Legends of the Bastille

by Frantz Funck-Brentano

And so at Vincennes as at Paris they came to consider Danry as a madman. Among the books given him for his amusement there were some dealing with sorcery. These he read and re-read, and from that time onward he saw in all the incidents of his life nothing but the perpetual intervention of devils evoked by the witch Madame de Pompadour and her brother the magician, the Marquis de Marigny.

Sartine came again to see the prisoner on November 8, 1772. Danry begged him to send a police officer to make a copy of a memorial he had drawn up for his own justification; to send also an advocate to assist him with his advice, and a doctor, to examine the state of his health. The police officer arrived on the 24th. On the 29th, he wrote to the lieutenant of police: “I have the honour to report that in pursuance of your orders I proceeded to the château of Vincennes on the 24th curt., to hear from Danry something which, he asserts, concerns the minister: it is impossible to hear anything which concerns him less. He began by saying that to write all he had to tell me I should have to remain for three weeks with him. He was bound to tell me the story of 180 sorceries, and I was to copy the story, according to him, from a heap of papers he drew from a bag, the writing of which is undecipherable.”

We know from Danry himself what passed at the visit of the advocate. He entered the prisoner’s room about noon. Danry handed him two memorials he had drawn up and explained their purport. “Instantly he cut me short, saying, ‘Sir, I have no belief whatever in witchcraft.’ I did not give in, but said, ‘Sir, I cannot show you the devil in bodily shape, but I am very certain I can convince you, by the contents of this memorial, that the late Marquise de Pompadour was a witch, and that the Marquis de Marigny, her brother, is at this very time still having dealings with the devil.’

“The advocate had read but a few pages when he stopped dead, put the manuscript on the table, and said, as though he had been wakened out of a deep sleep, ‘Would you not like to get out of prison?’ I replied: ‘There’s no doubt of that.’ ‘And do you intend to remain in Paris, or to go to your home?’ ‘When I am free, I shall go home.’ ‘But have you any means?’ Upon this I took his hand and said: ‘My dear sir, I beg you not to take offence at what I am going to say.’ ‘Speak on,’ he said, ‘say whatever you like, I shall not be offended.’ ‘Well then, I see very clearly that the devil has already got hold of you.’”

In the same year, Malesherbes made his celebrated inspection of the prisons. “This virtuous minister came to see me at the beginning of August, 1775, and listened to me with the most lively interest.” The historian who has the completest knowledge of everything relating to the Bastille, François Ravaisson, believed that Malesherbes left the wretched man in prison out of regard for his colleague Maurepas. “One would have thought that Maurepas’ first act on resuming office would have been to release his old accomplice.” This conjecture is destroyed by a letter from Malesherbes to the governor of Vincennes: “I am busy, sir, with the examination of the papers relating to your various prisoners. Danry, Thorin, and Maréchal are quite mad, according to the particulars furnished to me, and the two first gave indubitable marks of madness in my presence.”

In consequence, Danry was transferred to Charenton on September 27, 1775, “on account of mental derangement, in virtue of a royal order of the 23rd of the said month, countersigned by Lamoignon. The king will pay for his keep.” On entering his new abode, Latude took the precaution to change his name a third time, and signed the register “Danger.”

In passing from the fortress of Vincennes to the hospital of Charenton, Danry thought it was as well to rise still higher in dignity. So we see him henceforth styling himself “engineer, geographer, and royal pensioner at Charenton.”

His situation was sensibly changed for the better. He speaks of the kindnesses shown him by the Fathers of La Charité.[48] He had companions whose society pleased him. Halls were set apart for billiards, backgammon, and cards. He had company at his meals and in his walks. He met Allègre, his old fellow-prisoner, whom he came upon among the dangerous lunatics in the dungeons; Allègre had been removed in 1763 from the Bastille, where he was shattering and destroying everything. His latest fancy was that he was God. As to Danry, he had taken so kindly to his rôle as nobleman that to see his aristocratic and well-to-do air, to hear his conversation, full of reminiscences of his family and his early life, no one could have doubted that he actually was the brilliant engineer officer he set up for, who had fallen in the prime of life a victim to the intrigues of the favourite. He hobnobbed with the aristocratic section of society at Charenton and struck up an intimacy with one of his associates, the Chevalier de Moyria, son of a lieutenant-colonel, and a knight of Saint-Louis.

Meanwhile the Parlement, which sent a commission every year to inspect the Charenton asylum—a commission before which Danry appeared on two separate occasions—did not decide that he ought to be set at liberty. But one fine day in September, 1776, the prior of the Fathers, who took a quite exceptional interest in the lot of his pensioner, meeting him in the garden, said to him abruptly: “We are expecting a visit from the lieutenant of police; get ready a short and taking address to say to him.” The lieutenant of police, Lenoir, saw Danry, and listened to him attentively, and as the prior’s account of him was entirely favourable, the magistrate promised him his liberty. “Then Father Prudentius, my confessor, who was behind me, drew me by the arm to get me away, fearing lest, by some imprudent word, I might undo the good that had been decided on”—a charming incident, much to the honour of Father Prudentius.

But on consideration it appeared dangerous to fling so suddenly upon society a man who would be at a loss how to live, having neither relatives nor fortune, having no longer the means of gaining a livelihood, and a man, moreover, whom there was only too much reason to mistrust. Lenoir asked the prisoner if, once set at liberty, he would find the wherewithal to assure his existence; if he had any property; if he could give the names of any persons willing to go bail for him.