after were to retire some leagues from Paris. It was necessary for me to seek some shelter; Madame de la Rochefoucauld-Doudeauville, a relative of mine, proposed to me to come to her house in the country, and assured me that I was welcome to anything she had. Her kind feeling for me caused her to offer what she really had not; for the little house which she occupied in the village of Wisson, near Longjumeau, was scarcely large enough for her own family. I went to see it, and concluded to rent some lodgings near her and Mesdames de la Suze and de la Roche-Aymon. I did not, however, have the opportunity to occupy them, as I obtained a prolongation of my sojourn in Paris, and during that time the law was repealed.
After remaining six months at the house of good Madame Drulh, I found a vacant room in the house where my mother-in-law was staying, which I took immediately. It was extremely cold, and the winters of 1794 and 1795 were very trying. I had no one to wait upon me. I would come in to go to bed, and find the fire had gone out, and this frequently after having walked a long distance. I missed much of the sunlight in the streets as I had to prepare both my breakfast and my supper. In order to attend Mass I had to go out before day and resort to the secret places of worship, where pious mechanics gladly received me. There was nothing more edifying during the whole Reign of Terror than the courage they showed in procuring for the faithful the opportunities of engaging in the exercise of their religion. I dressed myself as a servant, and consequently could not wear any of the warm crépes which luxury supplies for us; this masquerade was necessary in order not to make known the places where the holy mysteries were celebrated.
On Christmas day, 1794, when the Réaumur thermometer fell to eighteen degrees, I sat in the Rue Montorgueil, near Montmartre, through the whole of the office, the sermon, vespers, and the benediction. I found myself on the Pont Neuf at six o'clock in the evening, and the north wind cut my face like a knife. I had formed the habit, after leaving prison, of going out into the streets alone; I continued to do so, and found it very convenient. I never took cold once during that severe winter. I met my old acquaintances from time to time, and always felt deeply moved. We invariably talked about the treatment in the different prisons, and the sufferings we had endured. Almost all the prominent persons had been imprisoned, or at least under arrest in their own houses, which was substituted only as a great favour in the case of the infirm or aged. We found a certain variety in the horrors; but on comparison the Conciergerie and the Plessis proved to have been the most terrible of all the prisons, on account of the treatment and the great number of victims who were constantly taken from them to the scaffold.
Madame Doudeauville very kindly persuaded me to spend a few days with her at her country-house. Her loveliness, the attractions of her home, the sincere sorrow she had felt at the death of my parents, and her goodness to me, cheered me somewhat, though I was so overcome with grief. I had almost forgotten how to write an ordinary letter, and had long been entirely out of the habit of doing so. The carelessness of the style of this memoir and its dullness are proof of what I have stated.
At last I received news from my son, and this restored me to life.
The latter part of the winter was terribly hard, on account of both the scarcity of food and the cold. It was almost impossible to procure wood, candles, or bread. We sent thirty and forty leagues, for them. I carried something in my pocket when I went out to dine, even at the house of Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans, who lodged in the Rue de Charonne, near the barrier at the Faubourg St. Antoine. She boasted of having a farmer who sent her a loaf of bread weighing four pounds, every week. She had wretched fare; her dishes were what are commonly called culs-noirs. A dwarf served her as butler and valet. She endured her poverty nobly, and joked about it. I remember hearing a lady say to the queen, the wife of Louis XVI., while she was at the Tuileries, that she knew one woman more unfortunate than she, and that was the Duchess of Orleans. She had inherited a hundred and twenty millions from Monsieur le Duc de Penthièvre, of which the nation took possession, and did not even give her enough out of it to support life.
The Revolution has taught us how to understand poverty, by causing us to experience it ourselves. Two farmers on the estate of Mouchy, whose names I record with gratitude,—Duraincy and Isoré,—sent me some flour. I am sure a casket full of gold could never have given me so much pleasure. People conversed in the evening only of what they had eaten during the day. Servants stood in line from three o'clock in the morning trying to procure provisions. Women and young girls often waited twenty-four hours. Sometimes a whole day was spent in obtaining a loaf of bread or two ounces of something made of hempseed, green pears, and all sorts of horrid stuff. Whenever I had any of this unwholesome food I divided it with those about me. It was the maximum[[10]] that reduced Paris to this state of distress.
Soon I found myself in a fresh dilemma, being sent away from my lodgings, which had been rented to some one else. Madame de Tourzel offered me a residence in the name of Madame de Charost, and I accepted it; it was very high up. I dined with my mother-in-law, and consequently, in the evening, was exceedingly weary from the number of steps I had climbed; for I was very much broken down from all I had endured. The charming society of that house amply repaid me for all the fatigue I suffered. My mother-in-law was obliged to leave the house where she was staying, and Madame de Beuvron lent her hers. We had very fine lodgings, but our food was miserable. My mother-in-law and I lived for three francs a day (in assignats) at an eating-house,—the uncertainty of the future compelling me to economize the small means still left me. Both the quantity and quality of the food was insufficient; nothing could be more disgusting than the meats which were served us. I had long been accustomed to such fare; but I grieved on my mother-in-law's account, though she never complained of it. She endured the horrors of her situation with admirable resignation and patience. Heaven doubtless sustained her to the end of her sad life. A most fortunate thing for me now happened: Madame de Beuvron went to occupy her own house, and several apartments became vacant in that of Madame de la Rochefoucauld; we took possession of them on the 1st of October, 1795. This arrangement was very much more agreeable for me; I have continued to live there ever since, and I desire nothing better. Being near my son and daughter-in-law adds another attraction to it; and as my life now passes in the most commonplace fashion I end this tiresome story, asking the reader to excuse its faults.
Paris, February 11, 1804.
(Signed)
Noailles de Durfort-Duras.