How the lot of Toussaint was regarded by the generous spirits of the time is shown in a sonnet of Wordsworth’s, written during the disappearance of L’Ouverture. Every one knows this sonnet; but it may be read by others, as by me, with a fresh emotion of delight, after having dwelt on the particulars of the foregoing history.
“Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillow’d in some deep dungeon’s earless den:—
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not: do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee: air, earth, and skies
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee: thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and Man’s unconquerable mind.”
The family of Toussaint were first sent to Bayonne, and afterwards to Agen, where one of the sons died of a decline. The two elder ones, endeavouring to escape from the surveillance under which they lived, were embarked for Belle Isle, and imprisoned in the citadel, where they were seen in 1803. On the restoration of the Bourbons, not only were they released, but a pension was settled on the family. Madame L’Ouverture died, I believe, in the South of France, in 1816, in the arms of Placide and Isaac.
What Napoleon afterwards thought of the dungeon of Toussaint, is known through an anecdote which I have received from high authority.
The next occupant of Toussaint’s cell was the Duc de Rivière, afterwards the first French ambassador to Constantinople. The Duc (then Marquis) was a young man, on the point of marriage with Mademoiselle de la Ferté, when, for some unknown offence, he was thrown into prison at Joux, and apparently forgotten. There he wasted three of the best years of his life. Mademoiselle de la Ferté never relaxed in her efforts to obtain his liberation; but she was told, at length, that Napoleon was weary of her solicitations, and that further efforts on her part would have no better result than increasing the displeasure of the Emperor. In the hour of her despair, the kind-heartedness of Josephine came to her aid. The ladies caused a model of the cell at Joux to be prepared—bearing the most exact resemblance to the horrible abode; and this model Josephine placed, with her own hands, on the bureau of the Emperor.
“Ah! fi donc! Quel est ce lieu abominable?” said the Emperor.
The Empress informed him that it was one of his Majesty’s state prisons; to which he replied that it was impossible; that no man could live four-and-twenty hours in such a den. This brought out the information that the Marquis de Rivière had lived three years in it, and was still lying there, by his Majesty’s commands.
“Otez-moi ça!” cried the Emperor, tartly. “Cette vue me fait frémir.”
The model was removed. The Marquis was presently afterwards liberated. He retired to Germany, where he was met by Mademoiselle de la Ferté, whom he there married. In after-years he was fond of relating the anecdote which I have given, as nearly as possible, in his method and language.