The name of Latude, mentioned above, is classed in prison history with those of Baron Trenck, Sack, Shepherd, Casanova and “Punch” Howard as the heroes of the most remarkable prison escapes on record. He is best known as Latude, but he had many aliases,—Jean Henri, Danry, Dawyer, Gedor; and his offence was that of seeking to curry favor with Madame de Pompadour by falsely informing her that her life was in danger. He warned her carefully to avoid opening a box that would reach her through the post, which, in fact, was sent by himself. It enclosed a perfectly harmless white powder. Then having despatched it he went in person and on foot to Versailles expecting to be handsomely rewarded for saving the life of the King’s favorite.
Unfortunately for Latude the innocuous nature of the powder was disbelieved, and the mere possibility of foul play sufficed to raise suspicion. Both Louis XV and his mistress shivered at the very whisper of poison. The police promptly laid hands upon the author of this sorry trick, and he was committed to Vincennes to begin an imprisonment which lasted, with short intervals of freedom after his escapes, for thirty-four years. Latude was well treated and was visited by the King’s doctor, as it was thought his mind was deranged. He was, however, keen witted enough to snatch at the first chance of escape. When at exercise in the garden, apparently alone, a dog ran against the door and it fell open. Latude instantly stepped through and got into the open fields, through which he ran for his life, and made his way into Paris, to the house of a friend, one Duval. Thence he wrote a letter to Madame de Pompadour beseeching her forgiveness and imprudently giving his address. The authorities at once laid hands upon him, and after being no more than twenty-four hours at large he was once more imprisoned, this time in the Bastile.
He now found a prison companion with whom his fortunes were to be closely allied, one Allégre, who had been accused of the same crime, that of attempting to poison Madame de Pompadour. Allégre, who in the end died in a lunatic asylum, was a violent, unmanageable and hardly responsible prisoner. He always denied the charges brought against him, as did also Latude. The two joined forces in giving trouble and breaking the prison rules. They were caught in clandestine conversation with others, from floor to floor in the Bazinière Tower, and in passing tobacco to each other. Latude addressed an indignant appeal against his treatment to the authorities, written upon linen with his blood. He complained of his food, demanded fish for breakfast, declaring he could not eat eggs, artichokes or spinach, and would pay out of his own pocket for different food. He became enraged when these requests were refused. When fault was found with his misuse of the linen, he asked for paper and more shirts. He got the former, and began a fresh petition of interminable length and, when the governor grew weary of waiting for it, threw it into the fire.
As the chamber occupied by Latude and Allégre was in the basement and liable to be flooded by the inundation of the Seine, it became necessary to remove them to another. This was more favorable to escape, and to this they now turned their attention with the strange ingenuity and unwearied patience so often displayed by captives. The reason for Latude’s demand for more shirts was now explained. For eighteen months they worked unceasingly, unravelling the linen and with the thread manufacturing a rope ladder three hundred feet in length. The rungs were of wood made from the fuel supplied for their fire daily. These articles were carefully concealed under the floor. When all was ready, Latude took stock of their productions. There was 1,400 feet of linen rope and 208 rungs of wood, the rungs encased in stuff from the linings of their dressing gowns, coats and waistcoats to muffle the noise of the ladder as it swung against the wall of the Tower.
The actual escape was effected by climbing up the interior of the chimney of their room, having first dislodged the chimney bars, which they took with them. On reaching the roof, they lowered the ladder and went down it into the ditch, which was fourteen feet deep in water. Notwithstanding this, they attacked the outer wall with their chimney bars of iron, and after eight hours’ incessant labor broke an opening through its ponderous thickness and despite the fear of interruption from patrols passing outside with flaming torches. Both fugitives when at large hastened to leave Paris. Allégre got as far as Brussels, whence he wrote an abusive letter to Madame de Pompadour, and at the instance of the French King was taken into custody and lodged in the prison at Lille, thence escorted to the frontier and so back to the Bastile. Latude took refuge, but found no safety, in Amsterdam. His whereabouts was betrayed by letters to his mother which were intercepted. He, too, was reinstalled in the Bastile—after four brief months of liberty.
Latude’s leadership in the escapades seems to have been accepted as proved, and he was now more harshly treated than his associate, Allégre. He lay in his cell upon straw in the very lowest depths of the castle, ironed, with no blankets and suffering much from the bitter cold. For three years and more he endured this, and was only removed when the Seine once more overflowed and he was all but drowned in his cell. The severity shown him was to be traced to the trouble his escape had brought upon his gaolers, who were reprimanded, fined and otherwise punished. The only alleviation of his misery was the permission to remove half his irons, those of his hands or feet.
As the years passed, this harsh treatment was somewhat mitigated, but the effect on Latude was only to make him more defiant and irreconcilable. He found many ways of annoying the authorities. He broke constantly into noisy disturbances. “This prisoner,” it is reported, “has a voice of thunder, which can be heard all through and outside the Bastile. It is impossible for me to repeat his insults as I have too much respect for the persons he mentioned.” Not strangely, his temper was irritable. He swore over his dinner because it was not served with a larded fowl. He was dissatisfied with the clothes provided for him, and resented complying with the rules in force. When a tailor was ordered to make him a dressing-gown, a jacket and breeches, he wished to be measured, whereas, according to the rules of the Bastile, the tailor cut out new clothes on the pattern of the old.
The conduct of Allégre (who was no doubt mad) was worse. He was dangerous and tried to stab his warders. Then he adopted the well known prison trick of “breaking out,” of smashing everything breakable in his cell, all pottery, glass, tearing up his mattress and throwing the pieces out of the window, destroying his shirts, “which cost the King twenty francs apiece,” and his pocket handkerchiefs, which were of cambric. He had nothing on his body but his waistcoat and his breeches. “If he be not mad he plays the madman very well,” writes the governor, and again: “This prisoner would wear out the patience of the most virtuous Capuchin.” The medical opinion on his state was not definite, but he was removed to Charenton, the famous lunatic asylum, and confined there in a new cage.