It would be tedious to trace the succession of lieutenants-general between la Reynie and de Crosne, the last, who was in office at the outbreak of the French Revolution. One or two were remarkable in their way: the elder D’Argenson, who was universally detested and feared; who cleared out the low haunts with such ruthless severity that he was known to the thieves and criminals as Rhadamanthus, or the judge of the infernal regions; his son, D’Argenson the younger, who is held responsible for the law of passports which made it death to go abroad without one; Hérault, who persecuted the Freemasons, and was so noted for his bigotry and intolerance. Of him the following story is told. In one of his walks abroad he took offence at the sign at a shop door which represented a priest bargaining about goods at a counter, with this title, “L’Abbé Coquet.” Returning home, he despatched an emissary to fetch the Abbé Coquet, but gave no explanation. The agent went out and picked up a priest of the name and brought him to Hérault’s house. They told him the Abbé Coquet was below. “Mettez-le dans le grenier” was Hérault’s brief order. Next day the abbé, half-starved, grew furious at his detention, and Hérault’s servants reported that they could do nothing with him. “Eh! Brulez-le et laissez-moi tranquille!” replied the chief of police, whereupon an explanation followed, and the Abbé Coquet was released.
D’Ombréval.
D’Ombréval, again, was a man of intolerant views. He especially distinguished himself by his persistent persecution of the mad fanatics called the convulsionnaires,[10] whom he ran down everywhere, pursuing them into the most private places, respecting neither age nor sex, and casting them wholesale into prison. Two of these victims were found in the Conciergerie in 1775 who had been imprisoned for thirty-eight years. The convulsionnaires successfully defied the police in the matter of a periodical print which they published secretly and distributed in the very teeth of authority. This rare instance of baffled detection is worth recording. The police were powerless to suppress the Nouvelles Ecclésiastiques, as the paper was called. A whole army of active and unscrupulous spies could not discover who wrote it or where it was printed. Sometimes it appeared in the town, sometimes in the country. It was printed, now in the suburbs, now among the piles of wood in the Gros Caillou, now upon barges in the River Seine, now in private houses. A thousand ingenious devices were practised to put it into circulation and get it through the barriers. One of the cleverest was by utilising a poodle dog which carried a false skin over its shaved body; between the two the sheets were carefully concealed, and travelled safely into the city. So bold were the authors of this print that on one occasion when the police lieutenant was searching a house for a printing press several copies of the paper still wet from the press were thrown into his carriage.
Berryer.
Berryer, a later lieutenant-general, owed his appointment to Madame de Pompadour, whose creature he was, and his whole
aim was to learn all that was said of her and against her, and then avenge attack by summary arrests. At her instance he sent in a daily statement of all the scandalous gossip current in the city, and he lent his willing aid to the creation of the infamous Cabinet Noir, in which the sanctity of all correspondence was violated and every letter read as it passed through the post. A staff of clerks was always busy; they took impressions of the seals with quicksilver, melted the wax over steam, extracted the sheets, read them, and copied all parts that were thought likely to interest the king and Madame de Pompadour. The treacherous practice was well known in Paris, and so warmly condemned that it is recorded in contemporary memoirs: “Dr. Quesnay furiously declared he would sooner dine with the hangman than with the Intendant of Posts” who countenanced such a base proceeding.
M. de Sartines.
Perhaps the most famous and most successful police Minister of his time was M. de Sartines, whose detective triumphs were mainly due to his extensive system and to the activity of his nearly ubiquitous agents. Two good stories are preserved of de Sartines’ omniscience.
One of them runs that a great officer of State wrote him from Vienna begging that a noted Austrian robber who had taken refuge in Paris might be arrested and handed over. De Sartines immediately replied that it was quite a mistake, the man wanted was not in Paris, but actually in Vienna; he gave his exact address, the hours at which he went in and out of his house, and the disguises he usually assumed. The information was absolutely correct, and led to the robber’s arrest.