As Mgr. Darboy ended these words, at about half-past two, the warden, who guarded us, gave the signal for returning to our cells. His confidence astonished me, and would have diminished my apprehensions if, after my transfer to La Roquette, I had
not firmly resolved not to yield to my illusions. And afterwards, in writing an account of this final interview to an eminent friend of the archbishop and my curé, I said: “While they seemed to have no fears, I had no hope.”
This was on Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of May. Some time after, about seven o’clock, I observed, through the bars of my cell, a strange movement in the large interior court. There was a great difference between Mazas and La Roquette. At Mazas, the prison discipline was in sufficient vigor, but at La Roquette there was no order and no discipline. This prison, placed between the Faubourgs St. Antoine, Ménilmontant, and Charonne, was at the mercy of all the wild beasts of these quarters, who knocked around and roared without any restraint. Some men of sinister appearance went from the office to the western building where the first hostages were kept, some armed with revolvers and others carrying mysterious documents. The director of the prison, with his red girdle and pantaloons, gave, or rather received, orders with an air that might be regarded as embarrassed or satisfied, according to one’s idea of his principles. The bad wardens did not conceal their joy, the good ones disappeared in consternation. A citoyen of imperious manners and wild aspect, before whom some bowed and others trembled, proceeded like a man in a fit of madness or intoxication towards the western building. I had not then sufficient presence of mind to recognize him, but I was convinced afterwards that it was Ferré; others, with less probability, declare it was Raoul Rigault. These two rivals of Robespierre would figure equally well at the post of infamy.
Most of the windows were closed in the first story of the western part
facing us, where the principal hostages were incarcerated; a few were open, revealing empty cells. At the same time, the windows of the second and third stories, occupied by those condemned by the court of assize, were filled with prisoners who were wondering, with a lively curiosity, at the meaning of the unusual spectacle which had struck us.
My anxiety became more and more intense, when I saw an officer of the insurgents half open the door that led from the court to the office, and say, with a solemn voice: “Are the hommes de guerre ready?” Without being thoroughly initiated into the military language, I understood they were about to shoot the whole or a part of us. I threw myself on my knees to implore God to grant us all strength and courage. A few minutes past eight, I was stunned by a horrible firing. Six almost simultaneous discharges of chassepots, succeeded by some single reports, resounded in the prison court. A deadly silence succeeded this noise, and revealed to me that only a few steps distant had been committed one of those monstrous crimes that constitute an epoch in the history of the human race.
From the prayers for the dying I passed to the prayers for the dead. Never had I so thoroughly sounded the depths of God’s mercy. I no longer conjured him, but claimed an indemnification, worthy of him, for the victims of so base and execrable an outrage. I never could have survived this excess of man’s iniquity, if I had not felt myself sustained by an assurance of the eternal goodness and justice of God.
When I rose, the mournful noise of the clarions and drums, and the dismal rumbling of a cart towards Charonne, seemed to put an end to this tragedy.
Wednesday night was truly a night
of torture for me. Every instant the outer and inner doors of the prison were opened to bring in, or carry away, victims. A court martial, or rather banditti under the guise of judges, held a session in the office. The unfortunate men, who were suspected of “complicity with the chouans at Versailles,” or who refused to die for the Commune under the orders of old criminals, were mercilessly sacrificed. With the sound of drums and trumpets mingled the noise of the carriages that brought the suspected to La Roquette, and carried to Père-la-Chaise those who had been shot, and the bombs à pétrole. At the same time the cemetery battery did not cease its thunder, and the flames that were consuming the monuments of Paris cast their lurid gleams into our cells. Let the reader for a moment take my place, and he will feel that no description could equal so overwhelming a spectacle.