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      The history of the Bastile | Project Gutenberg
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<body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76902 ***</div>

<div class="transnote">
<p><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b> This book uses the spelling “Bastile” throughout
(rather than “Bastille” as is more common in modern times).</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_i">[i]</span></p>

<p class="center larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br>
HISTORY OF THE BASTILE.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ii">[ii]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iii">[iii]</span></p>

<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br>
HISTORY OF THE BASTILE,<br>
<span class="smaller"><span class="smaller">AND OF ITS</span><br>
PRINCIPAL CAPTIVES.</span></p>

<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br>
R. A. DAVENPORT.<br>
<span class="smaller">AUTHOR OF THE “NEW BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY,” ETC. ETC.</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container titlepage smaller">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">To France than all her losses and defeats,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Old or of later date, by sea or land,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Her house of bondage, worse than that of old</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastile.—<span class="smcap">Cowper.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class="titlepage">LONDON:<br>
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS TEGG AND SON,<br>
<span class="smaller">73, CHEAPSIDE.</span><br>
1838.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iv">[iv]</span></p>

<p class="titlepage smaller">LONDON:<br>
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[v]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="ADVERTISEMENT">ADVERTISEMENT.</h2>

</div>

<figure class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 7.8125em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/line.jpg" alt="">
</figure>

<p>The execution of a plan so frequently falls immeasurably
short of the author’s original conception, that
some wit, of whom I have forgotten the name, has
likened them to the cry of an oriental fruit-hawker:
“In the name of the Prophet—figs!” I can bear
witness how much what is purposed goes beyond what
is accomplished. I began loftily, and perhaps the
reader will say, that I have ended with—figs. At the
outset I designed to link, in some measure, the history
of the Bastile with that of France, and to trace the
rise and progress of those parties, factions, and sects,
which furnished inmates to the prisons of state. But
I soon discovered that the contracted limits of a single
volume would not admit of my plan being carried into
execution. By much enlarging the page, and by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[vi]</span>making, at no small cost, a very considerable addition
to the number of pages, the publisher has liberally endeavoured
to give me the means of rendering the
work less imperfect than it would otherwise have been;
but I have, nevertheless, been exceedingly cramped
by the want of adequate space.</p>

<p>But, though I have not done all that I wished to
do, I am by no means disposed to disparage my labours.
I have consulted every document that was
accessible, and have conscientiously tried to be strictly
just, and to combine information with amusement. I
indulge a hope that the volume will tend not only to
keep up an abhorrence of arbitrary power, but also to
inspire affection for governments which hold it to be a
duty to promote the happiness of the people. Whatever
may be its defects, it is the only work in the
English language that has even the slightest pretension
to be denominated a History of the Bastile.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2>

</div>

<table>
  <tr>
    <td></td>
    <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER I.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Original meaning of the word Bastile—Various Bastiles—Description
    of “The Bastile”—Officers of the fortress—Interior
    of it—The Garden—The Court where the prisoners
    took exercise—The Towers, Dungeons, Apartments, Furniture,
    Food, of the prisoners—The Library—The Chapel—Lettres
    de Cachet described—Advocate of them—Change in
    the treatment of prisoners—Narrative of a prisoner—Strict
    search of prisoners—Harshness to them—Artifices employed
    against them—Silence enjoined to the Guards, &amp;c., of the
    prison—Mode of receiving visitors—Suppression of letters—Secrecy
    and mystery—Medical attendance—Wills—Insanity—Clandestine
    burial of the dead.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER II.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of John II.—Stephen Marcel, Provost of the Merchants—Reign
    of Charles V.—Hugh Aubriot—Reign of
    Charles VI.—Noviant—La Rivière—Peter des Essarts—John
    de Montaigu—Contests of the factions at Paris—The
    Count of Armagnac—The Burgundians obtain possession of
    Paris—Massacre of the Armagnacs—Assassination of the
    Duke of Burgundy—Reign of Charles VII.—Paris in the hands
    of the English—Villiers de l’Isle Adam—The English expelled
    from Paris—Reign of Louis XI.—Anthony de Chabannes—The
    Count de Melun—Cardinal de Balue—William d’Haraucour—Charles
    d’Armagnac—Louis de Luxembourg—The
    Duke of Nemours and his children.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">33</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER III.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Francis I.—Semblançai—The Chancellor Duprat—The
    Chancellor Poyet—Admiral de Chabot—Fall of Poyet—Reign
    of Henry II.—Anne du Bourg—Louis du Faur—Reign
    of Francis II.—Execution of Du Bourg—Francis de
    Vendôme—Reign of Charles IX.—The Duke of Lunebourg—Henry
    of Navarre and the Prince of Condé in danger of
    the Bastile—Faction of the Politicians—La Mole—Coconas—Marshal
    de Montmorenci—Marshal de Cossé—Reign of
    Henry III.—Bussi d’Amboise.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">74</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Henry III. continued—Conspiracy of Salcede—Francis
    de Rosières—Peter de Belloy—Francis le Breton—Bernard
    Palissy—Daring plots of the League—Henry III.
    expelled from Paris—The Bastile surrenders to Guise—Bussi
    le Clerc appointed governor—Damours—James de la Guesle—Reign
    of Henry IV.—Members of the parliament arrested—President
    de Harlay—Potier de Blancmesnil—The family
    of Seguier—Speeches of Henry IV.—Louis Seguier—James
    Gillot—Outrage committed by the Council of Sixteen—It is
    punished by the Duke of Mayenne—Henry IV. enters Paris—Surrender
    of the Bastile—Du Bourg—Treasure deposited in
    the Bastile by Henry.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER V.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Henry IV. continued—Viscount de Tavannes—The
    marshal duke of Biron—Faults of Biron—Friendship of
    Henry IV. for Biron—La Fin, and his influence over Biron—The
    Duke of Savoy—Biron’s first treason pardoned—Embassies
    of Biron—Speech of Queen Elizabeth to Biron—Discontent
    among the nobles—Art of La Fin—Imprisonment of
    Renazé—La Fin betrays Biron—Artifices employed to lull
    Biron into security—Arrest of Biron, and the Count of
    Auvergne—Conduct of Biron in the Bastile—His trial—His
    execution—Respect paid to his remains—Monbarot sent to
    the Bastile—The Count of Auvergne—He is sent to the Bastile
    but soon released—He plots again—Cause and intent of the
    conspiracy—He is again arrested—Sentence of death passed on
    him, but commuted for imprisonment—He spends twelve
    years in the Bastile—Mary of Medicis releases him—Conspiracy
    of Merargues—He is executed—Death of Henry IV.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">133</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[ix]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Louis XIII.—The treasure of Henry IV. dissipated—Prevalent
    belief in magic—Cesar and Ruggieri—Henry,
    prince of Condé—The Marchioness d’Ancre—Marshal
    Ornano—Prevalence of duelling—The Count de Bouteville—The
    Day of the Dupes—Vautier, the physician of
    Mary of Medicis—The Marshal de Bassompierre—The Chevalier
    de Jars—Infamy of Laffemas—Three citizens of Paris sent
    to the Bastile—Despotic language of Louis XIII.—The Count
    de Cramail—The Marquis of Vitry—Peter de la Porte—Noel
    Pigard Dubois, an alchemical impostor—The Count de
    Grancé and the Marquis de Praslin—The prince Palatine—Count
    Philip d’Aglie—Charles de Beys—Letter from an unknown
    prisoner to Richelieu.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">172</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Louis XIV.—Regency of Anne of Austria—Inauspicious
    circumstances under which she assumed the regency—George
    de Casselny—The Count de Montresor—The Marquis
    de Fontrailles—Marshal de Rantzau—The Count de
    Rieux—Bernard Guyard—Broussel, governor of the Bastile—The
    Duchess of Montpensier orders the cannon of the Bastile
    to be fired on the king’s army—Conclusion of the war of the
    Fronde—Surrender of the Bastile—Despotism of Louis XIV.—Slavishness
    of the nobles—John Herauld Gourville—The
    Count de Guiche—Nicholas Fouquet—Paul Pellisson-Fontainier—Charles
    St. Evremond—Simon Morin—The Marquis
    de Vardes—Count Bussy Rabutin—Saci le Maistre—The
    Duke of Lauzun—Marquis of Cavoie—The Chevalier de
    Rohan—A nameless prisoner—Charles D’Assoucy—Miscellaneous
    prisoners.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">217</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VIII.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>The Poisoners—The Marchioness of Brinvilliers—Penautier—La
    Voisin and her accomplices and dupes—The
    “Chambre Ardente”—The Countess of Soissons—The
    Duchess of Bouillon—The Duke of Luxembourg—Stephen
    de Bray—The Abbé Primi—Andrew Morell—Madame
    Guyon—Courtils de Sandraz—Constantine de Renneville—The
    Man with the Iron Mask—Jansenists—Tiron, Veillant,
    and Lebrun Desmarets—The Count de Bucquoy—The Duke
    de Richelieu—Miscellaneous prisoners.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">273</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[x]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER IX.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Louis XV.—Regency of the Duke of Orleans—Oppressive
    measures against all persons connected with the
    Finances—Their failure—Prisoners in the Bastile—Freret—Voltaire—The
    Cellamare conspiracy—The Duchess of Maine—Madame
    de Staal—Malezieu—Bargeton—Mahudel—The
    Mississippi scheme—Count de Horn—Death of the Regent—Administration
    of the Duke of Bourbon—La Blanc—Paris
    Duverney—The Count de Belleisle—The Chevalier de Belleisle—Madame
    de Tencin.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">314</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER X.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Louis XV. continued—The Bull Unigenitus—A
    Notary Public—G. N. Nivelle—G. C. Buffard—Death of
    Deacon Paris—Rise, progress, and acts, of the Convulsionaries—Persecution
    of them, and artifices employed by them to
    foil their persecutors—Lenglet Dufresnoy—La Beaumelle—F.
    de Marsy—Marmontel—The Abbé Morellet—Mirabeau
    the elder—The Chevalier Resseguier—Groubendal and Dulaurens—Robbé
    de Beauveset—Mahé de la Bourdonnais—Count
    Lally—La Chalotais—Marin—Durosoi—Prévost de
    Beaumont—Barletti St. Paul—Dumouriez.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">346</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER XI.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Captivity and Sufferings of Masers de Latude—Cause of
    his Imprisonment—He is removed from the Bastile to Vincennes—He
    escapes—He is retaken, and sent to the Bastile—Kindness
    of M. Berryer—D’Alegre is confined in the same
    apartment with him—Latude forms a plan for escaping—Preparations
    for executing it—The Prisoners descend from the
    summit of the Bastile, and escape—They are recaptured in
    Holland, and brought back—Latude is thrown into a horrible
    dungeon—He tames rats, and makes a musical pipe—Plans
    suggested by him—His writing materials—He attempts
    suicide—Pigeons tamed by him—New plans suggested by him—Finds
    means to fling a packet of papers from the top of the
    Bastile—He is removed to Vincennes—He escapes—Is recaptured—Opens
    a communication with his fellow-prisoners—Is
    transferred to Charenton—His situation there—His momentary
    liberation—He is re-arrested, and sent to the Bicêtre—Horrors
    of that prison—Heroic benevolence of Madame Legros—She
    succeeds in obtaining his release—Subsequent fate of Latude.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">382</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[xi]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER XII.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reign of Louis XVI.—Enormous number of Lettres de
    Cachet issued in two reigns—William Debure the elder—Blaizot
    imprisoned for obeying the King—Pelisseri—Prisoners
    from St. Domingo—Linguet—Duvernet—The Count de
    Paradès—Marquis de Sade—Brissot—The Countess de la
    Motte—Cardinal de Rohan—Cagliostro—The affair of the
    Diamond Necklace—Reveillon takes shelter in the Bastile—Attack
    and capture of the Bastile by the Parisians—Conclusion.</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">436</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">[xii]</span></p>

<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="plan" style="max-width: 43.75em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/plan.jpg" alt="">
  <figcaption>
      <p class="center">PLAN OF THE BASTILE.</p>
      <p>A. Avenue from St. Anthony’s Street—B. Entrance, and first drawbridge—C.
    The Governor’s house—D. First court—E. Avenue leading
    to the gate of the fortress—F. Drawbridge and gates of the fortress—G.
    Guard-houses—H. The great court within the towers—I.
    Staircase leading to the Council Chamber—K. Council Chamber—L.
    Court du Puits, or Well Court—M. Way to the garden—N. Steps
    leading into the garden—O. Garden—P. The moat of the fortress—Q.
    Passage to the Arsenal garden—R. A wooden road round the walls
    for the night patrole—1. Tower du Puits—2. Tower de la Liberté—3.
    Tower de la Bertaudière—4. Tower de la Bazinière—5. Tower de
    la Comté—6. Tower du Trésor—7. Tower de la Chapelle—8. Tower
    du Coin.</p>
  </figcaption>
</figure>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p>

<h1>THE<br>
HISTORY OF THE BASTILE.</h1>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</h2>

<p>Original meaning of the word Bastile—Various Bastiles—Description
of “The Bastile”—Officers of the fortress—Interior
of it—The Garden—The Court where the prisoners took exercise—The
Towers, Dungeons, Apartments, Furniture, Food,
of the prisoners—The Library—The Chapel—Lettres de
Cachet described—Advocate of them—Change in the treatment
of prisoners—Narrative of a prisoner—Strict search of prisoners—Harshness
to them—Artifices employed against them—Silence
enjoined to the Guards, &amp;c. of the prison—Mode
of receiving visitors—Suppression of letters—Secrecy and mystery—Medical
attendance—Wills—Insanity—Clandestine
burial of the dead.</p>

</div>

<p>The word Bastile, which has now long been, and will
ever remain, a term of opprobrious import, to designate
the dungeons of arbitrary power, has, like many
other words, deviated widely in the lapse of years
from its original meaning. Its derivation is traced,
somewhat doubtfully, to the Italian <i>bastia</i> or <i>bastione</i>.
In former times, it was applied to any fort, whether
permanent or temporary. In our old writers, as well
as in those of France, we find it repeatedly given to
field works. The redoubts, for instance, by means of
which, in the reign of the sixth Henry, the English
blockaded Orleans, are so denominated by French
chroniclers. The same is the case with respect to
more durable works; there were, at an early period,
no less than three bastiles at Paris, those of St. Denis,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span>the Temple, and St. Anthony, all of which were situated
to the north of the Seine. Eventually, the name
was confined to the last of these buildings. The quadrangular
castle of St. Denis was demolished in 1671;
but the tower of the Temple, in which the unfortunate
Louis the Sixteenth and his family were confined, outlasted
the Bastile itself for nearly a quarter of a century,
and was used as a state prison till 1811, when it
ceased to exist.</p>

<p>The bastile of St. Anthony—which structure I shall
henceforth mention only as The Bastile—is generally
supposed to have been founded by Hugh Aubriot. This
opinion is, however, erroneous. It is beyond a doubt,
that the original plan and construction of it must be
assigned to the celebrated Stephen Marcel, provost of
the merchants of Paris. When, in 1356, after the
disastrous battle of Poitiers, the English detachments
were ravaging the vicinity of the French capital, and
the citizens were filled with terror, Stephen undertook
to repair the dilapidated bulwarks of the city, and add
other defences. Among his additions was a gate, fortified
with towers on each side, leading from the suburb
of St. Anthony into the street of the same name.
These towers must be considered as the first rudiments
of the Bastile.</p>

<p>The haste with which, while an enemy was at hand,
the walls had been constructed, had not allowed of
giving to them that height and solidity which were
requisite for effectually resisting an attack. In
1369, Charles the Fifth resolved to remedy this defect.
The task of making the necessary improvements was
committed to Hugh Aubriot, the provost of Paris.
Among the changes which Aubriot made, was the
adding of two towers to those which already existed
at St. Anthony’s gate. They were erected parallel
with those built by Marcel; so that the whole formed
a square fort, with towers at the angles. In the reign
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>of Charles the Sixth, after the Maillotin insurrection,
in 1382, the Bastile was again enlarged, by the addition
of two towers at each end of the fortress; thus
presenting a front of four towers to the city, and as
many to the suburb. To render more difficult any attempt
to surprise the place, the road, which, as we
have seen, ran through it, was turned to one side. The
body of the fortress received no further accession; but,
before the middle of the seventeenth century, a bastion
was constructed on the side toward the suburb,
and a broad dry ditch, about forty yards wide and twelve
deep, faced with masonry, encircled the whole.</p>

<p>Along the summit of the exterior wall of the ditch,
which was at an elevation of sixty feet above the bottom
of the ditch, was a wooden gallery, called the
Rounds, reached by two flights of steps. Day and
night sentinels were constantly moving about in this
gallery; every quarter of an hour they were visited by
some of the officers or serjeants; and, more completely
to secure their vigilance, each man had certain numbered
pieces of copper pierced with holes, which, at
stated times, he was to drop on the point of an instrument,
fixed in a padlocked box. A bell was also rung
upon the Rounds, every quarter of an hour, throughout
the night.</p>

<p>The officers on the establishment of the Bastile consisted
of a governor, the king’s lieutenant, a major,
who officiated as secretary, and prepared the reports
and monthly accounts for the minister, two adjutants
to assist him, a physician, a surgeon and his assistant,
a chaplain, two priests, and a confessor, a keeper of
the records, clerk, superintendant of the buildings,
engineer, four turnkeys, and a company of invalids.
No soldier was allowed to sleep out of the place without
leave from the governor; nor could any officer dine
out or be absent all night, without permission from the
minister. Originally only the governor and the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>king’s lieutenant were appointed by the king, the rest
being nominated by the governor; and guard was
mounted at the castle by a body of citizens, which
bore the name of the Independent Company of Archers.
The change was made about the middle of
the eighteenth century.</p>

<p>The interior of the gloomy fabric must now be described.
Having passed down St. Anthony’s-street,
and arrived nearly at the city gate, leading to the suburb
of the same name, he who wished or was compelled
to visit the Bastile, turned to the right hand, in the
direction of the Arsenal, where stood a sentinel, to
warn off all idle gazers. Before, however, the main
building could be entered, the visiter had to pursue his
way along an approach, bent nearly into the form of
three sides of a square, ⊐, flanked with buildings of
various kinds, on the whole of one side, and a part of
the other. Over the entrance gate was an armoury,
and on the right of it a guard-room; on the left hand
was a range of suttling-houses, and on the right were
barracks. The road then made an abrupt turn, on the
right of which were stables, coachhouses, and a door
into a space which was called the Elm Court. This
first division was named the Passage Court. At the
extremity of it was a drawbridge, with a guard-house
at its further end. This bridge led to a second court,
taking its name from the governor’s house, which, with
his garden, occupied one half of its circuit. Another
abrupt turn brought the visiter opposite the portal of
the fortress, which he at length reached, after having
passed by the kitchens, and traversed the great drawbridge.
Between the street and the interior of the
fortress there were five massy gates, at all of which
sentinels were posted.</p>

<p>The principal drawbridge being passed, and the gate
opened, the visiter stood within the Bastile itself. Leaving
on his right a guard-room, he found himself in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>Great Court of the Castle, a parallelogram of about a
hundred and two feet long by seventy-two broad, containing
six towers, three on the side looking towards
the suburb, and as many on the city side: the
former were named de la Comté, du Trésor, and de
la Chapelle; the latter de la Bazinière, de la Bertaudière,
and de la Liberté. Between the three left hand
towers were rooms for the archives and other purposes,
and the chapel; between the towers du Trésor and
de la Chapelle was, in former times, the gate of St.
Anthony, and the road into the city.</p>

<p>A pile of buildings, comparatively modern, extending
across the shortest diameter of the fortress, from
the Tour de la Chapelle to the miscalled Tour de la
Liberté, divided this principal court from another,
called the Well Court. This pile contained the council
chamber, the library, the repository for the prisoners’
effects, and apartments for the king’s lieutenant,
the major, and other officers, and, occasionally,
for the sick, and captives of distinction.</p>

<p>The length of the Well Court was between seventy
and eighty feet, the breadth between forty and fifty.
At the angle on the right was the tower du Coin,
on the left the tower du Puit. In this court were
some lodgings for the drudges of the place; and, as
the poultry were fed and the offal was thrown out
here, it was always dirty and unwholesome.</p>

<p>The garden, formed out of what once was a bastion,
on the suburb side of the castle, was laid out in walks,
and planted with trees. It appears, that, till a period
not long previous to the downfall of the Bastile, such
prisoners as were not confined for flagitious crimes, or
for the express purpose of being rendered supremely
wretched, were permitted to walk there. To the last
governor, M. de Launay, they were indebted for being
deprived of this privilege. To increase his already
enormous emoluments, he let it to a gardener, and he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>had interest enough with the minister to obtain his
sanction for this encroachment on the scanty comforts
of the prisoners—an order was issued by which they
were excluded from it. Nor was this all, or the worst.
The platforms, along the summit of the towers and
connecting curtains, had hitherto afforded a pleasant
and airy walk; but these, too, were shut up, at his desire,
partly to save trouble to those who watched the
prisoners, and partly to diminish the chance of conversation
between the former and the latter. Such
conduct is, however, not strange in the man who could
meet the complaints of his oppressed inmates with obscenely
vulgar language; and could add, that “people
either ought not to put themselves in the way of being
sent to the Bastile, or ought to know how to
suffer when they got there.” Humanity deplores his
subsequent fate, and execrates the brutality of his
murderers; but, as far as regards him personally, M.
de Launay appears to have been deserving of very
little respect.</p>

<p>The only remaining spot in which exercise could be
taken was the principal court. “The walls which enclose
it,” says M. Linguet, “are more than a hundred
feet high, without windows; so that, in fact, it
is a large well, where the cold is unbearable in winter,
because the north-east wind pours into it, and in
summer the heat is no less so, because, there being
no circulation of air, the sun makes an absolute oven
of it. This is the sole lyceum where such of the prisoners
as have permission (for all do not have it) can,
each in his turn, for a few moments in the day, disencumber
their lungs from the pestilential air of their
dwelling.” But even this poor gratification, which
seldom extended to an hour, was considerably abridged
by circumstances. Any increase in the number of
prisoners diminished the time which was allotted.
Whenever, as was frequently the case, any stranger
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>entered the court, the prisoner was obliged to hurry
into a narrow passage, called the Cabinet, and shut
himself in closely, that he might not be seen. M.
Linguet states, that three quarters of an hour was
often wasted in these compulsory retreats to the Cabinet.
If they were not promptly made, or the captive
displayed any curiosity, the least penalty inflicted was
confining the delinquent within the limits of his cell.</p>

<p>The towers, which were at least a hundred feet high,
were seven feet thick at the top, and the thickness
gradually increased, down to the foundation. Lowest
of all in them were dungeons, under the level of the
soil, arched, paved, lined with stone, dripping with
perpetual damps, the darkness of which was made
visible by means of a narrow slit through the wall, on
the side next the ditch. In this fetid den, swarmed
newts, toads, rats, and every variety of vermin which
haunt confined and gloomy spots. Planks, laid across
iron bars fixed in the wall, formed the couch of the
captive, and his only bedding, even in the most inclement
season, was a little straw. Two doors, each
seven inches thick, with enormous locks and bars,
closed the entrance to each of these horrible abodes,
over which might fitly have been inscribed the terrific
line that shone dimly over the gate of hell, “All hope
abandon ye who enter here!”</p>

<p>Above the dungeons were four stories, each consisting
of a single room, with, in some instances, a
dark closet scooped out of the wall. All were shut in
by ponderous double doors; as were also the staircases.
In three of the stories, the rooms, of an irregular
octagonal shape, were about twenty feet in diameter,
and eighteen in height. In many of the rooms
the ceilings were double, with a considerable vacuity
between them; the lower one was of lath and plaster,
the upper of solid oak. The highest story of all, which
was termed la Calotte, was neither so lofty nor so
large as the others; it was arched to support the roof
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>and platform, and its curvature prevented its inhabitant
from walking in any part but the middle of the
room. On the towers and curtains several pieces of
cannon were mounted.</p>

<p>The light which was thrown into these chambers
was broken and imperfect; prospect from them there
was none. Each room had only one window; and,
independent of the obstacle opposed to sight by the
massiveness of the walls, there was another, in the
double iron gratings, at the outside and middle, formed
of bars as thick as a man’s arm, which closed the narrow
aperture. In the lower stories, that there might
be no chance of seeing or being seen, the opening was
filled half way up with stone and mortar, or with
planks fastened to the external grating. Three steps
led up to some of the windows, if windows they may
be called; in other cases they were level with the floor.
A glass casement excluded the wind in the better
apartments; the dungeons were left exposed to all the
rigour of the elements.</p>

<p>The rooms were floored with tile or stone, and all
of them, except the dungeons, had chimneys or stoves;
the chimneys were secured, in several parts, by iron
bars. In winter, six pieces of wood were allowed
daily for firing. M. Linguet complains, in his Memoirs,
that the quantity was insufficient, and the quality
execrable. It is obvious that, to enhance his profits,
an avaricious governor would purchase as cheaply,
and deal out as scantily, as it was possible for him to do.</p>

<p>The rooms were designated from their situation in
the towers, numbering from the bottom, and the prisoners
were designated by the number of their room.
Thus, for instance, the first chamber above the dungeon
in the Bazinière tower was called the first Bazinière,
and so on to the topmost, which was known as
the Calotte Bazinière. The prisoner was consequently
mentioned not by his name but by the number of his
room—the first Bazinière, the first Bertaudière, the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>third Comté, &amp;c. &amp;c. In some cases it appears that
the prisoner received another name instead of his own,
which was never uttered or written. In this way De
la Tude, of whom we shall have occasion to speak,
was denominated Daury.</p>

<p>In what manner these pleasant abodes were furnished
M. Linguet shall describe. “Two worm-eaten
mattresses, a cane elbow chair, the bottom of which
was held together by packthread, a tottering table, a
water jug, two pots of delftware, one of which was to
drink out of, and two flag stones, to support the fire;
such was the inventory, at least such was mine. I was
indebted only to the commiseration of the turnkey,
after several months’ confinement, for a pair of tongs
and a fire shovel. It was not possible for me to procure
dog-irons; and, whether it arises from policy or
inhumanity I know not, what the governor will not
supply, he will not allow a prisoner to procure at his
own expense. It was eight months ere I could obtain
permission to buy a tea-pot, twelve before I could
procure a tolerably strong chair, and fifteen ere I was
suffered to replace by a crockery vessel the filthy and
disgusting pewter vessel which is the only one that is
used in the Bastile.</p>

<p>“The single article which I was at the outset allowed
to purchase was a new blanket, and the occasion
was as follows:</p>

<p>“The month of September, as every body knows, is
the time when the moths that prey upon woollens are
transformed into winged insects. When the antre
which was assigned to me was opened, there arose
from the bed, I will not say a number, nor a cloud,
but a large and dense column of moths, which overspread
the chamber in an instant. I started back with
horror. ‘Pooh! pooh!’ said one of my conductors
with a smile, ‘before you have lain here two nights,
there will not be one of them left.’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p>

<p>“In the evening, the lieutenant of police came,
according to custom, to welcome me. I manifested so
violent a repugnance to such a populous flock bed,
that they were gracious enough to permit me to put
on a new covering, and to have the mattress beaten,
the whole at my own cost. As feather beds are prohibited
articles in the Bastile, doubtless because such
luxuries are not suitable for persons to whom the
ministry wishes above all things to give lessons of
mortification, I was very desirous that, every three
months at least, my shabby mattress should have the
same kind of renovation. But, though it would have
cost him nothing, the proprietory governor opposed
it with all his might, ‘because,’ said he, ‘it wears
them out.’”</p>

<p>Each prisoner was supplied with flint, steel, and
tinder, a candle a day, a broom once a week, and a
pair of sheets every fortnight.</p>

<p>Captives of rank were undoubtedly somewhat better
accommodated, and, where there were no particular reasons
for annoying them, they were favoured by being
allowed to receive articles from their homes; but the
common run of convenience and comfort appears not
to have gone beyond what is described by M. Linguet.</p>

<p>The food of the prisoners was paid for by the king
at so much per head, according to a graduated scale;
but the supply and management of it were left, seemingly
without controul, in the hands of the governor.
By this arrangement the prisoners were placed at the
mercy of their jailor, who, if he happened to have a
great love of gain, and a scanty portion of humanity,
might fill his purse by furnishing bad provisions, or
not sufficient to sustain life. “There are prisoners in
the Bastile,” says Linguet, “who have not more than
four ounces of meat at a meal; this has been ascertained
more than once by weighing what was given to them;
the fact is notorious to all the under officers, who are
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>grieved by it.” In estimating the amount of the wrong
thus inflicted, it must be borne in mind, that the man
who is in bonds requires more and better nourishment,
to keep nature from sinking, than is necessary for the
man who is a free agent. There was, in this instance,
no excuse for stint. The sum allowed by the king
for the maintenance of the captives was exceedingly
liberal. It was nearly half a crown a day for an
individual of the humblest class; four shillings for a
tradesman; eight shillings for a priest, a person in the
finance department, or an ordinary judge; twelve shillings
for a parliament counsellor; twenty shillings for
a lieutenant general in the army; one pound ten for a
marshal of France; and two guineas for a prince of the
blood. If the sovereign oppressed those who incurred
his anger, he at least did not mean to starve them.</p>

<p>What was the fare which this high rate of remuneration
obtained for the prisoners? It is thus described
in a work, published in 1774, by one who had himself
long tried it. I am not aware that the accuracy of
the statement has ever been impeached; on the contrary,
there is the testimony of other witnesses to the
same effect.</p>

<p>“The kitchen is supplied by the governor’s steward,
who has under him a cook, a scullion, and a man whose
employment is to cut wood for fuel. All the victuals
are bad, and generally ill-dressed: and this is a mine
of gold to the governor, whose revenue is daily augmented
by the hard fare of the prisoners under his
keeping. Besides these profits, which are inconceivably
great, the governor receives a hundred and fifty
livres a day for fifteen prison rooms, at ten livres each,
as a sort of gratification in addition to his salary; and
he often derives other considerable emoluments.</p>

<p>“On flesh days the prisoners have soup with boiled
meat, &amp;c. for dinner; at night a slice of roast meat, a
ragoût and salad. The diet on fast days consists, at
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>dinner, of fish, and two other dishes; at night, of eggs,
with greens. The difference in the quality of the diet
is very small between the lowest rank of prisoners,
and those who are classed at five or ten livres; the
table of the latter is furnished with perhaps half a
starved chicken, a pigeon, a wild rabbit, or some small
bird, with a dessert; the portion of each rarely exceeds
the value of twopence.</p>

<p>“The <i>Sunday’s</i> dinner consists of some bad soup,
a slice of a cow, which they call beef, and four little
pâtés; at night a slice of roast veal or mutton, or a
little plate of haricot, in which bare bones and turnips
greatly predominate; to these are added a salad, the
oil to which is always rancid. The suppers are pretty
uniformly the same on flesh days. <i>Monday</i>: instead
of four pâtés a haricot. <i>Tuesday</i>: at noon, a sausage,
half a pig’s foot, or a small pork chop. <i>Wednesday</i>:
a tart, generally either half warm or burnt up. <i>Thursday</i>:
two very thin mutton chops. <i>Friday</i>: half a
small carp, either fried or stewed, a stinking haddock
or cod, with butter and mustard; to which are added
greens or eggs; at supper eggs, with spinach mixed up
with milk and water.—<i>Saturday</i>: the same. And this
perpetual rotation re-commences on Sunday.</p>

<p>“On the three holidays, St. Louis, St. Martin,
and Twelfth day, every prisoner has an addition made
to his allowance, of half a roasted chicken, or a pigeon.
On Holy Monday, his dinner is accompanied by a tart
extraordinary.</p>

<p>“Each prisoner has an allowance of a pound of
bread and a bottle of wine per day; but the wine is
generally flat and good for nothing. The dessert consists
of an apple, a biscuit, a few almonds and raisins,
some cherries, gooseberries, or plums; these are
commonly served in pewter, though sometimes they
are favoured with earthen dishes and a silver spoon
and fork. If any one complains of receiving bad provisions,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>a partial amendment may take place for a few
days; but the complainant is sure to meet with some
unpleasant effects of resentment. There is no cook’s
shop in the kingdom, where you may not get a better
dinner for a shilling than what are served in the Bastile.
The cookery, in short, is wretchedly bad, the
soup tasteless, and the meat of the worst quality, and
ill dressed. All this must operate to injure the health
of the prisoners; and, added to other grievances, excites
frequent imprecations of vengeance from Heaven.”</p>

<p>With respect to the badness of the wine, Linguet
corroborates the statement of this writer. The governor,
it appears, in addition to the diet-money, had
the privilege of taking into his cellars near a hundred
hogsheads of wine, duty free. “What does he do?”
says Linguet. “He sells his privilege to a Parisian
tavern keeper, of the name of Joli, who gives him
250<i>l.</i> for it, and he takes in exchange from him the
very cheapest kind of wine for the use of the prisoners;
which wine, as may easily be imagined, is nothing but
vinegar.” This was a fraud at once upon the government
and the prisoners.</p>

<p>The sole mental recreation which the prison afforded
was derived from a small library, consisting of about
five hundred volumes. This collection is said to have
been founded by a foreign prisoner, who died in the
Bastile, about the beginning of the eighteenth century,
and to have been enlarged by later sufferers. In some
cases, prisoners were allowed to read in the library;
but, generally, the works were taken to the cells of the
captives, and the selection of them depended on the
taste of the turnkeys. Few of the books were unmutilated;
for the prisoners now and then indulged in
writing bitter remarks on the blank spaces. As soon
as a book was returned, every leaf was carefully examined,
and woe be to the rash offender who had suffered
passion to get the better of prudence! An epigram,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>or a sarcasm, on his persecutors, or on men in office,
exposed him to the worst that irresponsible power could
inflict. As to the volume, if the writing was on the
margin, the piece was cut off; but when it chanced to
be inserted between the lines, the page was torn out.</p>

<p>It seems to have been thought by no means necessary
that a prisoner, who was deprived of all earthly comforts,
should receive consolation from regular attendance
on religious worship. The chapel was a miserable
hole, of about seven or eight feet square, under the
pigeon-house of the king’s lieutenant. “In this chapel,”
says one who had been a captive, “are five small
niches or closets, with strong locks, of which three are
formed in the wall; the others are only wainscot. Every
prisoner admitted to hear mass is put in by himself,&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>
and can neither see objects nor be seen of any. The
doors of these niches are secured by two bolts on the
outside, and lined within by iron bars; they are also
glazed; but before each is hung a curtain, which is
drawn back at the Sanctus, and again closed at the
concluding prayer. Five prisoners only being admitted
at each mass, it follows that no more than ten can assist
at that ceremony in a day. If there be a greater number
than this in the Castle, they either do not go at all,
or go alternately; because there are generally found
some who have a constant permission.”</p>

<p>There was a confessor in the fortress; but it is
scarcely possible that a prisoner could repose entire
confidence in a spiritual director who was in the pay of
his oppressors. Though it is going much too far to
say, as M. Linguet does, that such a man is “a cowardly
double-dealer who prostitutes the dignity of his
character,” it must be owned that some doubts and suspicions
as to him might naturally arise; it matters not
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>that they would be unjust, the possibility of their being
excited ought to have been carefully avoided.</p>

<p>Let us now turn to the concise but terrible instrument,
by virtue of which an individual was consigned
to captivity, perhaps for life. This was the <i>lettre de
cachet</i>, or sealed letter, so called to distinguish it from
the <i>patent</i> or open letter, which was merely folded. In
former days, such epistles were called <i>lettres closes</i>, or
<i>clauses</i>. The name was not given to all sealed up missives,
but only to those which contained some command
or information from the sovereign. They were signed
by the king, and countersigned by one of the secretaries
of state. The same appellation was originally given
to all letters of the kind described; but, in latter times,
it was principally if not wholly applied, at least in common
parlance, to royal orders of exile and imprisonment.</p>

<p>The oldest recorded mandate of this species is that
which Thierry the Second issued, at the instigation of
Brunehaut, against St. Columbanus, who had severely
censured the vices of the mother and the son. It
directed that he should be removed from the monastery
of Luxeuil, and banished to Besançon, where he
was to remain during the king’s pleasure. The saint
yielded only to force, and, as soon as the guards were
withdrawn, he retired to his convent. Violence, however,
at length compelled him to quit the dominions of
the licentious Thierry.</p>

<p>The <i>lettre de cachet</i> was usually carried into effect
by the officers of police; sometimes the arrest was made
at the dwelling of the individual, sometimes on the roads
or in the street by night; but, in all cases, it appears
to have been accomplished with as much secrecy as
possible, so that it was no uncommon thing for persons
to be missing for years, without their friends being
able to discover what had become of them. Men of
rank were at times spared the disgrace of being taken
into custody; they were favoured by being allowed to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>carry the letter themselves to the prison mentioned in
it, and surrender to the governor. Here is a specimen
of these obliging billets, which was addressed to the
prince of Monaco, a brigadier in the French army.</p>

<blockquote>

<p class="noindent">“My Cousin,</p>

<p>“Being by no means satisfied with your conduct, I
send you this letter, to apprise you that my intention
is, that, as soon as you receive it, you shall proceed to
my castle of the Bastile, there to remain till you have
my further orders. On which, my cousin, I pray God
to have you in his holy keeping. Given at Versailles,
this 25th of June, 1748.</p>

<p class="right">(<i>Signed</i>) <span class="spacer">“<span class="smcap">Louis.</span>”</span></p>

<p class="right">(<i>Countersigned</i>) <span class="spacer">“<span class="smcap">Voyer d’Argenson.</span>”</span></p>

</blockquote>

<p>By such a scrap of paper as this might any man in
France be doomed to close and hopeless imprisonment.
Malice, wounded pride, rivalry, revenge, all the base
and cruel passions, availed themselves of it to torment
their enemies. The titled harlot, whose shame had
excited laughter or reprobation, the minister, whose
measures were unpopular, the frivolous courtier, whose
folly had been satirised, the debauchee, who wished to
remove an obstacle to his lust, the parent, who preferred
ruling his offspring rather by fear than love, was eager
to obtain one of these convenient scorpion scourges, and
the wish was too often gratified.</p>

<p>There is scarcely any enormity so monstrous that it
cannot find a defender. Even <i>lettres de cachet</i> have
not been without an apologist; and, to make the wonder
the greater, an English apologist. Let us listen
to his plea. “Perhaps (says he) it was the abuse of
the <i>lettres de cachet</i>, rather than their institution, that
merited the execration in which they were held; for
however extraordinary it may seem, they were not unfrequently
used to serve the purposes of humanity.
There are many instances of persons, who, on account
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>of private disputes, or affairs of state, would have been
exposed to public punishment, that were shut up by a
<i>lettre de cachet</i>, until the danger was past, or the matter
accommodated or forgotten. It may undoubtedly
be objected, that keeping a person from justice is itself
a crime against the public; but in forming a judgment
upon this subject, we ought to take into consideration
the prejudices entertained in the country where this
authority was employed. It should be remembered that,
by an old and barbarous practice, the disgrace attending
a capital punishment, inflicted by the laws, was reflected
upon all the family of the criminal; and that in many
instances it required a public act of the supreme power
to wipe off the stain, and again enable them to serve
their country. In as far, therefore, as the <i>lettres de
cachet</i> counteracted the effects of these prejudices, they
were useful; <i>but though they were signed by the king,
from the idea that it was proper to have them ready
for cases of emergency, ministers, and governors of
provinces, &amp;c., were generally furnished with them in
blank, to be filled up at their discretions; and the
friends and favourites of those ministers sometimes
obtained them from them, as is proved by the case of
M. de Fratteaux, and in many other instances</i>.”&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<p>This is, indeed, carrying to a ridiculous extent the
determination to find “a soul of good in things evil!”
Perhaps it would not be uncharitable to put a harsher
construction on such language. Public justice is to be
defrauded, thousands are to be plunged into misery,
personal safety is to be hourly jeoparded, crime committed
by the rich and powerful is to escape with all
but complete impunity, and the motives which most
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>influence individuals to bridle their unruly passions are to
be weakened, merely “to counteract the effects of a prejudice”
on a few ancient families! Never was an infinitely
small benefit bought at a more extravagant price.</p>

<p>From certain particulars, which we find in various
memoirs, it would seem that, generally speaking, more
indulgences were granted to the inmates of the Bastile
in former days, than during the last thirty years of its
existence. At all times, however, much would undoubtedly
depend on the personal character of the
governor; if he chanced to be liberal-minded and humane,
he would, as far as he could venture to do so,
mitigate the sufferings of his captives; if, on the contrary,
he were greedy of gain, and harsh in his disposition,
he would stint and deteriorate their diet, wantonly
deny them even the most trifling comforts, and,
in short, do his best to make the management of the
prison “render life a burthen,” which, with an impudent
candour, one of the officers of the castle avowed
to be its especial purpose.</p>

<p>It must be owned that, in some respects, modern
times witnessed an improvement in the practice of the
Bastile. The cages, which it is known once to have
contained, were removed. The rack, also, and other
instruments of torture, ceased to be called into use. At
what period the change took place is not said. That,
in the latter end of Louis the Thirteenth’s reign, the
instruments still existed in the castle, we learn from the
Memoirs of the faithful La Porte, who saw them, and
was threatened with them to extort a confession.</p>

<p>What the Bastile was in its mildest form will appear
from the following narrative, written by a person who
was confined for eight months. “About five in the
morning of the 2d of April, 1771,” says the narrator,
“I was awakened by a violent knocking at my chamber
door, and was commanded, in the name of the king, to
open it. I did so, and an exempt of the police, three
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>men who appeared to be under his orders, and a commissary,
entered the room. They desired me to dress
myself, and began to search the apartment. They ordered
me to open my drawers, and having examined my
papers, they took such as they chose, and put them into
a box, which, as I understood afterwards, was carried to
the police office. The commissary asked me my name,
my age, the place where I was born, how long I had
been at Paris, and the manner in which I spent my time.
The examination was written down by him; a list was
made of every thing found in the room, which, together
with the examination, I was desired to read and sign.
The exempt then told me to take all my body linen,
and such clothes as I chose, and to come along with
them. At the word <i>all</i> I started; I guessed where they
were about to take me, and it seemed to announce to
me a long train of misery.</p>

<p>“Having shut and sealed the drawers, they desired
me to follow them; and in going out, they locked the
chamber door and took the key. On coming to the
street, I found a coach, into which I was desired to go,
and the others followed me. After sitting for some
time the commissary told me they were carrying me to
the Bastile, and soon afterwards I saw the towers. They
did not go the shortest and direct road; which I suppose
was to conceal our destination from those who
might have observed us. The coach stopped at the
gate in St. Anthony’s street. I saw the coachman make
signs to the sentinel, and soon after the gate was opened:
the guard was under arms, and I heard the gate shut
again. On coming to the first drawbridge, it was let
down, the guard there being likewise under arms. The
coach went on, and entered the castle, where I saw another
guard under arms. It stopped at a flight of steps
at the bottom of the court, where being desired to go
out, I was conducted to a room which I heard named
the council chamber. I found three persons sitting at
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>a table, who, as I was told, were the king’s lieutenant,
the major, and his deputy. The major asked me nearly
the same questions which the commissary had done, and
observed the same formalities in directing me to read
and sign the examination. I was then desired to empty
my pockets, and lay what I had in them on the table.
My handkerchief and snuff-box being returned to me,
my money, watch, and indeed every thing else, were put
into a box that was sealed in my presence, and an inventory
having been made of them, it was likewise read
and signed by me. The major then called for the turnkey
whose turn of duty it was, and having asked what
room was empty, he said, the Calotte de la Bertaudière.
He was ordered to convey me to it, and to carry thither
my linen and clothes. The turnkey having done so,
left me and locked the doors. The weather was still
extremely cold, and I was glad to see him return soon
afterwards with firewood, a tinder-box, and a candle.
He made my fire, but told me, on leaving the tinder-box,
that I might in future do it myself when
so inclined.&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p>

<p>“From the time the exempt of police came into my
room, I had not ceased to form conjectures about the
cause of my imprisonment. I knew of none, unless it
were some verses and sketches, relative to the affairs
of the times. Though they were indiscreet, they were
of little importance. The only writing that might have
seriously given offence to the government, I had never
shown, but to one person in whom I thought I could
confide. I found afterwards he had betrayed me.</p>

<p>“When I heard the double doors shut upon me a
second time, casting my eyes round my habitation, I
fancied I now saw the extent of all that was left to me
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>in this world for the rest of my days. <i>Besides the malignity
of enemies, and the anger of a minister, I felt
that I ran the risk of being forgotten; the fate of
many who have no one of influence to protect them,
or who have not particularly attracted the notice of
the public. Naturally fond of society, I confess I
looked forward to the abyss of lonely wretchedness,
that I thought awaited me, with a degree of horror
that cannot easily be described. I even regretted now
what I had formerly considered as the greatest blessing,
a healthy constitution that had never been affected
by disease.</i></p>

<p>“I recollect with humble gratitude the first gleam of
comfort that shot across this gloom. It was the idea,
that neither massive walls, nor tremendous bolts, nor
all the vigilance of suspicious keepers, could conceal
me from the sight of God. This thought I fondly cherished,
and it gave me infinite consolation in the course
of my imprisonment, and principally contributed to
enable me to support it, with a degree of fortitude and
resignation that I have since wondered at—I no longer
felt myself alone.</p>

<p>“At eleven, my reflections were interrupted by the
turnkey, who entered with my dinner. Having spread
the table with a clean napkin, he placed the dishes on
it, cut the meat, and retired, taking away the knife.
The dishes, plates, fork, spoon, and goblet, were of pewter.
The dinner consisted of soup and bouilli, a piece
of roasted meat, a bottle of good table wine, and a pound
loaf of the best kind of household bread. In the evening,
at seven, he brought my supper, which consisted
of a roast dish and a ragoût. The same ceremony was
observed in cutting the meat, to render the knife unnecessary
to me. He took away the dishes he had
brought for dinner, and returned at eight the next
morning to take away the supper things. Fridays and
Saturdays being fast or <i>maîgre</i> days, the dinner consisted
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>of soup, a dish of fish, and two dishes of vegetables;
the suppers, of two dishes of garden stuff, and
an omelet, or something made with eggs and milk. The
dinners and suppers of each day in the week were different,
but every week was the same: so that the
ordinary class of prisoners saw in the course of the
first week their bill of fare for fifty years, if they staid
so long.</p>

<p>“I had remained in my room about three weeks,
when I was one morning carried down to the council
chamber, where I found the commissary. He began
by asking most of the questions that had been put to
me before. He then asked if I had any knowledge of
some works he named, meaning those that had been
written by me;—if I was acquainted with the author
of them;—whether there were any persons concerned
with him;—and if I knew whether they had been
printed? I told him that, as I did not mean to conceal
any thing, I should avoid giving him needless trouble;
that I myself was the author of the works he had mentioned,
and guessed I was there on that account;—that
they never had been printed;—that the work,
which I conceived was the cause of my confinement,
had never been shown to any but one person, whom I
thought my friend; and having no accomplices, the
offence, if there was any, rested solely with myself. He
said my examination was one of the shortest he had
ever been employed at, for it ended here. I was carried
back to my room, and the next day was shaved
for the first time since my confinement.</p>

<p>“A few days afterwards I wrote to the lieutenant of
the police, requesting to be indulged with the use of
books, pen, ink, and paper, which was granted; but I
was not allowed to go down to the library to choose
the books. Several volumes were brought to me by
the turnkey, who, when I desired it, carried them back
and brought others.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span></p>

<p>“After my last examination I was taken down almost
daily, and allowed to walk about an hour in the court
within view of the sentinel: but my walks were frequently
interrupted; for if any one appeared, the sentinel
called out ‘To the Cabinet!’ and I was then
obliged to conceal myself hastily in a kind of dark closet
in the wall near the chapel.</p>

<p>“The sheets of my bed were changed once a fortnight,
I was allowed four towels a week, and my linen
was taken to be washed every Saturday. I had a tallow
candle daily, and in the cold season a certain number
of pieces of firewood. I was told that the allowance
of fire to the prisoners began the 1st of November, and
ceased on the 1st of April, and that my having a fire
in April was a particular indulgence.</p>

<p>“After being detained above eight months, I was
informed that an order had come to discharge me. I
was desired to go down to the council chamber: every
thing I had brought with me was returned, together
with the key of my apartment, which I found exactly
in the state I left it on the morning of the 2nd of
April, 1771.</p>

<p>“During my confinement I wrote many letters to
several of my friends, which were always received with
civility, but not one of them had been delivered.”</p>

<p>The aspect of captivity in the Bastile, even when
stripped of a part of its horrors, is surely hideous enough.
But there can be no doubt that, in a multitude of cases,
an enormous degree of severity was exercised. Instead
of being told, as in this instance, to give up the contents
of his pockets, the prisoner was rudely searched by four
men, who amused themselves with making vulgar jokes
and remarks while they were performing the task;
sometimes his own garments were taken from him, and
he was clothed in rags. His sufferings from imprisonment
might also be frightfully aggravated, by thrusting
him into one of the humid and pestilential dungeons,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>or into a room which was in the vicinity of a nuisance.
M. Linguet was confined in a chamber which fronted
the mouth of the common sewer of St. Anthony’s street,
so that the air which he breathed was never pure; but
in hot weather, in the spring and autumnal floods, and
whenever the sewer was cleaned, the mephitic vapours,
which penetrated into his cell, and accumulated there
for want of an outlet, were scarcely to be endured. What
were the interior accommodations of this cell the reader
has already seen.</p>

<p>The prisoner was not left to divine the motive for
depriving him of all incisive and pointed instruments;
he was bluntly informed that it was done to prevent
him from cutting his own throat or the throats of his
keepers. The reason assigned for the precaution shows
sufficiently, that the officers of the Bastile rightly estimated
the capability of exciting despair, which was possessed
by their prison. This preventive system was
carried to an almost ludicrous extent. Wishing to beguile
the tedium of captivity, M. Linguet resolved to
resume his geometrical studies, and he accordingly requested
to be supplied with a case of mathematical instruments.
After much demur, the case was obtained,
but it was without a pair of compasses. When he remonstrated
respecting the omission, he was told, that
“arms were prohibited in the Bastile.” At length, his
jailors hit upon the happy idea of having the compasses
made of bone. Candour, however, requires the acknowledgment
that their fears were not wholly groundless, instances
having occurred in which prisoners were driven
to desperation. It was with a pair of compasses that
the unfortunate Count Lally endeavoured to put an end
to his existence. His attempt was made in the year
1766, and, in the following year, a more fatal event
took place. A captive, Drohart by name, contrived to
secrete a knife, with which he first mortally wounded
a turnkey, and then destroyed himself.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p>

<p>For some time after his arrival at the Bastile, every
thing seems to have been studiously contrived to shock
a prisoner’s habits, insulate him from the human race,
and deliver him up to squalid wretchedness and distracting
thoughts. The manifest purpose of this was,
to break his courage, and thereby induce him to make
such confessions as would answer the ends of his persecutors.
It was not till after he had undergone a
second examination that he was allowed to be shaved;
and months often elapsed before this favour was
granted. Neither was he permitted to have books,
pens, or paper, nor to attend mass, nor to walk in the
court. He could not even write to the lieutenant of
police, through whom alone any indulgence was to be
obtained. The sight of the turnkey, for a few
moments, thrice a day, was the sole link which connected
him with his fellow beings.</p>

<p>Every stratagem which cunning could devise was
put in practice to entrap a prisoner into an avowal of
guilt, the betraying of his suspected friends, or, failing
these, into such contradictions as might give a colour
for refusing to believe him innocent. Threats, too,
were not spared, nor even flatteries and promises.
At one moment, papers were shown to him, but not
put into his hands, which his examiners affirmed to
contain decisive proof of his criminality; at another,
he was told that his accomplices had divulged the
whole, and that his obstinate silence would subject
him to be tried by a special commission, while, on the
contrary, if he would speak out frankly he should be
speedily liberated. He who was seduced by this artifice
was sure to repent of his folly. When the irrevocable
words had passed his lips, he was informed
that the power of his deluders did not extend to setting
him free, but that they would exert all their influence,
and hoped to succeed. It is scarcely necessary to say,
that there was not a syllable of truth in their assurances,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>and that he who had confided in them was
treated with increased severity. It was not only in
official examinations that the captive was exposed to
be thus circumstanced; the same system was pursued
throughout. There was no one who approached him
to whom he could venture to breathe a whisper of
complaint. If he was visited by the lieutenant of
police, the sole aim of the lieutenant was to draw
forth something which might be turned against him.
If he was allowed to be attended by one of the invalids,
the attendant treasured up for his masters every word
that was dropped. Sometimes, apparently as a matter
of grace and kindness, a companion, said to be a
fellow sufferer, was given to him; the companion was
a police spy, who was withdrawn when he had wormed
out the secret, or had become convinced that it was
unattainable. To listen to that which seemed the
voice of pity was dangerous; for the turnkeys and
other officers, enjoined though they were to be mute
on other occasions, had their tongues let loose for fraudulent
ends, and were taught to lure the prisoners
into indiscreet language, by feigned expressions of
sympathy.</p>

<p>In general, a silence was maintained by the officers
and attendants, which might rival that of the monks
of La Trappe. “When a corporal or any other, (said
the instructions) is ordered to attend a prisoner, who
may have permission to walk in the garden, or on the
towers, it is expressly forbidden that he speak to him.
He is to observe his actions, to take care that he make
no signs to any one without, and to bring him back
at the hour fixed, delivering him over to an officer, or
one of the turnkeys, as may have been ordered.”—“The
sentinel in the court must constantly keep in
view the prisoners who may be permitted to walk
there: he must be attentive to observe if they drop
any paper, letter, note, or anything else: he must prevent
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>them from writing on the walls, and render an
exact account of every thing he may have remarked
whilst on duty. All persons whatsoever, except the
officers of the staff and turnkeys, are forbidden ever
to speak to any prisoner, or even to answer him, under
any pretence whatever.” As it was supposed that
strangers might chance to feel pity for the victims of
despotism, and of course be disposed to express it,
or to serve them, care was taken to guard against that
evil. It was therefore ordered that, “if workmen
should be employed in the castle, as many sentinels
must be put over them as may be thought necessary,
who must observe them with the same attention as
they do the prisoners, in order that they may not
approach these, nor do any thing that may be contrary
to the rules of the place.”</p>

<p>Visits from without seem never to have been permitted
except in minor cases of offence. No permission
was granted till after the final examination, and
not then till repeated requests had been made, and
powerful interest employed. Even when the favour
was obtained, its value was seriously diminished by the
restrictions with which it was clogged. The prisoner
was obliged to receive his relative or friend in the
council chamber, on one side of which he was placed,
and his visitor on the other, with two officers between
them; nor were the parties suffered to converse on
any subject which had the most remote reference to
the cause or circumstances of the prisoner’s confinement.
The same system was followed when one captive
had an interview with another. There was but
one case, in which incarcerated individuals could have
a free interchange of thoughts; it was when the fullness
of the prison, or the humanity of the governor,
caused two of them to be located in the same chamber.</p>

<p>Intercourse by letters was equally shackled, though
there was an insulting affectation of a readiness to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>facilitate correspondence. It has, indeed, been conjectured,
that “this apparent indulgence to prisoners
was one of the many artifices employed to discover
their secrets, and the persons with whom they were
connected;” and this supposition may not be far from
the truth. There can be no doubt, that of the letters
written by captives few arrived at their destination.
We have seen, in the narrative of a prisoner, that the
whole of those which he wrote were suppressed. M.
Linguet tells us, that, knowing the king’s brothers,
Monsieur and the Count d’Artois, (afterwards Louis
XVIII. and Charles X.) to be favourable to him, he
wrote to them, to solicit their intercession. “The
letters,” says he, “were sealed. The lieutenant of
police, some time after, told me he had read but not
transmitted them; that he had not been allowed.
When I observed to him that, since he knew the contents,
he might make them known to the generous
princes from whom he had detained them, he replied,
that he had no access to such high personages. Thus
the man, who was prohibited from approaching such
high personages, had the privilege of breaking open
and suppressing their letters, of rendering fruitless their
good intentions and those of the monarch, and, in
short, of raising round me ramparts more impenetrable
than all the magic castles with which imagination
has ever peopled our romances.”</p>

<p>Profound secrecy and mystery were among the
most prominent features in the management of the
Bastile. He who was fortunate enough to emerge
from this den of Cacus, was previously compelled to
swear that he would never reveal whatever he had
seen or heard during his abode in it. He who was
retained, to waste away life within its dreary limits,
was sedulously shut out from all knowledge of what
was passing in the world. The malignant enemy, by
whom he had been deprived of freedom, might be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>gone to his last account, but to <i>him</i> he still lived and
tyrannized, for no whisper of his departure was suffered
to reach him. When the fact of a person being
in the Bastile was not so notorious as to preclude the
possibility of denying it, his being there was unblushingly
denied. When enquiry was made, the officers,
the governor, the minister himself, would not scruple
to affirm, and that, too, in the most solemn manner,
that they knew nothing of any such individual. Thus
were his friends discouraged, and led to slacken in
their exertions for his relief, or wholly to discontinue
them. If, however, they discovered the falsehood,
and persisted in their efforts, there was still another
resource for defeating them; slander was resorted to,
the worst crimes were attributed to him, and he was
held up as an abandoned miscreant, whom it was a
disgrace to patronize, and mercy to confine. At last,
weariness, disgust, or death, robbed him of all who
had loved or pitied him, and, even though his original
persecutor had ceased to exist, the victim was left to
perish forgotten in his dungeon.</p>

<p>There was one object, besides the wish to elicit
imprudent speeches or confessions, which had power
to open the lips of the jailors; that object was the
desire of tormenting, of making the prisoner feel how
completely he was insulated from mankind, no less by
its own baseness than by his prison walls. “I was
daily told with a laugh,” says M. Linguet, “that I
ought not to trouble myself any longer about what
the world was doing, because I was believed to be
dead; the joke was carried so far, as to relate to me
circumstances which insane rage or horrible levity
added to my pretended exit. I was assured, also, that
I had nothing to hope from the warmth and fidelity
of my friends; not so much because, like others, they
were deceived with respect to my existence, as because
they had become treacherous. This double imposture
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>had for its purpose, not merely to torture me, but at
once to inspire me with a boundless reliance on the
only traitor whom I had reason to fear, and who was
perpetually represented as being my only true friend,
and to discover, from the manner in which I was
affected by these tidings, whether I had really any
secrets which could lay me open to a betrayer.”</p>

<p>Though the captive was not allowed to live with
even a shadow of comfort, or to hasten his own end, a
wide opening was left for death to accomplish his deliverance
in one of the regular modes. From the evening
meal till that of the morning, he was hermetically
sealed up by massy, iron-lined double doors; in all that
time no human being approached him. The turnkey
slept in a distant chamber, where neither voice nor the
sound of knocking could reach him. Bells seem to
have been thought too great a luxury for the place. If
illness suddenly came, there was no resource for the
sufferer, but to call to the nearest sentinel, on the other
side of the broad moat. If his voice were too weak,
if his strength failed to carry him to the window, or if
the wind drowned his cries, he must remain unaided.
If his disorder were apoplectic, or he broke a blood-vessel,
it is manifest that his fate was sealed. But,
supposing him to be heard, prompt assistance was by
no means to be expected. The sentinels gave the
alarm to each other, till it reached the guard-house;
the turnkey was then to be called, who, on his part,
had to rouse the servant of the king’s lieutenant, that
he might awake his master, and procure from him the
keys. Two hours were thus spent before the surgeon
was drawn from his bed, where, in truth, he might as
well have continued, since, interdicted as he was from
prescribing by himself, he could only make a report
to the governor, and promise that the physician, who
resided three miles off, and was overloaded with practice,
should be sent to on the morrow.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span></p>

<p>If the disease was not immediately dangerous, some
medicine was brought, and the sick man must help
himself as well as he could, and be thankful if his
malady were not thought to be simulated. “But when
he was reduced to extremity, when he was so far gone
that he could not rise from the worm-eaten couch on
which he lay, a nurse was given to him. And who
was this nurse? a stupid, coarse, brutal invalid soldier,
incapable of attentions, little assiduities, every
thing which is indispensable for a sick person. But a
still worse thing is, that when this soldier is once fastened
on you, he can never quit you; he himself becomes
a prisoner. It is therefore necessary to begin
by purchasing his consent, and prevailing on him to
be shut up with you as long as your captivity lasts;
and, if you recover, you must make up your mind to
bear the bad temper, the discontent, the reproaches,
the ennui, of this companion, who takes ample vengeance
upon your health for the seeming services which
he has lent to your sickness.”</p>

<p>There was yet another stab to be inflicted on those
who were sinking into the grave, and by this the living
could be wounded at the same time. To regulate
the manner in which, after his death, his property
shall be distributed, and, by so doing, to save a wife
and offspring from the perplexity, endless trouble, expense,
and perhaps ruin, which may arise out of a disputed
succession, or the want of needful formalities, is
a duty which every rational being will be anxious to
perform. That the person is a captive, only renders
more necessary the performance of the duty. But
not so thought the myrmidons of the Bastile. It is on
record that a prisoner, who was stretched for two
months on a bed of sickness, expecting that each hour
would be his last, repeatedly and vainly implored a
French minister of state to grant him the customary
legal aid for executing his will; his prayer was sternly
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>refused, though there was a lawyer who belonged to
the prison establishment. That this was a solitary
instance it would be folly to imagine.</p>

<p>It was not of unfrequent occurrence in the Bastile,
for the bodily faculties of a prisoner to survive his
mental. Shut out from the beautiful forms of nature,
the treasures of intellect, and the delights of social
converse, from all that can animate or console; racked
by a thousand remembrances, conjectures, passions,
and fears; brooding in deep seclusion and silence over
the past and the present, and vainly struggling to penetrate
the darkness of the future; his mind at length
gave way, and idiotism or madness ensued. Yet even
that must be deemed a blessing, if it brought with it
oblivion of his fate.</p>

<p>But the long and unbroken series of woes is at last
ended; death has rent asunder the fetters of the captive,
and he is “where the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest.” Is there yet a way
left, by which his ingenious tormentors can make their
vengeance reach beyond the grave, by which they can,
in some measure, entail upon his kindred a share of
suffering? There is. How was this important purpose
effected in the Bastile? As soon as the breath
was out of the body, a notice was sent to the minister
of the home department and the lieutenant-general
of police. The king’s commissary then visited the
prison, to minute down the circumstances. This being
done, orders were issued to inter the body. In
the gloom of evening it was conveyed to the burying
ground of St. Paul’s; two persons belonging to the
Bastile attended it to sign the parish register; and
the name under which the deceased was entered, and
the description of the rank which he held, were fictitious,
that all trace of him might be obliterated. Another
register, containing his real name and station,
was, in truth, kept at the Bastile; but it was almost
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>inaccessible, a sight of it, for the purpose of making
an extract, being never allowed, without a strict enquiry
into the reason why the application was made.
His family and friends, meanwhile, remained in profound
ignorance of his having been released from his
troubles. No mourning mother, wife, or child, followed
his remains to their last abode; and even the
poor consolation was denied them of knowing the spot
where he reposed, that they might water it with their
tears. Thus, in death, as in life, oppression and malice
triumphantly asserted their absolute dominion
over the captives of the Bastile.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</h2>

<p>Reign of John II.—Stephen Marcel, Provost of the Merchants—Reign
of Charles V.—Hugh Aubriot—Reign of Charles VI.—Noviant—La
Rivière—Peter des Essarts—John de Montaigu—Contests
of the factions at Paris—The Count of Armagnac—The
Burgundians obtain possession of Paris—Massacre of the
Armagnacs—Assassination of the duke of Burgundy—Reign of
Charles VII.—Paris in the hands of the English—Villiers de l’Isle
Adam—The English expelled from Paris—Reign of Louis XI.—Anthony
de Chabannes—The Count de Melun—Cardinal de Balue—William
d’Haraucour—Charles d’Armagnac—Louis de Luxembourg—The
Duke of Nemours and his children.</p>

</div>

<p>A mind tinctured with superstition, even though it
were not of the darkest hue, might be tempted to believe
that a fatality pursued the men by whom the Bastile
was raised. It has been seen that the original
founder was the famous Stephen Marcel, Provost of
the Merchants. Marcel, though his character has uniformly
been blackened by writers devoted to absolute
monarchy, seems to have been influenced, at least in
the greatest portion of his career, by truly patriotic
motives. It is not the object which he laboured to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>obtain, but some of the means which he employed for
its attainment, that merits censure. To confine the
royal authority within reasonable bounds, and to give
the national representatives their proper weight in the
scale of government, were the purposes which he sought
to accomplish. The dangerous circumstances in which
the country was placed, and the heavy oppression under
which the people groaned, pointed out such a reform
as being no less wise than just. The time for attempting
it was favourable; inasmuch as the captivity of the
king, and the presence of a victorious foreign army,
would, it was supposed, compel the dauphin, Charles,
to look to the States-General for the means of saving
France from still greater calamities. Yet, so strong
was princely dislike to receiving aid from the legitimate
guardians of the public purse, that Charles preferred
raising supplies by the fraudulent and ruinous
expedient of debasing the coin. In that scheme he was
fortunately defeated by the stubborn opposition of
the Provost.</p>

<p>The alliance formed by Marcel with Charles, surnamed
the Bad, king of Navarre, was, perhaps, an impolitic
act; not so much because the Navarrese monarch
deserved the epithet given to him by French historians—for
we may doubt whether he was, in reality, much
more blame-worthy than his namesake, the dauphin,
on whom the same historians have lavished their praise—but
because a junction with a man who was exceedingly
obnoxious to a large party in France was likely
to give rise to suspicions with respect to his principles
and motives. It is probable, however, that he was led
to it, by a wish to have some stronger prop to lean on
than the fluctuating favour of the populace. The “varium
et mutabile semper,” by which Virgil, somewhat
harshly, characterizes the female sex, may, with less
appearance of satire, be applied to the multitude. This
truth Marcel was doomed to learn by experience.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span></p>

<p>For nearly two years, the Provost, with more or less
steadiness, kept his footing on the tottering eminence
to which he had risen. During that time he was actively
engaged in securing the French capital from external
and internal foes. He fortified and enlarged its
circuit, supplied it with arms and provisions, established
a guard of citizens, which was night and day on
the watch, and barricaded the entrances of the streets
by ponderous chains, which were fastened to the houses:
these chains were the first barricades which were formed
in Paris.</p>

<p>The capital was undoubtedly saved from pillage and
devastation by the provident care of Marcel. In spite,
however, of his exertions, his popularity waned; the
minds of his fellow citizens were poisoned by the arts
and insinuations of the dauphin’s friends, and irritated
by his connection with the king of Navarre, whose
troops were mercilessly ravaging all the circumjacent
country. While the Parisians were in this ferment, the
dauphin promised a general amnesty to them, on condition
of their giving up to him the Provost, and twelve
other persons, whom he should select. Fearing, probably,
that this temptation would be too great for them
to resist, the Provost, in an evil hour, resolved to admit
into the city the troops of the king of Navarre. It is
also said, though there does not appear to be any proof
of the fact, that he intended to make a general massacre
of the opposite party, and transfer the crown of France
to Charles the Bad. For this we have only the word
of his enemies.</p>

<p>It was on the night of the 31st of July, 1358, that
Marcel designed to open the gates of Paris to the Navarrese
soldiery. He was too late. At noon, he went
to the gate of the bastile of St. Denis, and ordered the
guard to deliver up the keys to Joceran de Mascon,
the king of Navarre’s treasurer. The guard refused
to comply, and a loud altercation arose. The noise
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>brought to the place John Maillard, the commandant
of the quarter. Up to this moment, Maillard had been
the zealous friend of Marcel, but he now resolutely
opposed the scheme of the latter. A violent quarrel
ensued between them, which ended by Maillard springing
on horseback, unfurling the banner of France, and
summoning the citizens to assist him in preventing the
Provost from betraying the city to the English. The
summons speedily brought a throng around him. The
friends of the dauphin, likewise, did not let slip this
opportunity of acting in his behalf. A considerable
body of men was collected by them, at the head of which
were placed two gentlemen, named Pepin des Essarts
and John de Charny.</p>

<p>From the gate of St. Denis, meanwhile, Marcel proceeded
on the same errand to the other gates. He was
not more successful than on his first attempt; obedience
was every where refused. As a last resource,
he bent his course to the bastile of St. Anthony. Here,
again he was foiled. His enemies were beforehand
with him. The keys he did by some means obtain,
but they were useless. Maillard had already reached
the scene of action, with a numerous train of followers,
and he was almost immediately joined by the partisans
of the dauphin. With the keys of the Bastile in his
hand, Marcel began to ascend the entrance ladder,
striving at the same time to keep off his assailants. A
terrible cry now burst forth of “Kill them! kill them!
death to the Provost of the Merchants and his accomplices!”
Alarmed by the clamour, he attempted to
save himself by flight, but he was struck on the head
with an axe, by de Charny, and he fell at the foot of
the Bastile, which he had himself built. His body was
immediately pierced with innumerable wounds by the
infuriated crowd. Giles Marcel, his nephew, and fifty-three
others, the whole of the party which had attended
him, were either slain on the spot or thrown into prison.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>Three days afterwards, the dauphin re-entered Paris,
and began to feed his revenge with blood.</p>

<p>By Hugh Aubriot the Bastile was advanced another
step towards its completion. Born at Dijon, of humble
parents, Aubriot gained the favour of Charles the
fifth, and of his brother, the duke of Anjou, and was
appointed minister of finance. He was also raised to
the dignified, though troublesome and dangerous office
of Provost of Paris. Charles the fifth had a love of
building, and he found in the Provost a man who had
talents and activity to carry his wishes into effect. Paris
was indebted to Aubriot for numerous works, which
conduced to its safety, ornament, and salubrity. He
strengthened and added to the ramparts, constructed
sewers, which he was the first to introduce into the
capital, formed quays, rebuilt the Pont au Change, and
built the Pont St. Michel. In these labours he employed,
at a fixed rate of payment, all the mendicants,
destitute persons, and disorderly characters of the city;
thus compelling them to earn that subsistence which
they had been in the habit of extorting or plundering
from the citizens. The police of the city was greatly
improved by him in other respects. Among the ordinances
which he issued, for that purpose, was one which
revived that of Louis the ninth, relative to prostitutes.
Paris was now overrun with loose women; the ordinance
enjoined them, under penalty of fine and imprisonment,
to reside only in certain places, which were
specified, to the number of nine.</p>

<p>The strict performance of his duty proved to be the
ruin of Aubriot. Among the worst nuisances of the
capital were the scholars of the University of Paris;
they were addicted, among other things, to drunkenness,
libertinism, and robbery, and their insolence was
still more insufferable than their vices. Perpetual quarrels
and contests, in which they were almost always the
aggressors, took place between these votaries of learning
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>and the citizens. The main cause of their excesses
being thus pushed beyond all bounds was the complete
impunity which they enjoyed. Fonder of its privileges
than of morality and justice, the University on all occasions
strenuously resisted the efforts of the magistrates
to bring scholars to punishment. In more than
one instance it threw its protecting shield over plunderers
and assassins, and pursued with a deadly hatred
those individuals who had dared to enforce the laws
against criminals. This crying abuse Aubriot determined
to suppress. In the prison of the Little Châtelet,
which was built by him, he ordered two strong and
not over comfortable cells to be constructed, for the reception
of delinquent scholars. These he called his
<i>clos Bruneau</i> and <i>rue de Fouaire</i>; the University
schools being situated in places which were so named.
By this stinging joke, and by the vigorous measures of
Aubriot, the University was inexpiably offended. Regardless
of its anger, he, however, resolutely persisted
in arresting and committing to prison every student who
ventured to transgress.</p>

<p>While Charles the fifth lived, Aubriot remained safe;
but the death of his patron, and the weakness and confusion
of a minority, laid him open to the malice of his
enemies. The University had sworn to accomplish his
ruin, and this oath it held sacred. In his public character
he had so deported himself as to be intangible;
and, therefore, his private life was ransacked to find
matter for accusation. It was discovered, or feigned,
that he was too warm a lover of women, and, to give a
darker colour to this fault, it was added, that he had
an especial predilection for Jewesses. From this, by a
curious process of logic, it was deduced as an inference,
that he was himself a Jew and a heretic; his accusers
not perceiving, or not choosing to perceive, that the one
of these conditions excluded the other. Their reasoning
was akin to that which, in the fable, the wolf uses to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>the lamb. Unluckily, too, for the Provost, they resembled
the wolf in other points; they had his savageness
and his ability to injure. The University and the
clergy joined in a clamour against him, and were supported
by the duke of Berry, who was hostile to the
Burgundian party, to which Aubriot belonged.</p>

<p>Charged with impiety and heresy, Aubriot was
brought to trial before an ecclesiastical tribunal. With
such prosecutors and such judges, conviction was certain.
To such a pitch did the University and the
clergy carry their animosity against him, that he would
have been doomed to the flames, had not his friends at
court powerfully exerted their influence to procure a
milder sentence. But, though his life was spared, he
was not suffered to escape without feeling how venomous
are the fangs of fanatics and pedants. He was
condemned to public exposure and penance, in presence
of the heads and scholars of the University, to ask pardon
upon his knees, and, with no other food than bread
and water, to spend in strict confinement the remnant
of his days.</p>

<p>Aubriot was conveyed to the Bastile, to undergo the
last part of his sentence. In the course of a few months,
probably because he was treated with too much lenity
in a state prison, he was removed to the bishop’s prison,
called Fort-l’Evêque, where he was thrown into
one of those dungeons which bore the significant name
of oubliettes. There he might have languished long,
or perished quickly, but never have hoped for deliverance,
had not, in 1381, the intolerable oppression exercised
by the government given rise to the insurrection
which, from the circumstance of the revolters being
armed with leaden malls, was called the Maillotin. In
want of a leader, the insurgents bethought them of
Hugh Aubriot; and it is not unlikely that, as he had
suffered heavy wrongs, they supposed he would espouse
their cause with heart and soul. They accordingly
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>liberated him. Aubriot, however, was either too old,
or too prudent, to become the head of a revolt; he
spoke his deliverers fair, but, on the very evening that
he was set free, he crossed the Seine, and hastened to
Burgundy, his native country, where he is believed to
have died in the following year.</p>

<p>While Charles the sixth was labouring under his first
attack of insanity, the political feuds and intrigues
which distracted his court gave fresh inhabitants to the
Bastile. When, in 1392, the dukes of Burgundy and
Berry assumed the government, the overthrow of Clisson,
the constable of France, and prime minister, necessarily
ensued, and in his fall was involved the ministry
he had formed. Three of the ministers, La Begue
de Villaine, Noviant, and La Rivière, were arrested;
Montaigu, the fourth, escaped to Avignon. La Begue,
an aged man, who had served in the field with honour
under several kings, was soon released; Noviant and
La Rivière were reserved as scape goats, and were shut
up in the Bastile. Of Noviant nothing important is
recorded. La Rivière had enjoyed, in the highest degree,
the confidence and friendship of Charles the fifth;
so much, indeed, did the monarch value him, that, by
his express commands, whenever his favourite died, the
royal mausoleum of St. Denis was to be the place of
interment. At the accession of Charles the sixth, La
Rivière suffered a temporary eclipse; but he shone forth
again when the young monarch assumed the reins of
government.</p>

<p>Noviant and La Rivière were now in the hands of
their enemies, and had little to hope; for they were
rich enough to excite a hungering after their spoils,
and had been too long in possession of power not to
be loathed by their rivals. It is the curse and the
shame of politics, that they render men insensible to,
or, which is still worse, incapable of acknowledging,
the merit really owned by those who differ from them
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>in views and principles. Thorough-going politicians
are but too apt to affirm what is false, or suppress
what is true, provided it will injure their opponents.
It follows, as a natural consequence of this unworthy
feeling, that, though the two ministers fully vindicated
themselves on every article of impeachment, they had
but small chance of escaping. Their fate was deemed
so inevitable that, more than once during the trial the
brute populace rushed to the place of execution, lured
by the report that the ministers were about to be
brought to the scaffold. Luckily for them, they had
a protector, stronger than their innocence. This was
the young and lovely princess Jane, countess of Boulogne,
the wife of the duke of Berry. Her marriage
with the duke had been brought about by the influence
of La Rivière, and this circumstance, together with
the minister’s estimable qualities, had secured for him
her affection and esteem. Her pleadings softened
her husband, and thus prevented a deadly sentence
from being passed on the fallen statesmen. It is not
to be supposed, however, that they were allowed to go
unscathed. To declare them guiltless would have been
a tacit confession of error, an act which is not to be
expected from weak and base minds; and, besides,
hatred could not consent to let loose its objects without
previously making them feel a touch of its fangs.
The ministers, therefore, after having been captives
for twelve months, and in hourly dread of death, were
only condemned to confiscation of their property, and
exile to a distance from the court. With respect to
the latter part of the sentence, they might well have
exclaimed, like Diogenes, “and we condemn you to
remain at court!” Charles, on his temporary return
to sanity, restored their estates, but they were not
again employed. La Rivière died in 1400, and was
buried at St. Denis.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span></p>

<p>There was a moment when the Bastile seemed
about to be converted to its original purpose, that of
a fortress for the defence of Paris. After the duke
of Burgundy had, in 1405, obtained possession of the
king, the dauphin, and the capital, preparations to recover
Paris were made by the beautiful but worthless
queen Isabella, and her paramour, the duke of
Orleans. In consequence of this, the Burgundian
prince placed garrisons in the Bastile and the Louvre;
and a report having been spread, that there was a
plot to carry off the dauphin, a chain was stretched
across the river, from the Bastile to the opposite
bank, to prevent the passage of vessels. It was on
this occasion that, to win the good will of the Parisians,
the duke induced the king to restore to them
the barricading chains, of which they had been deprived
in 1383, and which had ever since been kept
in the castle of Vincennes. The precautions were
prudent, but they were made useless, by a treaty
between the hostile parties.</p>

<p>It has already been observed, that the office of Provost
of Paris was no less perilous than honourable.
During the disturbed and disastrous reign of Charles
the sixth, there were as many as twenty-four provosts,
and there were few of them who did not find their
dignity a burthen. Among the most unfortunate of
them was Peter des Essarts. He was one of the
French nobles who were sent to aid the Scotch in
their contest with the English; and, in 1402, he fell
into the hands of the latter. After he was ransomed
he returned to France, and became a zealous partisan
of John the Fearless, the duke of Burgundy. The
duke amply rewarded him for his services. He successively
obtained for him the posts of Provost of
Paris, grand butler, grand falconer, first lay president
of the chamber of accounts, supreme commissioner
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>of woods and waters, and superintendant of finance,
and also the governments of Cherbourg, Montargis,
and Nemours.</p>

<p>As provost of Paris, it fell to his lot to arrest a man
whose rise had been no less rapid than his own. His
task was performed with a thorough good will. Montaigu,
whom we have seen flying to Avignon after
the downfall of Clisson, returned to the French capital
when the storm was blown over. There he
became more than ever a favourite of the king, who
loaded him with honours, promoted his relations, and
procured for his son the hand of the constable
d’Albret’s sister. Among the offices which were lavished
on Montaigu were those of finance minister
and grand master of the royal household. His
riches were soon increased to an enormous degree,
and his pride to a still greater. To the duke of Burgundy
he had rendered himself peculiarly obnoxious,
by thwarting his plans, and being a determined adherent
of the queen and the house of Orleans. The
Burgundian affected to be reconciled to him, but he
did not the less resolve upon his destruction. To
accomplish the ruin of Montaigu, the duke instituted
an enquiry into the conduct of those who had managed
the finances; a species of enquiry which was always
applauded by the tax-burthened people. At the same
time, he likewise procured for the Parisians the restoration
of various privileges, which had been taken
from them, as a punishment for the Maillotin insurrection.
Having thus fortified his popularity, he took
advantage of the king being visited by one of his fits
of madness, to commence operations against Montaigu.
The favourite had been cautioned against his danger,
and advised to fly from it, but confiding in the support
of the queen and the duke of Berry, he was deaf to
advice. He was arrested in the street by des Essarts,
and committed to the Little Châtelet. It strongly
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>marks his insufferable pride and insolence, that, when
he was seized by the provost, he exclaimed “Ribald!
how hast thou the audacity to touch me.” This was
the arrogance of an upstart, for he was of humble
birth. He was brought to trial, with little attention
to the forms or the spirit of justice, and, after having
been tortured, was condemned to lose his head; his
property was confiscated, but, instead of being appropriated
to replenish the treasury, it was divided among
his enemies. The sentence was executed in the
autumn of 1409.</p>

<p>If ambition had not entirely banished prudence,
the fate of Montaigu might have taught des Essarts
to reflect on the frail tenure by which, in an age of
faction, the most conspicuous partisans hold their fortunes
and their lives. Nor was he without a still
more impressive warning. In a moment of displeasure,
the duke of Burgundy said to him, “Provost of
Paris, John de Montaigu was three-and-twenty years
in getting his head cut off, but verily you will not be
three years about it:”—ominous words, where the
prophet had the power of bringing his prophecy to pass!</p>

<p>In 1410 the contending factions once more resumed
their arms. By a rapid march, the Burgundian prince
made himself master of Paris, which he garrisoned
with eight thousand men. For the support of the
troops, a heavy tax was imposed upon the citizens.
Des Essarts was charged with the levying of this tax,
and he is accused of having swelled his own coffers
with the largest share of the produce. By this onerous
measure, the popularity of the duke and the provost
was materially diminished. In the course of a
few months, the duke deemed it prudent to conclude
another simular of a treaty; it was called the treaty of
the Bicêtre, from the place where it was negotiated,
and by one of its articles he consented that des Essarts
should be removed from the provostship of Paris.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span></p>

<p>It seems impossible for the signers of such treaties
to have put their hands to them without being tempted
to laugh in each other’s faces; the compacts were
notoriously intended to be broken on the first favourable
opportunity. Accordingly, but a few months
elapsed, after the conclusion of the peace, before the
Burgundian and Orleanist parties were again in arms,
and vituperating each other in the most virulent language.
Des Essarts was re-established as provost of
Paris; and, during the temporary ascendancy of the
Orleanists, his exertions to supply the city with provisions
gained for him, from the citizens, the flattering
appellation of the Father of the People. When, however,
the Parisians ceased to be in dread of having
hungry bellies, they ceased to applaud him; and, in the
following year, he became an object of their hatred.</p>

<p>A sharp contest of a few months was terminated by
another hollow truce, under the name of a peace. By
this time the Burgundian prince appears to have been
converted into a deadly enemy of des Essarts. Three
causes are assigned for this change. The provost is
said to have in private charged him with appropriating
a large sum of the public money to his own use; to
have entered into correspondence with the Orleanist
leaders, and warned them that the duke designed to
assassinate them; and likewise to have formed, with
the concurrence of the dauphin, a plan for rescuing
that prince and the king from the state of tutelage in
which they were kept by the Burgundian ruler. It is
highly probable that, disgusted by the duke having
abandoned him in the treaty of the Bicêtre, he had
really gone over to the Orleanist faction. Any one
of these causes was sufficient to make his former patron
resolve upon his ruin. There was also another
circumstance which wore a threatening aspect for des
Essarts. The States-General were now sitting at
Paris, and in that assembly clamours began to be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>heard against financial depredators, amongst whom
the multitude, so lately his adulators, did not hesitate
to class him. To elude the storm, which he saw approaching
from more than one quarter, he resigned
his office of finance minister, in which he had succeeded
Montaigu; but he did not forget to secure an
adequate compensation for the sacrifice which he made.
He then retired to his government of Cherbourg.</p>

<p>The Burgundian was at this period in apparent
amity with the dauphin; nor had he, as yet, openly
manifested his animosity against the provost. The
dauphin, was, however, at heart hostile to him, and
impatient of his yoke. It was, no doubt, with a view
to having a firm hold of Paris, that he resolved to become
master of the Bastile; but to the duke the reason
which he assigned was, the mutinous disposition
of the people, which it was necessary to have the
means of repressing. Imagining that the provost was
still trusted by the duke, he proposed to confide to
him the task of seizing upon the Bastile. The clear-sighted
Burgundian at once saw through the scheme,
but he gave a willing consent to its execution; for it
would enable him to accomplish two objects, the getting
of des Essarts into his hands, and the gaining a
complete triumph over the dauphin himself. Des
Essarts was consequently summoned from Cherbourg;
he accepted the commission; and he managed so well,
that he secured the Bastile, without the least opposition.</p>

<p>The provost was scarcely in possession of the fortress
before the scene changed. The Burgundian
prince had skilfully laid a train, and a violent explosion
suddenly took place. A rumour was spread
throughout Paris, that the Orleanists, or Armagnacs,
as they now began to be called, intended to carry off
the dauphin with his own consent, and that the provost
was at the head of the plot. A furious multitude,
the leaders of which were two of the duke’s attendants,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>immediately hurried to invest the Bastile on
all sides. It swelled every moment, till it consisted
of not fewer than twenty thousand armed men, all
clamorous for the blood of des Essarts, and determined
to storm the castle, in order to satisfy their rage.
Another body, led by John de Troie, a surgeon, proceeded,
at the same time, to the dauphin’s palace,
loaded him with insult, and arrested several of his
officers and friends, some of whom were murdered on
their way to prison.</p>

<p>The duke of Burgundy now came forward, apparently
as a mediator. The besiegers he induced to
suspend their attack, by promising that their object
should be attained without force being used. He then
tried his eloquence on des Essarts. In the first interview
he failed, in the second he succeeded. By dint
of representing to him that it was impossible to restrain
the people, and that, if they effected their entrance,
which they certainly would, the provost would
be torn in pieces, he shook his resolution of defending
himself; and, by pledging his honour that no
harm should befall him, he finally prevailed on him
to surrender.</p>

<p>Des Essarts would have done more wisely to brave
death from the sanguinary crowd, than to rely on the
honour of an acknowledged assassin. Ostensibly for
the purpose of saving him from the violence of his
enemies, he was led to the prison of the Châtelet,
where he seems to have thought that all danger was
at an end. He was speedily undeceived, by his being
brought to trial. In addition to various crimes
charged against him in his official capacity, he was
accused of having caused the renewal of the war between
the princes after the treaty of Chartres, and of
having plotted to carry off from Paris the king, the
queen, and the dauphin. He was, of course, found
guilty, and was condemned to lose his head, and to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>have his remains suspended from the gibbet of Montfaucon.
Four years had not elapsed since the convicted
Montaigu was conveyed by him to the same
spot. The sentence passed on des Essarts was executed
on the first of July 1413. He went to the
scaffold with great courage; a circumstance which his
enemies attributed to his having flattered himself that
the people would rise and rescue him. If he entertained
any such visionary hopes, his long experience
of the people must have been entirely lost upon him.</p>

<p>The changes in the fortune of the two factions which
desolated France succeeded each other with an almost
ludicrous rapidity; the party which was triumphant on
one day was prostrate on the morrow. We have just
seen the dauphin humbled by the duke of Burgundy;
yet the same year did not pass away before the dauphin
and the Armagnacs gained the upper hand, and the
duke found it prudent to retire to his own dominions.
That he might keep a firm hold of the capital, the
dauphin gave the command of the Bastile to his uncle,
prince Louis of Bavaria, appointed the duke of Berry
governor of Paris, gave the provostship to Tannegui
du Châtel, removed to the Bastile the chains used for
barricading the streets, and issued orders for the citizens
to deliver up all kinds of arms.</p>

<p>The duke of Burgundy appealed to the sword, but
without success, and the treaty of Arras, which was the
result of his failure, relieved France for awhile from
his incursions and his intrigues. It was not till nearly
two years afterwards, when the battle of Agincourt
had given a rude shock to the French throne, that
he re-appeared upon the scene. Under his auspices,
the Burgundian faction at Paris formed a conspiracy,
for a general massacre of the Armagnacs, in which the
king himself was not to be spared, should he venture
to resist. It was detected at the critical moment, and
the Armagnacs avenged themselves by murders, proscriptions,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>and excessive taxes, which alienated many
of their friends, without crushing their enemies.</p>

<p>The death of the dauphin Louis, speedily followed
by that of his brother and successor John, gave the
dignity of dauphin to Charles, the youngest son of the
king. The duke of Burgundy had hoped to exercise
an influence over John, but he had only hostility to
expect from Charles, who, as far as a boy of fifteen
could be any thing, was a partisan of the Armagnacs.
By war alone could any thing be gained, and he therefore
prepared to wage it. The gross impolicy of the
opposite party gave him manifold advantages. While
the count of Armagnac, the constable, who was the
head of the reigning faction, goaded the people by
forced loans, enormous imposts, and severities against
all whom he suspected, he and the dauphin contrived
also to exasperate the queen, by seizing her treasures,
casting, perhaps not undeservedly, a stain upon her
character, and banishing her to Tours. Driven to
desperation by these injuries and insults, she abjured
her long-cherished hatred of the duke, and wrote to
him for succour. He gladly listened to the call, released
her from captivity, and escorted her to Chartres,
where, in virtue of an obsolete ordinance of the king,
she assumed the title of regent, and created a parliament,
to counterbalance that of the capital. A preponderating
weight was thus thrown into the scale
of the Burgundian prince. Nor did he neglect to
strengthen himself by conciliating the people; for,
while the count of Armagnac was daily irritating them
by his extortions, the duke held out to them a tempting
lure, by proclaiming that all the towns which opened
their gates to him should be freed from taxes. Encouraged
by these circumstances, his partisans in the capital
formed a plan for admitting him into the city; but it
was discovered and frustrated.</p>

<p>The return of our Henry the fifth to France, in 1417,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>and the progress which he was making in Normandy,
recalled to their senses most of the leaders of the factions.
The necessity of union being felt, negotiations
were opened. The queen, the dauphin, and the duke
of Burgundy were willing to come to terms; the principal
article agreed on was, that the queen and the
duke should form a part of the royal council. But the
count of Armagnac would hear of no treaty that did
not really leave in his hands the whole power of the
state; and he accordingly strained every nerve, and
was even guilty of the most revolting cruelty, to render
impossible an accommodation with the Burgundian
leaders. He little dreamt how soon he was to be precipitated
from the pinnacle of greatness, and trampled
in the mire by the basest of the base.</p>

<p>Harassed and impoverished by tyranny and exaction
within the walls, and beset by foes beyond them, the
Parisians were hungering for peace. They were the
more inveterate against Armagnac, because they were
tantalized by the object for which they longed being
almost within their reach. Peace had, in fact, been concluded
at Montereau, and publicly announced in Paris,
and the count, seconded by de Marle, the chancellor, was
the sole obstacle to its being enjoyed. He was inflexible
in his resistance. To bring about a rupture of the
treaty, he sent troops to attack two of the Burgundian
posts; seemingly struck with a judicial blindness, the
forerunner of his fall, he pushed to an unbearable length
his arrogance, extortion, and gloomy precautions; and
he is said to have even meditated a sweeping massacre
of such of the citizens as were hostile to him, and to
have ordered leaden medals to be struck for distribution
to his partisans, that the murderers might distinguish
them in the hour of carnage. If the character of the
man, and the spirit of those barbarous times, were not
in accordance with this sanguinary project, we might,
perhaps, imagine him to be unjustly charged with it;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>for, in all ages, it has been the custom to blacken an
overthrown tyrant, by loading him with imaginary
crimes. That, however, it was possible for persons of
the highest rank to tolerate, and probably to command,
the cold-blooded slaughter of their foes, was but too
speedily proved.</p>

<p>Terrible as the multitude is when once moved, it is
slow to be moved. Mutual distrust, and the dread of
failure, keep its component parts from uniting, till
some one, more daring than the rest, or provoked into
action by flagrant wrongs, assumes the lead, and gives
to it the principle of cohesion. It was a denial of
justice which brought into play the man who was wanting,
to convert into open revolt the passive disaffection
of the citizens. The servant of an Armagnac noble
having grossly maltreated Perinet le Clerc, whose father,
an ironmonger, was the quartinier, or magistrate
of his ward, Perinet applied to the provost for redress.
His application was contemptuously rejected, and he
swore to be revenged. In concert with some of his
friends, he matured a plan for admitting the Burgundian
troops, and he opened a correspondence on the
subject with Villiers de l’Isle Adam, who commanded
at Pontoise, for the duke. The chance of success
seemed so fair, that l’Isle Adam readily agreed to risk
a portion of his garrison in the attempt. The negotiation
was conducted with so much secrecy that not a
breath of it transpired.</p>

<p>The plan was carried into effect on the night of the
28th of May, 1418. Perinet was a man of ready resources,
equally discreet and resolute, and he omitted
nothing that could tend to secure a triumph. By virtue
of his office, the father of Perinet held the keys of
St. Germain’s gate, and had the relieving of the guard
there. On the appointed night, having first contrived
to place on guard many of his associates, Perinet stole
to his father’s bed-side, and, undiscovered, drew the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>keys from beneath his pillow. L’Isle Adam was waiting
near the gate with eight hundred men. At two
in the morning, it was opened by Perinet, who, as soon
as the troops had entered, locked the gate, and threw
the keys over the walls, that, retreat being impossible,
the soldiers might be compelled to combat with desperate
valour. The adventurers proceeded in dead silence
along the streets till they reached the Little Châtelet,
where they were joined by several hundred armed citizens,
who had been assembled to receive them. The confederates
now loudly raised the rallying cry of “Peace!
peace! Burgundy for ever!” and it was soon as loudly
echoed from every side. From all the streets crowds
of citizens sallied forth, wearing on their dress the St.
Andrew’s cross, which was the distinguishing mark of
the Burgundian party. In a very short time, tens of
thousands were in arms.</p>

<p>Scattered over a large city, and taken by surprise,
the Armagnacs could make no resistance. Tannegui
du Châtel, the governor of the Bastile, had barely time
to hurry to the dauphin’s abode, snatch him half
awaked from the couch, wrap him in the bedclothes,
and convey him for safety to the Bastile, whence,
without delay, he removed him to Melun. While he
was thus occupied, a party of Burgundians marched
to the king’s palace, and compelled him to take horse,
and put himself at their head. Other parties spread
themselves over the city, and slaughtered, or dragged
to prison, all the Armagnacs on whom they could
lay their hands. Nobles, warriors, ministers of state,
bishops, abbots, magistrates, and the humble followers
who had moved at their beck, were indiscriminately
thrust into durance. The jails were speedily crowded
till they could hold no more, and it then became necessary
to confine the captives in public buildings and
private houses. The constable, in the rags of a beggar,
at first eluded his pursuers, and found shelter in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>dwelling of a poor mason; but a threatening proclamation,
against whoever should harbour an Armagnac,
terrified his host into betraying him.</p>

<p>The Bastile, and consequently the power of entering
Paris, was yet held by Tannegui du Châtel. In
the hope of recovering the capital, before preparations
could be made for its defence, he hurried back from
Melun, along with other officers, among whom was
Barbazan, who is honourably distinguished in the
French annals, as the irreproachable knight, and the
restorer of the kingdom and crown of France. At
the head of a large body of gendarmes, he, on the first
of June, made a sally from the Bastile, and advanced
up St. Anthony’s-street, towards the palace, with the
intention of making himself master of the king’s
person. The king, however, had been removed, and
Tannegui was soon encountered by l’Isle Adam, who
had gathered together some troops, and was every
moment reinforced by the citizens. A desperate contest
took place, but the Armagnac general was finally
compelled to retreat, with the loss of four hundred
men. The corpses of the slain were ignominiously
thrown into the common sewer by the victors. Leaving
a small garrison in the Bastile, he retired with the
remainder of his force, and distributed it among the
neighbouring fortresses of Corbeil, Meaux, and Melun.
Two days after the departure of Tannegui, the
governor of the Bastile deemed it prudent to capitulate.</p>

<p>Already irritated by Tannegui’s attempt, the partisans
of the Burgundians were excited almost to madness
by a letter from the queen, in which she declared
that neither she nor the duke would return to Paris,
till it was purged of the Armagnacs. It has been truly
remarked, that “such a letter was, in reality, a decree
of death.” That was the construction put upon
it by the Burgundian faction; and, unrestrained by
any religious or humane feeling, they promptly carried
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>the sentence into effect. On the morning of the 12th
of June, a report being spread that the enemy were
attacking two of the gates, the citizens hastily assembled
from every quarter. “All issued from their
houses,” says an old writer, “like swarms of bees
from various hives. Malls, hatchets, axes, clubs,
poles shod with iron points, swords, pikes, javelins,
and halberts, were called into use by the insurgent
people.”</p>

<p>The signal of carnage was given by one Lambert,
who harangued them, and proposed to massacre
the captives. His sanguinary suggestion was instantly
adopted by the brutal crowd, and they hurried to the
numerous prisons, uttering loud cries of “Kill those
dogs! Kill those Armagnac traitors!” A scene of
horror ensued at which nature shudders. Some of the
victims were flung from the towers of the buildings
upon the pikes of the assassins, some were chopped
down with hatchets, some were drowned, and others
were burned alive in their dungeons; their mangled
remains were exposed to every kind of indignity; and
torrents of blood flowed through the streets. From
the jails the slaughter was extended to the suspected
inhabitants of houses, and was followed by pillage.
The work of murder and robbery was untiringly
continued throughout the whole of the night, and was
recommenced in the morning, after the labourers in it
had refreshed themselves by a short repast.</p>

<p>Nineteen hundred of the Armagnacs are said to
have fallen on this terrible day. Nor did they alone
suffer, for numbers of the Burgundian party fell beneath
the weapons of their private foes, who availed
themselves of this opportunity to gratify their revenge.
After having for three days been dragged through the
streets by the mob, the naked and disfigured corpse of
the constable was conveyed out of Paris in the scavengers’
cart, and thrown among the filth and ordure of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>the city laystall. That no proof of their ferocity might
be wanting, his murderers cut a portion of his skin into
the form of a scarf, and hung it round him in ridicule
of the white scarf which was the badge of his party.</p>

<p>A supplementary massacre, of equal extent, and
attended by circumstances equally atrocious, occurred
shortly after, in which perished the prisoners from the
Bastile and Vincennes, and those who had been arrested
since the first slaughter. On this occasion, the
captives in the Great and Little Châtelet strove to
defend themselves, by hurling down stones and tiles
on their enemies, but their resistance was soon overpowered,
and not one of them escaped.</p>

<p>These enormities—prefigurations of those which,
nearly four centuries later, were to be committed in
the same city—were succeeded by riotous rejoicings
for the arrival of the queen and the duke, and by
“one of the finest religious processions that ever was
seen.” But the wrath of Heaven did not slumber
long. “The joy of Paris,” says an old annalist, “was
speedily changed into mourning, for three months had
not passed away after this carnage, when so cruel a
pestilence fell upon the city, that it destroyed more
than eighty thousand persons in three months. History
records, that this Perinet and his companions,
after having squandered all that they had gained by
plunder, died miserably, not long enjoying the fruits
of their robberies; and that the greater part of the
nobles and gentlemen, who had acted with the murderers,
were carried off by the pestilence, except l’Isle
Adam, who was reserved to be chastised by king
Henry of England, though it was on another account,
as we shall relate in the proper place. And was it not
God who took vengeance for these cruelties?”</p>

<p>In a little more than a year from this time, John
the Fearless, himself an assassin, fell by an assassin’s
hand, at the conference of Montereau. His life had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>been productive of great evils to France; his death
brought on it still greater. The murder of John gave
birth to that coalition between his successor Philip the
Good, Henry the fifth of England, and queen Isabella,
which, for more than a quarter of a century, deluged
the kingdom with blood, and nearly wrested the
sceptre from the ancient line of monarchs. In 1420,
Paris was delivered into the hands of the English, and
for sixteen years they retained possession of it; the
Louvre, the Bastile, and Vincennes, were their principal
posts in the capital and its immediate vicinity.</p>

<p>The only prisoner whom, during their domination,
the English are recorded to have confined in the Bastile,
was the very man but for whose activity and
daring the capital would, perhaps, never have been in
their power. It was l’Isle Adam. This warrior, who
was born about 1384, of an ancient and noble family,
was taken by the English, at Honfleur, in 1415. After
he recovered his liberty, he joined the party of John
the Fearless, and was made governor of Pontoise.
We have seen by what means he gained Paris for the
Burgundian prince. That he was deeply implicated
in the massacres appears to be a melancholy truth;
and all his talents and valour are insufficient to cleanse
his reputation from that damnable spot. For his services
he was rewarded, by the duke of Burgundy,
with the rank of marshal.</p>

<p>It is not clear in what manner l’Isle Adam incurred
the displeasure of our Henry the fifth, the regent of
France. French writers ascribe the circumstance to
the pride and arrogance of the English sovereign, who
required the most abject homage from all his French
courtiers. L’Isle Adam, they tell us, having one day
come into the royal presence in a plain grey dress, the
monarch sternly asked him whether that was a fit
dress for a marshal. “Dearest lord,” said the offender,
“I had it made to travel in from Sens to Paris;” and,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>while he spoke, he looked at the king. “What!”
exclaimed Henry, “do you dare to look a prince in the
face?” “Most dread lord,” answered the marshal,
“it is the custom in France; and if any one avoids
looking at the person to whom he talks, he is considered
as a bad man and a traitor; therefore, in God’s
name, do not be offended.”—“Such is not our custom,”
Henry sourly replied, and here the dialogue ended.
If this story be true, it speaks ill for the policy, and
worse for the disposition, of the victor of Agincourt.</p>

<p>A few days after this conversation is supposed to
have occurred, L’Isle Adam was committed to the
Bastile, on the false and absurd charge of meaning to
betray Paris to the dauphin. About a thousand of
the citizens took up arms to rescue him, on his way
to the fortress, but they were put to flight by the
small band of English archers, which was escorting
him to prison. L’Isle Adam, it is affirmed, would
have passed from the Bastile to the scaffold, had he
not been saved by the remonstrances of Philip the
Good, and the death of Henry.</p>

<p>After the decease of Henry, L’Isle Adam rejoined
the Burgundian standard, and took so active and
effective a part in the war, that, when the order of the
Golden Fleece was established, he was one of the
first on whom it was conferred. In 1437, he followed
the duke of Burgundy into Brabant, and on the
22nd of May, of that year, he was killed in a popular
insurrection, which took place at Bruges.</p>

<p>It was not till the 22nd of September, 1429, that
any attempt was made to disturb the English in their
occupation of Paris. Flushed with its recent successes,
and hoping that the citizens would rise upon the garrison,
the army of Charles assaulted on that day the
ramparts of the capital, between the gates of St.
Honoré and St. Denis. The assault, led by Joan
of Arc, continued for four hours; but the glorious
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>heroine was severely wounded through the thigh, and
the assailants were compelled to retire.</p>

<p>For seven years after this attack, the English kept
their ground in Paris. But the English power in
France was now daily crumbling into dust. The
Burgundian, their ally for several years, was become
their active enemy; the duke of Bedford, whose
valour and skill so long upheld a tottering cause, had
sunk into the grave; town after town, willingly or on
compulsion, opened its gates to Charles; succours
arrived seldom and in scanty numbers; and frequent
insurrections, in Normandy and other quarters, compelled
them to disseminate their troops, so that it
became impossible for them to take the field with a
formidable army. At this critical moment, Paris had
only a feeble garrison of fifteen hundred men; a force
wholly inadequate to defend the place, even had the
citizens been far less disaffected than they really were.
They were weary of war, and, besides, prudence dissuaded
them from persisting to oppose a sovereign
whose throne was evidently established on a solid
basis. Such being the state of things, Charles thought
the time was come to recover his capital. A negotiation
was secretly opened with the citizens; and, on
condition of a general amnesty, they agreed to return
to their allegiance. On the night of the 13th of April,
1436, the king’s troops were admitted into the city.
Though he was taken by surprise, Willoughby, the
governor, a brave and intelligent officer, took such
measures as would have baffled his assailants, had he
received any aid from the Parisians. But not a
hand was raised in his behalf, and he had no other
resource than a retreat to the Bastile, which he
effected in good order. An honourable capitulation,
allowing him to retire with bag and baggage, to Rouen,
was offered to Willoughby, and, as he knew that resistance
must be unavailing, he wisely accepted an
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>offer which he could not hope would be repeated. Thus
ended the sway of the English in Paris.</p>

<p>During the remainder of the reign of Charles VII.,
nothing more occurred which belongs to this narrative.
Abundant materials, are, however, supplied by
the iron sway of his son and successor, Louis XI.
Historians, in speaking of Louis XI., have charactered
him, and with justice, as a violator of all social duties,
as being a “bad son, a bad husband, a bad father, a
bad brother, a bad kinsman, a bad friend, a bad neighbour,
a bad master, and a most dangerous enemy.”
That, on attaining supreme power, such a man should
take heavy vengeance for injuries, real or supposed,
is in the natural order of things. Immediately on his
accession to the throne, Louis displaced from their
offices all persons who had rendered themselves obnoxious
to him; and, in some instances, his revenge
was more signally manifested.</p>

<p>Among the most conspicuous of those who felt his
anger was Anthony de Chabannes, count of Dammartin.
Chabannes had played an active part in the
long war between Charles VII. and the English, and,
on various occasions had done signal service. Like
many other nobles of that period, he was, however,
possessed of far more courage than honourable principles.
To swell his coffers with plunder, he did not
hesitate to put himself at the head of the ferocious
banditti known by the descriptive name of <i>écorcheurs</i>,
or flayers, with whom he ravaged the north-eastern
provinces of France, as far as the Swiss frontier. He
quitted them in 1439, to marry a rich wife, after which
he again entered into the king’s service.</p>

<p>Chabannes, as is often the case with criminals, could
more easily commit crimes than bear to be told of
them. The monarch having one day laughingly
greeted him by the title of king of the flayers, he
angrily replied, “I never flayed any but your enemies;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>and it appears to me that you have derived more
benefit from their skins than I have.” Not satisfied
with this retort, he further gratified his offended feelings
by prompting the dauphin to become the leader
of the malecontents, in the ephemeral civil war which
is known as the war of the <i>Praguerie</i>.</p>

<p>After the Praguerie was over, Chabannes was again
received into favour by Charles, and he seems ever
after to have remained faithful to him. He even disclosed
a conspiracy which the dauphin had formed,
to deprive the monarch of his crown and liberty. The
dauphin, on being brought face to face with him,
hardily denied the fact, and gave him the lie. The
conduct of Chabannes, in this instance, was not undignified.
“I know,” said he, “the respect which is
due to the son of my master; but the truth of my deposition
I am ready to maintain, by arms, against all
those of the dauphin’s household who will come forward
to contradict it.” No one was hardy enough to
accept this challenge.</p>

<p>It is less creditable to Chabannes, that he presided
over the commission which was appointed to try, or
rather to find guilty, the persecuted Jacques Cœur,
and that he contrived to obtain, at a shamefully inadequate
price, several of Cœur’s estates.</p>

<p>In 1455, Chabannes, by performing his duty to
his sovereign, gave fresh offence to the dauphin.
Irritated at last by the political intrigues of his son,
and by his having persisted for ten years to absent
himself from the court, Charles determined to deprive
him of the petty sovereignty of Dauphiné, and
to secure his person. Chabannes was chosen to carry
this determination into effect: and he acted with such
vigour that, after having prevailed on the duke of
Savoy to refuse the prince an asylum, he compelled
him to seek shelter in the dominions of the duke
of Burgundy.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span></p>

<p>Chabannes was, consequently, one of the earliest
victims on the accession of Louis to the throne. Deprived
of his office of grand master of France, he took
flight, but he soon returned, and claimed a fair trial.
The king refused to admit the claim, and ordered him
to quit the kingdom; an order which he obeyed.
While he was absent, his property was confiscated,
and he was summoned to appear, and answer the
charges against him. Confiding in his innocence, he
complied with the summons; but he was found guilty
of high treason, and condemned to death. The sentence
was commuted to banishment by Louis; who,
however, changed his mind as to the punishment, and
shut him up in the Bastile.</p>

<p>In the Bastile Chabannes remained for four years.
On the breaking out of the war, the parties in which
called their confederacy the League of the Public
Good, he contrived to escape; and, on his way to
join the malecontents, he made himself master of the
towns of St. Fargeau and St. Maurice. He was one
of those who benefited by the treaty of Conflans, which
terminated this war. His sentence was annulled, and
his estates were restored to him.</p>

<p>It is a singular circumstance that, with respect to
Chabannes, Louis passed at once from the extreme of
hatred and suspicion, to that of kindness and confidence.
He not only restored his estates, but he added
to their number. At a later date, when he instituted
the order of St. Michael, Chabannes was one of the
first whom he nominated. Favours conferred by a
gloomy and unprincipled tyrant cast a doubt on the
character of the receiver, even when it has been hitherto
unstained, which was not the case with the
new knight. The nomination gave occasion to a severe
sarcasm from the duke of Britanny. Louis having
sent to him the collar of the order, the duke declined
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>it, assigning as a reason, that “he did not choose
to draw in the same collar with Chabannes.”</p>

<p>Chabannes was not ungrateful for the benefits bestowed
on him. When, strangely deviating from his
accustomed wariness, Louis involved himself in the
dilemma which Sir Walter Scott has so admirably
described in Quentin Durward, Chabannes did him
the most essential and opportune service, and received
his warmest thanks for it. He was afterwards employed
in various important expeditions, all of which
he brought to a successful issue. In his old age, he
withdrew from the court, but, in 1485, Charles VIII.
conferred on him the government of the Isle of France
and Paris. Chabannes did not long enjoy this new
honour; he died in 1488.</p>

<p>The war, caused by the League of the Public Good,
which restored liberty and fortune to Chabannes, deprived
his enemy, the count de Melun, not only of
both, but of life also. When we are told that Melun
was so addicted to pleasure, luxury and sloth, as to
have acquired the name of the Sardanapalus of his
times, we can form no very flattering estimate of his
character. Yet he stood high in the good graces of
Louis XI., and participated largely in the spoils of
Chabannes. In his capacity of governor of Paris and
the Bastile, he was also entrusted with the custody of
that nobleman. It was not till after the battle of
Montlhéri that Louis began to suspect him. The
monarch had, indeed, some excuse for suspicion.
Melun had at least been criminally negligent, in a
post which demanded the utmost vigilance. He had
prevented a sally from the city during the battle, which
might have turned the scale in the king’s favour, and
he had been ignorant of, or winked at, a correspondence
carried on with the chiefs of the League by
some of the disaffected citizens. These indications of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>treachery were strengthened by two circumstances;
some of the cannon of the Bastile had been spiked,
and the gates of the fortress, on the side next the
country, had been left open while the besiegers were
making an attack. The escape of Chabannes might
also afford a reason for doubting his keeper’s fidelity.
Louis, however, was, at this moment, too closely
pressed by his numerous enemies to enter into an
investigation of the subject; and he, therefore, only
dismissed the governor.</p>

<p>Melun retired to his estates, and imagined that the
storm was blown over. He was mistaken. As soon
as Louis had disembarrassed himself, he instituted a
rigid enquiry into the conduct of his disgraced favourite.
One of the most active in pushing it on
was a man who was indebted to the count for his
rise in life; the cardinal Balue, of whom further mention
is about to be made. The result of the enquiry
was, a charge of having maintained a secret correspondence
with the heads of the League, especially
with the duke of Britanny. Melun was in consequence
arrested, and conveyed to Chateau Galliard,
in Normandy, by the provost Tristan l’Hermite, of
infamous memory.</p>

<p>The trial was commenced without delay, and, as he
refused to confess to any crime, he was put to the
torture. With respect to his correspondence with the
chiefs of the League, he avowed it, but pleaded that it
had the king’s sanction. It is probable that this was
really the case. Many motives might have induced
the king to allow of his officer corresponding with the
enemy. But Louis had now resolved upon the destruction
of Melun; and, as he never scrupled at falsehood
when he had any point to gain by it, he denied
that he had given the permission. By adding that he
had long had cause to be dissatisfied with the prisoner,
he gave a broad hint as to what kind of verdict he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>desired. The judges, as in duty bound, pronounced
Melun guilty, and he was consigned to the scaffold.
His execution took place in 1468. Of his confiscated
property, a considerable portion was bestowed on
Chabannes.</p>

<p>It is said, that the executioner having only wounded
him at the first stroke, Melun raised his head from
the block, and declared, that he had not deserved
death, but that, since the king willed it, he was satisfied.
If this be true, we must own that tame submission
to the injustice of a despot was never more
strikingly displayed.</p>

<p>Had Melun lived but a little longer, he might have
triumphed in the downfall and punishment of his
ungrateful enemy, the cardinal, which took place in
1469. John Balue, the person in question, born in
Poitou in 1421, was the son of either a miller or a
tailor. He had, perhaps, as many vices, and as few
virtues, as any person upon record. Ingratitude, in
particular, seems to have been deeply rooted into the
nature of this unworthy prelate. Towards the bishops
of Poictiers and Angers, who had early patronized
and confided in him, and the count de Melun, by whom
he was introduced to the monarch, he acted with unparalleled
baseness. His sovereign fared no better
than his other benefactors. Louis XI. had rapidly
raised him to the highest offices in the state, and had
loaded him with ecclesiastical preferment, yet the
traitor betrayed him.</p>

<p>While his power lasted, there was no department
of the government with which Balue did not interfere.
This trait in the character of the cardinal called forth
a pleasant sarcasm from Chabannes, who could not
see with patience his own province invaded. Balue
having one day reviewed some regiments, Chabannes
gravely requested the king’s permission to visit the
cardinal’s bishopric of Evreux, for the purpose of examining
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>clerical candidates, and conferring ordination
on them. “What do you mean?” said Louis. “Why,
surely, sire,” replied Chabannes, “I am as fit to
ordain priests, as the bishop of Evreux is to review
an army.”</p>

<p>It required, however, something more than a joke
to shake the confidence which the monarch placed
in the cardinal. That something more was not slow
in coming. Since the treaties of Conflans and Peronne,
it had been a main object of Louis to dissociate his
brother, the duke of Berry, from his dangerous adviser
the duke of Burgundy; and, as one means towards
effecting this, he strove hard to induce him to
accept, as an appanage, the duchy of Guienne and the
government of Rochelle, instead of the provinces of
Champagne and Brie, which, by the treaty of Peronne,
he had been compelled to confirm to his brother. Louis
was undoubtedly justified in wishing to accomplish this
object, as there was little chance that peace would be
preserved if the duke of Berry became an immediate
neighbour of the duke of Burgundy. Nor was the
equivalent which the king offered for Champagne and
Brie an inadequate one, but much the contrary. On
this occasion, the king suffered the penalty to which
all deceivers are subjected, that of not being trusted.
Could the duke of Berry have put faith in his brother,
he no doubt would have accepted Guienne.</p>

<p>It was with no less surprise than indignation that
the king discovered, by intercepted letters, that all
his efforts, not only in this case but in others, had
been counteracted by the man on whom he most relied.
The cardinal, and his friend and agent William
d’Haraucourt, bishop of Verdun, were in close correspondence
with his enemies. It was to revenge
himself for the king having failed in his promise, to
procure him a cardinal’s hat, that d’Haraucourt entered
into the plot against him. It would seem that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>nothing short of madness could have prompted the
cardinal to peril his liberty and fortune, perhaps his
life, by his treasonable proceeding. But here again
the king was whipped by his own vices. Balue perceived
or imagined that his influence was declining,
he was convinced that it would wholly expire whenever
his services were no longer necessary to the monarch—Louis
being, in his opinion, incapable of personal
attachment—and he therefore resolved to place
him in such a situation, by making the king’s foes formidable,
that those services should be always indispensable.
On his being interrogated, he avowed,
with a shameless candour, that, for this purpose, he
had betrayed the secrets of the state to the Burgundian
duke, encouraged the duke of Berry to refuse
the proposed exchange, advised the calamitous interview
and disgraceful treaty of Peronne, and recommended
to Charles of Burgundy to compel the king
to accompany him on the expedition against the revolted
citizens of Liege.</p>

<p>There was treason enough here to forfeit a hundred
heads, had they grown on laic shoulders. But, as far
as regarded the final penalty of the law, their ecclesiastical
character proved a shield to the cardinal and his
associate. The king desired the pope to nominate
apostolical commissioners to try the criminals; the
pope, on the other hand, contended that they must be
judged by the consistory, and that the decision of their
fate must be left to him. A long negotiation ensued
between the spiritual and temporal sovereigns, and, as
neither would concede, the offenders were never brought
to trial at all.</p>

<p>It cannot, however, be said that the cardinal and the
bishop escaped unscarred. If Louis could not take their
lives, he could at least render their lives a burthen, and
this was a power which he was not backward in exercising.
In the province of Touraine, between twenty
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>and thirty miles to the southward of Tours, stood the
castle of Loches, one of the sepulchres in which Louis
buried his living victims. It was there that, at a later
period, Ludovico Sforza lingered out the last years of
his existence. Loches was well provided with oubliettes,
dungeons, chains of enormous weight, facetiously called
the king’s little daughters, iron cages, and all other
means of torturing the body and mind. Thither Balue
was sent, and there he passed eleven lonely years, in
an iron cage, which was only eight feet square. His
fate resembled that of Perillus—for to the cardinal
himself is attributed the invention of these cages. Perhaps
the only praise which he ever deserved was gained
at the castle of Loches; the praise of having preserved
his courage unshaken throughout the whole of his tedious
captivity. Balue was released in 1480, went to
Rome, where he was received with open arms, was sent
as legate to France, and died, in 1491, bishop of Albano,
and legate of the March of Ancona.</p>

<p>His confederate, d’Haraucourt, was still more severely
punished. The Bastile was his place of confinement,
and there a cage, of unusual strength, was
constructed in one of the towers, expressly for his abode.
The cage was formed of massy beams, bolted together
with iron, occupied nineteen carpenters for twenty days
in framing it, and was so heavy, that the vault, which
was to support it, was obliged to be rebuilt in a more
substantial manner. Within its narrow and gloomy
limits, d’Haraucourt was immured for no less than fifteen
years. It was not till after the death of Louis the
eleventh, that the prisoner was set at liberty. He died,
at a very advanced age, in the year 1500.</p>

<p>While d’Haraucourt was wasting away life in his
cage, there was another prisoner in the Bastile, who
was enduring far worse misery, and was far more worthy
of compassion, because, though he was himself
guiltless, he suffered the penalty of another’s crimes.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>When, in 1473, the restless and unprincipled John,
count of Armagnac, was slain at Lectoure, by the royal
troops, his brother Charles, who had taken no part in
the contest, was arrested by order of Louis the eleventh,
sent to the Concièrgerie, and put to the torture.
He was on the point of proving his innocence, when he
was removed to the Bastile, and secluded from all access
of friends. L’Huillier, the governor, treated him with
a cold-blooded barbarity which was worthy of a man
who held office under Louis. There was nothing that
cruelty could suggest that was not practised on the unfortunate
Charles. The agonies of the captive were
protracted for a period of fourteen years, during all
which time he inhabited a dreary and noisome dungeon,
in which water almost continually dropped upon him,
and he could not move without wading though slimy
mud. He was liberated, and his property was restored,
by Charles the eighth. The boon, however, came too
late to be of any avail. His reason was shaken by what
he had undergone; he languished for a few years, and
died in 1497.</p>

<p>Less compassion is due to the next inhabitant of the
Bastile who appears upon the scene. Faithful to no
party, he fell regretted by none. Louis de Luxembourg,
count of St. Pol, who was born in 1418, succeeded
to the possessions of his father, when he was
only fifteen. He did not receive his moral education
in schools where humanity and honour were to be
learned. His uncle and guardian, count de Ligni, was
well qualified to brutalise his youthful mind. It was
de Ligni that basely sold the heroine Joan of Arc to
the English, for ten thousand livres. In one of his
campaigns he took his nephew with him, that the boy
might kill some of the prisoners, in order to accustom
him to scenes of blood. Louis is said to have proved
an apt scholar, and to have taken delight in the performance
of his murderous task.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span></p>

<p>At his outset in life, St. Pol, like most of his family,
was a warm partisan of the English party. Circumstances,
however, having compelled him to visit the
court of Charles the seventh, he met with so flattering
a reception that he deserted his party, and devoted
himself to that monarch. With the dauphin (who was
afterwards Louis the eleventh) he contracted as close
a friendship as can subsist between two such characters.
St. Pol distinguished himself, in the service of his new
master, on various occasions, particularly at the sieges
of the Norman fortresses.</p>

<p>Though St. Pol had given up the English party, he
did not break off his old connection with the Burgundian
prince. He fought for him against the insurgent
citizens of Ghent, and he even joined in the League of
the Public Good, as it was ludicrously styled, and led
the vanguard of the count de Charolais, at the battle
of Montlhéri. At the peace of Conflans, Louis, in the
hope of winning him over from the Burgundian interest,
promoted him to be constable of France; and soon
after, with the same view, he gave him the hand of
Mary of Savoy, the queen’s sister, and granted him a
wide extent of territory.</p>

<p>These favours did not produce the desired effect.
St. Pol seems to have had little gratitude in his nature;
and, in this case, he perhaps thought that there was
none due for what was rather a bribe than a free gift.
As he imagined that his safety consisted in preventing
a good understanding between the king and the duke
of Burgundy, he was constantly intriguing to keep them
at variance, and he alternately betrayed them. His
intrigues being discovered, the two princes, during one
of their short periods of amity, entered into a compact,
by which they declared him their common enemy. The
duke of Burgundy promised, that if the constable fell
into his hands, he would surrender him to the king
within eight days. For this he was to be rewarded by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>the restoration of St. Quentin, Amiens, and other towns
on the Somme. This agreement was of course kept a
profound secret.</p>

<p>What St. Pol had already done was sufficient to seal
his fate; but he roused the anger of Louis still farther,
by an act of personal disrespect, and by leaguing with
Edward the fourth of England for the invasion of
France. It was not, however, till he had got rid of
Edward by a treaty, and had artfully contrived to irritate
the duke of Burgundy still more against St. Pol,
that Louis seriously prepared for taking vengeance on
the offender. The negotiation between Edward and
Louis had already alarmed the constable, and, to conciliate
the latter, he had offered to attack the English.
This offer Louis communicated to Edward, who, indignant
at the treachery of his recent confederate, sent the
letters which he had received from him to the French
monarch. Louis was thus furnished with decisive
proofs. To the overtures of St. Pol he replied in ambiguous
words, the real meaning of which was soon
made evident: “I am overwhelmed by so many affairs,”
said the Machiavelian monarch, “that I have great need
of a good head like yours to get through them.”</p>

<p>The preparations of the king at length made St.
Pol fully aware of his danger. Hesitating as to the
measure which in this emergency he ought to adopt,
he for a moment half resolved to stand on his defence;
but reflection on the superior resources of his enemy
persuaded him that he had no chance of success from
arms. Yet, had he boldly appealed to the sword, he
might, perhaps, have saved his life, or at least have
met with an honourable death. He preferred throwing
himself on the duke of Burgundy, whom he
tempted by offering him his strong towns, as the price
of protection. Louis demanded that he should be
given up to him; and after some qualms of conscience
as to sacrificing a suppliant, who was also his cousin,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>Charles of Burgundy complied with the demand. St.
Pol was conveyed to the Bastile. The French monarch
gave him his choice, either to make a full confession,
or to be tried in the customary manner. The
latter alternative was chosen by the prisoner, who
knew not that his letters, to Edward and the duke of
Burgundy, were in the king’s hands, and therefore
believed that there was not legal evidence to warrant
his conviction. His judges sentenced him to
lose his head, and he was executed on the 19th of
December, 1475.</p>

<p>The last captive in the Bastile, during the reign of
Louis the Eleventh, or rather the last of whom any
record remains—for there were doubtless numbers of
the nameless throng—was an Armagnac; a name
which seems to have been fatal to its owners. We
have seen one Armagnac torn in pieces by the populace,
another treacherously slain after the surrender
of his stronghold, a third losing his reason in a dungeon,
and we are now to witness the leading of a fourth
to the scaffold, under circumstances the most horrible.</p>

<p>James of Armagnac, duke of Nemours, was the
son of the Count de la Marche, who was the governor
of the youthful dauphin. When the pupil of the
count ascended the throne, he gave his cousin Louisa
in marriage to James of Armagnac, and conferred on
him the dukedom of Nemours, with all the rights and
privileges of the peerage; an honour which had never
before been enjoyed by any other than princes of the
royal family. Nemours, nevertheless, joined the
League of the Public Good. Louis, as we have
seen, was obliged to succumb to the League; and,
by the consequent peace of Conflans, James of Armagnac
obtained the government of Paris and the
Isle of France.</p>

<p>Little more than three years elapsed before Nemours
was again engaged in intrigues against the monarch.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>But the time was gone by when revolt could lead to
promotion. Louis had strengthened his authority,
and he was not disposed to see it set at nought. He,
however, pardoned him; but it was on condition that
any future offence should render him liable to punishment
for the past, and that he should then be deprived
of his privilege of peerage, and be tried as a private
individual.</p>

<p>In the course of a few years Nemours once more,
and finally, brought down the wrath of the monarch
on his head. He was accused of treason, and Beaujeu
was despatched to besiege him in the town of
Carlat, to which the duke had retired. Carlat was
supposed to be impregnable, and it was provisioned
for two or three years. Nemours, nevertheless, surrendered
without resistance, on condition that his life
should be spared; Beaujeu guaranteed this condition,
as did likewise Louis le Graville, lord of Montaigu,
and Bonfile le Juge, who enjoyed the royal confidence.
The wife of the duke, who was confined in child-bed,
died of grief and terror, on seeing her husband become
a prisoner.</p>

<p>Nemours was conveyed, first, to Pierre-Encise,
whence he was removed to the Bastile; where he was
subjected to the harshest usage. All his supplications
to the king, during two years’ abode in the Bastile,
were unavailing; or rather, indeed, seem to have
tended to irritate him. The duke had, undoubtedly,
been a turbulent subject; but nothing can palliate
the infamy of the king’s conduct, after he had Nemours
in his power. It is difficult to account for the
inveteracy of his hatred. There was no conceivable
violation of justice of which he was not guilty. To
have broken the pledge solemnly given by his general
was little compared with what followed. Such of the
judges as seemed inclined to show mercy were threatened
and displaced; others were tempted by being promised
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>to share in the spoils of the prisoner; the place
where the court held its sittings was more than once
arbitrarily changed; and the decent formalities of the
law, as well as its essential principles, were contemptuously
discarded. No wonder that Nemours was
condemned to death.</p>

<p>But now a scene opens which casts all the rest into
shade, and at which nature shudders. Nothing was
omitted that could render death terrible to the duke.
The chamber where he confessed to the priest was
hung with black; the horse which took him to execution
was covered with a housing of the same hue. He
was already agonised by the thought that his children,
who were little more than infants, were reduced to
beggary—but this was not enough. A scaffold was
expressly constructed for him to suffer on, with wide
openings between the planks, and underneath, clad in
white, their heads naked, and their hands bound, were
placed his children, that they might be drenched with
their parent’s blood. It was on the 4th of August,
1477, that this horrible tragedy was acted.</p>

<p>Did the brutal vindictiveness of the monarch end
here? It did not. The guiltless children, of whom
the youngest was only five years old, were taken back
to the Bastile, and plunged into a loathsome dungeon,
where they had scarcely the power of moving. There
they remained, for five years, till the accession of
Charles the eighth opened their prison door. A part
of the confiscated property of their father was subsequently
restored to them by Charles. The health of
two of them was so broken that they did not long survive.
The youngest inherited the title of Nemours,
rose to be viceroy of Naples, and fell at the battle of
Cerignoles, in 1503.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</h2>

<p>Reign of Francis I.—Semblançai—The Chancellor Duprat—The
Chancellor Poyet—Admiral de Chabot—Fall of Poyet—Reign of
Henry II.—Anne du Bourg—Louis du Faur—Reign of Francis
II.—Execution of du Bourg—Francis de Vendôme—Reign of
Charles IX.—The Duke of Lunebourg—Henry of Navarre and
the Prince of Condé in danger of the Bastile—Faction of the
Politicians—La Mole—Coconas—Marshal de Montmorenci—Marshal
de Cossé—Reign of Henry III.—Bussi d’Amboise.</p>

</div>

<p>During the reigns of Charles the eighth and Louis
the twelfth, a period of more than thirty years, no
prisoners of note appear to have been incarcerated in
the Bastile. In the reign of Francis the first, we
again find it receiving persons of rank within its
gloomy walls. The first who was consigned to it by
Francis was James de Beaune, baron of Semblançai.
He was the eldest son of John de Beaune, a citizen
of Tours, who acquired a large fortune by commerce,
and who, after having withdrawn from mercantile
pursuits, held the office of steward to Louis the
eleventh and to Charles the eighth. Semblançai entered
early into the royal service, and, in the reign of
Charles the eighth, rose to the high situation of superintendant
of the finances, and retained it under
Louis the twelfth and Francis the first. It was to
his talents he was indebted for preferment; and his
conduct, in the difficult and dangerous post which he
occupied, justified his elevation, and gained for him
the confidence of the three monarchs. Francis was
even accustomed to address him with the flattering
appellation of father. Keeping aloof from all court
intrigues, he displayed, in his official character, an exemplary
regularity, economy, and probity; and he
crowned the whole by a virtue which is still more rare
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>in a finance minister—that of endeavouring to alleviate
the burthens of the people, and prevent them
from being despoiled by unprincipled nobles.</p>

<p>The man who acted thus was not likely to be without
enemies; all the greedy, who were disappointed
of thrusting their hands into the public purse, and all
the wasteful and corrupt, to whom his example was a
stinging rebuke, would of course abhor him. But
Semblançai might have set their malice at defiance,
had they not found an invincible ally in a female, whose
venomous hatred was rendered fatal to him by her unbounded
influence.</p>

<p>This powerful female was Louisa of Savoy, duchess
of Angoulême, the mother of Francis the First. She
was beautiful in person, a doating mother, and endowed
with many intellectual qualities of a superior
class; but she was immeasurably ambitious, vindictive,
and rapacious. Such was her avidity for riches, and
such her success in gratifying it, that, at the time of
her death, her coffers contained no less than a million
and a half of golden crowns—an enormous, not to say
disgraceful hoard, especially when we consider what
was the value of the sum at that period. In two instances,
her criminal passions were the cause of shame
and misfortune to France. Of the first of these we
are about to speak; the second was her persecution of
the Constable de Bourbon—a base and disastrous
measure, which was prompted either by resentment
for his rejection of her love, or by her eagerness to
seize upon his ample domains, or, perhaps, by a combination
of both these unworthy motives.</p>

<p>The regard which was manifested for Semblançai
by Francis was, at one period, equally felt by the
duchess of Angoulême. There exists, under her hand,
the strongest testimony to the rectitude of the superintendant,
and of the generous sacrifices which he made,
to provide for the wants of the state. It was not till
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>the necessity of vindicating his own character compelled
him to criminate her, that she became his enemy.</p>

<p>Jealous of the influence possessed by the countess
of Chateaubriant, the mistress of Francis, whose brother,
Lautrec, was then governor of the Milanese and
commander of the French army in that province, the
duchess appears to have formed the plan of aiming a
deadly blow at the sister through the side of the brother.
If, by disabling him from defending the Milanese,
she could bring Lautrec into disgrace, it was
not improbable that the disgusted and indignant monarch,
who set a high value on his Italian conquest,
would extend his anger to the countess. The means
which she adopted for bringing her scheme to bear,
had also an additional and not trivial merit in her eyes;
that of contributing to swell the mass of treasure which
she had already accumulated.</p>

<p>In the first part of her project, she completely succeeded.
Deprived of the pecuniary resources which
he had expected from France, and which were the
more needful, as the harshness of his government had
rendered him unpopular in Italy, Lautrec was defeated
at the battle of the Bicocco, was deserted by his Swiss
auxiliaries, and at length was driven from the duchy
of Milan.</p>

<p>The disgrace thus cast upon the French arms, and
that, too, in a country which he in person had won,
could not fail to exasperate a young and warlike sovereign.
When Lautrec returned to his native land,
the king refused to admit him to his presence; but at
last, through the intercession of his sister, and of the
Constable de Bourbon, the vanquished general obtained
an audience. He was received with a frowning
countenance; and he boldly complained of his reception.
“Is it possible for me,” said Francis, sternly,
“to look favourably on a man who is guilty of having
lost my duchy of Milan?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span></p>

<p>Nowise daunted by this rebuff, Lautrec firmly replied,
“I will dare to assert, that your majesty is the
sole cause of that loss. For eighteen months your
gendarmes had not a single farthing of pay. The
Swiss, with whose disposition as to money you are
well acquainted, were also left unpaid. It was solely
by my management that they were retained for several
months with my army. There would have been no
reason for wonder had they quitted it without drawing
their swords; their respect for me induced them, however,
not to desert me till after a sanguinary combat.
They compelled me to give battle, though I foresaw
clearly that there was no hope of victory; but, in my
circumstances, prudence dictated to risk every thing,
however little chance there might appear that our
efforts would be successful. The whole of my crime
amounts to this.”</p>

<p>The astonishment of Francis was excited by this
speech of Lautrec. “What!” exclaimed he, “did you
not receive the four hundred thousand crowns, which
I ordered to be sent to you soon after your arrival at
Milan?” “No, Sire,” answered Lautrec; “your
majesty’s letters came to hand, but no money was forwarded
to me; nor did it ever pass the Alps.”</p>

<p>Semblançai was immediately summoned into his
presence by Francis, to account for such an extraordinary
violation of his duty. In his defence, the
superintendant stated, that the duchess, vested with
authority as regent, had demanded from him the four
hundred thousand crowns, and that he held her receipt
for the sum.</p>

<p>Irritated by this unexpected discovery, Francis hastened
to his mother’s apartment, and reproached her
for conduct which had cost him a part of his dominions.
The duchess is said to have begun her reply
by a denial of the fact. She was, however, ultimately
compelled to own that she had indeed obtained four
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>hundred thousand crowns from Semblançai; but she
artfully pretended, that she had previously confided
the money to his care, and that it was the produce of
savings from her income. Semblançai, on the contrary,
strenuously protested that she had never entrusted
any thing to his keeping, and that, when she
drew from him the funds in question, he had told her
that they were set apart by the king for the service of
the forces in Italy.</p>

<p>Francis was no doubt convinced of her guilt, but
he could not bear the idea of openly stigmatizing a
mother whom he loved. There was consequently nothing
to be done but to bury, as far as was possible,
the whole transaction in oblivion. Abruptly putting
an end to the altercation between the duchess and the
superintendant, he said, “Let us think no more on the
subject! we did not deserve to conquer; it was in vain
that fortune declared on our side; we threw insuperable
obstacles in the way of her favour. Let us cease
to be traitors to each other, and let us henceforth endeavour
to act for the public good, with more wisdom
and union than we have hitherto displayed.”</p>

<p>That Semblançai continued to hold his place is a
sufficient proof that his assertion was credited by the
king. That the revengeful duchess was eager to ruin
him, we might easily have believed, even had the result
not afforded evidence of the fact. For a considerable
time, however, she silently nursed her wrath.
It was not till 1524, when a new expedition was in
preparation against the Milanese, that she found an
opportunity of striking her blow. Money was wanted;
and Semblançai, who had come forward on former
occasions, was desired to make an advance from his
private fortune. But this he declined to do; pleading,
as a reason for his refusal, that a debt of three hundred
thousand crowns was already owing to him. He
was punished by dismissal from his office—if that can
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>be called a punishment for which he appears to have
sought—and, after having given in his accounts, and
shown that they were correct, he retired to his estate
of Balan, in the neighbourhood of Tours.</p>

<p>On the departure of Francis for Italy, he again
appointed his mother to act as regent. She had now
unlimited power; and, as far as concerned Semblançai,
she exercised it cruelly and basely. She began by
instituting against him a suit, to recover a balance
which she alleged to be due to her, as part of the
pretended deposit. To bolster up her cause, she is
accused of having stooped to the most degrading
means. Gentil, the confidential clerk of Semblançai,
was enamoured of one of her attendants; and this female
the regent employed to steal, or obtain by blandishments,
the receipt which had been given to the
superintendant.</p>

<p>This suit was probably meant to answer the double
purpose of narrowing his resources and injuring his
character. But this mode of proceeding was “too
poor, too weak, for her revenge,” and she soon
adopted another, which struck directly at his life.
His secretary, John Prévost, who seems himself to
have had reason for dreading an inquiry into his official
conduct, was tampered with, to cause the ruin of
his master. Impunity for his own misdoings was to
be the price of his new crime. A charge of peculation
was brought against Semblançai, and, towards
the close of 1526, he was committed to the Bastile.
To render his fate certain, the office of sitting in
judgment upon him was entrusted to the Chancellor
Duprat, who had been his rival, was still his deadliest
foe, and was, besides, a devoted tool of the queen
mother. As his colleagues, or rather accomplices,
Duprat selected, from the various parliaments, men
on whose subserviency he could rely. From a tribunal
thus infamously constituted, not even a semblance
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>of justice could be expected. On the 9th of
August, 1527, Semblançai, who was then in his
sixty-second year, was condemned to be hanged; and
this sentence was, shortly after, executed on him, at
the gibbet of Montfaucon.</p>

<p>The popular feeling, with respect to Semblançai,
may be considered as at least a strong presumptive
proof of his innocence. It is not often that the fall
of a finance minister is a subject of sorrow to the
multitude. In his case we find one of the few exceptions;
for the people beheld his melancholy fate with
grief, surprise, and indignation, and they long looked
with an evil eye on the malignant princess by whom he
was judicially murdered.</p>

<p>There is an apparent but not a real discrepancy in
the accounts of the behaviour of Semblançai, when
his doom was sealed. From the language of Du
Bouchet, who represents him as weeping bitterly,
and cherishing hopes of pardon till the last moment,
a hasty conclusion might be drawn, that the courage
of the victim deserted him. But wounded honour
and a keen sense of the ingratitude with which a life
of services was repaid, might well wring tears from
his eyes, though his mind remained unmoved by the
fear of death. That his firmness was, in fact, not to
be shaken, we have the unexceptionable testimony of
Marot, who probably witnessed the calm deportment
of Semblançai when going to the scaffold. In his
lines, which bear the title of “Du Lieutenant Criminel
et de Semblançai,” the poet thus forcibly expresses
himself—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“When Maillard, hellish judge, led Semblançai</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">On gallows tree to pass from life away,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Say which of them most undisturbed was seen?”</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">“I’ll tell you, friend: so blank was Maillard’s mien,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">He looked as though he saw the direful dart</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Of death hang o’er him; but so brave a heart</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Semblançai showed, you would have sworn that he</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Was leading Maillard to the gallows tree.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span></p>

<p>We have seen, that the chancellor, Duprat, was the
instrument which Louisa of Savoy employed to accomplish
the destruction of Semblançai. At an earlier
period, he had served her as effectually in a similar case.
Her suit against the constable de Bourbon, to strip him
of his vast estates, is said to have been suggested by
Duprat, and was certainly brought to a favourable issue
by the exercise of his influence over the judges. His
hatred of the constable was caused, or sharpened, by
Bourbon having refused to comply with a request relative
to the grant of an estate in Auvergne. Detested
by all France, for the fiscal oppressions of which he
was the author, and for his having betrayed the liberties
of the Gallican church, the chancellor nevertheless
retained his power to the last, and died loaded with titles
and riches.</p>

<p>Another tool of the duchess of Angoulême, who
closely imitated the conduct of Duprat, was not equally
fortunate. William Poyet, a native of Angers, born
about 1474, had acquired a high reputation at the bar
before he was chosen the queen-mother’s advocate
against the constable de Bourbon. The manner in
which he performed his new task ensured his promotion.
He became successively advocate-general, and
president à mortier, and was employed in various negotiations;
and, at length, in 1538, his ambition was
gratified by his appointment to the high office of chancellor.
If servility to the monarch, and an utter disregard
of the rights and happiness of the people, are qualifications
for that office, his fitness cannot be denied.
He was undoubtedly worthy of succeeding to Duprat.</p>

<p>The profligate readiness with which Poyet encouraged
Francis the first to load his subjects with heavy
taxes, drew upon him a severe reproof from Duchatel,
the virtuous and benevolent bishop of Orleans. Hearing
the chancellor tell the king that his majesty was
the master of all that his subjects possessed, the bishop
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>indignantly exclaimed, “Carry such tyrannical maxims
to the Caligulas and Neros, and, if you have no respect
for yourself, at least respect a monarch who is the friend
of humanity, and who knows that to hold its rights
sacred is the first of his duties.” This speech did honour
to the prelate, but there is no ground for believing
that it produced any good effect upon either the
sovereign or the minister.</p>

<p>It was by female influence that Poyet was raised to
his lofty station; it was by the same influence that he
was precipitated from it. Two parties existed at
court, those of the dauphin and the duke of Alençon,
the heads of which were the constable de Montmorenci
and the admiral de Chabot. Besides the hatred
which he felt against Chabot as a political rival, the
haughty Montmorenci found, in the unceremonious tone
of equality with which he was addressed by the admiral,
another reason for hating him. To ruin an enemy by
underhand measures was the natural proceeding of a
courtier. He insinuated to the king that Chabot had
acquired his riches by iniquitous practices; and, by
holding out the lure of a cardinal’s hat, he induced
Poyet to assist in Chabot’s destruction. The chancellor
exerted himself so strenuously, in raking up
matter of accusation against the intended victim, that
he at length produced five-and-twenty charges, each of
which, he declared, would subject the delinquent to capital
punishment. The alleged criminality of Chabot
was soon made known to the king.</p>

<p>It is probable, nevertheless, that remembering the
services of Chabot, and the friendship which had existed
ever since their youthful days, Francis would have
overlooked the supposed crimes, had he not been provoked
by a speech which sounded like defiance. Some
trifling dispute occurring between them, he threatened
to bring him to trial; to which Chabot boldly replied,
that a trial had no terrors for him, his conduct having
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>always been so irreproachable, that neither his life nor
his honour could be put in danger. Francis was weak
enough to take offence at this implied challenge; he
committed the offender to the castle of Melun, and
directed the chancellor to prosecute him.</p>

<p>Poyet rushed upon his prey with the ferocity of a
hungry tiger. He began by selecting the commissioners
who were to sit in judgment on Chabot; and,
to ensure their obedience, he himself, contrary to established
custom, presided over them. Yet, with such
instruments, and in spite of all his unprincipled efforts
to spur them on, he was not able fully to accomplish
his purpose. So groundless were the articles of impeachment,
there being only two of them which at all,
and those but slightly, affected the prisoner, that, instead
of voting for death, the judges were disposed
either to acquit him, or, at most, to pass a lenient sentence.
By dint, however, of threats, the chancellor
compelled them to go far beyond their intention; they
consequently condemned Chabot to a fine of fifteen
thousand livres, confiscation of property, and perpetual
exile. One of them is said to have added to his signature
the Latin word <i>vi</i>, in almost imperceptible characters;
thus signifying that force had been used to extort
his consent. Not content with the daring contempt
of justice which he had already displayed, Poyet, in
drawing up the judgment of the court, did not hesitate
to falsify it, by inserting additional crimes, and aggravating
the penalty.</p>

<p>Though Francis was irritated by the honourable
boldness of Chabot, he had never intended to carry
matters to extremity against him. He could not now
avoid being astonished that the charges had dwindled
into such utter insignificance, and that, nevertheless, a
sentence of such undue severity was pronounced; and
he appears to have been also warmly solicited in his
behalf by a prevailing advocate, the duchess of Etampes,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>the royal mistress, who was a relation of Chabot. Yet
though the king designed to receive the admiral again
into favour, he could not deny himself the mean gratification
of taunting him. “Well,” said he to him,
“will you again boast of your innocence?” “Sire,”
replied Chabot, “I have but too well learned, that before
God and his sovereign no man must call himself
innocent; but I have one consolation, that all the malice
of my enemies has failed to convict me of having
ever been unfaithful to your majesty.” Chabot was
pardoned, and reinstated in his offices. This tardy
justice came too late; though his enemies had been
unable to drag him to the scaffold, they had succeeded
in shortening his days. In little more than twelve
months, his existence was terminated by a disease,
seemingly of the heart, which was brought on by the
grief and anxiety that he had suffered.</p>

<p>Chabot, however, lived long enough to witness the
downfall of his adversaries. To Montmorenci the king
intimated, that he had no longer occasion for his services;
and the dismissed courtier in consequence retired
to Chantilly, whence he did not emerge during
the remainder of Francis’s reign. A heavier misfortune
awaited Poyet, and it speedily fell upon him. Two
females, the duchess of Etampes and the queen of Navarre,
were the foes who overthrew him. The duchess,
who was already offended by his persecution of her relative,
he exasperated beyond measure, by refusing to
perform an illegal act in favour of one of her friends;
the queen of Navarre he alienated in a similar manner;
and he rendered both of them more inveterate,
by some bitter remarks on the influence which females
possessed over the mind of the sovereign. They combined
together for his ruin, and they effected it. In
August, 1542, he was dragged from his bed, and carried
to the Bastile. Thus, after having been allowed
to be unjust with impunity, he was punished for recollecting
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>at last that he had duties to perform. In
this emergency, he had the mingled audacity and meanness
to write to Chabot, imploring his forgiveness and
protection. After having been three years in prison,
he was declared incapable of ever holding office, and
was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, and to pay
a fine of a hundred thousand livres. The king himself,
with a strange want of decorum, came forward as
a witness against him on the trial. Poyet died in 1548,
an object of general contempt.</p>

<p>The captives, to whom our attention is now to be directed,
were of a very different character from the chancellor
Poyet; they were sufferers for conscience’ sake;
men who, when the question related to religious interests,
deemed it a duty not to submit in silence to arbitrary
power. Their names were Anne du Bourg, and
Louis du Faur, and they were counsellors of the parliament
at Paris. The uncle of du Bourg was chancellor
in the reign of Francis I. Du Faur was of a
family which had produced many eminent characters,
among whom is to be numbered Guy du Faur, lord of
Pibrac, author of the well-known Quatrains.</p>

<p>Pressed, it is said, by the Guises, and by the duchess
of Valentinois, his mistress, the latter of whom was
looking forward to the benefit she might expect from
confiscations, Henry the second unwisely resolved to
carry to the full extent the persecution of the protestants.
Hitherto, only the humbler classes had been
marked out for punishment; but, as nothing more than
the mere pleasure of tormenting could be derived from
pursuing them, it was now determined that men of
higher rank should suffer in their turn. This was at
least impartial injustice. It was believed that the reformed
doctrines had many partisans among the magistracy;
and the members of the parliament of Paris were
therefore selected, as the subjects upon whom the new
experiment of rigour should be first tried. This step
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>was taken at the suggestion of le Maître, the chief president,
who had the baseness to deliver privately to the
king a list of his protestant colleagues, and also a tempting
statement of the property which they possessed.</p>

<p>It was a custom of the heads of the parliament to
meet at stated periods, for the purpose, among other
things, of inquiring into any alleged neglect or violation
of duty on the part of the members. These meetings,
which were established by an edict of Charles VIII.,
were called the Mercuriales, from the circumstance of
their taking place on a Wednesday. To one of these
assemblies, while it was in the midst of a debate, on
the measures which ought to be adopted with respect
to heretics, the king suddenly came, without any previous
notice, accompanied by the Guises, and other
rigidly catholic nobles, and guarded by a formidable
escort.</p>

<p>Previously to his arrival, the balance of opinion had
inclined to the side of a lenient administration of the
law, until the discipline of the church had been reformed
by a new œcumenical council. Though the
monarch affected to be calm, it was easy to perceive
that he was under the influence of passion. He made
a vehement harangue, in which he dwelt on the disturbances
caused by sectaries, and on the necessity of
defending the church, and then ordered the members
to resume the debate, and promised them freedom of
speech.</p>

<p>The promise was meant only as a snare. The manner
in which the king had come to the sitting, in open
contempt of usage and even of decorum, plainly showed
that his intention was to intimidate. But, by pretending
to guarantee the privilege of freely speaking, he
hoped to do away the impression which his abrupt coming
had made, and delude the speakers into a disclosure
of their real sentiments. There were some, perhaps,
who confided in his word; there were others who, doubtless,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>were aware that no reliance was to be placed on
it, but who, nevertheless, thought they were called upon
to maintain, at all hazards, what they deemed to be the
cause of religion and truth. Of the latter class were
Anne du Bourg and Louis du Faur.</p>

<p>Du Faur admitted that troubles arose in the state
from the difference of religions, but he contended that
it ought to be inquired who was really the author of
those troubles; and, with a manifest allusion to the
king, he added, that if this were done, the same reply
might perhaps be made as was given, on a similar occasion,
by the prophet Elijah to Ahab, “I have not
troubled Israel, but thou and thy father’s house, in that
ye have, forsaken, the commandments of the Lord, and
thou hast followed Baalim.”</p>

<p>The speech of du Bourg, though it seemed to be
less directly personal to the monarch, was as well calculated
as that of du Faur to excite angry feelings in
Henry and in many of the hearers, on whose vices it
made a rude attack. There were men, he said,
whose blasphemies, adulteries, horrible debaucheries,
and repeated perjuries, crimes worthy of the worst
death, were not merely overlooked, but shamefully encouraged,
while every day new punishments were invented
for men who were irreproachable. “For of what
crime can they be accused?” exclaimed he. “Can
they be charged with high treason, they who never
mention the sovereign but in the prayers which they
offer up for him? Who can say that they violate the
laws of the state, endeavour to shake the fidelity of
the towns, or incite the provinces to revolt? With
all the pains that have been taken, not even with
witnesses picked out for the purpose, has it been possible
to convict them of having so much as thought of
these things. No! All their fault and misfortune
is that, by means of the light of the Holy Scriptures,
they have discovered and revealed the shameless turpitude
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>of the Papal power, and have demanded a salutary
reformation. This is their sedition.”</p>

<p>When all the members had delivered their opinions,
some of which were favourable to mild measures, the
king called for the register, in which were inscribed
the opinions of those who had spoken before his arrival,
and also on a previous day. He then addressed
to the assembly another speech of censure and menace,
and ended by ordering the arrest of du Bourg and du
Faur, who were present, and likewise of six absent
members. The two former were conveyed to the Bastile,
where du Bourg, and probably du Faur also, was
shut up in a cage. Three of the others escaped; the
rest were sent to other places of confinement.</p>

<p>This arbitrary act was the last which Henry had
the power of committing. On that day fortnight, at
a tournament, he was mortally wounded by a splinter
from the lance of the count de Montgomery. The
scene of the tournament was near the Bastile; and it
is said that as the wounded monarch was carried past
the prison, his conscience smote him, and he more than
once expressed his fears that he had behaved unjustly
to men who were innocent. The cardinal of Lorraine,
who was with him, is also said to have assured him,
that such an idea could have been inspired only by the
arch fiend, and admonished him to reject it, and adhere
firmly to his faith. This story, however, has no other
foundation than popular report.</p>

<p>The reign of Francis II. opened under no favourable
auspices for the protestants. The minor king was
wholly under the influence of the Guises, and of his
mother Catherine of Medicis, all of whom had vowed
a deadly hostility to them. The persecution was accordingly
resumed with an increase of vigour. The trial
of the members of the parliament was pushed on; but
it was against du Bourg that the hatred of the court
was peculiarly directed—the sweeping crimination,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>which was contained in his speech before the deceased
Henry, had wounded many great personages too deeply
to be forgiven.</p>

<p>Before the death of Henry, a commission had been
appointed, which had interrogated du Bourg on the subject
of his religious tenets. He having candidly avowed
them, they were pronounced heretical by the bishop of
Paris, and he was delivered over to the secular authority.
Du Bourg appealed to the archbishop of Sens,
and to the parliament, but without effect. The trial was
proceeded with, and, while it was pending, an event occurred,
which contributed to render his enemies still
more inveterate. One of his judges was a counsellor
named Minard, a man of profligate life, who had given
violent advice to the late king. Du Bourg, therefore,
repeatedly challenged him as incompetent to sit upon
the trial, and, on Minard refusing to withdraw, the
prisoner is said to have exclaimed, “God will know
how to compel thee!” It unfortunately happened that,
returning one evening to his home from the trial, Minard
was assassinated, by a pistol being fired at him.
Du Bourg was suspected, and not without an appearance
of reason, of being implicated in the murder, and
this hastened his fate. There is no ground whatever
to believe that he was concerned in the foul deed; but
it must be owned, that such prophecies as he ventured
upon are dangerous, because they have a tendency to
bring about their own fulfilment. It is not improbable,
that the act was suggested to the mind of some fanatical
protestant by the words of the prisoner.</p>

<p>It was in vain that the Elector Palatine wrote to the
French monarch, to entreat him to spare the life of du
Bourg, and that numerous eminent persons, even catholics,
solicited to the same effect. Neither their intercession,
nor his acknowledged integrity and pure
morals, availed to save him. He was condemned to
be hanged and his body burnt, at the Place de Grêve.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>He died, at the age of thirty-eight, with a calm heroism,
and Christian spirit of forgiveness, which excited general
admiration. His death, far from being beneficial
to the catholic cause, was exceedingly injurious to it.
The protestants regarded him as a martyr, gloried in
him as an honour to their party and faith, and were not
slow in taking a heavy vengeance for his untimely doom.</p>

<p>The blood of du Bourg seems to have deadened the
fire of persecution, as far as related to the other parliamentary
prisoners. Some were subjected to little more
than nominal punishments; and even du Faur, the most
obnoxious of them, was only condemned to pay a fine,
ask pardon, and be suspended from his judicial functions
for five years. But, comparatively light as this
sentence was, du Faur refused to acquiesce in it; he
boldly protested against it, and after a hard struggle,
he was fortunate enough to obtain its revocation, and
to be re-established in his magisterial capacity. Nor
does it appear that this victory was purchased by any
sacrifice of principle.</p>

<p>Among those who, during the new crusade against
protestants, had to lament the loss of liberty, was Francis
de Vendôme, Vidame of Chartres, allied to the
princes of the blood and the potent house of Montmorenci.
Vendôme had served in Italy, as a volunteer,
under the duke of Aumale, and, subsequently, held a
command there, under the duke of Guise; after which
he was appointed governor of Calais. Closely connected
with the house of Montmorenci, he was irritated
beyond measure by the dismissal of the constable, and
cherished a deadly animosity against the Guises, who
were the authors of that measure. It is not wonderful
that, under the influence of these feelings, he should
make common cause with the prince of Condé and the
king of Navarre, who were preparing for resistance to
the court. Vendôme took an active part in rousing the
protestants to arms in various parts of the kingdom.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>But some of his letters, to the prince of Condé, having
been found upon la Sague, an emissary of the protestant
party, he was arrested and sent to the Bastile.
There he was treated with extreme rigour, and was
refused permission to see his wife, though she offered
to become a prisoner with him. The letters were in
appearance merely complimentary, but the dread of the
torture induced la Sague to disclose that important secrets
were written, with sympathetic ink, on the cover
that contained them. The death of Francis II. and
the pretended reconcilement of the hostile parties on
the accession of Charles IX., would have saved Vendôme
from the scaffold, but he did not live to recover
his freedom. Worn out by a life of dissipation, he died,
in his thirty-eighth year, at the Tournelles, to which
prison he had been removed from the Bastile.</p>

<p>The decease of Vendôme took place in 1560, and,
for several years, with the exception of a duke of
Lunebourg, who was imprisoned for a quarrel with
the duke of Guise, no prisoner, at least none whose
fate history has thought worthy of recording, appears
to have found an abode within the walls of the Bastile.
After the horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew,
there was a moment when the fortress seemed about
to receive a princely captive. The king of Navarre
(afterwards Henry IV.) had yielded to the threats of
the royal murderer, and had changed his religion;
but the Prince of Condé was made of sterner stuff.
He resisted so firmly all attempts to induce him to
apostatize, that Charles IX. ordered him to be brought
before him, and, in a furious tone, addressed to him
three ominous words; “The mass, death, or the Bastile.”
Condé held out a little longer, but he yielded
when he found that du Rosier, a famous protestant
minister, had been converted to the Catholic faith.</p>

<p>It was not till towards the close of the reign of
Charles IX. that the Bastile was again tenanted. That
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>monarch was then sinking rapidly into the grave, under
the pressure of bodily disease, and the perpetual
stings of his conscience. Haunted by appalling dreams,
and by direful spectres and dismal sounds, which his
fancy incessantly conjured up, he had fallen into a
state which scarcely the remembrance of his crimes
can prevent us from pitying. It was at this period
that the party was formed which adopted the appellations
of Politicians and Malecontents. The first of
these names was chosen to show that the persons assuming
it were not actuated, like the protestants, by
religious motives. The oppressive weight of the taxes,
the insolent licentiousness of the soldiery, and the
cruelty and flagrant incapacity of those who managed
the public affairs, were their grounds of complaint.
At the head of this party, which soon became considerable,
were William de Montmorenci and his nephew,
the Viscount de Turenne. Though this party consisted
of catholics, yet, as among the objects which it
sought to obtain there were many which the protestants
no less eagerly desired, it was not long before a
coalition was formed between them.</p>

<p>To give greater weight and consistence to the party,
it was thought advisable to provide for it a chief of a
more elevated rank than Montmorenci and Turenne.
The duke of Alençon, one of the king’s brothers, who
is known in English history as the duke of Anjou,
was the chosen individual. With many defects, and
a scanty share of virtues, he had some qualifications
for being head of the party. To the protestants he
was recommended by his being far less hostile than the
rest of his family, and by his having been an unalterable
friend of the murdered admiral Coligni. Alençon
was irritated by the restraint, little short of imprisonment,
under which he was kept at court, and by the
refusal to confer on him the lieutenant generalship of
the kingdom, which had been held by his brother
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>Henry; and was consequently not averse from joining
those who could contribute to gratify his ambition.
It has, indeed, been supposed, and the supposition
is by no means improbable, that the party, or
at least the protestant branch of it, would have been
willing to raise him to the throne, to the exclusion of
Henry, his elder brother.</p>

<p>Two of the principal agents in forwarding the design
of the malecontents were la Mole, and the count
de Coconas, the favourites of the duke of Alençon.
La Mole was an officer, a native of Provence. Among
the ladies of the court he was much admired for his
liveliness and companionable qualities. His time was
divided, not quite equally, between sinning and hearing
mass; the latter of which he attended three or four
times a day. It was said of him by the king, that
whoever wished to keep a register of la Mole’s debaucheries,
need only reckon up his masses. He was
notoriously one of the gallants of Margaret of Valois,
as Coconas was of the duchess of Nevers, the eldest
of three sisters, who were called the Graces. Coconas
was one of the many Italians who were attracted into
France by the hope of receiving patronage from Catherine
of Medicis. One anecdote will suffice to demonstrate
the fiendishness of his nature. During the
massacre of St. Bartholomew, he bought from the
populace thirty hugonot prisoners, that he might gratify
himself, by subjecting them to torture both of
body and mind. After having, by a promise of saving
their lives, induced them to renounce their faith, he
put them slowly to death by numerous superficial dagger
wounds. Of this act he was accustomed to boast.
The fate of such a man can excite no pity.</p>

<p>All was arranged for the flight of the duke of
Alençon, the king of Navarre, and the prince of Condé,
from the court, in order to join the malecontents, and
hoist the standard of opposition. Bands of troops were
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>hovering round the palace of St. Germain, to protect
their retreat. But the plot was disconcerted by the
vigilance of Catherine of Medicis, the imprudence of
some of the plotters, and the hesitation of the feeble-minded
duke. At two in the morning, Catherine hurried
the dying Charles from St. Germain to Paris in
a litter, and placed guards over the duke and the king
of Navarre; Condé, more prudent than his associates,
had embraced the first opportunity to escape. There
were some ludicrous circumstances connected with the
hasty retreat to Paris. “The cardinals of Bourbon,
Lorraine, and Guise,” says d’Aubigné, “the chancellor
Birague, and Morvilliers and Bellièvre, were all
mounted on Italian coursers, grasping with both hands
their saddle bows, and as thoroughly frightened at their
horses as at the enemy.” Contrasting strongly with
this was the pitiable state of the monarch, with his
frame debilitated, and all the weight of the St. Bartholomew
on his soul, groaning, and mournfully exclaiming,
“At least they might have waited till I
was dead!”</p>

<p>Indignant at what he called a foul conspiracy, the
king ordered that a rigid enquiry should instantly be
commenced. La Mole denied every thing; Coconas,
on the contrary, disclosed all that he knew, and perhaps
more. But the fate of the conspirators was sealed
by the duke of Alençon, who made an ample confession,
without even having attempted to stipulate for
the lives of his confederates. Coconas and la Mole,
who had been sent to the Bastile, were now brought
to trial; and, by dint of legal sophistry, the project of
bringing about the flight of the princes was construed
into a design against the person of the king.</p>

<p>Coconas and la Mole were condemned to be put to
the torture, and then beheaded. “Poor la Mole!”
exclaimed the latter, while he was suffering the first
part of his sentence, “is there no way to obtain a pardon?
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>The duke, my master, to whom I owe innumerable
obligations, commanded me on my life to say
nothing of what he was about to do. I answered, yes,
sir, if you do nothing against the king.” The unfortunate
man, like vast numbers at that period, had faith
in magic arts. A waxen image, of which the heart
was pierced through with a needle, had been found
among his effects. On being questioned whether this
was not meant to represent the king, and to be an instrument
of tormenting his majesty, he replied that its
only purpose was to inspire love in a lady, of whom
he was deeply enamoured.</p>

<p>On the scaffold, before he laid down his head on the
block, he significantly said to the by-standers, “You see,
sirs, that the little ones are caught, and that the great
ones, who have been guilty of the fault, are allowed
to escape.” La Mole displayed his ruling passion
strong in death. His last words, after having prayed
to God and the Virgin, were, “commend me to the
kind remembrance of the queen of Navarre and the
ladies.” He was not forgotten by his lady-love; neither
was his companion. Queen Margaret and the
duchess of Nevers are said by some to have embalmed
the heads of their admirers, that they might always
preserve them for contemplation; while by others they
are asserted to have taken them in a carriage to a
chapel, at the foot of Montmartre, and buried them
with their own hands. Two years afterwards, the
sentences against la Mole and Coconas were annulled
by Henry III.</p>

<p>The abortive plot in favour of the duke of Alençon
proved a source of trouble to two individuals, more
eminent in rank, and far more estimable in character,
than were la Mole and Coconas. The marshals Francis
de Montmorenci, and Arthur de Cossé, the former
of whom was the eldest son of the celebrated constable,
were suspected, or pretended to be so, by the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>queen mother; Montmorenci was also well known to
feel that hatred of the Guises which was characteristic
of his family. At her suggestion, therefore, they
were committed to the Bastile, by Charles IX. This
was nearly the last exercise of his authority. He died
about a fortnight after, leaving his mother to hold the
office of regent, till his successor, the third Henry,
could return from Poland.</p>

<p>Montmorenci was the husband of Diana, the natural
daughter of Henry II., and had been employed on
numerous occasions, civil and military, in all of which
he had honourably acquitted himself. Of his martial
exploits the most prominent was the brave though
unsuccessful defence of Terouane. He was liberal,
high-minded, learned, firm, and of invariable rectitude.
Cossé was still more illustrious in arms than his
fellow prisoner. He had distinguished himself at various
sieges, particularly those of Sens and Metz, and
in the battle of St. Denis, and many other encounters.
Nor was he a mere enterprising soldier. It is said of
him, by contemporary historians, and it is no light
praise, “that his head was as good as his arm.”</p>

<p>The party which had hitherto been known as that
of the Politicians now took the name of the Third
Party. It received a large increase, by the junction
of catholics, whose indignation was excited by the
constraint put upon the duke of Alençon and the king
of Navarre, at Vincennes, and the close imprisonment
of two such eminent men as de Montmorenci and de
Cossé. Condé, too, was busy in Germany, stirring
up the protestant princes to succour his friends, and
keeping up a continual correspondence with the
French calvinists.</p>

<p>On his taking possession of the throne, Henry set
at liberty the king of Navarre and the duke of Alençon.
The marshals, however, were still retained in
confinement. Diana, the wife of Montmorenci, had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>adopted a singular mode of moving in her husband’s
behalf the feelings of the monarch. Dressed in deep
mourning, and followed by all her female attendants
in the same garb, she met Henry as he was passing
through the street, fell at his feet, and entreated him
to take compassion on her husband, whose health was
declining in a prison, into which he had been thrown
without being convicted, or so much as accused, of
any crime. She likewise forcibly urged that, even if
his majesty supposed him to be guilty, he ought to
grant him a fair trial. The king seemed to be affected
by her appeal, which was backed by some of the nobles
who were present, and he promised to enquire into
the business with as little delay as possible.</p>

<p>The promise of the king, however, if sincere at the
moment, was soon disregarded. Cossé, who, like his
fellow captive, was suffering from bad health, was, indeed,
allowed to take up his abode in his own house,
under a guard; but the only deliverance which was
destined for Montmorenci was deliverance from all
the troubles of this world. It appears, in fact, that
his life would not have been safe for a moment, but
for the salutary fear that his death would drive into
open hostility his brother Damville, who held the government
of Languedoc. A report having been spread
that Damville was dead, the king resolved to have the
marshal strangled in prison, and, as a preliminary step,
it was industriously given out that he was subject to
apoplectic attacks. This barbarous and cowardly
scheme would have been carried into effect, had not
an obstacle occurred. Giles de Souvré, who had been
mistakenly selected to perform the assassin’s part,
chanced to be a more honest man than his royal master,
and he purposely interposed so many delays, that
time was afforded to ascertain the falsehood of the
report which had announced the death of Damville.</p>

<p>It was neither to the clemency nor the justice of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>his sovereign that Montmorenci was ultimately indebted
for the recovery of his freedom. Endangered
by the betrayal of a plot into which he had entered
against his brother, Alençon mustered up courage
enough to run away. His flight took place on the
16th of September 1575. As soon as he was in
safety, at Dreux, he issued a manifesto, not unartfully
contrived, to gain partisans in various quarters. Reform
in every department was the tempting burden of
its song. It worked its intended effect; the protestants
were in raptures, the Third Party was satisfied
with it, and he speedily found himself in a situation
to set the court at defiance.</p>

<p>William, one of the brothers of Montmorenci, whom
we have seen one of the original chiefs of the Politicians,
was now about to enter the French territory at
the head of a division of troops, designed to herald the
way to the army which the prince of Condé had succeeded
in obtaining from the Elector Palatine. In the
first outbreak of her anger, on hearing this news, the
queen mother sent him word, that, if he dared to advance,
she would despatch to him the heads of the two
marshals. His reply was, “Should the queen do as
she threatens, there is nothing of hers in France on
which I will not leave the marks of my revenge.”</p>

<p>Menace having failed, the wily Catherine resorted
to an opposite mode of proceeding. Aware that the
liberation of the two marshals would be imperatively
demanded by their armed friends, and that the king was
too weak to refuse it, she determined to try whether she
could not secure their gratitude, by appearing to have
the merit of voluntarily releasing them. They were
accordingly restored to liberty. By a declaration, under
the royal seal, Montmorenci was pronounced to be
“absolutely innocent of the crime which had been laid
to his charge,” When a similar exculpatory document
was offered to Cossé by the king, he chivalrously replied,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>“Excuse me, sire, for declining it; a Cossé
ought to think that no one can believe him to be guilty.”</p>

<p>Though they could not be ignorant of the motive
which had induced Catherine to throw open their prison
doors, the marshals acted as if a favour had really
been granted to them. Montmorenci had the largest
share in bringing about the truce, and the subsequent
treaty, between the king and the duke of Alençon;
and the loyalty of Cossé was considered to be so unimpeachable
that, in 1578, he received the order of
the Holy Ghost. Montmorenci died in 1579; Cossé
in 1582.</p>

<p>The principal favourite of the duke of Alençon, after
the death of la Mole and Coconas, was Louis de Clermont,
better known by the appellation of Bussy d’Amboise.
In profligacy he went beyond his predecessors.
He seems to have been a compound of vices, without
a single virtue; unless, indeed, we may give the name
of virtue to mere brutal courage. Full of pride and
insolence, eager to involve others in deadly quarrels, a
libertine, a professed duellist, and a cold-blooded assassin,
his being tolerated at the French court, and even
admired by many persons, is an unrefutable evidence
of the wretched state of morals among the nobility of
France. Bravery must have been held in a sort of
idolatrous estimation, when respect for it could induce
such a man as Crillon to be the friend of d’Amboise.</p>

<p>The first achievement which Bussy is known to have
performed stamps his name with infamy. He was engaged
in a lawsuit against the marquis of Renel, one
of his relations, to recover from him the marquisate,
which Bussy claimed as his right. The marquis had
come to Paris, with the king of Navarre, and was there
when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took place. In
the midst of the carnage, Bussy sought him out, and
stabbed him to the heart. The parliament, soon after,
passed a decree, admitting the murderer’s claim; but
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>it is consolatory to find that the decree was subsequently
annulled.</p>

<p>Having attached himself to the duke of Alençon, he
was entrusted with the government of the castle of Angers,
and he soon made himself universally hated, by
his extortion and tyranny. When he visited the court
with his master, his arrogance and audacity rose to
such a height, that the king’s favourites, whom he had
often insulted, at length formed a scheme to assassinate
him. The attack was made at night, and with
superior numbers; but it was foiled by the skill and
resolution of Bussy and his followers.</p>

<p>The monarch himself was not safe from the contemptuous
sarcasms of Bussy. In their dress, Henry
and his minions carried to the most extravagant length
the costly and absurd fashions of that period. Bussy
one day attended his patron to court. He himself was
simply dressed, but he was followed by six pages, clad
in cloth of gold, and tricked out in the most approved
style of finery. That the point of this silent satire
might not be lost, he insultingly proclaimed aloud, that
“the time was come when ragamuffins would make
the most show!” The king was so irritated by this
language, that, for a while, the duke was obliged to forbid
Bussy from appearing in his train.</p>

<p>About the same time, Bussy gave fresh cause of
offence to the king. Ever seeking an opportunity to
indulge his passion for duelling, he had wantonly quarrelled
with a gentleman named St. Phal. Looking at
some embroidery, St. Phal remarked that the letter X
was worked on it; Bussy, from sheer contradiction,
asserted that the letter was a Y. A duel of six against
six in consequence took place, and Bussy was slightly
wounded. As, however, Bussy sent his antagonist a second
challenge, and expressed a stubborn determination
to follow up the quarrel to the last extremity, the king
interposed to put an end to it. Bussy reluctantly consented
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>to meet St. Phal, in the king’s presence, for
the purpose of reconcilement, and when, with that intent,
he went to the Louvre, he was accompanied into
the palace by a band of two hundred determined partisans.
The anger of the king was excited by this irruption
of bravos, but for the present he restrained it.</p>

<p>In one of those fits of suspecting his brother, with
which Henry was occasionally seized, he went by night
to put him under arrest, and, at the same time, he sent
Bussy to the Bastile. On the following morning, a
council was held, at which, prompted by the queen
mother, the ministers declared that the step which the
king had taken was impolitic, and advised him to be
reconciled with the duke. Henry consented. The
only stipulation which he made was, that Bussy, on
being liberated, should be reconciled to Caylus, the
king’s favourite, with whom he was at enmity. Bussy
complied, and, in complying, contrived to throw ridicule
on the weak monarch. “Sire,” said he, “if you
wish me to kiss him, I am quite ready to do it;” then,
suiting the action to the word, he embraced Caylus in
such a thoroughly farcical style, that the spectators
were unable to repress their laughter.</p>

<p>It was not long before the libertinism of Bussy supplied
Henry with the means of destroying him. It is
probable that, in his amours, the pleasure of betraying
the women who confided in him formed one of the
greatest inducements to pursue them—a base feeling,
which is still prevalent. In a letter to the duke of
Anjou, he boasted that he had been spreading his nets
for the Great Huntsman’s beast, and that he held her
fast in them. The Great Huntsman was the count de
Montsoreau, who held that office; the beast, as she
was politely called, was the count’s wife, whom the profligate
writer had seduced. This letter Anjou put into
the king’s hands, as a good jest. Henry kept it, and
communicated it to the count, whom he urged to revenge
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>himself on the offender. Montsoreau was not
backward to follow the king’s advice. He hurried
home, and compelled his wife to write to Bussy, to
make an assignation with him. Bussy was true to
the appointment. Instead, however, of meeting the
countess, he was attacked by Montsoreau and several
men, all of whom wore coats of mail. In spite of the
odds against him, he fought for some time with determined
spirit; but, finding that he must eventually be
overpowered, he tried to escape through the window,
and was slain by a stab in the back. “The whole province,”
says de Thou, “was delighted at his fall, and
even the duke of Anjou was not very sorry to be rid
of a man who began to be a burthen to him.”</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</h2>

<p>Reign of Henry III. continued—Conspiracy of Salcede—Francis
de Rosières—Peter de Belloy—Francis le Breton—Bernard
Palissy—Daring plots of the League—Henry III. expelled from
Paris—The Bastile surrenders to Guise—Bussi le Clerc appointed
governor—Damours—James de la Guesle—Reign of Henry IV.—Members
of the parliament arrested—President de Harlay—Potier
de Blancmesnil—The family of Seguier—Speeches of
Henry IV.—Louis Seguier—James Gillot—Outrage committed
by the Council of Sixteen—It is punished by the duke of Mayenne—Henry
IV. enters Paris—Surrender of the Bastile—Du Bourg—Treasure
deposited in the Bastile by Henry.</p>

</div>

<p>It was a conspiracy against the duke of Anjou, and
the king of France, that brought the next prisoner of
importance to the Bastile. This conspiracy originated
with the Guises, was promoted by that great artisan of
mischief Philip the Second of Spain, and contained the
seminal principle of the subsequent war, which is known
as the war of the League. The agent employed in
carrying it on was Nicholas Salcede, a man of daring
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>and profligate character, whose father, a Spanish gentleman,
the governor of Vic, in Lorraine, having offended
the Guises, was slain, though he was a catholic,
in the massacre of St. Bartholomew. By dint, however,
of heaping favours and attentions on him, the
Guises, to whom, indeed, he was distantly related, soon
induced Salcede to forget the murder of his parent. By
a crowning act of kindness, they, in some measure, acquired
a right to his services. Counterfeiting the king’s
coin, as well as that of foreign states, was a crime which,
for a long series of years, was of common occurrence in
France among persons of rank. The punishment of
throwing them into boiling oil was insufficient to deter
them; for it was so often evaded that it ceased to create
terror. Salcede had carried the practice of coining to
such an extent as to be able to purchase an estate.
Being detected, he was summoned to take his trial at
Rouen, and, as he prudently refused to appear, sentence
of death was passed upon him as a contumacious criminal.
But the duke of Lorraine interceded for him,
and his pardon was granted. This, and the prospect of
honours and rewards, linked him firmly to the Guises.</p>

<p>The duke of Anjou was, at this period, struggling to
acquire the sovereignty of the Netherlands, and under
his banner were arrayed an immense number of the
French nobles. To the members of the house of Lorraine
he was inveterately hostile; for he looked upon
them as his personal enemies, and as having been authors
of the many mortifications which he had undergone.
To prevent him from entering France, for the
purpose of succouring his brother Henry, was, therefore,
an object of primary importance; as, if that were
not attained, their project of dethroning the king, or at
least becoming viceroys over him, could scarcely hope
for success. Morality was, in those days, at so low an
ebb among the great, that it is probable the Guises
would have felt but few scruples in accomplishing their
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>purpose by the death of the duke; though, avowedly,
their sole aim was to shut him out of France, by
closing against him the northern frontier and the ports
of Britanny.</p>

<p>The daring spirit and desperate situation of Salcede—for
he was deeply involved in debt—pointed him out
to the Guises as a fit instrument. The duke of Guise
tempted him by a solemn assurance, that the king of
Spain would reward him with rank and occupation proportioned
to the magnitude of his services; and he
backed his arguments and promises by descanting on
the benefit which the catholic religion would derive
from ruining the duke of Anjou. His eloquence
prevailed, and Salcede unreluctantly devoted himself
to the furtherance of the treasonable scheme.</p>

<p>It was arranged, that the Guises should secretly furnish
funds for raising a regiment, to be commanded by
Salcede, and that he should then proceed to the duke
of Anjou, and offer to bring to his banner a chosen
body of men, who would engage to remain under it for
several months. No doubt was entertained that, as the
duke was scantily provided with money, was, in consequence,
daily deserted by some of his troops, and had
no great confidence in the Belgians, he would gladly
accept this offer; and would either entrust the new
corps with the keeping of some important fortress, or
reserve it as a guard for his own person. In either
case, the conspirators could turn the circumstance to
account. The seizure of Dunkirk and Cambray were
the main points to which Salcede’s attention was to be
directed; but he was also to do his best to shake the
fidelity of Anjou’s officers, and, of course, was to act
as spy for the Spanish monarch. The prince of Parma,
meanwhile, was gradually to approach Calais, the governor
of which town, it is said, had promised to betray
his trust. The sudden loss of Calais would, it was
imagined, so terrify Henry, that he would give the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>supreme command of his forces to the duke of Guise;
the French accomplices of the Guises would then rise
in arms; and the plan of subverting the government
would be easily executed.</p>

<p>As had been expected, the proposal of Salcede was
listened to with much pleasure by the duke of Anjou,
who treated him as a valuable friend. The duke
was as yet ignorant that the conspirator had been reconciled
to the Guises. Nor was he aware that, in
his way to Bruges, Salcede had visited the enemy’s
camp, had a conference with the prince of Parma, the
viceroy, and been accompanied to Bruges by two of the
prince’s agents. But the sharp-sighted prince of Orange
was not disposed to grant his confidence to the newcomer
so readily as the duke; he disliked and suspected
him, both as being in his origin a Spaniard, and as
having been found guilty of an infamous offence. The
enquiries of the prince of Orange elicited sufficient evidence
to justify his suspicion that Salcede had sinister
designs, and he, therefore, advised the duke to arrest
him. This advice was followed by Anjou, who had already
learned, from another quarter, that his pretended
partisan was connected with the Guises. Salcede was
accordingly arrested on his coming to the palace. The
two agents of the prince of Parma were waiting at the
palace gate for their confederate’s return; one of them
escaped, the other, Francis Baza by name, was seized
and committed to prison. In the course of a few days,
Baza put an end to his existence.</p>

<p>In the first examination, mysterious hints were all
that could be drawn from Salcede; in the second, he
spontaneously disclosed so complicated and gigantic a
conspiracy, that his hearers were astounded. That
part of it which related to Belgium and the duke of
Anjou was the smallest part; a mere episode in the
Guisian Iliad. The conspirators purposed nothing less
than to imprison the king of France, exterminate the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>royal family, and subject the kingdom to the domination
of Spain. Their means Salcede stated to be immense.
As implicated in the plot, he named a multitude
of the most powerful nobles, a majority of the
governors of provinces and towns, and even some of
the king’s ministers and favourites. The provinces of
Picardy, Champagne, Burgundy, Britanny, and the Cotentin,
were, he said, secured by the plotters; nor would
foreign aid be wanting, as the papal and Piedmontese
troops were to enter France on the side of Lyons, while
two Spanish armies were to pass the Pyrenees into
Bearn and Gascony, where the malecontents were in
readiness to receive them. This deposition, after a
lapse of some days, he voluntarily repeated and enlarged,
and he offered to prove it, by being confronted
with three persons, whom he had before mentioned, and
who, he was convinced, would confess that he had
spoken but the truth.</p>

<p>This disclosure was of too much importance to Henry
of France to admit of delay in making it known to him.
The duke of Anjou accordingly despatched one of his
chamberlains to Paris, with the depositions, and a letter,
in which the Guises were not spared. At first,
Henry was startled at the seeming danger; but his
natural dislike of business, and his love of pleasure,
soon induced him to take refuge in the idea that the
whole was an invention of some one who wished to
disturb his quiet, or a stratagem of his brother, to obtain
liberal succours. Not so thought his minister
Bellièvre, in whom he placed great confidence. While
the minister perused the paper, the changes in his
countenance plainly showed that he thought the plot
was real, and the peril from it extreme. It was at
length settled, that Bellièvre, accompanied by Brulart,
one of the secretaries of state, should proceed to Bruges,
interrogate Salcede, and require that the criminal should
be transferred to Paris. “If,” said the king, “my
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>brother consents to the transfer, I shall believe that a
conspiracy exists.”</p>

<p>When Bellièvre questioned him, Salcede, for the
third time, repeated his story. He was now conveyed
to France, and placed in the castle of Vincennes; the
duke of Anjou having readily acceded to the wish of
his brother. When, however, he was brought before
the king in council, he disavowed all that he had previously
said. His confession had, he affirmed, been
dictated to him by three persons in the duke’s service,
who compelled him to write it. “Why, then, did you
say the same to Bellièvre, when those persons were
absent?” inquired the king. To this the unblushing
prisoner answered, that Bellièvre had intimidated him
by threats, and that he had always been under the influence
of terror while he was in the ducal palace. Bellièvre
was a man remarkable for patience and politeness,
but he was so provoked by this charge, that he
could not forbear from exclaiming, “You are an impudent
slanderer.” At the close of the examination,
Salcede was removed to the Bastile. There he was
again examined, and there he persisted in his disavowal.</p>

<p>It now became a question what should be done with
Salcede. The president de Thou advised that he should
be retained in prison. He urged that, if the conspiracy
were real, his detention would intimidate his accomplices,
and afford the means of convicting them in case
of need; while, on the other hand, if the conspiracy
were only a calumny, invented by turbulent and ill-disposed
persons, the existence of the criminal might
serve to justify the innocence of those whom he had
accused. His son, the celebrated historian, tells us,
that the president had an additional motive in thus advising;
he wished not merely to hold the conspirators
in check, by preserving the evidence of their guilt, but,
at the same time, to keep before the king’s eyes a memento
of the danger to which he exposed himself by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>his unbridled licentiousness, and his oppressive misgovernment.</p>

<p>This prudent counsel was, however, strenuously opposed.
It was contended that, in whatever light the
question was viewed, the culprit ought to die. Supposing
the plot to be a reality, his death would terrify
his associates; his being suffered to live might drive
them to rebellion through despair. If, on the contrary,
his tale were false, death ought to punish the calumny;
and the more so because, if impunity were granted to
him, resentment, at being unjustly suspected, might
provoke innocent persons to become really criminal.</p>

<p>The motive which prompted many to insist on the
latter mode of proceeding cannot be mistaken; they
were pleading for their own lives, or the lives of their
friends. The weakness of their reasoning is so evident
as to need no exposure. It was not by stifling inquiry
that the monarch could hope to neutralize or convert
his enemies. History does, indeed, record instances
where it was wise as well as generous to throw the veil
of oblivion over an incipient plot, and save the plotters
from the necessity of becoming open rebels; but this
was not a case of the kind. The plotters against
Henry were irreclaimable, and, ascribing his conduct
to fear and not to mildness, would only be encouraged
to persist in their destructive projects. When
justice has pronounced upon the criminal, then is the
time for a sovereign to show mercy; and, if he have a
human heart, he will set no other bounds to his clemency
than those which are imperatively prescribed by
the safety of the state. But he who shrinks from prosecuting
a traitor offers a premium for the growth of
treason.</p>

<p>Henry, nevertheless, decided otherwise. He adopted
the opinion of those who were for sending Salcede to
the scaffold. In thus following their insidious advice,
he was not influenced by principle or mistaken policy;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>he was mainly actuated by a childish impatience, an
eagerness to get rid of a disagreeable subject, which
interrupted his contemptible pleasures. Like the stupid
bird, which hopes to baffle its pursuers by hiding
its head, he seems to have thought that if danger were
out of sight it could not reach him. He had, however,
another and an equally mean reason for his decision;
the wish to mortify de Thou. The president had recently
offended him by a virtuous and truly loyal act.
Dreading the effect which would be produced by the
king’s incessant edicts to extort money, he implored
him to pause, lest poverty and despair should drive the
people to resistance. Instead of profiting by this patriotic
warning, Henry turned round to his train of
flatterers, and sneeringly exclaimed, “The poor man
is in a state of dotage!” He was righteously punished
for his scorn of honest and prudent counsel. Ere many
years had gone by, he was taught to lament with tears
the loss of this doting magistrate, and to confess that,
had de Thou lived, Paris would never have revolted.</p>

<p>Salcede was brought to trial. Everything that could
throw light on the fact of the conspiracy was studiously
suppressed; there was no search for evidence relative
to it, no examination and confronting of the persons
who had been charged by the prisoner. The sole object
was to obtain a sentence of death against the man
whose existence might prove fatal to the conspirators.
That object was accomplished on the 25th of October,
1582. Salcede was pronounced guilty of high treason,
and was condemned to be torn into quarters by four
horses; his quarters were to be placed on gibbets, at
the principal gates of Paris, and his head was to be sent
to Antwerp, to be exposed in a similar manner. Immediately
previous to his execution, he was likewise to
be put to the torture; this was a supererogatory act of
cruelty, for, even if we admit the possibility of justifying
the use of torture, its infliction in this instance
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>could answer no useful purpose. It was decreed, also,
by his judges, that “his confessions, the private letters
found on him, and <i>the declarations which he had made
since the commencement of his trial</i>, should be burnt
to ashes; as having been malignantly and calumniously
invented, to prejudice the honour of various
princes, nobles, and other persons.” Here is the key
to the whole proceeding.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“Light dies before thy uncreating word!</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Thy hand, great anarch, lets the curtain fall,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">And universal darkness buries all.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The king was sufficiently devoid of feeling to witness,
behind a curtain, the torturing of the prisoner, and to
go to the Town Hall, to see executed the ferocious and
sickening sentence, which condemned a fellow being to
be torn to pieces by horses. But, even in that corrupt
and semi-barbarous age, there were not wanting persons
who passed a severe censure on Henry, for conduct
which was disgraceful to him as a king and a man.</p>

<p>When the torture was applied, Salcede again veered
about; he re-asserted the whole of what he had originally
stated, with respect to the conspiracy. This
blow was, however, adroitly parried by those whom it
might otherwise have injured. As he was passing up
a dark staircase, after having been tortured, he was
joined by a priest, of the order of Jesuits, who exhorted
him to retract his confession once more. This ghostly
adviser no doubt worked powerfully on his hopes and
fears, with regard to another world, and he succeeded
in prevailing on him to make a new retractation. As
nothing was to be gained by varying in his story, he
persisted in this retractation, and, at the place of execution,
he loudly extolled the virtues, and proclaimed
the innocence, of his patrons, the Guises. He lived a
villain, and he died a self-convicted liar.</p>

<p>In the following year, 1583, there occurred another,
but comparatively a trivial, illustration of the ambitious
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>views of the Guises, and the vacillation and timidity of
the king. Francis de Rosières, a native of Toul, born
in 1534, was a man of prepossessing manners, and of
considerable erudition and eloquence. He rose to be
archdeacon of Toul, and through the patronage of cardinal
de Guise, obtained several benefices, and the office
of counsellor to the duke of Lorraine. To prove
his gratitude to his benefactors, and probably at their
instigation, he composed and published a voluminous
work, on “the genealogy of the dukes of Lorraine and
Bar.” Its evident purpose was to degrade the reigning
family, and exalt that of the Guises. Not satisfied
with tracing back in a direct line to Charlemagne the
descent of the house of Lorraine, he carried it further
through the starless night of ages, up to a son of Clodion,
from whom Merovæus was pretended to have
usurped the crown. The inference was easy, that the
monarchs of the Capetian race were intruders, and that
the Guises alone had a legitimate right to the throne.
From thence to the assertion of the right was but a
single step, on the propriety of which it was for prudence
to decide, the question of justice being already
settled. This doctrine was, in fact, openly taught in
other works, which the Guises, however, affected to
disavow, and to regard as fabrications of the protestants,
for the purpose of throwing suspicion on their loyalty.</p>

<p>In addition to his laboured genealogy of his patrons,
Rosières had been guilty of various misrepresentations,
and of a personal attack upon Henry; and he had supported
his fabric of falsehood by documents which were
manifestly spurious, and by altering others, so as to
suit them to his purpose. The other libels Henry had
repelled only by employing Pons de Thyard, a man of
varied talents, to write an elaborate answer: against
this he resolved to proceed in a different manner; he
treated it as a state crime. He who had swallowed
the camel of last year’s conspiracy, now strained at this
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>gnat of a volume. And here again his infirmity of
purpose betrayed him to the scorn of his enemies.
Commencing vigorously, he despatched Brulart to
Toul, to interrogate Rosières; after which the archdeacon
was conveyed to Paris, and housed in the Bastile.
Thus far, Henry seemed to have meditated a
tragedy; but, in its further progress the drama dwindled
down to a miserable farce. The plan which he
adopted had the demerit of alike disclosing an inclination
to mortify the Guises, and a dread of offending
them. It was the latter feeling which prompted him
to prohibit the parliament from intervening in the cause,
because that body would probably pass a sentence derogatory
to the house of Lorraine; it was the former
feeling which induced him to persevere in seeking to
gain the shadow of a triumph. He could not see
that any thing short of complete victory was in reality
a defeat.</p>

<p>Pursuing the absurd system which he had framed
for himself, Henry now convoked, at the Louvre, a
numerous council of nobles and eminent men; all the
heads of the Lorraine family were present. Rosières
was brought from the Bastile, and, on his knees confessed
his fault, owned that he deserved rigorous punishment,
and sued for pardon. The keeper of the
seals then gravely lectured him on the enormity of his
crime, and declared him to be guilty of high treason.
It was next the turn of the queen-mother to play her
part; and, accordingly, as had previously been arranged,
she stepped forward, and entreated her son to forgive
the offender, for the sake of the duke of Lorraine.
The king graciously consented, and delivered Rosières
into the hands of the duke. This ludicrous scene
was terminated by a decree, that the book should be
torn to pieces before the author’s face, but that no
public record should be made of these things, “lest
reproach should fall on the illustrious house of Lorraine.”
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>Anquetil pithily remarks, that the crime ought
either to have been left unnoticed, or been more severely
chastised.</p>

<p>Rosières did not pass the whole of his remaining
days in tranquillity. He involved himself in a quarrel
with his bishop, and was under the necessity of repairing
to Rome, to plead his own cause. How he sped
in the holy city is doubtful; one writer affirms that he
was censured, another maintains that he was absolved.
He died in 1607. Besides the Genealogy, he wrote
various works, which are as dead as their author.</p>

<p>Writers who ventured to thwart the Guises in their
treasonable designs did not meet with so much lenity
from them as was shown to Rosières by the feeble-minded
Henry. No merit whatever could counterbalance
the sin of opposing them. This was experienced
by Peter de Belloy, an eminent jurisconsult, who was
born at Montauban, about 1540, and became public
professor and counsellor at Toulouse. Belloy was a
zealous catholic, and his three elder brothers had fallen
in combating against the protestants. But these
claims to consideration were not sufficient to prevent
him from being persecuted by the house of Lorraine.</p>

<p>Asserting the king of Navarre’s right to succeed to
the reigning monarch, and exposing the machinations
and hollow pretexts of the Guises, was the crime of
which Belloy was guilty. The works which drew on
him the vengeance of the Guisian faction were the
“Catholic Apology;” “A Refutation of the Bull of
Pope Pius V. against the Navarrese sovereign;” and
“An Examination of the Discourse published against
the Royal House of France.” In these works, which
were given to the press in 1585 and 1586, he contended,
that the protestantism of Henry of Navarre
did not deprive him of his title to the crown; that the
king could not disinherit his legitimate heir; that the
Pope had no authority to sit in judgment upon the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>question of the succession; and that the seeming ardour
of the Guises, in behalf of catholicism, was nothing
more than a mask to cover their designs upon the
throne. His language was strictly decorous, his candour
and impartiality were evident, but his facts and
arguments were unforgivable.</p>

<p>Slander was the weapon which his enemies began
by using against Belloy. To his “Catholic Apology”
a reply was published by a Jesuit, who assumed the designation
of Francisculus Romulus, but who is believed
to have been the celebrated Bellarmin. To give weight
to his reasonings, the Jesuit boldly asserted that his
opponent, who falsely took the name of catholic, was
at least a heretic, if not an atheist. This calumny
fell harmless upon the object at which it was aimed.
It was not so with calumny from a higher quarter.
The Guises were not satisfied with defaming him;
they determined to make him feel their power more
effectually. An unfortunate maniac, le Breton by
name, of whom I shall have next occasion to speak,
had written a seditious libel. This libel the Guises
ascribed to Belloy. Failing to effect their purpose by
this accusation, they painted him in the darkest colours
to the king, as a dangerous mischief-maker and heretic,
and the weak monarch was at last prevailed upon
to commit him to the prison of the Concièrgerie.</p>

<p>After Henry had assassinated the duke of Guise, the
Council of Sixteen removed Belloy to the Bastile, where
he remained in close confinement for nearly four years.
He at length found means to escape, and he sought refuge
at St. Denis, which was garrisoned by the troops
of Henry IV. He was introduced to Henry, by Vic, the
governor, and the king rewarded his talents and fidelity,
by appointing him advocate-general to the parliament
of Toulouse. His subsequent life appears to
have been passed in quiet. The date of his death is
not known, but in 1612 he was still living. He wrote
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>various works, besides those which have already been
mentioned: among them are a “Dissertation on the
Origin and Institution of various Orders of Chivalry;”
and “An Exposition of the Seventy Weeks of Daniel.”</p>

<p>Francis le Breton, to whom I have already alluded,
affords a striking proof that, when Henry the third
forbore to punish, it was not clemency, but fear, indolence,
or caprice, that withheld his hand. Le Breton
was a barrister of Poitiers, who had acquired considerable
reputation by his forensic talents. It speaks
strongly in favour of his honesty and the kindness of
his nature, that he espoused so warmly the part of
those for whom he pleaded, as entirely to identify their
interest with his own. A mere mercenary counsel,
indifferent to the justice or injustice of his client’s
claim, could have had no such feelings. Unfortunately,
le Breton was of a family in which symptoms of insanity
had often appeared, and the dreadful malady
was lurking in his brain. The loss of a cause, in
which he was engaged for a poor individual, at once
roused the latent disease into action. He burst into
vehement invectives against the judges, and presented
a violent memorial against them to a higher tribunal.
The superior judges, who saw how he was affected,
gave him a gentle rebuke, and dismissed the complaint.
Irritated by this, he journeyed to Paris, to
make an appeal to the king. Having fastened his
memorial on the end of a stick, he went to the Louvre,
where the guards, who rightly concluded that he was
bereft of his senses, endeavoured to drive him away.
Le Breton, however, was immovable, and he exclaimed
so loudly and incessantly, “The cause of the poor is
abandoned, and God will take vengeance for it,” that
the noise reached the king’s ear, and he ordered him
to be admitted. Henry listened to his story, and then
commanded him to return to his own country, and to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>keep silence in public. To have sent him to the hospital
would have been a more praiseworthy act.</p>

<p>Instead of proceeding to Poitiers, the maniac wandered
through the provinces, calling on the people to
recover their liberty, and sending inflammatory writings
to the towns which were too distant for him to visit.
At last he reached Bordeaux, and demanded an interview
with the duke of Mayenne. It was granted;
and the unfortunate lunatic employed the whole of it
in conjuring the duke to defend the cause of the poor.
Mayenne, who felt that le Breton’s harangues to the
multitude, mad as he was, might be serviceable to the
Guises, gave him money, and probably hopes, and
then desired him to withdraw.</p>

<p>Encouraged by this gracious reception, le Breton
made the best of his way to Paris, where he sat down
to compose a furious invective against the king, whom,
with more truth than prudence or decorum, he styled
a debauched tyrant, and the magistrates, whom he
stigmatised as men steeped in wickedness, who, to
please that tyrant, and gratify men in power, betrayed
the cause of the poor. Two printers were found who
had sufficient boldness to risk the printing of this
libel. But, just as it was about to appear, the whole
impression was seized, and the author was lodged in
the Bastile. The printers were sentenced to be
whipped, with their necks in a halter, and then to be
banished from the kingdom. The libel was burnt by
the public executioner.</p>

<p>Believing, or affecting to believe, that the prisoner
was less a madman than an instrument of the malecontents,
Henry endeavoured, by secret interrogations,
to obtain a confession that such was the fact.
The attempt failed, and the prisoner was then given
up to the parliament for trial. It was his misfortune
that he was not the agent of some formidable conspirator;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>he would in that case have had a fair chance
of escaping.</p>

<p>When le Breton was brought before the parliament,
his malady manifested itself in a more extravagant
manner than ever. He treated the court with
unbounded contempt, spoke to the members with his
hat on, and would answer no questions. As he thus
suffered judgment to go by default, sentence of death
was passed upon him, as guilty of having excited the
people to revolt; but his equitable and compassionate
judges also decreed, that “a deputation should wait
upon the king, to represent that the culprit laboured
under mental alienation, and to entreat that his majesty
would pardon a crime which was rather the effect
of disease than of free will.”</p>

<p>But neither the prayer of the parliament, nor the
supplications of le Breton’s mother, who brought irrefragable
evidence of his madness, had any effect upon
the heartless Henry. Here was a victim whom he
could safely sacrifice, and he would not forego the
pleasure. Yet even here his mental cowardice peeped
out. Instead of the involuntary offender being conveyed
to the Grêve, which was the usual place of execution,
he was hanged in the palace court. It seems
to have been supposed, and perhaps correctly, that
the people could not witness without emotion the
death of a man, whose malady and whose fate had been
brought upon him by commiseration for their sorrows,
and who perished because he had no friend,
while notorious criminals were daily allowed to brave
the laws with impunity. Far from acting as an example
to deter others, the murder of le Breton—for
in his deplorable situation it was a murder—only
served to exasperate the people in a tenfold degree. It
was the singular infelicity of Henry never to be right
in his treatment of crime; he was despised when he
did not punish, he was hated when he did.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span></p>

<p>Political persecution consigned to the Bastile, at
this period, and when he was on the verge of the
grave from extreme old age, a man who was a benefactor,
and an honour, to his native land. Bernard
Palissy was born about the year 1500, in the bishopric
of Agen. His parents were so scantily favoured by
fortune that they could do little for his education;
but he contrived to acquire a knowledge of reading
and writing, and sufficient skill in drawing and land-measuring
to gain a livelihood as a draughtsman, a
painter of glass and images, and a land surveyor.
Geology, natural philosophy, and chemistry, next attracted
his attention, and with respect to the two
former he was far in advance of his contemporaries.</p>

<p>It was about the year 1539, when he had settled
at Saintes, after his journeys through the provinces,
that a circumstance occurred which gave a colour to
all his future life. He chanced to be shown a beautiful
enamelled porcelain cup, manufactured in Italy.
It struck him that, if he could discover the secret of
fabricating this ware, he might obtain riches, and
likewise serve his country by introducing into it a
new art. From that moment he pursued his object
with admirable energy and perseverance. Innumerable
experiments failed, his resources wasted away,
poverty and almost starvation stared him in the face,
yet still, in spite of this, and of the exhortations of
some, and the sneers of others, he steadily persisted.
At length, after having suffered a mental martyrdom
of sixteen years’ duration, he succeeded in his efforts,
and independence and fame were his reward. For the
adornment of their palaces and gardens, the king and
all the nobles of France were eager to possess the
figures and vases which were produced by Palissy’s
taste and skill.</p>

<p>Bernard Palissy had too enlarged a mind to devote
himself wholly to the heaping up of riches. The toils
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>of business he diversified and lightened by liberal
studies. He formed a cabinet of natural history at
Paris; gave, for several years, a course of lectures on
natural history and physics; and wrote a variety of
works, valuable for their facts and reasonings, and the
new and just views contained in them, and unaffected
and pleasing in their style.</p>

<p>Palissy was a protestant, firmly attached to his religion,
and from that attachment arose the only troubles which
molested him in the decline of life. When the public exercise
of their worship was prohibited, he gathered into a
private assembly a few individuals of his own class,
each of whom in his turn expounded the tenets of the
Gospel. In 1562, though the duke of Montpensier had
given him a safeguard, and his manufactory had been
declared a privileged place, the bigoted judges of Saintes
destroyed his establishment, and would have destroyed
the proprietor also, had not the king interposed, and
rescued him from their hands. The memory of Charles
the ninth is branded with eternal infamy, but candour
requires it to be owned, that he was a man of taste and
talent; a lover of literature and the arts. It is melancholy
to think upon what he might have been, and
what he was. He invited the persecuted artist to
Paris, and gave him apartments in the Tuileries. Thus
protected, Palissy remained unhurt during the horrible
slaughter of St. Bartholomew’s day.</p>

<p>The protection which Charles the ninth extended to
Palissy, the weaker-minded Henry the third wanted
courage to continue. When the influence of the Guises
became predominant in Paris, the venerable artist was
arrested by the Council of Sixteen, and thrown into the
Bastile. There Henry visited him. “My good man,”
said the king, “if you cannot bring yourself to conform
on the point of religion, I shall be compelled to
leave you in the clutches of my enemies.” Palissy
was then nearly ninety years of age, but his spirit was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>not bowed by the weight of years, or the prospect of
death. He firmly replied, “Sire, you have several
times said that you pity me; but I pity <i>you</i>, who have
uttered the words ‘I am compelled.’ This is not speaking
like a king. I will teach you the royal language.
Neither the Guisarts, nor your whole people, can ever
compel me to bend my knee before an image, for I
know how to die.”</p>

<p>The firmness of Palissy was not put to the extreme
proof; but, had it been so, there is no reason to believe
that his conduct would have belied his words. He was
saved from the fiery ordeal by the duke of Mayenne,
who humanely threw so many obstacles in the way of
his trial, that Palissy died a natural death, in the Bastile,
about the year 1589, no less respected for his virtues
than admired for his talents.&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p>

<p>Those enemies of Henry, into whose hands he
feared that he should be “compelled” to deliver up
Palissy, continued to plot against the monarch with an
astonishing degree of audacity, which could be equalled
only by the tameness with which he endured it. Plans
were successively formed by them, to obtain possession
of Boulogne; to arrest him on his way from Vincennes,
and, subsequently, at the fair of St. Germain; and to
make themselves masters of the Bastile, the Arsenal,
the Temple, and other posts in Paris, massacre the
ministers, judges, and courtiers, and depose and imprison
him. Among the bitterest and most active of
his enemies was the duchess of Montpensier, sister of
the duke of Guise, who constantly wore at her girdle a
pair of golden scissors, for the purpose, as she insolently
said, of giving the monkish tonsure to brother
Henry of Valois, previous to his being sent to a monastery.
Henry frustrated these schemes, but had not
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>spirit to punish them. The impunity which the criminals
enjoyed produced its natural effect. The resources
and the boldness of the conspirators were increased;
the memorable day of the Barricades ensued;
the monarch was expelled from Paris; and he entered
it no more.</p>

<p>As soon as the king had taken flight from the Louvre,
Guise put garrisons into the Arsenal, and other
military positions of Paris, and likewise into Vincennes
and the town of Corbeil. The Bastile might still have
remained in the power of Henry, and afforded him an
easy entrance into his capital, had he not been guilty
of an unaccountable act of folly. Colonel Ornano, an
officer of established reputation, had offered to pledge
his head that, if he were entrusted with the command,
he would hold the place to the last extremity; but
Henry preferred leaving it in the hands of Lawrence
Testu, of whom it was sarcastically said, that he was
more fit to govern a bottle than a fortress. He justified
the contempt which was expressed for him, by
surrendering the moment that he received a summons
from Guise. His prompt submission called forth another
sarcasm, by which he was declared to have given
up his post, because he had no oranges to flavour his
ragoût of partridges.</p>

<p>The government of the Bastile was conferred, by
Guise, on Bussi le Clerc, the most active member of
the Council of Sixteen, a determined hater of the king
and the protestants, and devoted heart and soul to the
Guises. Bussi was originally a fencing-master, but
changed his calling, and became an attorney. He was
not long without prisoners. Among the first whom
he received were Perreuse, late the provost of the merchants,
who was expelled from his office for being faithful
to the king, La Guesle, the attorney general, and
Damours, a protestant minister.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span></p>

<p>Damours was fortunate. Some ferocious wild beasts
have been known to contract an attachment to helpless
animals which were thrown into their dens. Bussi did
so with respect to Damours. Instead of tormenting
him, and being eager to send him to the flames, a mode
of proceeding which might have been expected from a
zealous and unenlightened catholic, he took a singular
liking for him. With many oaths, he declared that,
thorough hugonot as he was, Damours was worth
more than all those politicians, the presidents and counsellors,
“who were nothing but hypocrites;” and he bestirred
himself so vigorously on behalf of his favourite,
that he procured his liberation.</p>

<p>James de la Guesle was born in 1557, and succeeded
his father in the office of attorney general. After the
day of the Barricades, he endeavoured to escape in disguise
from Paris, for the purpose of joining the fugitive
king; but he was recognised, and committed to
prison. He did not long remain in the Bastile, and,
as soon as he was set free, he proceeded to St. Cloud,
where Henry was residing. The death of the king,
which soon after occurred, afforded the enemies of La
Guesle a pretext to throw out insinuations against him;
for it was by him that Clement, the assassin monk,
was introduced into the presence of the monarch. His
loyalty was, however, too well known to admit of being
stained by calumny. After having held office
throughout the reign of Henry IV., and enjoyed the
full confidence of that sovereign, La Guesle died in 1612.</p>

<p>The Bastile was not allowed to remain untenanted
by prisoners of distinction. Bussi had soon the gratification
of wreaking his hatred upon “the presidents
and counsellors” whom he had described as being “nothing
but hypocrites.” The parliament, still faithful
to the king, was a serious obstacle in the way of the
Leaguers, and the Council of Sixteen determined,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>therefore, to apply an effectual remedy to this evil.
This remedy was of the same nature as that which,
long afterwards, was employed in England, by Oliver
Cromwell, and is known by the name of Pride’s Purge.
Bussi le Clerc was the colonel Pride on this occasion.</p>

<p>On the 16th of January, 1589, while the parliament
was about to choose deputies, for a mission to the king,
at Blois, Bussi, who had surrounded the hall with
troops, suddenly entered, attended by some of his armed
followers, and began to read a list of the proscribed
members, among whom were the two presidents. On
hearing this, the whole of the members simultaneously
declared, that they would share the fate of their chiefs.
Bussi took them at their word, and they were led away
to the Bastile, where they were soon joined by some
of their colleagues, who, suspecting what would happen,
had not quitted their homes, but whose caution had
failed to ensure their safety. All those who were not
on Bussi’s list were, however, liberated in the course
of the same evening, and a part of the others were
allowed to return to their homes, on their friends becoming
answerable for them. Having thus got rid of
the persons who were obnoxious to them, the Leaguers
remodelled the parliament, in such a manner as to render
it subservient to their purposes.</p>

<p>The most distinguished of the parliamentary members
who were kept in hold were Achille de Harlay,
Nicholas Potier de Blancmesnil, Louis Seguier, and
James Gillot.</p>

<p>The personal and mental courage of Harlay qualified
him well for the stormy times in which he lived. To
the influence of fear he seems to have been scarcely
accessible. To the merit of unchangeable loyalty he
added the rarer merit of opposing the rash and oppressive
edicts of the sovereign. His legal knowledge
was profound, and his integrity without a stain. He
was born in 1536, and he sprung from a family which
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>had distinguished itself, for more than two centuries,
on the seat of justice or in the field of battle. At the
age of forty-six, he succeeded his father-in-law, Christopher
de Thou, as president of the parliament of Paris.</p>

<p>When the success of his partisans, on the day of the
Barricades, had rendered the duke of Guise master of
the capital, he went, with a train of followers, to the
house of Harlay, for the purpose of prevailing on him
to convoke the parliament, that the recent measures
might obtain something like a sanction. The president
was walking in the garden, and he did not deign
to notice his visiter till the duke approached him; then,
raising his voice, he said, “It is a lamentable thing
when the servant drives out his master. As to all the
rest, my soul is God’s, my heart is the king’s, and my
body is in the hands of the wicked; let them do as they
please with it.” Guise still pressing him to assemble
the parliament, he sternly replied, “When the majesty
of the monarch is violated, the magistrate has no longer
any authority.” Hoping to intimidate him, some of
the duke’s followers threatened him with death, but
their threats were as unavailing as the request of Guise
had been. “I have,” replied the undaunted magistrate,
“neither head nor life that I value more than the love
I owe to God, the service which I owe to the king, and
the good which I owe to my country.”</p>

<p>After an imprisonment of several months, Harlay
obtained his liberty, at the price of ten thousand crowns.
The moment that he was free he departed from Paris,
to join Henry the fourth at Tours, and the monarch
appointed him president of the parliament sitting in that
city, and composed of Parisian members, who had succeeded
in escaping from the clutches of the Leaguers.
In this post, Harlay sustained his high reputation, by
the vigour and eloquence with which he refuted the
manifestos of Spain and the League, and the bulls of
the Roman Pontiff.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span></p>

<p>Peace at length came, and Henry rewarded his services
by the estate of Beaumont, with the title of count.
When the first president returned to Paris, all the
members of the parliament went out to meet and congratulate
him. As Harlay advanced in years, he did
not bate one jot of the spirit which he had manifested
at an earlier period. He still unflinchingly supported
the rights of the kingdom, and the liberties of the Gallican
church, and protested against whatever he deemed
pernicious to the people or the monarch. The re-establishment
of the Jesuits he strongly but vainly opposed.
From one of his speeches to Henry the fourth,
in 1604, we may judge with what an honest freedom
he uttered his sentiments. The parliament having dissented
from a measure which the Council had resolved
upon, its dissent was construed into disobedience.
“If to serve well be disobedience,” replied the
venerable magistrate, “the parliament is in the habit
of committing that fault; and, when a conflict arises
between the king’s absolute power and the good of his
service, it prefers the one to the other, not from disobedience,
but from a desire to do its duty, and to keep
its conscience clear.”</p>

<p>After having held the first presidentship for thirty-four
years, Harlay, whose sight and hearing were impaired,
resigned it early in 1616, and he died, on the
23d of October, of the same year, at the age of eighty.</p>

<p>Born at Paris, in 1541, of a family which had given
several eminent magistrates to the state, Potier de
Blancmesnil attained the rank of president à mortier
in 1578. With talents less splendid than those of
Harlay, he was not inferior to him in probity and devoted
loyalty. From the imprisonment which followed
his seizure by Bussi le Clerc he was released in a few
days; but he did not long retain his liberty. When
Henry, on the 1st of November, 1589, made himself
master of the suburbs of Paris, and there seemed reason
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>to believe that the new monarch would soon enter the
city in triumph, the joy of Potier was so undisguised,
that the Leaguers again sent him to his old quarters
in the Bastile. He was brought to trial, as an adherent
of the Bearnese—for so Henry was contemptuously
called—and he would no doubt have suffered an
ignominious death, had not the duke of Mayenne interposed,
and released him from prison. Throwing himself
at the feet of his deliverer, Potier exclaimed, “My
Lord, I am indebted to you for my life; yet I dare to
request from you a still greater benefit, that of permitting
me to join my legitimate sovereign. I shall
all my life acknowledge you as my benefactor; but I
cannot serve you as my master!” Mayenne had greatness
of mind enough not to be offended by this speech.
Affected even to tears by the appeal, he raised up and
embraced the suppliant, and allowed him to depart. It
is delightful to find a few bright flowers of virtue among
the lurid and noxious growth produced by civil war.</p>

<p>Henry the Fourth rewarded Potier by making him
president of the parliament of Chalons. In that office
he continued during the whole of Henry’s reign.
When the monarch perished by the knife of Ravaillac,
the news was carried to Chalons, accompanied, as is
customary in such cases, by a thousand terrific rumours.
As soon as he heard the lamentable tidings,
René Potier, the president’s son, who was bishop of
Beauvais, hurried to the hall where the parliament
was sitting, and entreated him to quit the place without
delay, in a carriage which he had brought for
the purpose. But the magistrate had more firmness
than the prelate. He answered, in a loud voice, that
the state and the country called on him not to absent
himself on such an emergency, but to die, if needful,
in order to secure the obedience which was due to
Henry the fourth’s son; and he earnestly exhorted
his colleagues not to remove from their seats. It
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>was probably for this opportune act of courage and
fidelity that Mary de Medicis conferred on him the
title of her chancellor.</p>

<p>Potier lived to the venerable age of ninety-four, preserving
all his faculties to the last. His decease took
place on the 1st of June 1635.</p>

<p>It has been remarked by French writers, that no
family furnished more magistrates than that of Seguier.
From the first appearance of the name in the parliament
of Toulouse, when that body was originally
formed, in the 14th century, down to the period of the
French revolution, the number amounted to sixty-eight,
of whom many possessed high talents, and consummate
legal knowledge. Peter, the first who bore
that prenomen, is characterised, by the poet Scevola
St. Marthe, as “one of the most brilliant lights of
the temple of the laws,” and in this praise there is
no poetical exaggeration. To this magistrate France
owes eternal gratitude, for his having frustrated the
project of introducing the Inquisition into that country.
He was warned beforehand that he would do
well to avoid venturing too far in his opposition, but
he nobly set the danger at defiance, and he triumphed.</p>

<p>The six sons who survived him were all of the legal
profession. No monarch ever paid a more graceful
compliment to a subject than that which Henry the
fourth paid to the second Peter, a son of the first,
who became president on the resignation of his father.
The courtiers pressing so closely round the king that
the president could not reach him, Henry held out his
hand to Seguier, and said, “Gentlemen, allow to come
to me my inseparable during my bad fortune, which,
with you, he aided me to surmount. I can answer
for it, that, notwithstanding the business with which
I burthen him, he will always be too much my friend
to neglect me.” In a similar strain he publicly addressed
Anthony, another brother, who was setting off
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>on an embassy to Venice. “You made your way into
my affections,” said he, “in the same manner that I did
into my kingdom, in spite of the resistance and the
slanders of my enemies and enviers.”</p>

<p>Louis, the fourth brother, was a counsellor of the
parliament, and also dean of the cathedral church of
Nôtre Dame, at Paris. He obtained his release from
the Bastile by paying a large ransom; but he was not
allowed to remain in peace, he being soon after expelled
from the capital by the Leaguers. He was
subsequently sent to Rome, by Henry the fourth, to
negotiate with the pope for the monarch’s absolution.
On his return, he was offered the bishopric of Laon,
which would have given him the elevated and much
coveted rank of duke and peer. Seguier, however,
devoid of ambition, preferred to remain in the humble
station of dean. He died in 1610.</p>

<p>Gillot, the last of those whom I have mentioned
as having been lodged in the Bastile by Bussi le Clerc,
was certainly entitled to share the fate of his companions,
his attachment to the royal cause being a
matter of notoriety. He was of a noble Burgundian
family, possessed a good fortune, much erudition, and
a valuable library, was connected with most of the
wits and learned men of that period, and assembled
them frequently at his social board, where they conversed
on topics of philosophy and literature. He
had also the higher merit of being beneficent, sincere,
and candid. It was said of him, that he had so benign
a disposition that his sole delight was in obliging.
Gillot was educated for the church, and became dean
of Langres, and canon of the Holy Chapel at Paris;
he was likewise one of the ecclesiastical counsellors,
or judges, in the parliament. His abode in the Bastile
does not appear to have been of long duration; it
is probable that he ransomed himself. For his incarceration
he took an ample revenge, by bearing a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>part in writing the admirable satire called “la Satire
Ménippée, ou le Catholicon d’Espagne,” which covered
the Leaguers with ineffaceable ridicule, and is said
to have been more injurious to their cause than the
sword of Henry the fourth. The harangue of the
legate at the opening of the states of the League, and
the laughable idea of the procession of the Leaguers,
are attributed to Gillot. This estimable and talented
man died in 1619.</p>

<p>The Council of Sixteen, like the Common Council
of Paris in 1792 and 1793, was eager to monopolize
all the power of the state. It carried on a secret correspondence
with the Pope and the Spanish monarch,
and was obviously preparing to subvert the authority
of the duke of Mayenne. In furtherance of its plan,
it resolved to strike the parliament with terror, and of
course render that body subservient, by a decisive
blow. A pretext was furnished by the acquittal of
a person named Brigard, who had been tried on a
charge of corresponding with the royalists. A cry
was immediately raised, that the parliament had violated
its duty, by granting impunity to treason, and
that some measure must be adopted, to prevent the
recurrence of such a crime. Several meetings were
clandestinely held, to decide upon what should be done.
The result was, that on the 15th of November, 1591,
the president Brisson, and the counsellors Larcher and
Tardif, were seized by order of the Sixteen, carried
to prison, and hanged there upon a beam, without
even the semblance of a trial. The bodies, with calumnious
papers attached to them, were then removed
to the Grêve, and publicly exposed on three gibbets.</p>

<p>This last outrage caused the downfall of the Sixteen.
Mayenne had long been dissatisfied with the
conduct of these turbulent and sanguinary men, and
he was heartily glad of this opportunity to punish
them, and annihilate their political influence. He
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>could do both with safety, as a great majority of the
citizens were shocked and disgusted by the murderous
act which had been committed. The duke was then
with his army at Soissons, where he was expecting to
be joined by the prince of Parma. Leaving his troops
under the command of the young duke of Guise, he
hastened, with three hundred horse and fifteen hundred
foot, to Paris. A few days after his arrival, he
consigned four of the criminals to execution, proscribed
two who had escaped, prohibited, under pain
of death, all secret meetings, and thus put an end for
ever to the tyranny of the council. The partisans
and agents of Spain murmured in private at these decisive
measures, but they were in too feeble a minority
to venture upon doing more.</p>

<p>Among those who were executed was not Bussi le
Clerc; though, as he had been the most conspicuous actor
in the murders, he richly deserved death. It was
to being governor of the Bastile that he was indebted
for his safety. When Mayenne came to Paris, Bussi
prudently kept within the walls of the fortress; and,
as there were various reasons which made it unadvisable
to besiege him, he was allowed to negociate. On
condition that he should not be punished for his share
in the murder of Brisson, Larcher, and Tardif, and
that he should be at liberty to go wheresoever he
pleased with his property, he agreed to surrender the
Bastile. The first of these articles was faithfully performed;
but with respect to the second he was not so
lucky, for Mayenne’s soldiers deprived him of the
booty which he had made during the civil war. He
retired to Brussels, where, during forty years, he earned
a scanty subsistence, as an obscure teacher of fencing.
The custody of the Bastile was confided, by the duke
of Mayenne, to du Bourg, a brave and trusty officer.</p>

<p>In 1589, after Henry the fourth’s attempt upon
Paris, when he had little more than the shadow of an
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>army left, and was obliged to retreat on Normandy,
the Parisians were so confident that the Bearnese would
be brought back a prisoner by the duke of Mayenne,
that the windows in St. Anthony’s-street were hired,
to see him pass along in his way to the Bastile; in
the following year, he held them cooped up within their
walls, suffering the direst extremity of famine; and
now, in 1594, he entered the capital in triumph, as an
acknowledged sovereign, amidst the shouts of the multitude.
It must be owned, however, that for the submission
of Paris, as well as of many other cities, Henry
had to thank his purse rather than his sword. For
giving up Paris, Brissac, the governor, received nearly
seventeen hundred thousand livres. The whole of the
strong places which the king bought, cost him no less
than thirty-two millions of livres, besides governments,
offices, and titles. At dinner, on the day of his entry,
he pointedly alluded to this circumstance, in the presence
of some of the vendors. Nicolas, a jovial poet
and man of wit, was standing by Henry’s chair: “Well,”
said the king to him, “what say you to seeing me here
in Paris?” “Sire,” replied Nicolas, “that which is
Cæsar’s has been rendered unto Cæsar.” “Ventre
saint-gris!” exclaimed Henry in reply, “I have not
been treated at all like Cæsar, for it has not been
rendered to me but sold to me, and at a pretty high
price too.”</p>

<p>There was, nevertheless, one man among the
Leaguers who was not venal. This was du Bourg,
the governor of the Bastile. His vigilance had recently
frustrated a plot to seize on the fortress, and he
now prepared to defend his charge to the utmost. For
five days he refused to listen to any overtures, and he
even turned his cannon upon the city. But having received
information that it was impossible for Mayenne
to succour him, he consented to capitulate upon honourable
terms. His garrison was allowed to retire with
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>arms and baggage. Money he refused to accept; nor
would he acknowledge Henry as his master; he had,
he said, given his faith to the duke of Mayenne, and
he would not violate it. With a strange mixture of
ferocity, coarseness, and chivalrous feeling, he added,
that Brissac was a traitor, that he would maintain it in
mortal combat with him before the king, and that he
“would eat his heart in his belly.”</p>

<p>The circumstances of the times, which rendered it
necessary to reign with some degree of caution, but still
more the generous and clement character of Henry,
for a few years prevented the Bastile from having many
captive inmates. Menaces of sending individuals to it
were occasionally thrown out, but they were not executed.
In 1596, for instance, when, to supply his pressing
wants, Henry had unjustly seized on the money
destined to pay annuitants at the town-hall, we find him
giving vent to a momentary fit of anger, and threatening
whoever should presume to hold what he was
pleased to call seditious language, with respect to this
arbitrary measure. The seditious language, which thus
excited his wrath, was nothing more than a petition,
which a citizen named Carel had drawn up on behalf
of the plundered annuitants.</p>

<p>There was a moment when the Bastile was on the
point of receiving an illustrious victim; no less a man
than Theodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, the long tried and
faithful friend of Henry, amidst peril and misfortune.
Irritated by d’Aubigné’s restless zeal in the cause of
the hugonots, the king gave Sully an order to arrest
him, but it was soon withdrawn.</p>

<p>In 1602, Sully was appointed governor of the Bastile.
Since 1597 he had been at the head of the finance department,
and during his able administration, a part of
the Bastile was occupied in a manner such as it had
never before been, nor ever was afterwards. It became
a place of deposit for the yearly surplus of revenue,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>which was obtained by the judicious system of the minister.
The amount of the treasure thus accumulated
has been variously estimated, but it was probably about
forty millions of livres. It was designed to be appropriated
to the realising of Henry’s military projects.
The Tour du Trésor is supposed to have derived its
name from its having been the tower in which this
hoard was secured.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</h2>

<p>Reign of Henry IV. continued—Viscount de Tavannes—The marshal
duke of Biron—Faults of Biron—Friendship of Henry IV,
for Biron—La Fin, and his influence over Biron—The duke of
Savoy—Biron’s first treason pardoned—Embassies of Biron—Speech
of Queen Elizabeth to Biron—Discontent among the nobles—Art
of la Fin—Imprisonment of Renazé—La Fin betrays
Biron—Artifices employed to lull Biron into security—Arrest
of Biron, and the count of Auvergne—Conduct of Biron in the
Bastile—His trial—His execution—Respect paid to his remains—Monbarot
sent to the Bastile—The count of Auvergne—He
is sent to the Bastile but soon released—He plots again—Cause
and intent of the conspiracy—He is again arrested—Sentence
of death passed on him, but commuted for imprisonment—He
spends twelve years in the Bastile—Mary of Medicis releases
him—Conspiracy of Merargues—He is executed—Death
of Henry IV.</p>

</div>

<p>The first distinguished prisoner of the Bastile, after
the firm establishment of Henry on the throne, was
John de Saulx, viscount de Tavannes, second son of
that marshal who acquired an undying but unenviable
fame during the massacre of St. Bartholomew. He
was born in 1555, and may be said to have been nursed
in a deadly hatred to the protestants. The viscount
accompanied Henry the third to Poland, remained behind
when his master departed, visited the Turkish
frontier provinces, was engaged in various actions, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>at length fell into the hands of the Ottomans. He
managed, however, to get free, and, in 1575, he revisited
his native country.</p>

<p>In the wars between the catholics and the protestants,
Tavannes was an indefatigable scourge of the
latter. On one occasion, while he was governor of
Auxonne, he was in no small danger; he was surprised
and wounded in a church by the enemy, and was confined
in a castle. Yet though the wall was a hundred
feet high, and he was guarded in sight, he contrived to
escape. In the war of the League, against both Henries,
he rendered himself conspicuous by his violence and
perseverance. He proposed to arm the people with
pikes, but this proposal was overruled, on the ground
that it tended to excite in their minds the idea of a
republic. In attempting to relieve Noyon, he was
again made prisoner; he was, however, soon exchanged,
the mother, wife, and two sisters, of the duke of Longueville
being given as an equivalent for him. In 1592,
he was appointed to the government of Burgundy, and
he maintained the contest till 1595, when, being abandoned
by all his companions in the cause, he yielded a
sullen submission to Henry.</p>

<p>Having refused to join the king at the siege of
Amiens, he was arrested, in 1597, and committed to
the Bastile. Tavannes had certainly a talent for
escaping; we have seen that he twice extricated himself
from confinement, and he now did so for the third
time. By what means he eluded the vigilance of his
jailors does not appear. Henry seems to have cherished
no very strong resentment against the fugitive; for,
instead of placing him in surer custody, he allowed him
to reside unmolested on his estate, where Tavannes
died, about the year 1630. The viscount published a
life of his father, a curious and valuable work; of
which, however, some passages are animated by a spirit
dishonourable to the writer.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span></p>

<p>That Tavannes, who was long his determined enemy,
and never professed to have become his friend, should
be openly or secretly hostile to him, could excite no
surprise in Henry; but his feelings must have received
a deep wound, when he discovered that he might say,
with the inspired royal psalmist, “Yea, mine own familiar
friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my
bread, hath lifted his heel against me.”</p>

<p>Charles de Gontaut, duke of Biron, the son of a man
distinguished for his honour, loyalty, valour, and martial
exploits, was born about 1562, and inherited his
father’s warlike spirit, but not his praiseworthy qualities.
In his childhood he was so dull of apprehension
that he could scarcely be taught to read. In his military
studies he must, however, have made early and
extraordinary progress; for at fourteen he was colonel
of the Swiss regiments, and when he was only fifteen,
the command of the army in Guienne was entrusted to
him for some weeks by his father, who had broken one
of his thighs. His religion we may believe to have
hung loosely enough upon him, as he twice changed it
before he reached his sixteenth year.</p>

<p>There were two crying sins of the age, duelling and
gaming, in which Biron made himself conspicuous. He
was not yet twenty, when he fought a duel with the
prince of Carency, who was a rival suitor to the heiress
of the family of Caumont. Each party had two seconds,
all of whom were in habits of friendship with
each other. It was in a snow-storm, at day break, that
the combatants met; and, by taking their ground so
that the snow drove into the faces of their antagonists,
Biron and his seconds contrived to destroy them. This
triple murder was pardoned by Henry the third, at the
request of the duke of Epernon. As a gamester, Biron
played so deeply, and with such infatuated perseverance,
that he himself said, “I know not whether I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>shall die on the scaffold; but, if I do not, I am sure
that I shall die in a workhouse.”</p>

<p>The scaffold which, with somewhat of a divining
spirit, he seems to have thought his not improbable
doom, was more than once predicted to him. The basis
on which one prediction was built may excite a smile.
“The archbishop of Lyons,” says an old writer,
“judged better than any one else of the nature of men
by their countenances. For having one day curiously
contemplated the features and characters of the marshal
Biron’s face, he pronounced that he had an exceedingly
bad physiognomy, verily that of a man who was
fated to perish wretchedly.” On surer grounds, on a
knowledge of his son’s disposition, his father sometimes
said to him, “Baron,” (that was his early title) “I
advise you to go and plant cabbages on your estate, as
soon as peace is made; for, otherwise, you will certainly
lose your head at the Grêve.”</p>

<p>The faults of Biron were, indeed, such as to justify
melancholy forebodings with respect to his end. He
was vain, imperious, passionate, restlessly active, so
greedy of praise that he deemed himself robbed of all
that was given to others, so high an estimater of his
own services that he never thought them enough rewarded,
and so reckless of speech that, when he was
in an angry mood, his invectives and reproaches did not
spare even the sovereign. These faults were rendered
more dangerous to him by his habits of profusion, and
the consequent occasional emptiness of his purse, which
laid him open to temptation, especially during his fits
of dissatisfaction and disgust. On the other hand, it
is beyond all doubt that Biron, for some years after
the outset of his career, was devoted to Henry the
fourth; he was eminently intrepid, displayed unwearied
zeal, gave an admirable example of discipline, and was
a consummate master of his profession. “No one,”
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>said Henry, “has a keener eye in reconnoitring an
enemy, nor a more ready hand at arraying an army.”</p>

<p>At the battles of Arques, Ivry, and Aumale, at the
sieges of Paris and Rouen, and on various other occasions,
Biron was conspicuous among his fellow chiefs.
His promotion kept pace with his exploits, and he rose
rapidly to the highest dignities. In 1592, Henry appointed
him admiral of France, and, in 1594, a marshal;
on receiving the latter rank he gave up the office
of admiral, which Villars demanded as a part of his
reward for the surrender of Rouen. It has been imagined,
that Biron cherished a rankling resentment for
the deprivation of the admiralship; but this is more than
doubtful: he appears, on the contrary, to have acceded
to it with a good grace. In 1595, he obtained the government
of Burgundy, and his life was saved by Henry,
at the sharp encounter of Fontaine-Française. After
having manifested his wonted military talents at the
siege of Amiens, in 1598, Biron attained the zenith of
his elevation, by being created a duke and peer. When
the deputies of the parliament waited on the king, in
Picardy, to congratulate him on the success of his arms,
he paid to the new-made peer one of those well-turned
compliments by which he so often delighted his warriors
and statesmen. In turning to account that part of
“the cheap defence of nations” which consists in gracefully
bestowing praise, no man was more of a proficient
than Henry. “Gentlemen,” said he to the deputies,
“I introduce to you the Marshal de Biron, whom I present
with equal success to my enemies and my friends.”</p>

<p>Thenceforth, thanks to his own folly, the star of Biron
gradually declined till it set in blood. He soon became
unsafe to be opposed to the king’s enemies, and
unworthy of being presented to his friends. Vanity
and prodigality were the faults which began his ruin;
the one led him to think that his superlative merit was
inadequately requited, the other caused him to accuse
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>Henry of avarice and ingratitude, because the monarch
did not feed his extravagance with boundless supplies.
Biron might, nevertheless, have stopped short of destruction,
had there not been perpetually a tempter at
his ear, whispering sinister councils. His evil genius
was Beauvais La Nocle, sieur de La Fin, a veteran intriguer,
who had spent his life in disturbing the public
peace, and was still in correspondence with Spain, Savoy,
the banished partisans of the League, and the malecontents
in various provinces. He is truly described as
having been “an enterprising, active, insinuating man,
especially skilful in getting on the weak side of those
whom he wished to seduce. Bold with the rash, circumspect
with the prudent, he seemed to give himself
up entirely to his accomplices, that he might provide
for his own safety at their expense.” Henry, who well
knew the character of the man, warned Biron against
him, but the warning was slighted.&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>

<p>The peace of Vervins, which relieved France from a
burthensome war, precipitated the fall of Biron. Even
before it was concluded, he had listened to the blandishments
of Spanish emissaries, and had suffered them
to tempt his ambition with the prospect of independent
sovereignty, but he had stopped short on the verge of
disloyalty. While his mind was thus susceptible of
treasonable infection, he was unfortunately despatched
by Henry to Brussels, for the purpose of interchanging,
with the archduke, the customary oaths as to the
faithful performance of the treaty. There he was surrounded
by every imaginable seduction. He was “the
observed of all observers;” the most splendid entertainments
were given, expressly in honour of him; and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>he heard nothing but exaggerated praises of his transcendent
valour and skill, insidious expressions of regret
that he should serve a master so blind to his worth,
or so meanly jealous of it, and highly-coloured representations
of the glorious career which he might run,
if he would devote his talents to the cause of the Spanish
sovereign. When it was imagined that his head
was sufficiently turned, a treaty with Philip was proposed
to him. But he was not yet prepared to go thus
far; he would give no more than a vague promise to
join the catholics, in case of their rising against Henry,
and he returned to Paris only half a traitor.</p>

<p>That which had been begun in the Netherlands was
completed in France. During the troubles of the
League, the duke of Savoy, Charles Emmanuel, had
seized upon the marquisate of Saluzzo. Hitherto he
had held nearly undisturbed possession of it, but
Henry, now that he was relieved from the pressure of
foreign and domestic hostility, resolved to recover a
territory which was of importance from its affording a
passage into Italy. For the same reason, the duke
was anxious to retain it; he could not see without
apprehension and disgust a powerful neighbour constantly
posted within a few miles of his capital. In the
hope of prevailing on Henry to cede the marquisate to
him, the duke adopted the plan of visiting the French
court. Charles Emmanuel had seductive manners,
and a ready eloquence, and he concealed profound
dissimulation under the semblance of openness and
sincerity. Henry, however, though he treated him
with an almost ostentatious kindness and pomp, was
inflexible on the main point, and the duke found himself
under the necessity of signing a disadvantageous
treaty.</p>

<p>But Charles Emmanuel had not relied solely on the
policy or the generosity of Henry; he knew that the
embers of disaffection were still alive in some of the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>French nobles, and he hoped to fan them into a flame
which should scorch the monarch. To win the discontented
to his side, he scattered with a lavish hand
his largesses, under the disguise of presents. Though
from some of those whom he tempted he failed to procure
an explicit avowal of their sentiments, he doubted
not that they might be reckoned upon in case of an
explosion; others spoke out more plainly; and Biron
threw himself unreservedly into the arms of the wily
Savoyard. It was partly, perhaps, by ministering to
the marshal’s wants, but much more by rousing his
wrath against the king, that the duke succeeded in
making him a traitor. He artfully communicated to
him some depreciating language which Henry was
said to have used, and the vain and passionate Biron
no longer hesitated to cast off his allegiance. The
reward of his treason was to be the sovereignty of
Burgundy, and the hand of one of Charles Emmanuel’s
daughters. Yet at the moment when he was
rushing headlong into rebellion, he publicly refused to
accept a present of two fine horses from the duke of
Savoy; assigning as the reason, that it would not become
him to receive gifts from a prince between whom
and his own sovereign there were differences existing.
Thus hypocrisy was added to the list of his vices.</p>

<p>Imagining that the succour which he expected from
the Spanish court, and the movements of the French
malecontents, would render it impossible for Henry to
attack him, Charles Emmanuel, on his return to Turin,
refused to carry the treaty into effect. Henry determined,
therefore, to resort to force. To Biron, of
whose fidelity he did not yet doubt, he offered the
command of the army; and the marshal, in order to
avoid suspicion, was compelled to accept it. All that,
without betraying himself, he could do to shun success,
he did. But the duke of Savoy, relying on his
intrigues, had left his fortresses scantily provided with
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>the means of defence, and they consequently made only
a feeble resistance, in spite of Biron’s wishes and faulty
measures. It was a fatal circumstance for the Savoyard
prince, that the power of Spain was palsied by the
recent accession of the contemptible Philip the third.
Had the second Philip been alive, the viceroy of Milan,
the count de Fuentes, a deadly foe of Henry, would
probably have led his numerous forces from the Milanese,
and made the contest something like what the
duke had vauntingly threatened to make it, “a forty
years’ affair.” As it was, Fuentes could only recommend
to Biron, to seize the king and send him to
Spain, “where,” said he, contemptuously, “he shall
be well treated, and we will divert him with dancing,
and banquetting among the ladies.” Biron shrank
from this step, yet, in one of his furious outbreaks of
passion, he meditated a fouler crime. At the siege
of fort St. Catherine, knowing that the king was about
to visit the trenches, he sent a message to the governor,
to point his cannon on a certain part of them, and
to place in another a company of musketeers, who
were to fire when a signal was given. But he quickly
repented of his purpose, and kept the king from approaching
the perilous spots.</p>

<p>Though the marshal renounced the base idea of becoming
the murderer of his sovereign, he did not renounce
his plots against him. La Fin was still employed
in negotiating for him with the count de Fuentes,
and a second treaty was agreed upon at Milan.
It was arranged that the duke of Savoy should sign
a peace, which, however, he was to break as soon as
the French armies were withdrawn, and the Spanish
troops were ready; that the Spanish monarch should
give to the marshal the title of his lieutenant-general,
and secure to him Burgundy, and a princess of Spain
or Savoy; and that, in case of the war being unsuccessful,
he should be indemnified for his loss by the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>payment of twelve hundred thousand golden crowns,
and an annuity of a hundred and twenty thousand.</p>

<p>By this time the suspicions of Henry began to be
awakened with regard to Biron. There were many
circumstances which conspired to rouse them; not one
of the least of which was the incomprehensible apathy
of the duke of Savoy; who, as he scarcely made an
effort to defend himself, must be supposed to look for
deliverance by some unknown means. Rumours, too,
began to be spread of dark and dangerous intrigues;
and it is probable, that the manner in which the military
operations were conducted by the marshal, so unlike
his wonted vigour, was not unremarked. All
this appears to have induced Henry to refuse to give
the government of the citadel of Bourg to Biron, who
urgently requested it. There can be no doubt that
Biron wished to be master of this citadel solely to
enable him the better to act in concert with Charles
Emmanuel; yet he considered as an inexpiable insult
the king’s refusal to grant it.</p>

<p>No longer doubting that the marshal had become
entangled in dangerous projects, and anxious to save
a man whom he loved, Henry took the step of coming
to a personal explanation with him. Taking Biron
aside, in the cloister of the Cordeliers, at Lyons, he
questioned him as to the purpose and cause of the
correspondence which he carried on with the enemies
of the state, promising, at the same time, a full pardon
for all past errors. Thus caught by surprise and
pressed, the marshal could not wholly deny his fault,
but he described it so as to make it appear only venial,
suppressed every thing that it was important for the
king to know, and affirmed that, though he was
tempted by the prospect of marrying a princess of
Savoy, he should never for a moment have wavered
in his duty had he not been refused the government
of the citadel of Bourg. Without seeking to penetrate
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>deeper into the mystery, Henry embraced him,
and said, “Well, marshal, do you think no more about
Bourg, and, for my part, I will never remember what
has occurred.” The king, however, hinted that a
relapse would be productive of dangerous effects.</p>

<p>In the following year, 1601, Biron was sent as ambassador
to England, to announce to Elizabeth the
marriage of Henry. He was accompanied by the
counts of Auvergne and Chateauroux, the marquis de
Créqui, and a splendid train of a hundred and fifty
gentlemen. Elizabeth received him in the most flattering
manner; but there was one of her conversations
with him which might well have excited ominous
thoughts in his mind. Essex had recently suffered.
Speaking of that nobleman, she said, “I raised him
to the most eminent dignities, and he enjoyed all my
favour; but the rash man had the audacity to imagine
that I could not do without him. His too prosperous
fortune and his ambition rendered him haughty,
perfidious, and the more criminal from his having
seemed to be virtuous. He suffered a just punishment;
and if the king my brother would take my
advice, he would act at Paris as I have done here.
He ought to sacrifice to his safety all the rebels and
traitors. God grant that his clemency may not prove
fatal to him. For my part, I will never show any
mercy to those who dare to disturb the peace of the
realm.” Biron must surely have felt his heart sink
within him, when he heard this language, which, in
all ways, was so applicable to himself. It is said, and
we may easily believe it, that he omitted to mention
this speech, when he gave an account of his embassy.</p>

<p>The forbearance of Henry, and the lesson of Elizabeth,
were alike powerless to check the downward career
of the infatuated Biron. His treasonable practices
were still persevered in. After his return from England,
he was sent as ambassador, to Soleure, to ratify
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>a treaty with the Swiss, and, on his way thither, he had
a four hours’ conversation with Watteville, the duke of
Savoy’s agent. Instead of proceeding to Paris, to
render an account of his mission, he stayed at Dijon,
the capital of his government, where the violent and
insulting language in which he spoke of the king, gave
abundant proof that little reliance could be placed upon
his fidelity. In the meanwhile, various parts of the
kingdom, particularly Poitou, the Limousin, and Périgord,
in the last of which provinces the marshal had
numerous partisans and vassals, were thrown into a
ferment by insidious reports of Henry’s tyrannical intentions.
Among the nobles also discontent was at
work; the duke of Bouillon and the count of Auvergne
were the principal malecontents. The provinces Henry
quieted, by the kindness which he displayed in a journey
through them; the nobles were not so easily to
be reclaimed. It was obvious that a speech which the
duke of Savoy made, after his leaving France, was
not a mere idle vaunt. His friends rallying him on
his failure, and alluding to the season at which he came
home, told him that he had brought nothing but mud
back from France. “If I have put my feet into the
mud,” replied the duke, “I have put them in so far,
and have left such deep marks behind, that France will
never efface them.”</p>

<p>While, within the kingdom, men’s minds were in this
uneasy state, the news from without was by no means
consolatory. Philip Dufresne Canaye, the French
ambassador at Venice, was laudably active in procuring
information of all movements among the Italian
powers, by which his country might be affected. He
learned that, while throughout Italy the utmost pains
were taken to blacken the character and depreciate the
resources of Henry, French subjects, disguised, were
busy at Turin and Milan, and that they had frequent
nocturnal interviews with the ministers of the two
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>courts. He described minutely the features, demeanour
and dress of these emissaries, and offered to
have one of them seized, and carried off to France, if a
small remittance were sent to him. Some strange lethargy
seems to have come over the king and the
French ministry at this moment; for they not only
refused the money which was required, but even failed
to send that which was indispensable for the payment
of his spies.</p>

<p>From this ill-timed slumber they would probably
have been startled up by a fatal explosion, had not the
catastrophe been averted by a disclosure of nearly all
that related to the plot which had so long been carried
on. The terrible secret was divulged by that very
La Fin who had so largely contributed to lead Biron
astray. La Fin’s first feeling of alienation from the
great conspirator is supposed to have arisen out of the
only act for which, during a considerable period, the
marshal had been deserving of praise. From Biron’s
sudden abandonment of the plan to kill the king, in the
trenches of fort St. Catherine, his confident drew the
conclusion that his firmness was not to be relied upon,
and that consequently, at some time or other, he might
bring ruin upon those who were connected with him.
That he might have the means of shielding himself
in case of such an event, he immediately began
to preserve all the papers that passed through his
hands; and when the marshal desired him to burn any
of them before his face, he, by a dextrous sleight, contrived
to throw others into the fire in their stead.</p>

<p>Still La Fin continued to be employed in his perilous
office of a negociator. It is probable, however, that,
now his fears were excited, and it was become a main
object with him to keep open a door for escape, he did
not display the same alacrity and zeal as before. Biron
did not suspect him, but the more cautious and penetrating
count de Fuentes did; and his suspicions are
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>said to have been strengthened by some words which
dropped from La Fin. Those suspicions the count
took especial care to conceal from the person who had
inspired them. “Dead men,” says the proverb, “tell
no tales;” and the case is much the same with men
entombed alive in a dungeon. Fuentes thought it prudent
to provide against the danger of a betrayal, by
getting rid of La Fin. In order to effect this, he found
a pretext for requesting him to pass through Piedmont,
on his way to France. Either La Fin had some misgiving
as to the intention of the Spanish viceroy, or
chance served him well; for, instead of going himself
to Turin, he took the road through Switzerland, and
sent Renazé, his confidential secretary, to the duke of
Savoy. Renazé was immediately arrested, and carried
to the castle of Chiari. It was in vain that La
Fin strove to interest the marshal in behalf of the secretary;
Biron spoke coldly of the captive, as a man
who must be sacrificed for the safety of the rest; and
he is said even to have advised his confidant to take
secret measures for effectually silencing all who had
been the companions of his travels, or could give any
clue to his proceedings. Already, though he seems
not to have had the slightest idea that La Fin would be
unfaithful to him, he had deemed it politic to transfer
his dangerous confidence to the baron de Luz, his cousin,
and two subordinate agents. Of this La Fin obtained
information; and it did not tend to quiet his
fears. It might be thought advisable to make him
share the fate of Renazé. But, even supposing this
not to happen, he saw plainly that the violent conduct
of Biron towards the king must inevitably soon bring
matters to extremities, and that, if the conspirators
failed, which it was highly probable they would, his own
life would be periled beyond redemption. His nephew,
the vidame of Chartres, was also urgent with him to
secure his head while there was yet an opportunity.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span></p>

<p>La Fin at length passed the Rubicon. He made
known to the king, that he had momentous secrets to
communicate. In reply, he was told, that he should
be rewarded for this service; but he stipulated only
for pardon, and it was readily granted. The whole of
the proofs of Biron’s guilt were then placed by him in
the hands of Henry, who was deeply afflicted by these
convincing testimonies of the marshal’s treason.</p>

<p>Justice seems to be degraded, and almost to change
its nature, when its purpose is attained by fraudulent
means. The net was spread for Biron, but in quieting
his fears, and luring him into it, a scene of trickery and
falsehood was exhibited, which cannot be contemplated
without pain. Sully had set a better example, by a
stratagem which is not amenable to censure. To prevent
Biron from maintaining a war in Burgundy, the
minister prudently withdrew from the fortresses of that
province the greatest part of the cannon and gunpowder,
on the plea that the former were damaged and
ought to be recast, and the latter was weakened by age,
and must be re-manufactured, and he took care not to
replace them. The right arm of Biron’s strength was
thus cut off. The marshal, nevertheless, might still
take flight; he had more than once evaded a summons
to confer with Henry; and it was of primary importance
to secure his person. As alarm might be excited
by La Fin journeying to court, he was instructed to
write to the marshal, that the king had required his
presence, that he could not refuse to comply without
giving rise to surmises; and that nothing should drop
from his lips which could prejudice his friend. In the
allusions which it made, and the caution which it recommended,
the reply of Biron furnished additional
evidence of his guilt. The monarch, too, played his
part in the deception. To the baron de Luz, who had
been sent from Burgundy to observe what was going
on, and was about to return to that province, he spoke
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>of the marshal in terms of kindness, and declared that
his heart was lightened by a conversation which he had
held with La Fin, as it proved that many of the charges
brought against Biron were wholly unfounded. La
Fin, at the same time, assured the marshal that the
king was entirely satisfied, and would receive him with
open arms. Deluded by these artifices, Biron determined
to join Henry at Fontainebleau, notwithstanding
that the incredulous de Luz, and others of his adherents,
strenuously endeavoured to dissuade him. Various circumstances,
ominous of evil, are said to have preceded
his departure. On his road he received more than
one warning from his well-wishers, but he spurned
them all, and proceeded to Fontainebleau. As he was
descending from his horse, he was saluted by the traitorous
La Fin, who whispered, “Courage and wary
speech, my master! they know nothing.” His belief
in these words consummated the ruin of Biron.</p>

<p>In spite of Biron’s faults, the heart of Henry still
yearned towards him. Though he could not greet the
offender with his customary warmth and frankness, he
received him graciously, and led him through the palace,
pointing out the improvements which had been made.
At length he touched upon the delicate subject of the
marshal’s deviation from the path of duty. He hinted
that he had incontrovertible proof, but assured him
that an honest confession would cancel every thing, and
replace him on the summit of favour. Misled by his
pride, and the fatal mistake that his secret was safe,
Biron, instead of seizing this opportunity to extricate
himself from danger, was mad enough to assume the
lofty tone of conscious and wronged innocence; studiously
cold in his general manner, he sometimes verged
upon insolence, and he loudly declared, that he came
not to justify his conduct, but to demand vengeance
upon those who had slandered him, or, if need were, to
take it. Twice more, in the course of the day—once
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>in person, and once through Biron’s friend, the count of
Soissons—Henry renewed his efforts, and was haughtily
repulsed. On the morrow the monarch returned to
the charge, and made other two attempts to save the
marshal from the gulf which was opening to receive
him. Oblivion for the past, friendship for the future,
were earnestly offered to his acceptance. But Biron
was like the deaf adder; he even broke out into a fit of
passion on being pressed for the last time; and Henry
was reluctantly compelled to resign him to his fate.</p>

<p>It is probable that the king would have borne with
Biron for a while longer, had not the terrors, entreaties,
and tears of his consort, impelled him to decisive measures.
Mary of Medicis believed, that it was a part
of the policy of Spain to cut off the royal family, and
she shuddered at the idea of what, in the case of a minority,
might happen to herself and her offspring, from
the hostility of a man who was in all ways so formidable
as Biron. The king himself had already betrayed
the same apprehension to Sully. After having,
in melancholy terms, confessed his lingering affection
for the marshal, he added, “But all my dread is, that
were I to pardon him, he would never pardon me, or
my children, or my kingdom.” The gates of mercy
were in consequence shut upon the dangerous criminal.</p>

<p>Biron had been in the habit of contemptuously
reflecting upon the character of Essex, for what he
considered as a cowardly surrender, and of maintaining
that a man of spirit ought rather to suffer himself
to be cut to pieces, than run the risk of dying by the
headsman’s axe. The time was now come when it was
to be seen whether he could practise his own doctrine.
It was midnight when he quitted the presence of the
king. Every thing had been prepared for his arrest,
and that of the count of Auvergne, who was suspected
of sharing in the treason. The latter nobleman was
taken into custody by Praslin, at the palace gate. No
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>sooner had Biron passed out of the ante-chamber than
Vitry, the captain of the guard, seized the marshal’s
arm, informed him that he was a prisoner, and demanded
his sword. At first he supposed it to be a jest;
and, when he was undeceived, he desired to see
the king, that he might deliver the weapon into his
hands. He was told that Henry could not be seen,
and his sword was again required. “What!” exclaimed
he furiously, “take the sword from me, who
have served the king so well! My sword, which ended
the war, and gave peace to France! Shall the sword
which my enemies could not wrest from me be taken by
my friends!” At length he submitted. When he was
led along the gallery, through a double line of guards, he
imagined that he was going to execution, and he wildly
cried out, “Companions! give me time to pray to
God, and put into my hand a firebrand, or a candlestick,
that I may at least have the comfort to die while I am
defending myself.” When, however, he found that he
was in no instant danger, he meanly endeavoured to
irritate the soldiers against the king, by saying to them,
“You see how good catholics are treated!” He passed
a sleepless and agitated night, pacing about his chamber,
striking the walls, raving to himself, and occasionally
to the sentinels, pouring forth invectives and imprecations,
and sometimes with singular imprudence
striving to seduce a valet de chambre of the king, who
watched him, to write to his secretaries, directing them
to keep out of the way, and to maintain, in case of
their being taken and questioned, that he never had
carried on any correspondence in cipher.</p>

<p>From Fontainebleau the prisoners were conveyed by
water to the Bastile. During the passage, Biron was
lost in gloomy reverie, and when he entered within the
walls of the prison his mind was racked with the worst
forebodings. Nor were the circumstances attendant
on his abode in the Bastile at all of a nature to raise
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>his spirits. Placed in the chamber whence the constable
St. Pol had passed to the scaffold, watched with
lynx-eyed vigilance, and so carefully kept from weapons
that he was allowed only a blunted knife at his meals,
he could not help exclaiming, “This is the road to the
Grêve.” While he was in this disturbed state, superstitious
weakness is said to have lent its aid to complete his
distraction. He was told that the Parisian executioner
was a native of Burgundy; and it instantly flashed
into his recollection, that having shown to la Brosse,
an astrologer, his own horoscope under another person’s
name, the wizard predicted the beheading of the
person; and that Cesar, a pretended magician, of
whom more will be seen in the next chapter, had said,
that “a single blow given behind by a Burgundian
would prevent him from attaining royalty.” The
shock seems for the moment to have utterly deprived
him of his senses. Refusing to eat, or drink, or sleep,
he incessantly raved, threatened, and blasphemed. A
visit from the archbishop of Bourges, who came to
offer the consolations of religion, and who gave him
some hopes of mercy on earth, rendered Biron less
violent. At the prisoner’s request, Villeroi and Silleri,
two of the king’s ministers, also visited him; and,
either that his brain was still wandering, or that he
thought to establish a claim to pardon by appearing to
make important discoveries, or that he was prompted
by a malignant wish to involve in his own ruin those
whom he hated, he is said to have charged, and in the
strongest terms, a number of innocent persons with
being engaged in treasonable practices. Whatever
was his motive, his purpose was frustrated; Henry did
not thirst for blood; and it has been remarked, that
the documents which, on the trial, were brought forward
against the culprit, were not those that most
forcibly criminated him, but those which criminated
him alone.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span></p>

<p>While Biron was thus the sport of his unruly passions,
his friends were actively employed in endeavouring
to save him. Henry had returned to the capital,
amidst the shouts and congratulations of his subjects.
Soon after his arrival, many of the nobles, some of
whom were of Biron’s nearest kindred, waited upon
the king, to intercede for the criminal. The duke of
la Force was their spokesman; he spoke on his knees,
and, though Henry desired him to rise, he retained
that posture. He pleaded the services of the culprit
and his father, the divine command to forgive our enemies,
the pardon which the king had extended to others,
and, especially, the deep indelible stain which would be
thrown upon the family by a public execution; and, as
far as was possible, he laboured to extenuate the marshal’s
guilt, by representing that it arose from the
warmth of his temper, and had never been carried beyond
mere intention. There was one point in the
duke’s speech which it was, perhaps, impolitic in him
to urge; that in which he stated himself to speak in
the name of a hundred thousand men, who had served
under Biron. This was begging too much in the style
of the Spanish beggar in Gil Blas, and was not calculated
to propitiate a man like Henry.</p>

<p>The monarch answered temperately, and even kindly,
but with due firmness. Reminding them that he did not
resemble some of his predecessors, who would not suffer
parents to sue for their children on such an occasion,
he declared that the mercy for which they asked
would, in fact, be the worst of cruelty. He alluded to
the love which he had always borne to Biron, and told
them, that had the offence been only against himself he
would willingly have forgiven it, and did forgive it as
far as related to his person, but that the safety of his
children and of the whole kingdom was implicated, and
he must perform his duty to them. With respect to
the disgrace which it was feared would attach to the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>relatives of the culprit, he treated the fear as a visionary
one; he was, he said, himself descended from the constable
St. Pol and the Armagnacs, who suffered on a scaffold,
yet he did not feel dishonoured. In conclusion, he
assured them that, far from depriving the marshal’s kindred
of the titles and offices which they possessed, he
was much more inclined to add to the number, so
long as they continued to serve the state with fidelity
and zeal.</p>

<p>The king having authorized the parliament to proceed
to trial, a deputation from that body, with the
first president Harlay at its head, went to the Bastile,
to take the necessary examinations, and confront
the witnesses. With only one exception, which exception
the internal evidence supplied by the papers
soon obliged him to retract, Biron recognized all the
letters and memorials which were shown to him; but
he strove to put an innocent construction upon them,
and, as they were written in a studiously ambiguous
style, he might have thrown doubts upon the subject,
had they been unsupported by oral testimony. In
this stage of the business, he was asked what was his
opinion of la Fin? Still believing that person to be
true to him, he replied that he was “an honourable
gentleman, a good man, and his friend.” The depositions
of la Fin were then read, and he was brought
face to face with the prisoner. The marshal now
burst out into the most furious abuse of the man
whom, but a moment before, he had declared to be
his honourable and worthy friend. “O good God!”
exclaims a contemporary chronicler, “what said he,
and what did he not say! With what more atrocious
revilings could he have torn to pieces the character of
the most execrable being in the world! With what
more horrible protestations, with what more terrible
oaths, could he have called upon men, angels, and
God himself, to be the witnesses and judges of his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>innocence!” La Fin, however, stood his ground
against the storm of invective; and supported his evidence
by corroborative circumstances, and additional
documents in the prisoner’s handwriting. It seemed
as though every thing conspired against Biron at this
dreadful moment. “If Renazé,” said he, “were here,
he would prove La Fin to be a liar.” To his utter
surprise and consternation, the witness whom he had
invoked, but whom he imagined to be dead, was suddenly
brought forward, and amply confirmed the whole
of La Fin’s story. On the very day that Biron was
arrested, Renazé contrived to escape from the castle
of Chiari, and he now sealed the fate of the marshal.
Driven to his last resource, Biron pleaded the pardon
which was granted to him at Lyons, and protested
that, since he received it, he had never entertained
any criminal designs. In this plea he was no less
unfortunate than in the others. From his own incautious
avowal, it was gathered that he did not make
a full confession to the king; and one of his letters
showed that he had continued to plot for many months
after the monarch had forgiven him.</p>

<p>The preliminary proceedings being completed, three
days were occupied by the parliament in going over
the mass of evidence, and hearing the summing up
of the attorney general. The courts of justice, in
those times, always commenced their sittings at an
early hour. Between five and six o’clock, on the
morning of the fourth day, Biron, closely guarded,
was taken by water to the hall of the parliament,
where a hundred and twelve of the members were in
waiting to receive him; the peers had unanimously
refused to sit upon his trial. At the sight of this
array of judges he changed colour, but he soon recovered
his self-possession, and is said to have assumed
a kind of theatrical air which was scarcely decorous.
A contemporary describes him as rudely bidding the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>chancellor speak louder, and as “putting forward his
right foot, holding his mantle under his arm, with his
hand on his side, and raising his other hand to heaven,
and smiting his breast with it, whenever he called
upon God and the celestial beings to be witnesses of
his integrity in the service of the king and kingdom.”</p>

<p>The whole of the crimes attributed to him had been
arranged under five heads, concerning which he was
interrogated by the chancellor. The questioning and
defence of Biron lasted between four and five hours,
and it must be owned that, in this final struggle for
life and reputation, he made a noble stand. Though,
in the course of a long speech, he sometimes became
entangled in contradictions, its general tenor was well
calculated to produce a favourable effect; at moments
he was even eloquent, and worked strongly on the
feelings of his auditors. Much he denied, and what
he could not deny he palliated; with respect to the
treasons charged against him, he was, he said, the seduced
and not the seducer, a man not deliberately
wicked, but led astray by hateful intriguers, who
wrought his violent passions into frenzy, by representing
that the monarch had undervalued and insulted
him—a representation which seemed to be confirmed
by his being refused the government of Bourg; he
pleaded that his errors had gone no farther than intention,
that they had been fully and freely pardoned,
and had never been repeated; he urged his numerous
and eminent services as a counterbalance to his faults,
and the mercy which had uniformly been shown to
far worse offenders as a reason why it should be extended
to him; and he repelled, as an infamous calumny,
the accusation of having intended to bring
about the death of Henry—yet, imprudent as such
language was, he could not forbear from broadly hinting
that the monarch was fickle, unjust, and cruel:
“I rely more upon you, gentlemen,” said he, “than I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>do upon the king, who, having formerly looked on me
with the eyes of his affection, no longer sees me but
with the eye of his hatred, and thinks it a virtue to be
cruel to me, and a fault to exercise towards me an act
of clemency.” At the close of his speech, few of his
hearers were unmoved, but all were unconvinced.</p>

<p>The most curious part of his defence is yet to be
mentioned. If he did not spare his sovereign, it is not
to be supposed that he would spare La Fin. Whenever
he mentioned him he could not restrain his fury,
but gave vent to a flood of abuse. Coining, and an
unnatural regard for Renazé, were among the numerous
crimes which he imputed to him. Strange that
he did not perceive the folly of thus vituperating a
man, whom he had so recently recognized as his honourable
and worthy friend, and whose sins, if they
really existed, he must then have known! But this
was not all. For his vindication he mainly trusted to
one plea—that he had not been a free agent, that he
was under the irresistible influence of La Fin, who
was a sorcerer, and had dealings with the devil. He
averred, seriously, that La Fin was in the habit of
breathing on him, biting his ear, and kissing his left
eye, and calling him his master, his lord, his prince,
and his king; that whenever his eye was kissed he
felt a tendency to do evil; that the magician also
enchanted him by making him drink charmed waters;
and that he showed him waxen images which moved
and spoke, and one of which pronounced, in Latin,
the words “impious king, thou shalt perish!” “If
by magic he could give voice to an inanimate body,”
said he, “is it wonderful that he should have such
power over me as to bend my will to an entire conformity
with his own?”</p>

<p>Deceived by the compassion which some of his
judges had manifested, Biron cherished the flattering
hope of an acquittal. His spirits were so elated by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>this idea, that he amused himself with repeating to his
guards various portions of his defence, and mimicking
the gestures and speeches which he supposed the
chancellor to have made in the course of the subsequent
proceedings. His vanity, too, contributed to
buoy him up. He ran over, in conversation, the list
of French commanders, found some defect in each of
them, and thence concluded that, as his military talents
were obviously indispensable to the state, his life
was secure.</p>

<p>The termination of that life was, nevertheless, rapidly
approaching. By an unanimous vote, on the
day after his appearance at their bar, the parliament
pronounced Biron guilty of high treason, and condemned
him to lose his head on the Grêve. The place
of execution was changed by the king to the interior
of the Bastile, at the request, it was said, of the criminal’s
friends; but partly, perhaps, in the fear that a
popular commotion might occur, and partly because a
report was spread, that some of his domestics intended
to throw a sword to him on the scaffold, that he might
at least have the chance of dying an honourable death.
It was wise not to run the risk of encountering his
despair.</p>

<p>The first intimation which Biron received of his
impending doom, was from seeing that crowds were
gathering together in the neighbourhood of the Bastile.
The change of time and place had not been publicly
made known. “I am sentenced! I am a dead
man!” he instantly exclaimed. He then sent a messenger
to Sully, to request that he would come to him,
or would intercede with the king. With these requests
Sully declined to comply, but he desired the messenger
to leave the marshal in doubt as to the king’s intention.
On the following morning, the last day of July, 1602,
the chancellor, accompanied by some of his officers,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>proceeded to the Bastile, to read the sentence to him,
and announce its immediate execution. Biron was at
the moment deeply engaged in calculating his nativity.
When he was taken down to the chancellor, he addressed
him in an unconnected rhapsody of prayers,
lamentations, invectives, and reproaches, intermingled
with protestations of innocence, and vaunts of the services
which he was yet capable of rendering to the state.
He besought that he might be suffered to live, even
though it were in prison and in chains! It was a considerable
time before the chancellor could obtain a
hearing, and he was speedily interrupted by sallies of
rage from the marshal, who reproached him with hardness
of heart, execrated La Fin, accused the king of
being revengeful, and the parliament of injustice in not
having allowed sufficient time for his vindication, and,
finally, asserted that he was put to death because he
was a sincere catholic.</p>

<p>This burst of insane passion was succeeded by a lucid
interval, during which he calmly dictated his will, sent
tokens of remembrance to his friends, and distributed
in alms the money which he had about him. The
reading of some parts of his sentence again roused his
irritable feelings. When he heard the charge of having
intended to destroy the king, he exclaimed, “That
is false! blot it out!” and when the Grêve was mentioned,
he declared that no power on earth should drag
him thither, and that he would sooner be torn to pieces
by wild horses than submit to such an indignity. He
was quieted by being told of the change which had been
made; but, when it was hinted to him that his arms
must be bound, he relapsed into such violence that it
was thought advisable to leave his hands at liberty.
He then made his confession to the priest; and it was
remarked that he, who had just before boasted of being
a good catholic, was ignorant of the commonest forms
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>of prayer, prayed more like a soldier than a Christian,
and seemed to be thinking less of his salvation than of
the things of this world.</p>

<p>It being now near five o’clock, the hour which was
appointed for the execution, he was informed that he
must descend into the court of the prison. As he was
quitting the chapel, he caught sight of the executioner.
“Begone!” vociferated he: “touch me not till it is
time; if you come near me till then, I swear that I
will strangle you!” He twice repeated the command
and the threat when he was at the scaffold. Looking
round on the soldiers, he mournfully said, “Would
but some one of you fire his musket through my body,
how thankful I should be! What misery it is to die
so wretchedly, and by so shameful a blow!” The
sentence was then read again, and again he lost all
patience at being accused of planning Henry’s death.
It was with much difficulty that the clerk of the parliament
completed the reading of the sentence, his voice
being almost drowned by the clamour of the prisoner.
Thrice Biron tied a handkerchief over his eyes, and
as often he tore it off again, and once more he vented
his rage on the executioner, who had maddened him
by wishing to cut off his hair behind. “Touch me
not,” he cried, “except with the sword. If you lay hands
on me while I am alive, if I am driven into a fury, I
will strangle half the folks that are here, and compel
the rest to kill me.” So terrible were his looks and
his tone, that several of the persons present were on
the point of taking flight. It was believed that he
meditated seizing the death-sword, but the executioner
had prudently desired his attendant to conceal it till
it was wanted. At last, after long delay, the marshal
requested Baranton, one of the officers of the Bastile,
to bandage his eyes and tuck up his hair; and, when
this was done, he laid his head upon the block. “Be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>quick! be quick!” were his last words, and they were
promptly obeyed. They were scarcely out of the mouth
of the speaker when the sword descended, and by a
single blow Biron ceased to exist.</p>

<p>The remains of Biron were interred in the church
of St. Paul. Not only was his funeral followed by
multitudes, but multitudes visited the church afterwards,
for the purpose of sprinkling his grave with
holy water. “Never was there a tomb,” says de Thou,
“on which so much holy water was poured; a circumstance
rather disagreeable to the court, which was vexed
to see that a step which all ought to have deemed necessary
for the safety of the king and state, was so
wrongly interpreted as to become a subject of public
dissatisfaction.”</p>

<p>Almost the last wish of Biron was for vengeance on
La Fin; the wish was gratified. After a lapse of four
years, La Fin ventured to visit Paris. In the middle
of the day, and in the centre of the capital, he was attacked
by twelve or fifteen well-mounted men, who unhorsed
him, and stretched him on the ground, weltering
in his blood. Several passengers were killed or
wounded by the random firing. The perpetrators of
this deed, though not unknown, were never brought
to justice. La Fin himself was undeserving of pity;
but his murderers, even had he been the only victim,
ought to have been shortened by the head.</p>

<p>Faithless to a sovereign who had lavished kindness
and honours upon him, borne with his caprices and errors,
and more than once saved his life on the field of
battle, Biron was rightfully punished; but the severity
which, on very slight grounds of suspicion, was shown
to René de Marc, sieur de Monbarot, seems to impeach
the justice of Henry. When, however, we recollect,
that his mind was painfully agitated by the plots
which were thickening round him, we may, perhaps, be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>inclined to pity rather than blame the monarch, that,
in one instance, its natural bias towards lenity was
turned aside.</p>

<p>In the bay of Douarnenez, off the Breton coast, there
is an islet, called Tristan, or Frimeau, which commands
the entrance to the harbour of Douarnenez. The government
of it was held by the baron de Fontanelles,
who, during the war of the League, had rendered himself
notorious by his activity in plundering. Not being
any longer able to gratify his rapacity in this manner,
he sought for other resources, and hoped he had found
them in becoming an accomplice of Biron, and in opening
a negotiation with the Spaniards, to deliver up to
them the island and the neighbouring town. This
would have put Spain into possession of a very annoying
post in Britanny. Fortunately his treason was discovered,
and he was sentenced to be broken on the wheel.
Three other persons, two of whom were Bretons, participated
in his guilt, and the latter were executed.</p>

<p>Before the accomplices of Fontanelles were led to
the scaffold, they were put to the torture, and, while
they were writhing under that iniquitous infliction,
something dropped from them which was construed
into an implication of Monbarot, who was governor of
Rennes. Monbarot had done good service against the
duke of Mercœur, during the war of the League, and,
since the peace, he had made strenuous exertions to
maintain the royal authority in Britanny. All this
was, nevertheless, insufficient to save him from being
suspected of treasonable designs, and immured in
the Bastile.</p>

<p>Monbarot languished in prison for three years—and
to a solitary captive years are ages. He would, perhaps,
have remained there during a much longer period,
had not filial love been a persevering suitor for him.
His only son repeatedly solicited the king to set his
parent free; and, failing to obtain that boon, he entreated
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>that he might be allowed to lighten his sorrows,
by sharing his captivity. At length, Monbarot’s enemies
having failed to procure any proof whatever against
him, he was liberated by Henry. But, though he was
declared to be innocent, he was punished as though he
were guilty. Instead of being, as far as was possible,
compensated for three years of suffering, he was deprived
of the government of Rennes, which was given
to Philip de Bethune, Sully’s younger brother. It is
probable, indeed, that the persecution of Monbarot was
set on foot for the sole purpose of wresting from him
his coveted office.</p>

<p>Charles of Valois, count of Auvergne, who was afterwards
known as duke of Angoulême, was a son of Charles
the ninth, by Maria Touchet, and was born in 1573.
He was admitted a knight of Malta, and became grand
prior of France; but Catherine of Medicis having bequeathed
to him the counties of Auvergne and Lauragais,
he quitted the order of Malta, and married a
daughter of the constable Montmorenci. Charles was
one of the first to join Henry of Navarre, on the accession
of that prince, and he fought valiantly for him at
Arques, Ivry, and Fontaine Française. In the course
of a few years, however, his loyalty evaporated, and we
find him an accomplice of Biron. When he was arrested,
his pleasantry and presence of mind did not
forsake him. On Praslin demanding his sword, he
laughingly said, “Here it is; it has never killed any
thing but wild boars. If you had given me a hint of
this business, I should have been in bed and asleep
two hours ago.” He preserved the same gay humour
while he was in prison. In October he was released,
after having disclosed the whole that he knew of the
conspiracy. As, however, the king had procured the
same information from other quarters, Auvergne would
probably have been severely punished but for two favourable
circumstances—he was the half brother of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>the king’s mistress, the marchioness of Verneuil, and
he had been particularly recommended to him by Henry
the third, when that monarch was on his death-bed.</p>

<p>A very short time elapsed before Auvergne was
again involved in treasonable projects. His confederates
were the marchioness of Verneuil, her father,
Francis de Balsac d’Entragues, and an Englishman
named Thomas Morgan. The duke of Bouillon, and
other nobles, were also ready to lend their aid. The
marchioness, who, in consequence of the promise of
marriage which the king had given to her during the
insanity of his passion, affected to consider herself as
his wife, was irritated by the birth of a dauphin, which
seemed to shut out the possibility of her son ever possessing
what she called his right. D’Entragues was
deeply wounded in his feelings, by the stain which
Henry’s licentious love for his daughter had cast upon
him. Some writers,—who appear to suppose that a
French father could not think himself dishonoured by
his child becoming a king’s concubine,—throw doubts
on the sincerity of d’Entragues’ indignation; but I can
see no real grounds for their so doing. There is an
air of sincerity, in what he says upon this subject, which
is greatly in his favour. After touching upon the ingratitude
with which his faithful services had been repaid,
he adds, “Borne down by years and maladies, I
was condemned to suffer more deadly blows from blind
fortune. My daughter, the sole consolation of my old
age, pleased the king, and this last stroke completed
my misery. Grief aggravated my maladies, and still
more intense mental anguish was joined to the pains
which my body endured. I found myself exposed to
all the gibes of the courtiers, and that which generally
constitutes the happiness of a father, and which ought
to have formed the glory and felicity of my family,
was, on the contrary, the cause of my shame, of the
dishonour of my house, and of the insulting scorn with
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>which I was overwhelmed.” As often as he implored
for leave to withdraw from court he was refused, and
at length he was forbidden to see his daughter. Not
content with inflicting these wrongs upon him, Henry
was striving to seduce his second daughter also. Assuredly
if such injuries are not sufficient to rouse the
wrath of a father, it is difficult to imagine what would
be. That d’Entragues keenly felt them is certain; for
he more than once endeavoured to intercept and kill
the king, while he was on his way to the marchioness,
and to her sister, and Henry is said to have narrowly
escaped. The design to assassinate is indefensible;
but it at least proves that the father was in earnest.
At a subsequent period, Henry said to d’Entragues, “Is
it true, as is reported, that you meant to kill me?”
“Yes, Sire,” replied the undaunted noble, “and the
idea will never be out of my mind, while your majesty
persists to blot my honour in the person of my
daughter.”</p>

<p>The particulars of the conspiracy are very imperfectly
known. It is said the principal stipulations of
the treaty with Spain were, that Philip should recognise
as dauphin the natural son of Henry by the marchioness
of Verneuil, on her putting him into his hands;
that, in the first instance, the mother and child should
seek refuge at Sedan, under the protection of the duke
of Bouillon, and that subsequently five Portuguese
fortresses should be ceded to them as places of security;
and that France should be invaded on the frontiers
of Champagne, Burgundy, and Provence, by the
marquis of Spinola, the count of Fuentes, and the duke
of Savoy.</p>

<p>To the prosecution of Auvergne there were two obstacles,
which arose out of the conduct of Henry.
When the count was released from the Bastile, he
offered to continue his correspondence with the Spanish
court, for the purpose of betraying its secrets to the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>king; and a regular authority for so doing was unwisely
granted to him. It was base in Auvergne to
make such a proposal, and scarcely less so in Henry to
adopt it. By another act, the monarch gave him a
fresh pretext for holding intercourse with a power
which was thoroughly hostile at heart. Henry being
attacked by a fit of illness, the marchioness, who had
insulted Mary of Medicis beyond endurance, affected
to feel, or perhaps felt, such extreme dread of what
would befal her and her offspring in case of his death,
that the king gave her half brother a written permission
to negotiate an asylum for her in a foreign country.
Cambray was the place which she and Auvergne
selected as the city of refuge; and this selection afforded
them, while the negotiation was proceeding, an
opportunity to carry on intrigues with the emissaries
of Spain.</p>

<p>Apprehending, probably, that his treasonable duplicity
would soon be detected, Auvergne, by challenging
the count of Soissons, artfully contrived to be banished
from court. Soissons complained, and Henry, to satisfy
him, exiled the challenger to the province whence
he derived his title. This was what Charles of Valois
had aimed at; for, in that province, his possessions,
his popularity, and the rugged nature of the country,
would contribute to secure him from danger. While
he was there, a letter written by him, to one of his
friends at Paris, was intercepted, and, though its language
was obscure, it gave the king reason to believe
that, under pretence of betraying Spain, the count was in
reality plotting with it. Henry immediately summoned
him to return to court. Auvergne was however aware of
the reason and the danger. “It is only for the purpose
of bringing my head to the scaffold,” said he, “that I
am called to Paris.” The mere idea of being re-immured
in “that great heap of stones,” as he called
the Bastile, made him shudder. Neither a safe-conduct,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>nor a formal pardon, which were offered to him,
nor the assurances of several persons, whom the king
sent to him, could remove his suspicions. To avoid
being taken by surprise, he lived in the woods, and the
most solitary spots, and kept dogs and sentinels continually
on the watch. Yet he was at last circumvented.
His regiment of cavalry was purposely ordered to pass
near his abode, and he could not deny himself the gratification
of inspecting it. In this pleasure he thought
he might safely indulge, as he was resolved that he
would neither dismount nor be surrounded, and was on
the back of a fleet horse, that could gallop ten leagues
without stopping. He was, nevertheless, adroitly
seized, and carried off to the Bastile, where he was
placed in the chamber that Biron had inhabited. On
his way thither he had preserved his serenity, but,
when he entered the chamber, the remembrance of his
friend drew from him a few tears. He soon, however,
recovered his equanimity, and jocosely told the governor,
“there was no inn at Paris so bad that he would
not rather go to bed in it, than in this building.” As
soon as Auvergne was secured, d’Entragues was arrested
and lodged in the Concièrgerie, and the marchioness
of Verneuil was placed under a guard in her
own house.</p>

<p>The parliament was now directed to take cognizance
of the plot. Henry, however, whose main object
in all this was to render his haughty mistress more
submissive, sent one of his confidential servants to
make her an offer of pardon on certain conditions. He
was repulsed, as he richly deserved to be. The marchioness
disdainfully replied, that, as she had never
committed a crime against the king, there was no room
for a pardon. The trial accordingly proceeded. The
conspirators defended themselves dextrously. Biron
had been ruined partly by admitting, at the outset, the
fair character and veracity of intended witnesses. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>marchioness and the count at least avoided that rock,
by manifesting an apparently bitter hostility to each
other. As to d’Entragues, he censured them both;
but his vindication principally consisted of a severe exposure
and impeachment of Henry’s conduct, with respect
to himself, the marchioness, and her sister.</p>

<p>Though in a legal point of view, whatever they might
be in a moral, the proofs against the prisoners were by
no means clear, the judges, on the 1st of February, 1605,
found Auvergne, d’Entragues, and Morgan, guilty of
high treason, and condemned them to lose their heads.
The marchioness was sentenced to be confined in a
monastery, while further inquiries were being made
into her past proceedings. She was, however, soon
after allowed to reside in her own house at Verneuil;
and no long time elapsed before the king ordered that
all inquiry into her acts should be discontinued. The
punishment of the remaining offenders was next commuted.
D’Entragues was exiled to his house at Malesherbes,
Morgan was sent out of the kingdom, and
Auvergne was doomed to remain in “that great heap
of stones,” which he so much abhorred.</p>

<p>Thus ended a farce which was eminently disgraceful
to Henry, and for which he was justly censured. “It
excited indignation,” says de Thou, “to see the ministry
of the most respectable tribunal in the realm
profaned by a court intrigue. The king, it was said,
had brought the marchioness to trial, not for the purpose
of punishing her, nor to give an example which
was equally necessary and full of equity, but that her
father and brother, who had tried to withdraw her
from the court, might be foremost in exhorting her to
renew her connection with a prince who madly loved
her.” To crown the whole, the monarch who, to secure
more effectually a refractory mistress, had thus
made a laughing-stock of the laws and the magistracy,
speedily deserted that mistress, and transferred his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>fickle affections to Jacqueline de Beuil, whom he created
countess of Moret.</p>

<p>The death of Henry did not open the prison doors
of the count of Auvergne. He spent nearly twelve
years in the Bastile. Happily for him, he had been
well educated, and though, while he was immersed in
the debaucheries of an immoral court, he had lost sight
of literature, his taste for it was not destroyed. He
was therefore enabled to solace by study his long captivity;
and we may believe that, when he once more
emerged from his durance, reflection and added years
had made him a wiser and a better man. He had need
of consolation while he was incarcerated; for, the year
after he was committed to the Bastile, he received another
heavy blow. Queen Margaret instituted a suit,
to recover from him the vast property which he derived
from her mother, and the tribunal decided against
him.</p>

<p>At last, in 1616, he was set free by Mary of Medicis,
that he might assist in forming a counterpoise
to the Condéan faction; and in 1619, he was created
duke of Angoulême. He subsequently served the
state with honour, on various occasions, both as ambassador
and general. His death took place in 1650.</p>

<p>Scarcely were the proceedings against Auvergne
and his accomplices brought to a close before another
conspiracy was discovered; it was the last which was
formed, or rather, perhaps, which was made public,
during the reign of Henry. The author of this plot
was Louis d’Alagon, sieur de Merargues, a Provençal
noble, nearly allied to some great families. We have
seen that the Spaniards were desirous to obtain an establishment
on the Breton coast, which might be a thorn
in the side of France. They now sought to gain a
much more dangerous footing on the shore of the
Mediterranean. The important city of Marseilles was
the object which they coveted, and Merargues was the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>person on whom they reckoned to put it into their
possession.</p>

<p>Almost the first step which Merargues took, after
becoming a traitor, showed how unfit he was to act the
part which he had chosen; he had all the will in the
world to be a dangerous conspirator, and wanted only
the talent. Some years before, he had proposed to
the king to keep two galleys ready for service, in order
to secure the port of Marseilles; the plan was adopted,
and as a recompense, he received the command of the
vessels. In maturing this scheme, he derived much
assistance from a galley-slave, who was a man of ability.
To this man, whom he imagined to be entirely
devoted to him, and capable of daring deeds, Merargues
communicated his purpose of betraying Marseilles to
the Spanish monarch. By means of the two galleys,
he considered himself to be master of the port; and he
had no doubt of being elected to the office of Viguier,
or Royal Provost, for the following year, which would
give him full authority over the city and the forts.</p>

<p>In order to fathom to the bottom the project of Merargues,
the wily galley-slave affected to lend a willing
ear to the projector. He, however, deemed it more
prudent to trust to the gratitude of his own sovereign
for a reward, than to that of Philip of Spain. As soon
as he had acquired a thorough knowledge of the particulars,
he wrote to the duke of Guise, offering to give
information of the utmost importance, on condition of
recovering his liberty. His offer was made known to
the king by the duke, and was accepted. Guise was
at the same time directed to keep the affair a profound
secret, till decisive proof could be obtained against the
criminal, and to take the necessary precautions for the
safety of the city.</p>

<p>Merargues himself was not slow in furnishing the
evidence which was wanted. He had already had various
conferences with Zuniga, the Spanish ambassador,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>an able and intriguing diplomatist, but his correspondence
on the subject was principally carried on through
Bruneau, the ambassador’s secretary. Unconscious
that his scheme was known to the French government,
he now visited Paris, on a mission to the court, from
the states of Provence; a mission which he no doubt
readily undertook, that he might have an opportunity
of making arrangements with his foreign confederates.
By order of the king, he was closely watched, and it
was soon discovered that he had secret interviews
with Zuniga and Bruneau. The latter was tracked to
the abode of Merargues, and both of them were arrested.
On the secretary, who tried in vain to draw
his sword, was found a paper, which bore witness to
the criminality of his purpose. Merargues, on being
seized, exclaimed, “I am a dead man! but if the king
will spare my life, I will disclose great things to him!”
He was conveyed to the Bastile, and Bruneau to the
Châtelet.</p>

<p>No sooner did Zuniga learn the detention of his
secretary than he demanded an audience of the king. It
must excite a smile, to hear that he complained bitterly
of heavy wrong, and assumed the lofty tone of
offended dignity. In the face of the clearest evidence,
he denied all sinister designs; and talked largely of the
privilege of ambassadors being violated, and the law of
nations set at nought—as if any privileges or law could
exist authorizing an envoy to conspire in the very court
of the monarch to whom he is deputed. Nor did he
forget to recriminate upon the ministers of Henry, as
being fomenters of revolution in the Spanish dominions,
nor to throw out threats of hostility, in case redress
were denied. Angered by the haughty language of
Zuniga, Henry retorted with at least equal acrimony,
and concluded by a peremptory refusal to release
Bruneau, till the question of his guilt or innocence
had been thoroughly investigated. In the course of a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>few days, however, Bruneau was sent back to his master;
but not before he had answered interrogatories,
and been confronted with Merargues.</p>

<p>The fate of Merargues could not be doubtful. He
was sentenced to be beheaded, and then quartered. As
the culprit was related to the families of the duke of
Montpensier and the cardinal de Joyeuse, the king sent
to those personages, to offer the commutation of the
punishment into perpetual imprisonment. They, however,
with a praiseworthy spirit, replied that, though
they were grateful for his kindness, they must decline
to accept it; of all such villains they would, they said,
be glad to see France cleared, and, although the criminal
was their relative, they would do justice on him
with their own hands, if there were no executioner to
perform that duty. Merargues was in consequence
executed, at the Grêve, and his head was sent to
Marseilles, and exposed on the summit of one of the
city gates.</p>

<p>On the same day that Merargues was led to the
scaffold, the life of Henry was endangered by the
violence of one John de Lisle, a madman. In the
course of a few months another accident occurred; he
narrowly escaped drowning, while crossing the ferry of
Neuilly in his carriage. At the expiration of five years,
treason accomplished its purpose, and the existence of
this justly celebrated monarch was cut short by the
knife of Ravaillac.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</h2>

<p>Reign of Louis XIII.—The treasure of Henry IV. dissipated—Prevalent
belief in magic—Cesar and Ruggieri—Henry, prince
of Condé—The Marchioness d’Ancre—Marshal Ornano—Prevalence
of duelling—The count de Bouteville—The Day of the
Dupes—Vautier, the physician of Mary of Medicis—The marshal
de Bassompierre—The chevalier de Jars—Infamy of Laffemas—Three
citizens of Paris sent to the Bastile—Despotic language of
Louis XIII.—The count de Cramail—The Marquis of Vitry—Peter
de la Porte—Noel Pigard Dubois, an alchemical impostor—The
count de Grancé and the Marquis de Praslin—The prince
Palatine—Count Philip d’Aglie—Charles de Beys—Letter from
an unknown prisoner to Richelieu.</p>

</div>

<p>The treasure deposited in the Bastile, by Henry IV.,
did not remain long undissipated after his death. It
began to melt away, like snow in the sun, as soon as the
regency of Mary of Medicis was commenced. Swarms
of her favourites and dependants clamoured to obtain
the reward of their sycophancy. Like the horse-leech’s
two daughters, they were perpetually crying,
“Give! Give!” and, had such personages existed in
the days of Solomon, he might have added a fifth
thing to the four which he describes as never saying
“It is enough.” Most prominent among the group
were Concini and his wife; and, as they were exceedingly
unpopular, they endeavoured to silence the cry
against them, by stopping, at the public expense, the
mouths of their most formidable censors. But it was
not only her friends, as they called themselves, that
Mary of Medicis had to satisfy; her enemies, and she
had many, were to be bought off, and they sold their
forbearance dearly. Fraud and shameless rapacity became
universal. “Governors,” says Anquetil, “called
for guards which they never enlisted, for augmentations
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>of their garrisons, that they might gain something
out of the pay, and fortifications, which often
were useless. They themselves made the bargains,
and, at the king’s cost, managed matters with the contractors.
Reversions were granted down to the third
generation. Those who by this means were excluded,
required drafts on the royal treasury. Nothing was
more common than the doubling and trebling of salaries,
from the highest office to the lowest. Some obtained
dowries for their daughters, others the payment
of their debts: so that it was a general pillage.” To
all this must be added, the loss sustained, and the injury
done to every branch of industry, by the creation
or revival of obnoxious tolls, privileges, and monopolies.</p>

<p>Thus the money accumulated by Henry was speedily
squandered. After all, it was, perhaps, more innocently
spent in this manner, than it would have been
in carrying on the wide-spreading war which he had
planned, to realise his chimerical projects. Some drops
of the golden shower probably descended among the
multitude; and myriads were not led forth to spill their
blood in foreign lands. The real mischief in this case
was, that, when the hoard was gone, the spirit of spending
remained; and to satisfy that spirit new taxes and
exactions were pitilessly imposed on a people whose
burthens were already oppressive.</p>

<p>Having wholly lost his influence, Sully resigned
many of his offices, and returned into private life.
Among the places which he relinquished were the superintendence
of the finances, and the government of
the Bastile. He, however, did not make the sacrifice
without taking especial care to be well remunerated for
it. A million of livres, and a yearly pension of forty-eight
thousand livres, was his price. It is quite clear
that the virtuous Sully did not think, like Pope, that
“virtue <i>only</i> makes our bliss below.”</p>

<p>For the first four or five years of the regency of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>Mary of Medicis, the Bastile seems to have contained
no prisoner of note. At the end of that time it received
an individual who, though he had no rank to
boast of, professed to be in the service of a potent
master. The belief in magic was almost general at
that period. We have seen that Biron attributed his
crimes to the influence of magic upon him. All the
world was running mad after charms, spells, and philtres;
the boldest of the throng had a violent curiosity
to see the devil. Among those who preyed upon the
credulity of the crowd, history has preserved the names
of two—one was called Cesar, the other was Ruggieri,
a Florentine. It is to the extraordinary mode in
which they are asserted to have quitted the world, that
we are indebted for our knowledge of them.</p>

<p>Cesar is gravely stated to have had the power of
calling down hail and thunder at his pleasure. He had
a familiar spirit, and a dog, who seems to have been a
sort of minor fiend, acting as messenger, to carry his
letters, and bring back answers. Cesar was a manufacturer
of love potions, to make young girls enamoured
of young men; and, on occasion, could help a cowardly
enemy to destroy without risk the man whom he
hated. It was charged against him, that he had formed
a charmed image for the purpose of making a gentleman
waste away. This was a very common practice
when sorcery and witchcraft were in vogue. But it
seems probable that the crime which brought him to
the Bastile was an indiscretion which he committed
with respect to one of the gentle sex. He was accustomed
to attend the witches’ sabbath; and he boasted
that, at one of those unholy meetings, a great lady of the
court had granted him the last favour which a female
can bestow. Such a vaunt was well calculated to bring
him into durance. It did that, and more. On the
eleventh of March, 1615, all Paris was astonished, by
learning that, in the dead of the night, the devil had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>come, with a tremendous din, and strangled Cesar in
his bed. Four days afterwards, his satanic majesty,
who appears to have wanted the services of two magicians
at once, snatched away, in the same manner,
the soul of the Florentine Ruggieri, who was then residing
in the house of a French marshal. It is not difficult
to account for these supposed supernatural events.</p>

<p>A curious description of the tricks which Cesar played
upon his dupes is given by a contemporary author, who
speaks in the character of the magician. The representation
is probably correct. “You would hardly believe,”
says he, “how many young courtiers and young Parisians
there are, who teaze me to show them the devil.
Finding this to be the case, I hit upon one of the drollest
inventions in the world to get money. About a quarter
of a league from this city, I found a very deep quarry,
which has long ditches on the right and left hand.
When any body wants to see the devil, I take him into
that; but, before he enters, he must pay me forty or
fifty pistoles at least; swear never to say a word of the
matter; and promise not to be afraid, or call on the
gods or demigods, or pronounce any holy words.</p>

<p>“All this being done, I enter the cavern first; then,
before going further, I make circles, and involutions,
and fulminations, and mutter some speech composed of
barbarous words, which I have no sooner uttered than
my curious fool and I hear the rattling of heavy chains,
and the growling of large mastiffs. Then I ask him
if he is afraid; if he says yes (and there are many
who dare not proceed), I lead him out again, and,
having thus cured him of his impertinent curiosity, I
pocket his money.</p>

<p>“If he is not afraid, I go forward, mumbling out
some terrific words. When I have reached a particular
spot, I redouble my incantations, and utter loud
cries, as if I had gone frantically mad. Immediately
six men, whom I keep hidden in the cavern, throw out
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>flashes of flame, to the right and left of us, from burning
rosin. Seen through these flames I point out to
my inquisitive companion a monstrous goat, loaded
with great heavy chains of iron, painted with vermilion,
to look as though they were red hot. On each side,
there are two enormous mastiffs, with their heads fastened
into long wooden cases, which are wide at one
end, and very narrow at the other. While the men
keep goading them, they howl with all their might,
and this howling echoes in such a manner, through the
instruments on their heads, that the cavern is filled with
sounds so terrific that, though I know the cause of the
hurlyburly, even my own hair stands on end. The
goat, whom I have taught his lesson, plays his part so
well, rattling his chains, and brandishing his horns,
that there is nobody but what would believe him to be
the devil in earnest. My six men, whom I have also
thoroughly trained, are likewise loaded with red chains,
and dressed like furies. There is no light in the cavern
but what they now and then make with powdered rosin.</p>

<p>“Two of them, after having played the devil to
perfection, now come to torment my poor curious gull,
with long bags of cloth full of sand; with these they
so belabour him all over his body, that I am at last
obliged to drag him out of the cavern half dead. Then,
when he has come to himself a little, I tell him that
it is a most perilous thing to wish to see the devil, and
I beg that he will never indulge it in future; and I
assure you that no one ever does after having been so
double damnably beaten.”</p>

<p>The year after the foul fiend had fetched away
Cesar and Ruggieri, the Bastile was tenanted by an
occupant of high rank—Henry, prince of Condé, the
second who bore that Christian name. Condé was
born in 1588, and, till the birth of a dauphin, was
presumptive heir to the throne of France. The prince
was well educated, witty and pleasant in conversation,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>spoke several languages, and was better acquainted
with literature and the sciences than most contemporary
men of high birth; but his person was not attractive.
It was probably the latter circumstance
which induced Henry the fourth to unite him to Henrietta
de Montmorenci, the loveliest and richest female
of that time. Her inclinations leaned towards the
handsome, gallant, and accomplished Bassompierre;
but Henry, who was smitten with an extravagant
passion for her, seems to have thought that he could
more easily seduce her if she were the wife of Condé.
He was mistaken. The prince, on whose “liking the
chase a hundred thousand times better than he liked
women” Henry had rather erroneously calculated,
was not disposed to be dishonoured, even by a king
who was his uncle. Henry, previous to the marriage,
had, indeed, pledged his word that, on his account,
the prince need have no fears; but Henry was not a
man to be trusted in such cases. The nuptial knot
was scarcely tied before the conduct of the monarch
became such as to awake, and justify, all the jealous
fears of the husband; who was further aggrieved by
being compelled to endure the contempt and insolence
of Sully. To avoid the danger which hung over him,
his sole resource was to fly the country with his wife;
and he accordingly contrived to make his escape, and
to obtain an asylum in the court of the archduke
Albert, at Brussels.</p>

<p>When Henry found that his intended prey was beyond
his reach, his behaviour resembled rather that of
a madman than of a sage monarch, at the mature age
of fifty-seven. He ran about asking advice of his
courtiers, the ministers were summoned, councils were
held, parties of troops were despatched to seize the
fugitives, and war was threatened against Spain, if she
refused to give them up. When Sully was told of
what had happened, he replied in a surly tone, “I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>am not astonished at it, sire; I foresaw it clearly and
warned you of it; and had you taken my advice a
fortnight ago, when he was going to Moret, you would
have put him into the Bastile, where you would find
him now, and where I should have kept a good watch
over him for you.” Such was the morality of the
austere Sully! This “well-seeming Angelo,” who has
been praised, at least as much as he deserves, could
be indignant at the idea of the monarch marrying
Henrietta d’Entragues, his mistress; but he could
see no dishonour in that monarch breaking his plighted
word, as well as all moral obligations, by seducing the
wife of his nephew; nor in he himself volunteering his
assistance to forward an adulterous intercourse, by
prompting the seizure of the injured husband, and becoming
his gaoler!</p>

<p>It was not without reason that the prince dreaded
to trust his wife within the corrupted atmosphere of
the French court. Had she remained there, it appears
certain that she must have fallen. As it was, her
fidelity was, for a moment, on the point of being shaken.
Henrietta was little more than sixteen, and the glory
of the sovereign, his boundless generosity to her, and
his idolatrous fondness, dazzled her imagination so far,
that, while she was at Brussels, a correspondence was
actually carried on between them. An attempt was
made by Henry’s emissaries to carry her off, but it
failed. When d’Estrées, marquis of Cœuvres, who
conducted this attempt, was reproached for his baseness
by Condé, his defence was, that he had acted upon
orders from the king his master, and that it was his
duty to execute them, whether they were just or unjust.
Henrietta repaired her momentary error by her
subsequent conduct.</p>

<p>Not believing himself to be safe, Condé removed to
Milan, where he published a manifesto to justify his
having quitted France. From policy he passed over
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>in silence the main cause of his flight; but he indemnified
himself by pouring forth all the bitterness of
his resentment on Sully, whom he painted in the darkest
colours. Some overtures were made, to lure the
prince back to France, but they were ineffectual. But,
while Henry was preparing to carry war into the territory
of his neighbours, he fell by the hand of an assassin,
and the way was thus opened for the return of
the prince.</p>

<p>Condé aspired to the regency, but his ambitious
hopes were disappointed. Chagrined at the failure of
some of his subsequent schemes, and the refusal of
favours which he sought, the prince, with many of the
nobles, took up arms against the court. For this, he
and his adherents were declared guilty of treason. A
peace was, nevertheless, patched up between the parties,
and he returned to Paris in a sort of triumph.</p>

<p>Not more than a year elapsed before the obvious
intention of Condé, to monopolize all the power of the
state, compelled Mary of Medicis to venture upon decisive
measures against him. Sully was active in
prompting her to this step. The strength of the
prince’s party rendered the attempt hazardous; but the
business was kept so secret, and was so ably managed,
that he was arrested in the Louvre, and conveyed to
the Bastile, without opposition. Here, and at Vincennes,
he remained for three years, during part of
which time he was harshly treated. It was not
without much difficulty, and till he had been long confined,
that his wife, who had become sincerely attached
to him, was allowed to share his prison. His liberation
was brought about by the fall of Concini, and he
was reinstated in his honours. Thenceforth, he served
Louis the thirteenth faithfully in the cabinet and the
field. He died in 1646. Voltaire truly says, with
respect to him, that his being the father of the great
Condé, was his greatest glory.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span></p>

<p>The downfall of Concini, marshal d’Ancre, which
opened the gates of the Bastile to let out Condé,
opened them also to admit, for a short time, the wife
of the murdered marshal. After Concini had been
assassinated by Vitry and his accomplices, and his body
had been dragged from the grave, and torn into fragments,
by an ignorant and savage populace, Leonora,
his widow, was hurried to prison. She was a daughter
of the female by whom Mary of Medicis was nursed,
and had been the playmate of the princess. When
Mary became the consort of Henry IV., she took
Leonora in her train to Paris. So attached was Mary
to her, that Leonora is said, by Mezeray, “to have
directed at her pleasure the desires, the affections, and
the hatreds of the queen.” Riches were, of course,
heaped upon her. She is charged with having fomented
the disagreements of Mary and her inconstant husband,
by making false statements, to excite the jealousy
of her mistress. If she did so, which may be
doubted, she was performing a work of supererogation;
for Henry rendered falsehood unnecessary, by
affording abundant and undisguised cause for complaint.
The light of the sun was not more obvious
than his conjugal infidelity. It was also objected, that
she insolently shut her door against the princesses and
nobles, who came to pay court to her in the height of
her power. If this be true, it proves only that she
had spirit and good sense enough to despise the sycophancy
of those by whom she knew herself to be detested.
It is much in favour of Leonora’s private
character, that Mary of Medicis was so firmly her
friend; for, unlike the titled dames who surrounded
her, Mary was a modest and virtuous woman. That
the marshal and his partner fattened on the spoils of
the state it would be folly to deny; but, mean and
criminal as such conduct undoubtedly is, we must bear
in mind that the crime was common to all the courtiers
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>of that period. Every one was eager, as the
French phrase expresses it, “to carry off a leg or a
wing.” It was envy, not abhorrence of robbing
the public, that caused the destruction of Mary’s
favourites.</p>

<p>In France, to live upon the imposts squeezed from
the people was not deemed an impeachable act, unless,
perhaps, by those who had failed to get a share of
the pillage; and consequently there was no legal ground
for dragging the widow of Concini to the bar. But
hatred is ingenious in finding means to effect its purpose.
Having first been so effectually plundered by
the police officers, that she had not even a change of
linen left, she was sent before a special commission, to
be tried for Judaism and sorcery. Other charges were
brought forward, but it is obvious that they were only
meant to increase the odium under which she was labouring.
The trial was, throughout, a mockery of
justice. Evidence the most trivial in some instances,
and absurd in others, was produced to substantiate the
charge of Judaism and sorcery. Some Hebrew books,
which were found in her apartment, were gravely supposed
to be used by her for necromantic purposes.
“By what magic did you gain such an influence over
the mind of the queen-mother?” was one of the questions
put by her judges. “My only magic,” replied
the prisoner, “was the power strong minds have over
weak ones”—a memorable reply, which goes far to
prove that she was a woman of superior talent.</p>

<p>Though the judges had, no doubt, been selected for
the purpose of ensuring her condemnation to death, it
turned out that a mistake had been made with respect
to some of them, and that they were not of the opinion
of d’Estrées, who thought that the orders of a master
ought to be executed, whether they were just or unjust.
Five of them absented themselves, and a few others
voted for banishment. The majority, however, were
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>faithful to their mission, and she was sentenced to be
beheaded, and her remains burnt, and scattered to the
winds. By the same sentence, her husband’s memory
was branded with infamy, her son was declared ignoble,
and incapable of holding office or dignity; their mansion,
near the Louvre, was ordered to be levelled with
the ground, and all their property was confiscated.</p>

<p>On hearing this sentence, to which she was compelled
to listen bareheaded, in the midst of an insulting
crowd, nature for a moment prevailed in the bosom of
Leonora, and she sobbed loudly. The disgrace of her
son seems to have been more painful to her than even
her own fate. She soon, however, recovered herself,
and became resigned to her doom. When she was led
to execution, her deportment so won for her the respect
of the multitude, that not a syllable of reproach was
heard. She looked firmly, yet without any theatrical
affectation of heroism, on the block and the flaming
pile; submitted to the blow without a murmur; and
thus triumphantly vindicated her claim to the possession
of a strong mind.</p>

<p>Having passed over an interval of seven years, after
the judicial murder of the marchioness d’Ancre, we
find the Bastile receiving John Baptist Ornano, the
son of a father who enjoyed and deserved the friendship
of Henry IV. Ornano was born in 1581, and
was not more than fourteen when he commanded a
company of cavalry at the siege of la Fère. He subsequently
served with distinction in Savoy and other
quarters.</p>

<p>In 1619, Louis the thirteenth appointed him governor
of Gaston, duke of Anjou, the king’s brother, who
was presumptive heir to the throne. Gaston had, for
some time, been under the care of the count de Lude,
than whom it would have been difficult to find a man
more unfit for his office, unless he was chosen for the
purpose of leading his pupil astray. Ornano, by a proper
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>mixture of firmness and kindness, soon succeeded
in perfectly acquiring the respect and affection of the
prince. One part of the system, by which he purposed
to break the bad habits of his youthful charge, is
said to have consisted in awakening his ambition.
With this view he dwelt upon the strong probability
of the prince succeeding to the crown, and the necessity
of making himself acquainted with affairs of state;
and he taught him to believe, that he could gain such
knowledge only by being admitted into the king’s
council. It may be supposed that, in thus acting,
Ornano was not without an eye to his own advancement
and influence. La Vieville, however, who then
ruled, did not wish to see Gaston in the council, and
still less Ornano. He, therefore, persuaded Louis to
remove the prince’s governor, and send him into Provence.
Ornano refused to resign, and he was punished
by being sent to the Bastile, whence he was transferred
to the castle of Caen.</p>

<p>Gaston remonstrated strongly against being deprived
of his friend and preceptor; but his remonstrances
would probably have been of little avail, had not la
Vieville been precipitated from power. Ornano was
then released by the king, and was placed at the head
of the prince’s household. In 1626, at the request of
Gaston, seconded by the advice of Richelieu, he was
created marshal of France. This promotion was the precursor
of his fall. It was a part of the policy of Richelieu
to grant, in the first instance, more to suitors
of rank than they were entitled to expect, that, in case
of their afterwards opposing him, he might treat them
without mercy. It appears he soon began to suspect
that the new-made marshal was not likely to be a submissive
dependent, and this was enough to induce him
to work his ruin. Ornano himself aided his dangerous
enemy, by pertinaciously requiring admittance into the
council, and by using offensive language on his demand
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>being refused. Various acts of the marshal were now
represented in the darkest colours to the suspicious
king, by Richelieu; and Louis, always open to suggestions
of this kind, imprisoned the supposed offender
in the castle of Vincennes. Ornano died there, in
September, 1626. He death was attributed to poison,
but the report was certainly unfounded. Whether, if
he had lived, he would have saved his head, is doubtful;
for when Richelieu had once resolved to have a
man’s head, it was not easy to disappoint him.</p>

<p>Among the few whom justice, not tyranny or caprice,
immured within the walls of the Bastile, may be
reckoned Francis, count de Bouteville, of the ancient
and illustrious family of Montmorenci, whose father,
Louis de Montmorenci, was vice-admiral of France in
the reign of Henry the fourth. The example which
was made of him was necessary, to vindicate the insulted
laws, and to check a murderous practice which
had shed some of the best blood in the kingdom. For
a long series of years, in defiance of the severe edicts
issued against it by Henry IV. and Louis XIII.,
duelling had been carried to an extent which it is frightful
to contemplate. War itself would scarcely have
swept off more victims of the privileged class, than
were sacrificed in private and frivolous quarrels. Paris,
in particular, swarmed with professed duellists,
who gloried in their exploits, and counted up their slain
with the same exultation that a sportsman counts the
game he has killed. Some, who prided themselves on a
peculiar delicacy of honour, were ever on the watch to
find a pretext for taking offence. Even to look at
them, to touch any part of their dress in passing by
them, or to utter a word which could be misconstrued,
sufficed to draw from them a challenge to
mortal combat.</p>

<p>Bouteville was one of the most conspicuous of these
offenders. In 1624, M. Pontgibaud, in 1626, the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>count de Thorigny and the Marquis Desportes, and in
January, 1627, M. Lafrette, fell beneath his weapon.
In consequence of the last of these encounters, he, and
his second, the count des Chappelles, were compelled
to take refuge at Brussels. Thither he was followed
by the marquis de Beuvron, a relation of the count
de Thorigny, who was eager to avenge his death. The
archduchess Isabella, who then governed the Netherlands,
brought about a semblance of reconciliation between
them, but their rancour remained unabated; for
even at the moment when, in sign of forgiveness, they
embraced each other, Beuvron whispered to Bouteville,
“I shall never be satisfied till I have met you
sword in hand.”</p>

<p>The archduchess also solicited Louis the thirteenth
to grant the pardon of Bouteville, but the monarch refused.
On hearing this, the rash and insolent culprit
exclaimed, “Since a pardon is denied, I will fight in
Paris, aye, and in the Place Royale too!” He was as
good as his word. In May he returned to the French
capital, and his first step was to offer Beuvron the satisfaction
which that nobleman had expressed a wish to
obtain. A combat of three against three was arranged,
and the Place Royale was chosen as the spot for deciding
it. Beuvron was seconded by Buquet, his
equerry, and by Bussy d’Amboise, the latter of whom
had been ill of fever for several days, and was weakened
by repeated bleedings. Bouteville brought with
him des Chappelles, his cousin, and constant auxiliary
on such occasions, and another gentleman. They fought
with sword and dagger.</p>

<p>Bussy being killed by des Chappelles, the five remaining
combatants, who began to dread the vengeance
of the violated laws, sought for safety in flight. Beuvron
and Buquet succeeded in escaping to England. Bouteville
and his cousin fled towards Lorraine. Unfortunately
for them, Louis the thirteenth was then at the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>Louvre, and, as soon as he heard of the duel, he ordered
a vigorous pursuit of the offenders. At Vitry,
in Champagne, the officers of justice overtook Bouteville
and his associate; the latter wished to resist, but
the former prevailed on him to surrender. On their
arrival at Paris, they were committed to the Bastile,
and no time was lost in bringing them to trial.</p>

<p>From all quarters the king was importuned by entreaties
to pardon the criminals. The countess de
Bouteville threw herself at his feet, to beg the life of
her husband; but he passed on without replying. “I
pity her,” said he to his courtiers, “but I must and
will maintain my authority.” The nobility were not
more successful in their supplications to the king and
the parliament. At the trial all that forensic talent
could do for the prisoners was done by Chastelet, their
counsel. The plea which he put in for them was
written with so much eloquence and boldness, that
cardinal Richelieu sternly told him it seemed to impeach
the justice of the king. “Excuse me, sir,”
replied Chastelet, “it is only meant to justify his
mercy, in case he should extend it to one of the
bravest men in his kingdom.” When the sentence of
death was passed, another effort was made to move the
king. The princess of Condé, accompanied by three
duchesses, and the wife of Bouteville, requested an
audience of his Majesty. He at first refused to see
them; but he subsequently admitted them to a private
interview in the queen’s apartments. They pleaded
in vain. “I regret their fate as much as you do,” said
he; “but my conscience forbids me to pardon them.”</p>

<p>Bouteville seems, from the beginning, to have made
up his mind to die, and to have been unfeignedly repentant.
While he was in the Bastile, he was attended
by Cospean, the bishop of Nantes, one of the most
highly gifted preachers of the age. It was by the exhortations
of this pious prelate that Bouteville was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>awakened to a due sense of his crimes. So moved
was he by the fervid eloquence of his spiritual guide
that, while his trial was yet pending, he said to him,
and doubtless with perfect sincerity, “So resigned am
I to the will of God, and so ready to do every thing
to save my soul, if to save it be possible, that, even
more pressingly than my wife now begs for my pardon,
I will beg my judges to condemn me to the gibbet,
and to be drawn to it on a hurdle, in order to render
my death more ignominious and meritorious.” It was
not without difficulty that Cospean could dissuade him
from seeking salvation by means of this extraordinary
self abasement. Contrition alone, and not an act
which would cast a stigma on his family, the prelate
justly observed, was required to appease the wrath of
an offended Deity.</p>

<p>Bouteville and his cousin met death with much firmness;
the former refused to allow his eyes to be bandaged.
On the scaffold a circumstance occurred,
which appears to prove that vanity, like hope, sometimes
does not leave us till we die. The mustachios
of Bouteville were large and handsome, and he put
up his hands, as though to save them, when the executioner
came to cut off his hair. “What! my son,”
exclaimed Cospean, who attended him till the last,
“are you still thinking on <i>this</i> world!”</p>

<p>The plan which, under seemingly favourable auspices,
was formed, by Mary of Medicis and her partisans, to
subvert the power of Richelieu, and which was shattered
to pieces on the day emphatically called the Day of the
Dupes (November 11, 1630), was disastrous to many
who were concerned in or suspected of favouring it. Of
the Marillacs, one, a proved soldier, was brought to the
scaffold; the other, a magistrate of unimpeachable conduct,
was hurried from one prison to another, and
closely confined, and he died a captive. But we must
restrict ourselves to those individuals who were committed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>to the Bastile. One of these was Vautier, born
at Montpelier, in 1592, who was the queen mother’s
principal physician. If we were to give credit to Guy
Patin, we must believe that Vautier was a worse pest
than a whole host of duellists, and richly deserved to
be the inmate of a dungeon. “He was,” says Patin,
“a rascally Jew of the Avignonese territory, very proud
and very ignorant, who was lucky in having escaped
the gallows for coining, and who afterwards found
means to wriggle himself in at court.” But the evidence
of Patin is liable to more than suspicion in this
instance; for Vautier was a friend to antimony and
chemical remedies, all of which his censurer held in
abhorrence: to prescribe them was worse in his eyes
than being guilty of all the deadly sins. Vautier, however,
certainly appears to have been of an obstinate
disposition, and at times unjust.</p>

<p>Vautier was believed to have so much influence with
the queen mother, that he was one of the first to be
arrested after the Day of the Dupes. He was confined
for a while at Senlis, whence he was removed to
the Bastile. In the Parisian fortress he remained for
twelve years, during which period no communication
with him was permitted. It was in vain that, after her
flight, when she was so dangerously ill at Ghent, Mary
of Medicis intreated to have the services of her confidential
physician. Richelieu kept fast hold of his prey.
In 1643, the captive was set at liberty by Mazarin,
who subsequently appointed him head physician to the
king. Patin flings his venom upon this appointment.
It was, he says, bought of the minister for twenty
thousand crowns, and the purchaser was to act as his
spy. He adds an insinuation, which does no credit to
his heart. “See what policy is!” he exclaims; “this
man was twelve years imprisoned by the father, yet the
health of the son is entrusted to him.” M. Patin
seems to have thought, that a man who has been injured
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>by the parent, must needs wish to poison the
child. Vautier died in 1652.</p>

<p>The grave physician is succeeded by a very different
personage; a courtier of high birth, handsome, accomplished,
full of gallantry in both senses of the word,
witty, and with his natural talents improved by early
study. Francis de Bassompierre, who was all this,
was born in Lorraine, in 1579, and was descended
from the princely house of Cleves. On returning
from his travels, he visited the court of Henry IV.,
and soon acquired the friendship of that sovereign.
Among a crowd of courtiers, each vying with the other
in splendour and extravagance, he was one of the
foremost. At the baptism of the king’s children, he
wore a dress of cloth of gold, covered with pearls, the
cost of which was nine hundred pounds. Gaming,
thanks to the bad example set by Henry, was scandalously
prevalent; and here, too, Bassompierre was
prominent. He tells us, in his memoirs, that not a
day passed, while he was at Fontainebleau, in which
twenty thousand pistoles were not won and lost, and
that he was a winner of half a million of livres within
twelve months.</p>

<p>Desirous of adding the reputation of a soldier to
his other pretensions, he served a campaign in Savoy,
in 1602, and in Hungary the following year. Having
established his military character, he resumed his station
at the French court. The greatest part of the
business of his life seems now, and for many years, to
have been amorous intrigues—to apply the word love
to them would be a profanation of it. However eager
he might be to swell the number of his conquests,
there is the best reason for believing, that those whom
he attacked were willing enough to be overcome. It
at once proves his attractions, and speaks volumes as to
the low state of morals among the females at that period,
that when, at a later date, Bassompierre was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>about to be imprisoned, he burnt more than six thousand
letters, which contained the proofs of his amatory success.
One of the most notorious of his amours was
that in which he involved himself with Mdlle. Entragues,
sister of the king’s mistress, the marchioness
of Verneuil. By this lady he had a son. She is said
to have obtained from him a promise of marriage, and
for several years she sought to enforce the performance
of it, and persisted in bearing his name. Meeting him
one day at the Louvre, she told him publicly that he
ought to cause the customary honours to be paid to
her there, as his wife. “Why,” said he, “will you
take a <i>nom de guerre</i>?” “You are the greatest fool
in all the court!” exclaimed the enraged lady. “What
would you have said to me, then, if I had married you?”
retorted the provoking Bassompierre.</p>

<p>In 1605, the career of this gay deceiver was near
being cut short by a serious accident. At a tournament,
in front of the Louvre, where the king was present,
Bassompierre was so severely wounded by the
lance of the duke of Guise, his antagonist, that his
life was long in danger. This tournament was the last
which was exhibited in France; the dangerous amusement
was discontinued, in consequence of this misadventure.
People began to be of the same opinion as
the Turkish sultan, that it was too much for a jest
and too little for earnest.</p>

<p>Bassompierre at last appears to have felt that it
was time for him “to live cleanly as a nobleman
should do,” and he resolved to marry. His choice
fell on Charlotte de Montmorenci, one of the most
rich and beautiful women in France, and neither she
nor her father, the constable, was averse from the
union. It has been seen, in the sketch of Condé’s
career, that Henry IV. became excessively enamoured
of her. In some cases her marriage would have made
no difference; as Henry might have assented to it,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>and bound down the husband not to exercise his conjugal
rights, as he had done with respect to Gabrielle
d’Estrées and Jacqueline du Beuil. To such a restriction
he probably thought that Bassompierre would
not submit. Calling him therefore to his bed-side—for
Henry was ill of the gout—he told him that he
meant to unite him to Mdlle. d’Aumale, and revive for
him the dukedom of Aumale. On Bassompierre asking
with a smile, whether his majesty meant him to have
two wives, the king sighed deeply, and said, “Bassompierre,
I will speak to you as a friend. I am become
not only in love with Mdlle. de Montmorenci,
but absolutely beside myself for her. If you marry her,
and she loves you, I shall hate you; if she loves me,
you will hate me. It is much better that this should
not occur, to disturb the good understanding between
us; for I have the most affectionate regard for you.”
The result was that the courtier resigned his mistress,
and was rewarded for the sacrifice with the rank of
colonel-general of the Swiss regiments. Bassompierre
would fain make us believe that he was sorely grieved,
at being thus deprived of the beautiful Montmorenci;
but we may be sceptical on this head, since we have
his confession, that, in order “not to be idle, and to
console himself for his loss, he immediately made up his
quarrel with three ladies, whom he had entirely quitted
when he thought that he should be wedded.”</p>

<p>For more than twenty years, Bassompierre continued
to be a flourishing courtier. Once only, in that
long period, he was in danger; it was from the hostility
of la Vieville, the minister, who strove to cage
him in the Bastile. The time of Bassompierre was,
however, not yet come, and he had the satisfaction to
witness the downfall of his enemy. In the course of
these twenty years, he acquired reputation, both in the
field and the cabinet; he was active at various sieges
and battles, particularly at the sieges of Rochelle and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>Montauban, and he was entrusted with embassies to
Spain, Switzerland, and England, which he executed
in an able manner. For a short time he had the custody
of the Bastile; and, in 1623, he rose to the rank
of Marshal. His being employed as a negociator was
the work of the royal favourite, Luynes, who was
jealous of the influence which Bassompierre possessed
with the monarch. Luynes was candid enough to
confess this. “I love you, and esteem you,” said he,
“but the liking which the king has for you gives me
umbrage. I am, in truth, situated like a husband who
fears being deceived, and cannot see with pleasure an
amiable man frequenting his wife.” To remove from
court the man whom he dreaded, Luynes offered the
choice of a command, a government, or an embassy;
Bassompierre chose the last.</p>

<p>Richelieu proved a far more formidable adversary
than la Vieville. He doubted not that Bassompierre
had been engaged in the late plot against him; he
knew that he was a friend of the queen mother; and
he suspected him of having borne a part in the clandestine
marriage of the duke of Orleans with the
princess Margaret of Lorraine. It is said, also, that
the cardinal imagined the marshal to have voted for
imprisoning him, in case of the malecontents being
successful. This was more than enough to bring
down on him the vengeance of the triumphant minister.
Bassompierre was warned more than once of
what would happen, and was advised to escape, but he
refused to follow this advice. He was taken to the
Bastile, in February, 1631. His arrest cost the death
of the princess of Conti, to whom he had long been
secretly married; she died of grief in little more than
two months.</p>

<p>Bassompierre had reason to hope that his imprisonment
would be but of short duration. The evening
before he was seized, he had mentioned to the king
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>the reports which were afloat, and Louis had declared
them to be false, and expressed much affection for
him. The day after the deed was done, the monarch
sent him a message, that he considered him to be a
faithful servant, that he was not arrested for any fault,
but in the fear of his being led to commit one, and
that he should soon be released. Year after year
elapsed, however, and the promised liberation was still
delayed. Hopes were often held out to him, apparently
with no other intention than that of making him feel
the pain of disappointment. There seems, indeed, to
have been a malignant resolution formed to torment
him. The grain on his Lorrain estate was seized,
the estate itself was ravaged, his nephew’s mansion
was destroyed, his pay was stopped, cabals were excited
against him in the Bastile, and he was compelled to
relinquish his commission of colonel-general for an
inadequate compensation. Yet, while Richelieu was
acting thus, he could ask Bassompierre to lend him his
country-house! To add to the prisoner’s vexations
his property was going to ruin, some of his friends
proved faithless, and death was busy among his dearest
relatives.</p>

<p>It was twelve years before the decease of Richelieu
gave freedom to Bassompierre. His post of colonel-general
was restored to him by Mazarin; and an intention
was manifested of appointing him governor
to the minor king, but this intention was frustrated by
a fit of apoplexy, which put an end to his existence
in October 1646.</p>

<p>Of the many individuals who were persecuted by the
cardinal-king, none were more estimable than Francis
de Rochechouart, who was usually denominated the
chevalier de Jars. He was of an ancient and noble
family, which traced back its origin to the viscounts
of Limoges, early in the eleventh century. To great
personal and mental graces, and prepossessing manners,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>he added a mind of such firmness as is not
of common occurrence, especially among the courtier
tribe. His eminent qualities gained him the
friendship of Anne of Austria, which alone was sufficient
to excite the suspicion and hatred of Richelieu—that
ultra Turk, who could bear “no rival near
his throne,” nor even the friend of any one who could
possibly become a rival. In 1626, de Jars was, therefore,
ordered to quit the court. He retired to England,
where he soon won the favour of Charles I., his
queen Henrietta Maria, the duke of Buckingham,
and other distinguished characters. Bassompierre, an
acute observer, was at that time in England as ambassador
from Louis XIII., and from the manner in
which he mentions him, it is evident that de Jars was
in high repute at the court of Charles.</p>

<p>In 1631, de Jars was allowed to return, or was recalled,
to his native country. Whether he was lured
over to France, that he might be within the grasp of
his potent enemy, cannot now be ascertained. It is
probable that he was, for he did not long remain at liberty.
In February, 1632, he was involved in the downfall
of Chateauneuf, the keeper of the seals, who had
inexpiably offended the implacable minister. De Jars
had sufficient demerit to bring down this misfortune
on him; he was the friend, and, as Bassompierre affirms,
the confidant of Chateauneuf, possessed the
queen’s esteem, and was, perhaps, suspected of being
looked upon with a favourable eye by the beautiful and
fickle duchess of Chevreuse, of whom Richelieu was
enamoured. As, however, the first two of these offences
would hardly have justified his imprisonment and
trial, and as the third had the same defect in a greater
degree, and, besides, could not have been decorously
urged against him by a high dignitary of the church,
the crime attributed to him was that of assisting Anne
of Austria to correspond with Spain, and of planning
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>the removal to England of the queen mother and the
duke of Orleans.</p>

<p>It was the depth of winter when de Jars was thrown
into one of the dungeons of the Bastile, and there he
was kept for eleven months, till the clothes rotted off
his back. The reader will remember what horrible
abodes these dungeons were. It being supposed, perhaps,
that his spirit was by this time enough broken,
he was sent for trial to Tours, where a tribunal of obedient
judges had been formed, for the express purpose
of sitting in judgment upon him. At the head of this
tribunal was one Laffemas, or La Fymas; a man who
was redeemed from the contempt of mankind for his
baseness, only by the hatred which was excited by his
power and will to do mischief. He was the ready tool,
or, to use a more emphatic and appropriate French
phrase, the <i>âme damnée</i> of Richelieu, and was capable
of diving to the lowest deep of degradation, in the
service of his master. He bore the well earned and
significant nickname of “the cardinal’s hangman.”</p>

<p>At the Bastile and at Troyes, de Jars underwent no
fewer than eighty examinations. In these, Laffemas
strained every nerve to seduce, or beguile, or terrify,
the prisoner into avowals which would manifest or
imply guilt in himself or in his friends. But de Jars
was proof alike against feigned sympathy, intreaties,
artful snares, and ferocious threats. Not a word
dropped from his lips by which any one could be criminated.
Laffemas had no sinecure office in conducting
this iniquitous affair; he was often lashed by de
Jars with unsparing severity, as a mendacious and deceitful
coward; nor did the cardinal himself escape
without a full portion of stinging censure.</p>

<p>De Jars did not stop here. He determined to inflict
a public disgrace upon Laffemas. By dint of importunity,
he obtained permission to hear mass, on All
Saints’ day, in the church of the Jacobins, where he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>knew that Laffemas would be present. Thither he was
taken, under a strong guard. Watching the moment
when, with downcast eyes and a Tartuffe countenance,
Laffemas was coming from the communion table, he
broke from his guards, and seized the judge by the
throat. “Villain!” exclaimed he, “this is the moment
to confess the truth. Now; while your God is
on your lips, acknowledge my innocence, and your injustice
in persecuting me. As you pretend to be a
Christian, act like one: if you do not, I renounce you
as my judge, and I call upon every one who hears me
to bear witness that I protest against your being so.”</p>

<p>This singular scene drew the wondering congregation
round the parties. But the people were by no
means inclined to interfere in behalf of the intendant,
and some time elapsed before the soldiers could extricate
him from the gripe of the prisoner. Laffemas
seems not to have been deficient in courage. Undisconcerted
by this sudden attack, he said, in a conciliating
tone, “Do not make yourself uneasy, sir; I assure
you that the cardinal loves you; you will get off
with merely going to travel in Italy: but you must
first allow us to show you some billets, in your own
handwriting, which will convince you that you are
more blameable than you say you are.” “Such an
insinuation,” remarks Anquetil, “was not calculated
to set him at ease. Richelieu, as Madame de Motteville
tells us, said that ‘with two lines of a man’s writing,
however innocent that man might be, he might be
brought to trial; because, by proper management,
whatever was wanted could be found in them.’ Accordingly,
when de Jars heard talk of writing, he
gave himself up for lost, but he soon armed himself
with renovated courage.”</p>

<p>The insinuation that written evidence existed was a
falsehood. Fresh arts were therefore employed, to
obtain a confession. They were as fruitless as all the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>former had been. Sentence of death was then passed;
and, this having been done, final efforts were made to
move him, first by a promise of pardon, next by the
menace of torture. He treated both with contempt.
He was at last led to the scaffold; he ascended it with
calm courage; and, after once more asserting his innocence,
he laid his head upon the block. While he was
waiting for the blow, and all earthly hopes must have
been dead in his bosom, he was suddenly raised up,
and told that his life was spared. As he was about to
descend from the scaffold, the infamous Laffemas approached,
and besought him, in return for the king’s
mercy, to disclose whatever he knew respecting the
misdeeds of Chateauneuf. But de Jars disdainfully
replied, “It is in vain that you seek to take advantage
of my disturbed state of mind; since the fear of
death failed to extort from me any thing that could
injure my friend, you may be certain that all your
labour will be thrown away.&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>”</p>

<p>It is said that the whole of this scene—a disgraceful
scene to all the actors but one—was got up by Laffemas
under the direction of Richelieu. Packed as the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>judges were, it was supposed that, if they thought death
were to ensue, even they would shrink from pronouncing
the guilt of a man against whom there was
not a shadow of proof. The pardon was, therefore,
shown to them, and they were told that the mockery of
an execution was only meant to intimidate the prisoner
into the desired confession. But of what stuff must
judges have been made in those days, when they could
consent thus to violate the dignity of justice, and the
feelings of humanity, in order to gratify the malice of
a minister.</p>

<p>From Troyes, de Jars was sent back to the Bastile.
He remained there till the spring of 1638, when he
was liberated on condition of his immediate departure,
to travel in Italy. From Guy Patin’s letters, we learn
that the chevalier was indebted for his release to the
intercession of Charles I. of England and Henrietta
Maria. He did not return to France till after the
decease of his persecutor.</p>

<p>De Jars was engaged in the early part of the political
contest, which led to the ridiculous war of the
Fronde; but he seems to have been rather a peacemaker
than a firebrand, for he endeavoured to arrange
matters, by bringing about a reconciliation between
Mazarin, with whom he had become acquainted at
Rome, and Chateauneuf, the keeper of the seals, of
whom he was a constant friend. He at length withdrew
from the court, passed his latter years in happy
retirement, and died in 1670.</p>

<p>Nearly at the same time that de Jars was set free,
the gates of the Bastile were opened to admit three
citizens of Paris, who had been guilty of a crime which
could not be overlooked; they had dared to remonstrate,
perhaps somewhat too roughly, against being
robbed of the means of subsistence. “They went,”
says Guy Patin, “to M. Cornuel, and in some degree
threatened him, on a report being spread, that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>the payment of the annuities receivable at the Town
Hall was about to be suspended, and the money to be
applied <i>in usus bellicos</i>. The names of these three annuitants
are Bourges, Chenu, and Celoron, and they are
all three <i>boni viri optimeque mihi noti</i>. God grant,
I pray, that no misfortune may happen to them.”
Whether the kind prayer of Patin was heard, we are
not told.</p>

<p>That such things should occur in a country governed
as France was, is quite natural. Richelieu
brooked not even the shadow of opposition; and,
Louis, submissive slave though he was to an imperious
minister, had all the brutal pride of an Oriental despot.
In two instances (out of many which might be
quoted), the one not long before, and the other shortly
after, this period, the monarch, to whom parasites
prostituted the title of “the just,” did not scruple to
treat with contumelious insolence the parliament of
Paris, a body of magistrates, eminent for their learning
and other qualities. On the first occasion, having
taken offence at a request which they made, he told
them that, “in future, whenever he came to them, he
should expect to be received outside the door of their
hall, by four presidents on their knees, as the custom
had formerly been.” The second time, when, with
respect to the duke de Valette’s trial, the president
Bellièvre, in decorous but dignified language, remonstrated
with Louis on his gross violation of justice and
proper feeling, in wishing the judges to sit in his own
palace, while he was present to overawe them, he furiously
replied, that he detested all those who opposed
his trying a duke and peer wherever he pleased. They
were, he told them, ignorant beings, unfit for their
office, and he did not know whether he should not
put others in their place. “I will be obeyed,” said
he; “and I will soon make you see plainly that all
privileges are founded only on a bad custom, and that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>I will not hear them talked about any more.” But
from this—which, however, can scarcely be called a
digression—let us return to his captives in the Bastile.</p>

<p>During a part of the time that de Jars was in the
Bastile, there was within its walls a prisoner equally
as brave, and of as honourable a character, as himself.
This was Adrian de Montluc, count de Cramail,
born in 1568, a grandson of that intrepid but cruel
Montluc whose commentaries were called by Henry
IV. the Soldier’s Bible. In the second of Regnier’s
satires, which is addressed to Cramail, the poet winds
up an animated panegyric on him, by declaring that he
proves “virtue not to be dead in all courtiers.” There
was more truth in this than is always to be found in
the eulogies lavished by a poet. It appears, from
various authorities, that he shone in conversation, was
well informed, and was an honourable, benevolent and
judicious man. As a military officer, he earned reputation
in various battles. His conduct at the combat
of Veillane, in 1630, where Montmorenci utterly defeated
a force five times as numerous as his own, called
forth a complimentary letter from cardinal Richelieu.
“Fewer lines than you have received blows,” says his
eminence, “will suffice to testify my joy that the enemy
has cut out more work for your tailor than your surgeon.
I pray to God that, after such rencounters, you
may always have more to spend for clothes than plaisters;
and that, for the advantage of the king’s service,
and the glory of those who have acquired so much on
this occasion, others of the same kind may often occur;
among which there will, I hope, be some that will
enable me to convince you that I am, &amp;c. &amp;c.”</p>

<p>The manner in which Richelieu proved his friendship
for Cramail was by sending him to the Bastile.
It has been stated that Cramail was put into confinement
shortly after the Day of the Dupes, and his attachment
to the prince of Condé was the cause of it.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>This, however, appears to be a mistake. Cramail
was undoubtedly serving under Louis XIII. in Lorrain,
as late as 1635, at the period when the French
arms were under a temporary eclipse; and we learn
from Laporte, and other writers, that, believing the
king’s person to be in jeopardy, the count advised him
to return to Paris. For this advice, reasonable as it
was, he was incarcerated by Richelieu. His imprisonment
did not terminate till after the death of the cardinal.
He did not long survive his persecutor; his
health was broken by captivity and harsh treatment,
and he died in 1646. Cramail was the author of three
works—“La Comédie des Proverbes;” “Les Jeux
de l’Inconnu;” and “Les Pensées du Solitaire.”</p>

<p>Among the contemporaries of Bassompierre, de Jars,
and Cramail, within the walls of the Bastile, there
was another of equal rank, but not of an equally noble
mind. His hands were stained with blood; his earliest
promotion was bought by perpetrating a cowardly
murder. This personage was Nicholas de l’Hospital,
marquis of Vitry, to whom I have slightly alluded in
my notice of the marchioness d’Ancre. He was the
degenerate son of a warrior, who was incapable of a
dishonourable action. Vitry, who was born in 1611,
succeeded his father as captain of the royal guards,
and ingratiated himself with Luynes, the minion of
Louis XIII. In concert with Luynes, he formed the
plan of assassinating marshal d’Ancre, who was obnoxious
to the king. Eager to win the marshal’s staff
which was held by Concini, Vitry let slip no opportunity
of irritating the king against the intended victim,
and of pressing for permission to assassinate him. The
monarch hesitated for a while, not from virtue but from
fear; he ended by granting his sanction, and Vitry lost
not a moment in acting upon it. With his brother
du Hallier, and an associate named Perray, he waited
for Concini at the entrance of the Louvre, and there
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>the three confederates despatched him with pistols,
which they had kept concealed beneath their cloaks.
When Louis was informed that the deed was done, he
had the ineffable baseness to look out at the palace
window, and exclaim, “Many thanks to you, Vitry!
I am now really king!” It must, however, be owned
that the baseness of the monarch was kept in countenance
by that of his courtiers and flatterers, who
lauded the assassin as profusely as though he had been
the saviour of the state.</p>

<p>For this disgraceful service, Vitry was rewarded by
the great object of his ambition, the rank of marshal.
On hearing of this, the duke of Bouillon indignantly
declared that he blushed at being a French marshal,
now that the marshal’s staff was made the recompense
of one who traded in murder.</p>

<p>Though, of the two favourites of the queen mother,
Vitry had slain the husband with his own hand, and
thus been the cause of the wife’s public execution, and
though at that time he had treated her with disgusting
insolence, yet when, two years afterwards, a feigned
reconcilement took place between Mary of Medicis
and her son, she allowed Vitry to be presented to her.
On this occasion a scene of dissimulation occurred,
which has not often been paralleled. Vitry bent to
kiss the hem of her garment, but she graciously
stretched out her hand to raise him, saying, at the
same time, “I have always praised your affectionate
zeal in the king’s service.” To which, with equal sincerity,
he replied, “it was that consideration alone which
induced me to do all that the king desired; without,
however, my having had the slightest idea of offending
your majesty.” If we cannot praise the parts which
these actors played, we must at least admit that they
played them skilfully.</p>

<p>The military career of Vitry did not begin till the
breaking out of the war between the protestants and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>catholics, in 1621. Though he was deficient in principle,
he was not so in courage; in the course of the
war he distinguished himself upon many occasions,
particularly in the isle of Rhé and at the blockade
of Rochelle. He obtained the government of Provence
in 1631, and he held it for six years. At the
expiration of that period, he was arrested, and sent to
the Bastile. His having caned an archbishop, and
misused his authority in various cases, were among the
causes of his imprisonment. Richelieu said of him
that, “though his courage and fidelity rendered him
worthy to govern Provence, yet it was necessary to deprive
him of office, because, being of a haughty and
insolent disposition, he was not fit to rule a people so
jealous as the Provençals were of their franchises and
privileges.”</p>

<p>Vitry spent six years in the Bastile, from which prison
he was not released till after the death of cardinal
Richelieu. During the latter part of his imprisonment
he participated in intrigues, which would have brought
him to the block had they been discovered. In conjunction
with Bassompierre, Cramail, and others, he
entered into the plot of which the gallant count de
Soissons was the head. The state prisoners in the
Bastile were, at that period, allowed so much freedom
of intercourse, both with their friends and among themselves,
that they had plenty of opportunity to conspire.
It was arranged, between Vitry, Bassompierre,
and their associates, that, as soon as Soissons had
gained a victory, they should seize the Bastile and the
Arsenal, and call the citizens of Paris to arms. De
Retz is of opinion that the success of their scheme
would have been certain; but the death of Soissons,
who fell in the battle of Marfée, at the moment of his
victory, prevented the conspirators from carrying their
design into effect. Fortunately for those who were
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>concerned, their secret practices were never disclosed
while cardinal Richelieu was alive.</p>

<p>Vitry was created a duke in 1644, but he died in a
few months after he obtained this title. He left a son,
possessed of talent far superior to his own, and who
in character more resembled his grandfather than his
father.</p>

<p>The count de la Châtre, in his Memoirs, relates a
circumstance respecting the liberation of Vitry and
his fellow prisoners. The anecdote shows, among
other things, to what an extent Louis XIII. was infected
with what Byron calls the “good old gentlemanly
vice” of avarice. “The cardinal (Mazarin)
and M. de Chavigny,” says la Châtre, “solicited the
king for the deliverance of the marshals Vitry and
Bassompierre, and the count de Cramail. The means
which they employed on this occasion deserve to be
recorded, as being rather pleasant; for, finding that
the king was not very willing to comply, they attacked
him on his weak side, and represented to him that
these three prisoners cost him an enormous sum to
keep them in the Bastile, and that, as they were no
longer able to raise cabals in the kingdom, they might
as well be at home, where they would cost him nothing.
This indirect mode succeeded, this prince being possessed
by such extraordinary avarice, that whoever
asked him for money was an insufferable burthen to
him; so far did he carry this, that, after the return of
Treville, Beaupuy, and others, whom the violence of
the late cardinal (Richelieu) had, when he was dying,
forced him to abandon, he sought occasion to give a
rebuff to each of them, that he might prevent them
from hoping to be rewarded for what they had suffered
for him.” Here we see a king beginning his reign by
prompting his servants to commit murder, and ending
it by displaying cold-blooded ingratitude to those
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>who had been faithful to him—fit end for such a
beginning!</p>

<p>From a noble, who stained his hands with blood, to
win the favour of a king, we gladly turn to a plebeian,
who risked his life, rather than violate his fidelity to the
neglected and ill-used consort of that monarch. Peter
de la Porte was this plebeian, who, though his trials
were not carried to such a dreadful extent as those of
the chevalier de Jars, has a legitimate claim, as far as
regards probity and firmness of mind, to be placed in
the same class with that distinguished character. La
Porte was born in 1603, and entered into the service
of Anne of Austria at the age of eighteen, as one of
her cloak-bearers. It being suspected that he was
trusted by the queen, he was deprived of his office in
1626, when a desperate attempt was made by the minister
to implicate her in the conspiracy of La Chalais.
He then entered into her body guards. In 1631, he
was, however, allowed to resume his former situation.</p>

<p>Ever studying to abase the queen, Richelieu believed
that he had at last found an opportunity to accomplish
his purpose effectually. This was in 1637&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>.
That the queen should privately keep up some correspondence
with the king of Spain and the cardinal
infant, who were her brothers, and also with the persons
whom she valued in the courts of Madrid and
Brussels, was natural, more especially in her discomfortable
situation, slighted as she was by her husband,
and thwarted and misrepresented by the minister and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>the minister’s satellites. But Anne of Austria had a
sincere attachment to France, and there is no reason
to believe that her letters contained anything which
could prejudice her adopted country. Yet, it was not
advisable that they should come into the hands of a
man, who boasted that with only two lines of an innocent
person’s writing he could ruin him—a boast
which could be made by no one that was not dead to
honour and shame. It was necessary, therefore, to
provide a safe place, where the correspondence might
be deposited. The queen’s favourite convent of Val
de Grace, of which she was the foundress, was the
place which she chose. There Anne had an elegant
apartment, or oratory, in which, after her devotions
were over, she could sometimes, free from the constraint
and heartlessness of the court, enjoy a few hours
of social intercourse with the inmates of the convent.
One of the nuns received the letters from Spain and
the Netherlands, and placed them in a closet, whence
they were taken by the queen, whose answers were
forwarded in the same manner.</p>

<p>Richelieu, who had spies in all quarters, discovered
the secret of the correspondence which was carried on
through the Val de Grace. He lost not a moment in
filling the mind of the weak Louis with phantoms of
danger, which was to arise from the queen’s unauthorised
communications with her relatives. The queen
was hurried off by her husband to Chantilly, where
she was confined to her own room, scantily attended,
and was obliged to submit to being interrogated by the
chancellor. Such was the baseness of the courtiers
that, believing her to be lost, not one of them would
venture even to look up at her window. Her confidential
servants were shut up in various prisons. The
chancellor himself visited Val de Grace to make a
rigorous search for papers; but he found nothing.
That he failed in his search is not marvellous; for he is
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>believed to have previously contrived to give the queen
notice of the intended visit. All the papers had consequently
been removed, and placed under the care of
the marchioness of Sourdis.</p>

<p>Foiled in this attempt to reach the secret, Richelieu
tried whether it might not be wrung from the
servants of the queen. La Porte, as being supposed
to possess a large share of her confidence, was of course
most open to suspicion and persecution. There had,
besides, been found upon him a letter from the queen
to the duchess of Chevreuse, who was then in exile.
In the month of August, 1637, he was committed to
the Bastile. Here he was repeatedly and severely
questioned, but nothing to criminate his royal mistress
could be drawn from him. It was in vain that the
cardinal himself employed threats and promises, to obtain
the information which he so much desired. The
obstinate fidelity of La Porte was not to be shaken,
even when the commissary showed him a paper, which
he said contained an order for applying to him the
torture, and took him to the room that he might
see the instruments. He was equally proof to the fear
of death.</p>

<p>In May, 1638, it being then certain that, after
being childless for two-and-twenty years, Anne of
Austria was in a situation to give an heir to the throne,
the liberation of La Porte was granted to her. He
was, however, exiled to Saumur, where he resided till
the decease of Louis XIII. When Anne became
regent, she recalled him, and gave him a hundred
thousand francs, that he might purchase the place of
principal valet-de-chambre to the king. This office he
held for several years. But La Porte was too honest
to prosper in a corrupt court. Sincerely attached to
the queen-regent, he thought it his duty to apprise
her of the degrading reports which were spread, on
the subject of her long interviews with Mazarin, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>by this candour he cooled her friendship and gratitude,
while, at the same time, he incurred the enmity of the
cardinal himself, by communicating to her a circumstance,
relative to the young king, which Mazarin was
desirous of keeping concealed. In revenge, Mazarin
deprived him of his place, and forbad him to appear at
court. It was not till after the death of the cardinal
that La Porte was again admitted to the king’s presence,
and from him he met with a kind reception.
He died in 1680.</p>

<p>Alchemy, the rock on which the peace and fortune
of numbers have been wrecked, was still more fatal to
Noel Pigard Dubois, a restless and certainly unprincipled
adventurer, whom it deprived of liberty and life.
He was a native of Coulomiers, adopted his father’s
profession, that of a surgeon, then abandoned it, and
voyaged to the Levant, where he spent four years.
During his stay in the East, he studied the occult
sciences. Returning to Paris, he passed there four
years of an obscure and often intemperate existence,
associating chiefly with pretenders to alchemical knowledge.
Caprice, or a sudden fit of devotion, next induced
him to enter a Capuchin convent, but he appears
to have speedily become tired of restraint, and accordingly
he scaled the walls and escaped. At the expiration
of three years he re-embraced a monastic life,
took the vows, and was ordained a priest, in which character
he was known by the name of Father Simon.
The quicksilver of his disposition seemed at length to
be fixed, for he continued to wear the monkish habit
during ten years; but he verified the proverb that the
cowl does not make the monk, his unquiet spirit was
again roused into action, and he fled into Germany.
There he became a convert to the doctrines of Luther,
and once more devoted himself to seeking for the philosopher’s
stone.</p>

<p>Hoping, perhaps, that there would be more believers,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>or fewer rivals, in his own country than in Germany,
he retraced his steps to Paris. Probably he was himself
half dupe, half knave, almost believing that he
had really found the great secret, but resolved at all
events, to turn his supposed skill to his own advantage.
His first step was to abjure protestantism; his next
was to marry under a fictitious name. Rumours of
his wonderful hermetic discoveries were speedily
bruited about. They procured him the acquaintance of
an Abbé Blondeau, an evidently credulous man, who
introduced him to Father Joseph, the favourite and
confident of Richelieu, as a person who might be useful
to the state. For the services which Dubois was to
render, it was stipulated that his past misdeeds should
be buried in oblivion. France was at that time groaning
under a heavy load of taxation, money was raised
by the most abominable exactions; and, consequently,
it was but just that an individual who promised to
procure supplies more innocently than by grinding the
face of the people, should be forgiven for offences
which, though deserving of punishment, were somewhat
less iniquitous than systematic tyranny and
extortion.</p>

<p>It affords a striking proof to what an extent the
delusions of alchemy prevailed in that age, that the
strong-minded Richelieu instantly grasped at the bubble
which floated before him. Had only the weak
Louis done so, there would have been no cause for
wonder. But the minister was full as eager as his
nominal sovereign. It was arranged that Dubois
should perform the “great work” in the presence of
the king, the queen, and a throng of illustrious personages.
The Louvre was the place at which the new
and never-failing gold mine was to be opened.</p>

<p>When the important day arrived, Dubois adroitly
acted in a manner which was calculated to inspire confidence.
He requested that some one might be charged
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>to keep an eye on his proceedings. One of his body
guards, named Saint Amour, was chosen by the king
for this purpose. Musket balls, given by a soldier,
together with a grain of the powder of projection,
were placed in a crucible, the whole was covered with
cinders, and the furnace fire was soon raised to a proper
pitch. The transmutation was now declared by
Dubois to be accomplished, and he requested that
Louis would himself blow off the ashes from the precious
contents of the crucible. Eager to see the
first specimen of the boundless riches which were
about to flow in upon him, the king plied the bellows
with such violence, that the eyes of the queen and
many of the courtiers were nearly blinded with the
dust. At last a lump of gold emerged to view, and his
transports were boundless. He hugged Dubois with
childish rapture, ennobled him, and appointed him president
of the treasury, nominated Blondeau a privy
counsellor, promised a cardinal’s hat to Father Joseph,
and gave eight thousand livres to Saint Amour.
The master of perennial treasures could afford to be
generous.</p>

<p>The experiment is said to have been repeated, and
with the same success as in the first instance. Dubois
must at least have been a clever knave, an adept in
legerdemain, to have deluded so many strongly interested
spectators, and that, too, in spite of the precautions
which he had himself daringly recommended,
for the prevention of fraud.</p>

<p>But there was a rock on which the luckless adventurer
was doomed to split. Humbler patrons than he
had found might for a long while have been satisfied
with the scanty portion of gold contained in the bottom
of a crucible; but the desires of his powerful friends
were of a more greedy and impatient kind, not to be
fed with distant hopes, but demanding large and immediate
fruition. Richelieu loudly called upon the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>alchemist to operate on an extensive scale; and he
proved that it was necessary to do so, by requiring that
Dubois should furnish weekly a sum which should
not be less than six hundred thousand livres, about
25,000<i>l.</i> The startled Dubois requested time to
make the requisite preparations, and time was granted.
In truth, as the powder of projection was believed to
be procurable only by a protracted and laborious process,
it was impossible not to admit his claim for delay.
The marvel is, that he did not avail himself of the
respite, to get beyond the reach of danger. When
the day arrived which he had named, he was of course
compelled to own that he was not yet prepared.</p>

<p>Suspicion being excited, he was imprisoned at Vincennes,
whence he was transferred to the Bastile.
Offended pride and vanity and disappointed cupidity
are often cruel passions. To punish Dubois for his
sins against them, the cardinal appointed a commission
to try him; but being averse from coming forward in
the character of a dupe, he ordered him to be arraigned
on a charge of dealing in magic. As the wretched man
obstinately persisted in denying his guilt, he was put
to the torture. To gain a brief reprieve from his
sufferings, he offered to realise the golden dreams
which he had excited. Faith was not quite extinct in
his patrons, and he was allowed to make another experiment.
It is needless to say that he failed. Being
thus driven from his last hold, he avowed his imposture,
was sentenced to death, and terminated his existence
on the scaffold, on the 23d of June 1637.</p>

<p>The battle of Thionville, which was fought in 1639,
and terminated in the defeat of the French, and the
death of Feuquieres, their general, gave two prisoners
to the Bastile; not foreign enemies, or rebellious
Frenchmen, but officers who had combated for their
country—the count de Grancé and the marquis de
Praslin. At Thionville, the troops under their orders
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>refused to advance, and finally ran away. It appears,
from the testimony of Bassompierre, that no blame
was attributable to the count or the marquis; they
were nevertheless immured in the Bastile, though it
does not seem easy to discern how the cowardice of
soldiers is to be cured by imprisoning their officers.
It was, however, in a similar kind of spirit, only somewhat
more barbarous, that in England, more than a
century afterwards, admiral Byng was sacrificed (murdered
is the proper word); not, as Voltaire sarcastically
observes, “to encourage the others,” but to divert
public indignation from its proper objects. The
system was carried to a horrible length in France,
during the reign of terror. Less sanguinary, in this
instance, than his imitators, Richelieu contented himself
with inflicting a short deprivation of liberty. The
two captives were restored to favour, and Grancé rose,
in the next reign, to the rank of marshal.</p>

<p>The next two cases which are on record, afford a striking
proof of the contempt in which Richelieu held justice
and the law of nations, whenever they chanced to stand
in the way of his political schemes, and the gratification
of his vindictive spirit. On the death of the gallant
warrior, Bernard of Saxe Weimar, which took place in
the summer of 1639, the possession of his admirably
trained army became an object which all the belligerent
powers were eager to obtain. Among those who
sought the prize was the Prince Palatine, a son of the
unfortunate Frederic, who lost the crown of Bohemia
and his own hereditary states. The prince was passing
through France, from England, to enter on the
negociation, when he was arrested, and sent to the
Bastile, under pretence of his being an unknown and
suspected person. Richelieu, meanwhile, pushed on
his treaty with the officers of the deceased duke, and
succeeded in purchasing their services for France.
When this was accomplished, it was discovered that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>the arrest of the Prince Palatine was a mistake, and he
was consequently set free.</p>

<p>The second case occurred in the following year,
1640, and was a still more flagrant violation of international
laws, and more fraught with circumstances of
baseness and malignity. Louis XIII. had a sister,
Christina, beautiful, accomplished, and of winning
manners; in a word, as worthy of being beloved as he
was the contrary. This princess was the widow of
the duke of Savoy, who left to her the regency of his
states, during the minority of Emanuel Philibert, his
son. On the decease of her husband, the ambition
of his brothers prompted them to grasp at the reins
of government, and, to effect their purpose, they called
in the aid of Spain. The duchess was sorely pressed
by her enemies. In this strait, nature and policy combined
to make her apply to Louis for aid. The appeals
to him, in her letters, are often affecting. Richelieu
was willing enough to send succours, but he was determined
that they should be bought at an extravagant
rate. His object, in truth, was to place the dominions
of the minor, and even the minor himself, at the
mercy of France. He not only required that certain
fortresses should be delivered up to him, but also that
the young duke should be put into the hands of the
French king, that is to say, into his own. To bring
this about, he descended to the most unworthy intrigues
and double dealing; alternately calumniating
the duchess to her brothers-in-law, and them to her,
in order to render impossible an accommodation between
them. Borne down by necessity, the duchess
at length consented to admit French garrisons into
some of her fortresses, but she resolutely persisted in
refusing to surrender her son.</p>

<p>The firmness of the duchess was sustained by count
Philip d’Aglie, one of her principal ministers, a man
of discernment and talent, who never slackened in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>his hostility to the scheme of Richelieu. He feared that
the visit of the young duke to France would resemble
the descent into Avernus—“<i>Sed revocare gradum,
hoc opus, hic labor est.</i>” The cardinal had hoped
that, in an interview which the duchess had with Louis
at Grenoble, she might be cajoled or terrified into
compliance. But on that occasion her own firmness
was backed by the presence of count d’Aglie, and the
expectations of the ungodly churchman were in consequence
frustrated. So irritated was he by his disappointment,
that he proposed, in council, to arrest
the count; but, powerful and feared as he was,
he could not prevail upon the members to assent
to this measure. It was therefore postponed to a
better opportunity. In the meanwhile, calumny was
set at work to blacken the character of the devoted
individual, that when the happy time arrived for
pouncing upon him, he might excite no sympathy.
That the slander would wound the duchess also was
a matter of little concern to the personage by whom it
was propagated. It was roundly asserted, apparently
without the shadow of a reason for it, that an illicit
intercourse subsisted between the duchess and the
minister, the latter of whom the cardinal, with an affectation
of virtuous anger, was pleased to designate
as “the wretch who was ruining the reputation of
Christina.” It was not till the following year that
he could succeed in wreaking his malice on the count.
As soon as the French troops had recovered Turin
from the Spaniards, Richelieu ordered d’Aglie to be
seized; and, in spite of the remonstrances of the
duchess against this gross violation of her sovereignty,
he was hurried to France, and confined in the Bastile.
The date of the count’s deliverance, I am unable to
ascertain, but it is probable that his imprisonment was
not protracted beyond the life of the cardinal.</p>

<p>It appears to have been about this time that there
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>was published a bitter satire upon the cardinal, for
which an unlucky author, who had no concern with
it, was conveyed to the Bastile. The satire bore the
title of “The Milliad,” from its consisting of a
thousand lines. One edition is intituled, “The Present
Government, or the Eulogy of the Cardinal.” It
was attributed to Charles de Beys, a now-forgotten
author, who wrote three plays and some verses, and
was lauded as a rival of Malherbe, by a few of his ill-judging
contemporaries. It must have been some
mischievous joker that ascribed “The Milliad” to him,
for Beys was not the sort of man to meddle with political
satire, especially on such a dangerous subject;
he was of an indolent, convivial disposition, and spent
the largest portion of his time in enjoying the pleasures
of the table. He was, nevertheless, pent up in
the Bastile, as the libeller of the all-potent cardinal.
Fortunately for him, he was able to prove his innocence,
was set at liberty, and continued to follow his
former course of life, till his constitution gave way,
and he died, in 1659, at the age of forty.</p>

<p>In the winter of 1642, Richelieu, who had so
largely fed the prisons and scaffolds of France, terminated
his career of ambition and blood. There is
extant a letter which, while the cardinal was on his
death bed, was written to him by one of his victims,
named Dussault. The letter bears date on the first
of December, three days previous to the decease of the
minister, and it seems never to have reached him.
What was the offence of Dussault is not known; from
a broad hint which is given in his epistle, it appears
that he suffered for having refused to execute some
sanguinary order given to him by Richelieu. When
he penned the following lines, he had been more than
eleven years an inmate of the Bastile.</p>

<p>“My Lord,—There is a time when man ceases
to be barbarous and unjust; it is when his approaching
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>dissolution compels him to descend into the
gloom of his conscience, and to deplore the cares,
griefs, pains, and misfortunes, which he has caused
to his fellow creatures: allow me to say fellow creatures,
for you must now see that of which you would
never before allow yourself to be convinced, or persuade
yourself to know, that the sovereign and excellent
celestial workman has formed us all on the same
model, and that he designed men to be distinguished
from each other by their virtues alone. Now, then,
my lord, you are aware that for eleven years you have
subjected me to sufferings, and to enduring a thousand
deaths in the Bastile, where the most disloyal and
wicked subject of the king would be still worthy of
pity and compassion. How much more then ought
they to be shown to me, whom you have doomed to
rot there, for having disobeyed your order, which, had
I performed it, would have condemned my soul to eternal
torment, and made me pass into eternity with
blood-stained hands. Ah! if you could but hear
the sobs, the lamentations and groans, which you
extort from me, you would quickly set me at liberty.
In the name of the eternal God, who will judge you as
well as me, I implore you, my lord, to take pity on my
sufferings and bewailings; and, if you wish that He
should show mercy to you, order my chains to be
broken before your death hour comes, for when that
comes, you will no longer be at leisure to do me that
justice which I must require only from you, and you
will persecute me even after you are no more, from
which God keep us, if you will permit yourself to be
moved by the most humble prayer of a man who has
ever been a loyal subject to the king.”</p>

<p>This application was made in vain. If the cardinal
ever saw it, which is doubtful, it failed to penetrate his
iron heart; he “died, and made no sign,” in favour
of the wretched supplicant. From Dussault’s evident
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>despair of ever being freed except by Richelieu, it may
be conjectured that, as an agent of the minister, he
had given inexpiable offence to some one on whom
power was now likely to devolve; and this supposition
is rendered more probable, by his captivity having
been subsequently protracted to an extraordinary
length. It was not till the 20th of June, 1692, that
he was dismissed, after having languished in the Bastile
for sixty one years! At his advanced age,—for
he must at least have been between eighty and ninety—he
could scarcely have deemed the boon of liberty
a blessing. In the common course of nature, all his
kindred and friends must have been gone, and as his
habits were wholly unfitted for the turmoil of the
world, and he was, perhaps, exposed to want, it is not
unnatural to conclude that he may have been a solitary
and starving wanderer for the brief remainder of his
existence. A situation more forlorn than this it would
be difficult to imagine.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</h2>

<p>Reign of Louis XIV.—Regency of Anne of Austria—Inauspicious
circumstances under which she assumed the regency—George de
Casselny—The count de Montresor—The marquis de Fontrailles—Marshal
de Rantzau—The count de Rieux—Bernard
Guyard—Broussel, governor of the Bastile—The duchess of Montpensier
orders the cannon of the Bastile to be fired on the king’s
army—Conclusion of the war of the Fronde—Surrender of the
Bastile—Despotism of Louis XIV.—Slavishness of the nobles—John
Herauld Gourville—The count de Guiche—Nicholas
Fouquet—Paul Pellisson-Fontainier—Charles St. Evremond—Simon
Morin—The Marquis de Vardes—Count Bussy Rabutin—Saci
le Maistre—The duke of Lauzun—Marquis of Cavoie—The
chevalier de Rohan—A nameless prisoner—Charles D’Assoucy—Miscellaneous
prisoners.</p>

</div>

<p>The regency of Anne of Austria commenced under
auspices which were not of the most favourable kind.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>For a long series of years she had been persecuted by
a tyrant minister, and discredited and humiliated, in
every possible manner, by an unfeeling husband. It
would be a tedious task to enumerate all the slights and
injuries to which she was exposed; a specimen may
suffice. To avoid the disgrace of being sent back to
Spain, she had been compelled to confess before the
Council a fault which she everywhere else disavowed,
and of which it is improbable that she was guilty; on
her bringing Louis XIV. into the world, she had suffered
a stinging insult from her consort, who had pertinaciously
refused to give her the embrace which was
customary on such occasions—an insult which affected
her so deeply that her life was endangered; when he
was on the brink of the grave, and she earnestly sought
to remove his prejudices against her, he coldly replied
to Chavigni, who was pleading her cause, “In my situation
I must forgive, but I am not obliged to believe
her;” and, in settling the regency, he would fain have
excluded from it the object of his hatred, but, that
being impracticable, he took care to shackle her authority
in such a way as would have left her scarcely
more than the mere title of regent. Her having been
childless for twenty-two years, and been treated in
child-bed with such marked aversion by him, were also
circumstances which were well calculated to throw
dangerous doubts on the legitimacy of the infant sovereign.
Yet Anne of Austria triumphed over all this,
procured the setting aside of her deceased husband’s
arrangements, obtained unlimited power, and for five
years governed France without opposition, and with a
considerable enhancement of its military fame. It was
not till the troubles of the Fronde broke out that she
encountered unpopularity and resistance.</p>

<p>During the peaceable period of the queen mother’s
government, the Bastile seems to have had but few
inmates, at least few whom history has deemed worthy
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>of being recorded; and during the war of the Fronde,
and even before, the castle of Vincennes was the
prison which received the captives of the highest
class, such as the duke of Beaufort, the prince of
Condé, and cardinal de Retz.</p>

<p>The first prisoner in the Bastile, of whom any
notice occurs during the regency, was a Spanish agent,
named George de Casselny. Philip IV. of Spain had
recently lost his consort Elizabeth, and it appears that
Casselny was commissioned to make overtures for the
monarch’s marriage with that singular female the
duchess of Montpensier, a woman who had more manly
qualities than her vacillating father, the duke of
Orleans. “There was a certain Spaniard, named
George de Casselny (says the duchess, in her memoirs),
who had been made prisoner in Catalonia, and
was on his parole, he went to M. de Surgis, at Orleans,
to request that he would procure for him an interview
with Monsieur (the duke of Orleans), who put him
off till he could see him at Paris. In consequence of
this delay, the Spaniard’s intention got wind, and he
was put into the Bastile, and the cardinal (Mazarin),
told Monsieur that it was a man who wanted to divert
him from the service of the king by this proposal of
marriage; which Monsieur believed and still believes.
Many persons, however, affirm, that it was not a pretext,
and that this gentleman had orders to make solid
and sincere propositions for the marriage of his king
with me, which he had thought it proper to communicate
to Monsieur, before he made them known to
the court. Nevertheless, this poor creature was kept
a prisoner for several years, and when he was set at
liberty, he was sent out of the kingdom under a guard.”</p>

<p>The next prisoner was one who, for a long period,
was closely connected with Monsieur, the father of the
duchess. Claude de Bourdeille, count de Montresor,
was born about 1608, and was a grand-nephew of that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>pleasant but unscrupulous writer Brantome, who bequeathed
to him his mansion of Richemont. Montresor
was early admitted into the train of the duke of
Orleans, and at length became his confidential friend,
whom he consulted on all occasions. He availed himself
of his influence to keep at a distance from the
duke all the friends of Richelieu, to incite him still
more against that minister, and to link him in confederacy
with the count of Soissons. In 1636, he went
much further. In conjunction with Saint Ibal and
others, he formed a plan for assassinating the cardinal,
and to this plan the duke and the count gave their assent.
The murder was to be perpetrated as the minister
was leaving the council chamber; Saint Ibal
was behind him, ready to strike the blow, and waited
only for an affirmative sign from the duke; but at this
critical moment, either the courage of Orleans gave
way, or his conscience smote him, for he turned away
his head, and hurried from the spot. The cardinal
consequently escaped.</p>

<p>While Montresor was subsequently busy in Guyenne,
labouring to induce the duke of Epernon and his son to
take up arms for Monsieur, he was suddenly abandoned
by his employer, who made his own peace with Richelieu.
Montresor now retired to his estate, where, for
more than five years, he lived in the utmost privacy.
He had, however, secret interviews with Monsieur,
and, at his solicitation, he engaged in the conspiracy
of Cinq Mars. Again he was deserted by him, and
more disgracefully than in the first instance; for
the dishonourable prince did not scruple to disavow
the proceedings of his agent, and to aver that Cinq
Mars and Montresor were the persons who had misled
him. Montresor would have ascended the scaffold
with Cinq Mars and de Thou, had he not prudently
taken refuge in England, whence he did not return till
the cardinal was no more.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span></p>

<p>When the government devolved on Anne of Austria,
the enemies of Richelieu had reason to hope that they
would become the dominant party. The haughty
bearing which this hope led them to assume, obtained
for them the appellation of “The Cabal of the Importants.”
They soon, however, contrived to disgust
the queen-regent; and before twelve months had
elapsed, Montresor, Chateauneuf, the duchess of Chevreuse,
and several others of the faction, were ordered
to quit the court. Montresor retired for a while to
Holland. Late in 1645, he visited Paris, and, soon
after, two letters to him, from the exiled duchess de
Chevreuse, having been intercepted, Mazarin sent him
to the Bastile. The prisoner was removed to Vincennes,
where he was rigorously treated for fourteen
months. At length, moved by the solicitations of
Montresor’s relatives, the cardinal set him at liberty,
and even offered him his friendship. Montresor, however,
chose rather to league himself with Mazarin’s
bitterest foe, the celebrated Coadjutor, afterwards the
cardinal de Retz, and he took an active part in the war
of the Fronde. In 1653 he was reconciled to the court,
and from that time till his decease, which occurred in
1663, he led a peaceable life. Though ambition and
a propensity to political intrigue could lead him to dip
his hands in blood, Montresor is said to have had many
social qualities, to have been generous, sincere, and a
firm and ardent friend. His “Memoirs” form a valuable
contribution to the history of his times.</p>

<p>Among the agents of the duke of Orleans was
Louis d’Astarac, marquis of Fontrailles, a descendant
from an ancient Armagnac family. When the conspiracy
of Cinq Mars was formed, Fontrailles was dispatched
to Spain, to negociate with the Spanish cabinet
a treaty, for assistance to the conspirators. By this
treaty, Spain engaged to furnish the duke of Orleans
with 12,000 infantry, 5,000 cavalry, 400,000 crowns
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>to raise levies in France; and a monthly allowance of
12,000 crowns for his private expenses. But, before
any step could be taken to carry the treaty into effect,
the conspiracy was rendered abortive. Fontrailles,
against whom an order of arrest had been issued, was
fortunate enough to escape to England. The death
of the cardinal and of his vassal sovereign, which took
place soon after, enabled the proscribed fugitive to return
to France. He became one of the Cabal of the
Importants, and shared in the downfall of that faction.
In the summer of 1647, he was sent to the Bastile;
for what fault he was imprisoned I know not, or when
he was released. Guy Patin intimates that the charge
was not of a capital nature. Fontrailles died in 1677.</p>

<p>The next who passes before us is a brave and injured
soldier. Count Josias de Rantzau was descended
from an ancient family of Holstein, thirty-two members
of which are said to have greatly distinguished
themselves. The fidelity of this family to its sovereigns
was so remarkable, that the expression “As
faithful as a Rantzau to his king,” passed into a proverb.
Josias was born in 1610, and seems first to
have borne arms in the Swedish service; he commanded
a body of Swedes at the siege of Andernach,
headed the Swedish left wing at the combat of Pakenau,
and was present at the siege of Brisac. In 1635,
he accompanied the celebrated Oxenstiern into France,
where Louis XIII. appointed him a major-general,
and colonel of two regiments. The subsequent career
of Rantzau was often successful, and was never
stained with disgrace. He effectually covered the retreat
of the French after the raising of the siege of Dole, victoriously
defended St. Jean de Lône against Galas, bore
a conspicuous part in the subsequent campaigns in Flanders
and Germany, and was twice maimed at the siege of
Arras, and displayed signal valour at the siege of Aire.
Fortune deserted him at the combat of Honnecourt and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>the battle of Dutlingen, in 1642 and 1643, and in both
instances he was taken prisoner. She, however, soon
became favourable to him. Between 1645 and 1649, he
made himself master of Gravelines, Dixmude, Lens,
and all the maritime towns of Flanders. To reward his
services he received the government of Gravelines
and Dunkirk, and was raised to the rank of marshal.
Mazarin, nevertheless, suspected him of being connected
with his enemies, and in February, 1649, the
marshal was conveyed to the Bastile, where he remained
for eleven months. His innocence being at
length ascertained, he was set at liberty; but a dropsy,
which he had contracted in his confinement, proved fatal
to him in the course of a few months. He died in September
1650. Rantzau was possessed of brilliant valour,
much talent and military skill, and spoke all the principal
languages of Europe; his only defect was an
inordinate love of wine. Like our Nelson, but even
in a greater degree, his person had been severely mutilated;
he had lost an ear, an eye, a leg, and an arm.
To this fact the following epitaph alludes:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“But half of great Rantzau this tomb contains,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">The other half in battle fields remains;</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">His limbs and fame he widely spread around,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">And still, though mangled, conqueror was he found:</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">His blood a hundred victories did acquire,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">And nothing but his heart by Mars was left entire!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>A brawl brought to the Bastile, in 1652, the count
de Rieux, a son of the duke of Elbœuf. A dispute
with the prince of Tarentum, as to precedence, gave
rise to it. The prince of Condé, the great Condé, was
the other actor. “The prince of Condé,” says the
duchess of Montpensier, “took the part of the prince
of Tarentum, who is nearly related to him, against the
count de Rieux, and one day he got heated in the dispute;
he imagined that the count de Rieux had pushed
him, which obliged him to return it by a box on the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>ear; the count de Rieux then gave him a blow. The
prince, who had no sword, made a dart at that of the
baron de Migenne, who was present. M. de Rohan,
who was also there, put himself between them, and got
out the count de Rieux, whom his royal highness (the
duke of Orleans) sent to the Bastile, for having dared
to fail in respect. Many persons say, that the prince
struck first; if he did so, he must have taken some
gesture of the count for an insult, for though he is very
passionate, he is not so much so as to do an action of
this kind. I saw him after dinner, and he said, ‘You
see a man who has been beaten for the first time in his
life.’ The count de Rieux remained in the Bastile till
the arrival of M. de Lorraine, who set him free, and
blamed him very much.” It must have been a ludicrous
sight, to see a prince of the blood, the victor of
Rocroi, Fribourg, Nordlingen, and Lens, at fisticuffs
amidst a ring of courtiers, in the palace of the duke of
Orleans! “This was not the way,” remarks Voltaire,
“to regain the hearts of the Parisians.”</p>

<p>The leaders of the Frondeur faction were by no
means tolerant of censure, even when it came from
clerical lips. Bernard Guyard, a dominican, had reason
to repent his having too honestly indulged in it.
Guyard, who was born in 1601, at Craon, in Anjou,
took the religious habit, and was admitted, in 1645, a
doctor of the Sorbonne, and became popular for his
pulpit eloquence, so much so that Anne of Austria appointed
him her preacher, and the duchess of Orleans
chose him as her confessor. While the war of the
Fronde was being carried on—a war of which it has
wittily and truly been said, that it ought to be recorded
in burlesque verse—Guyard ventured to reprobate, in
the pulpit, the conduct of those ambitious and unprincipled
personages by whom its flames had been lighted
up. The punishment of his offence followed close upon
the commission of it. As he was leaving the church,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>he was arrested, and conveyed to the Bastile, where
he continued for some months. He died in 1674, at
which period he was theological professor in the convent
of St. James. All his works have long since
ceased to attract notice, with the exception, perhaps, of
“The Fatality of St. Cloud,” which is a paradoxical
attempt to prove that not Clement, nor a Dominican,
but a leaguer, disguised as a monk, was the murderer
of Henry III.</p>

<p>During the war of the Fronde, the Bastile, for a
short time, and for the last, was again a fortress as
well as a prison; but in the latter character its services
were only once required. When, in 1649, the queen-regent
suddenly quitted Paris with the young king, she
imprudently neglected to throw into the Bastile a garrison.
It was guarded by only twenty-two soldiers,
who had neither ammunition nor provisions. Du
Tremblai, the governor, was therefore obliged to yield.
The custody of the fortress was committed to Peter
Broussel, for whose deliverance the Parisians had risen
in arms on the day of the Barricades, and from whom
he had received the flattering appellations of the father
and the protector of the people. As Broussel was an
aged man, his son, La Louvière, was joined with him
in the government. In 1652, Broussel was appointed
provost of the merchants, and the keeping of the Bastile
remained with La Louvière alone.</p>

<p>The two pieces of cannon which, in 1649, the Parisians
fired at the Bastile to hasten its submission,
would have been the only artillery employed, either
against it or by it, had not the daring of a woman
brought its guns into action. The duchess of Montpensier,
who was called Mademoiselle, had recently
distinguished herself by her spirited conduct at Orleans.
Being sent by her father to that city, to encourage his
partisans, she was at first refused admittance, but she
forced her way in, through a hole in a gate, roused the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>people in her favour, and succeeded in preventing the
king’s troops from occupying that important post. She
was now at Paris, and soon found a fresh opportunity
to display her courage and presence of mind. On the
second of July, 1652, the sanguinary battle of the
suburb of St. Anthony was raging; the army of the
prince of Condé, overborne by the far superior numbers
which Turenne led against him, could barely hold
its ground; the prince had in vain entreated for its
admission at various gates; the enemy, reinforced, was
preparing for a new attack on its front and flanks;
and, pent in between the king’s troops and the city
walls, its destruction seemed to be inevitable. At this
perilous moment it was saved by the duchess of Montpensier.
First from her father, and next from the municipal
authorities sitting at the Town Hall, she in a
manner extorted an order for opening the gate of St.
Anthony to the nearly overwhelmed battalions of
Condé. She then ascended to the summit of the Bastile,
and directed the cannon to be charged, removed
from the city side, and pointed to the opposite quarter.
They were opened upon the royalists, who pressed on
the retreating Condéans, and their commanding fire
compelled the pursuers to fall back beyond their range.
Mademoiselle was at that time cherishing a hope that
she should be united to her cousin the king, or at least
to some crowned head; and it was with allusion to this
circumstance that, when he heard she had ordered the
firing, Mazarin coolly remarked, “Those cannon shots
have killed her husband.”</p>

<p>Four months did not pass away before, tired of wasting
their lives and properties in a contest which could
benefit only the privileged classes, the Parisians invited
the king to return to his capital. The monarch entered
it on the 21st of October, 1652. The faction of the
Fronde was annihilated, and its leaders were scattered
in all directions; their vanity, selfishness, and utter
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>want of principle and patriotism, deserved such a fate.
Had they been animated by noble motives, had they
possessed even a moderate share of wisdom and virtue,
they might have laid the groundwork of a stable and
beneficent government, and thereby saved their country
from innumerable immediate and remote evils. But</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“The sensual and the base rebel in vain,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">Slaves by their own compulsion!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>As soon as the king had entered Paris, the Bastile
was summoned, and La Louvière was informed that, if
he were rash enough to stand a siege, the gibbet would
be his portion. Too prudent to run so useless and
formidable a risk, he readily gave up his charge. From
the moment when Mademoiselle directed its fire upon
the king’s troops, a hundred and thirty-seven years
elapsed before the Bastile again heard the roar of
artillery fired in anger.</p>

<p>One of the first acts of Louis XIV. was to hold a
bed of justice, in which he ordered the registration of
an edict to abridge the power of the parliament. By
this edict, the parliament was strictly prohibited from
deliberating on state and financial affairs, and instituting
any proceedings whatever against the ministers whom
he might be pleased to employ. Louis was then only
a boy of fourteen, and this act was of course the work
of Mazarin; but, young as he was, the monarch was
already thoroughly imbued with the principles on which
it was framed. Three years afterwards he gave a
striking proof of this. The parliament having ventured
to manifest a faint opposition to some of his many
oppressive fiscal edicts, he took a step which showed
how deeply despotism was ingrained into his character.
He was engaged in the chase, at Vincennes, when information
was brought to him that his will was disputed.
Hurrying back to Paris, he entered the parliament
chamber, the sanctuary of justice, booted, spurred,
whip in hand, and thus addressed the assembly of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>venerable magistrates: “Sirs, everybody knows the
calamities which the meetings of the parliament have
produced. I will henceforth prevent those meetings.
I order you, therefore, to desist from those which you
have begun, with respect to the edicts which, in my
late bed of justice, I directed to be registered. You,
Mr. First President, I forbid to allow of these assemblies;
and I forbid every one of you to demand them.”
Having thus spoken he departed, leaving his hearers
in astonishment. He was then a beardless youth, who
had not reached his seventeenth year. The members
of the parliament might well have called to mind the
words of Scripture—“If these things are done in the
green tree, what will be done in a dry?” Six years
afterwards Mazarin died, and thenceforth Louis had no
prime minister; he became, in every sense of the word,
the head of the government, the autocrat of France.</p>

<p>A new era, that of abject submission to the monarch,
and almost idolatrous worship of his person and greatness,
commenced when the war of the Fronde was
over. The slaves had had their Saturnalia, and they
sank back—we may almost say rushed back—into a
slavery more degrading than that from which they had
for a moment emerged. There were no longer any
Epernons, ruling their provinces as they pleased, and
bearding the sovereign; the feudal pride was extinct.
This would have been a happy circumstance for France,
had the nobles, in losing their pride, preserved their
dignity. But from one extreme they passed to the
other. The power which they had lost, which was, in
fact, but the power of doing mischief, they might have
replaced by a power more honourable and durable, that
which would have arisen from promoting the welfare
and happiness of those whom they called their vassals.
But their extensive domains were looked on only as
mines, from which the last grain of gold was to be extracted,
that they might squander it in the capital. It
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>seemed as though it were impossible for them to exist
out of the king’s presence; and when they were excluded
from it, they lamented and whined in a manner
which excites at once wonder and contempt. The
consequences of this general prostration were slowly,
but surely and fatally, unfolded.</p>

<p>Let us revert to the captives of the Bastile. The
destiny of John Herauld Gourville, who was born in
1625, was a singular one; he not only raised himself
from a humble state to be the companion and friend of
princes, but was appointed to be one of the representatives
of his sovereign while in exile, and while a Parisian
court of justice was hanging him in effigy as a convicted
runaway peculator. After having received a scanty education,
he was placed in an attorney’s office by his widowed
mother. Having by his cleverness fortunately attracted
the notice of the duke de la Rochefaucault, the
author of the “Maxims,” that nobleman made him
his secretary. During the war of the Fronde, Gourville
displayed such talent and activity, that he acquired
the warm friendship of his employer and the
prince of Condé. His gratitude engaged him in many
desperate adventures for their service, and the mode
in which he raised the supplies for them was sometimes
not much unlike that of a bandit; the moral
code of the Frondeurs was not remarkable for its
strictness. When Rochefaucault became weary of
the inglorious contest in which he was an actor, Gourville
negotiated the duke’s peace with the court; and
in doing this he manifested so much ability and prudence,
that Mazarin despatched him to Bordeaux, to
treat with the prince of Conti. In this mission he
was successful; and he was rewarded by being appointed
commissary-general of the French army in
Catalonia. At the close of the campaign of 1655, he
returned to Paris, and Mazarin, who suspected that he
came to intrigue for the prince of Conti, shut him up
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>in the Bastile. In his Memoirs, Gourville candidly confesses
that his six months’ imprisonment was insufferably
wearisome, and that he could think of little else
than how he should put an end to it. He was maturing
a plan of escape, in concert with six other prisoners,
when the cardinal relented, took him again into favour,
and even prevailed on Fouquet to give him the lucrative
place of receiver-general of the province of Guienne.
In this office Gourville amassed an immense fortune,
which he increased by his extraordinary good luck at
play. When Fouquet fell, the whole of his subalterns
were involved in his fall; but, far from deserting him
in his calamity, Gourville nobly furnished 100,000
livres to assist in gaining over some of his enemies,
and a still larger sum for the establishment of his son,
the count de Vaux. He soon, however, became himself
an object of impeachment, on a charge of peculation,
and he deemed it prudent to quit France. At
that moment there was certainly no chance of his obtaining
a fair trial. After having visited England and
Holland, he settled at Brussels. Though he was compelled
to live in a foreign country, Gourville still preserved
a strong affection for his native land, and he
proved it, by influencing the princes of Brunswick
and Hanover in favour of France. For this patriotic
conduct Louis XIV. nominated him his plenipotentiary
at the court of Brunswick; while at the same
moment his enemies at Paris obtained against him a
degrading sentence from his judges! That not a love
of justice, but a desire to extort money from him, gave
rise to his being prosecuted, is made evident by Colbert
having offered a pardon, at the price of 800,000
livres, which he afterwards reduced to 600,000. Gourville,
however, either could not or would not purchase
this costly commodity. He was subsequently employed
as a diplomatist in Spain, and again in Germany;
and at length in 1681, a free pardon was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>granted to him. From that time he led a tranquil life
in the French capital, in habits of friendship with, and
much beloved by, the most eminent men of genius and
rank. At one period there was an intention of making
him the successor of Colbert, as comptroller-general
of the finances, an office for which he was well qualified;
but he had ceased to be ambitious of dangerous
honours, and was happy to avoid them. The length
of time which his servants continued in his service,
and the cordial manner in which he speaks of them,
afford strong proofs of his kind-heartedness: never
did a selfish or harsh master long retain a domestic.
Haughtiness to inferiors is the miserable make-shift of
a man who has no true dignity to support his pretensions.
Gourville mentions four persons who had been
with him for fifteen, seventeen, twenty-five, and thirty-two
years. He died in 1703, at the age of seventy-eight.
His Memoirs, which he composed in four
months, to amuse himself while he was confined by a
disease in the leg, are deservedly praised by Madame
de Sévigné and Voltaire.</p>

<p>The next who appears on the scene was a noble,
whom Madame de Sévigné characterizes as “a hero of
romance, who does not resemble the rest of mankind.”
This is somewhat exaggerated, but not wholly untrue.
Armand de Grammont, Count de Guiche, who was
born in 1638, was a proficient in all manly exercises,
splendid in dress and equipage, spirited, witty, well
educated, handsome in person, and cultivated in mind.
His valour was early proved, at the sieges of Landrecy,
Valenciennes, and Dunkirk. In a voluptuous court,
and with his attractive qualities, it is not wonderful
that Guiche was engaged in amorous intrigues. His
desire of conquest aimed so high—Henrietta Stuart,
Duchess of Orleans, was its great object—that Louis
XIV. thrice exiled him; and it was probably on this
account that he became an inmate of the Bastile, from
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>which prison he was released in the autumn of 1660.
Having a third time offended, he was sent to Poland,
where he distinguished himself in the war against the
Turks. At the end of two years, he was recalled; but
it was not long before he again fell into disgrace, by
participating in the despicable conduct of the Marquis
de Vardes, which will be described in the sketch of
that courtier’s career. Guiche was banished to Holland.
Too active to remain unemployed, he served in
the campaign against the Bishop of Munster, and on
board the Dutch squadron, in the sea-fight with the
English, off the Texel. He was allowed to return to
France in 1669, but was not re-admitted at court till
two years afterwards. It was he who, in 1672, led
the way at the celebrated passage of the Rhine, near
Tollhuis; an exploit which is extravagantly lauded by
Boileau. He died at Creutznach, in Germany, in 1673;
excessive chagrin, occasioned by Montecuculi having
defeated him, was the cause of his death. Guiche is
the author of a volume of Memoirs concerning the
United Provinces.</p>

<p>The first important act of Louis XIV., after his taking
the administration of public affairs into his own hands,
was the disgracing and ruining Fouquet, the superintendant
of the finances. Nicholas Fouquet, a son of
Viscount de Vaux, was born at Paris, in 1615, and
was educated for the legal profession. At twenty he
was master of requests, and at thirty-five he filled the
very considerable office of attorney-general to the
parliament of Paris. It would have been happy for
him had he steadily pursued his career in the magistracy,
instead of deviating into a path that was beset
with dangers. During the troubles of the Fronde he
was unalterably faithful to the queen-mother, and in
gratitude for this she raised him, in 1652, to the post
of superintendant. It was a fatal boon.</p>

<p>By all who were connected with it, the French treasury
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>seems, in those days, to have been considered as
a mine which they were privileged to work for their
own benefit. Mazarin had recently been a wholesale
plunderer of it; and there can be little doubt that
Fouquet was a peculator to a vast extent. Yet the
superintendant had one merit, which was wanting in
other depredators—though he took, he likewise gave;
for at one period, when money ran short, he mortgaged
his property and his wife’s, and borrowed on his own
bills, to supply the necessities of the state.</p>

<p>The fatal failing of Fouquet was his magnificent extravagance.
He had a taste for splendour and lavish
expenditure, which might have qualified him for an
oriental sovereign. On his estate at Vaux he built a
mansion, or rather a palace, which threw into the shade
the country residences of the French monarch—for Versailles
was not then in existence. Whole hamlets were
levelled to the ground to afford space for its gardens.
The building was sumptuously decorated, and in every
part of it was painted his device, a squirrel, with the
ambitious motto “<i>Quo non ascendam?</i>” Whither
shall I not rise? It is a curious circumstance, that
the squirrel was represented as being pursued by a
snake, which was the arms of Colbert, the bitter enemy
of Fouquet. The edifice cost eighteen millions of
livres; a sum equivalent to three times as much at
the present day.</p>

<p>The largesses of the superintendant, which in many
cases deserve the name of bribes, were immense.
Great numbers of the courtiers did not blush to become
his pensioners. On extraordinary occasions they also
received presents from him. Each of the nobles, who
was invited with Louis XIV. to the grand entertainment
at Vaux, found in his bed-chamber a purse filled
with gold; which, says a sarcastic writer, “the nobles
did not forget to take away.” There was another
abundant source of expense, which arose out of his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>licentious passions; he lavished immense sums in
purchasing the venal charms of the French ladies
of distinction, and was eminently successful in finding
sellers. “There were few at court,” says Madame de
Motteville, “who did not sacrifice to the golden
calf.” Policy, no doubt, had a share in prompting his
liberality to the courtiers; and, perhaps, it sometimes
was mingled with lust and vanity in his gifts to frail
females of rank; but we may attribute to a purer motive
the kindness and courtesy which he manifested to
persons of talent. The result was quite natural; the
great deserted him in his hour of danger and disgrace,
the people of talent clung with more tenacity than ever
to their fallen benefactor and friend.</p>

<p>Mazarin, when on his death-bed, is said to have
awakened the fears and suspicions of Louis against
Fouquet; and, to deepen the impression which he had
made, he left behind him two deadly foes of the superintendant.
These foes were Le Tellier and Colbert,
of whom the latter was the most inveterate and the
most dangerous. When Louis formed the resolution
of being his own prime minister, Fouquet, who evidently
wished to succeed to the power of Richelieu
and Mazarin, essayed to turn the monarch from his
purpose, by daily heaping on him a mass of dry, intricate,
and erroneous financial statements. He failed
in his attempt. These papers the king every evening
examined, with the secret assistance of Colbert, whose
acuteness and practised skill instantly unravelled their
artful tangles, and exposed their errors.</p>

<p>It was not alone the squandering of the royal treasure
that irritated Louis; though that would have
been a sufficiently exciting cause to a man whose own
lavish habits required large supplies. He asserted,
and might perhaps believe, that the offender aspired
to sovereignty. In a long conversation with the president
Lamoignon, he said, “Fouquet wished to make
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>himself duke of Britanny, and king of the neighbouring
isles; he won over every body by his profusion:
there was not a single soul in whom I could put confidence.”
So much was he impressed with this idea,
that he repeated it over and over to the president.
For this absurd fear there was no other ground than
that the superintendant had purchased and fortified
Belleisle; a measure which was prompted by patriotic
motives, it being his design to make that island an
emporium of commerce. There is said to have been
another and a not less powerful cause for the monarch’s
hatred of Fouquet; the superintendant had been imprudent
enough to attempt to include La Vallière in
the long catalogue of his mistresses, and this was an
offence not to be pardoned by the proudest and vainest
of kings.</p>

<p>As soon as the ruin of Fouquet was determined
upon, the most profound dissimulation was used by
the king and Colbert, to prevent him from suspecting
their purpose. All his measures seemed to give perfect
satisfaction; unlimited trust was apparently placed
in him; and hints were thrown out, that the coveted
post of prime minister was within his reach. The
hints had a further purpose than that of blinding him
to the peril in which he stood; they were meant to
rob him of a shield against injustice. By virtue of
his office, as attorney-general to the parliament, he
had the privilege of being tried only by the assembled
chambers; but, as it was intended that his trial
should take place before a packed tribunal, it was necessary
to divest him of the privilege. For this reason
it was insinuated, that the post of attorney-general
stood in the way of his being raised to the premiership,
and also of his obtaining the blue riband. Fouquet
fell into the snare, and sold his office for 1,400,000
livres, which sum, with a blind generosity, he instantly
lent to the Exchequer. To confirm Fouquet’s delusion,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>Louis graced with his presence a gorgeous festival
which was held at Vaux. But the splendour of
the place, the excessive magnificence of the entertainment,
and the presumptuousness of the superintendant’s
motto, roused his anger to such a pitch, that, had
not the queen-mother remonstrated, he would have
committed the unkingly act of arresting Fouquet on
the spot.</p>

<p>When the courage inspired by passion had evaporated,
Louis delayed yet awhile to effect his purpose,
till he had guarded in all possible ways against the
danger which was to be apprehended from the formidable
conspirator. Had Fouquet been capable of
calling up legions from the earth by the stamp of his
foot, more precautions could not have been taken. The
blow was struck at last. Louis was at Nantes, to
which city he had removed under the idea that it would
be easier to accomplish the arrest there than at Paris.
Thither he was followed by Fouquet. Some of the
superintendant’s friends warned him of the peril which
hung over him, but he gave no credence to their
tidings. On the 5th of September, 1661, as he was
leaving the council, he was arrested, and was conveyed
without delay to the castle of Angers. Messengers
were immediately despatched to Paris, to seize his
papers, and to order the arrest of many of his partisans.</p>

<p>Fouquet was bandied about from prison to prison,
from Angers to Amboise, Moret, and Vincennes,
till he was finally lodged in the Bastile.
He bore his misfortune with an unshaken mind. His
enemies, meanwhile, were proceeding with the most
malignant activity, and with a perfect contempt of
justice and decorum. It was the common talk of
Paris, that Colbert would be satisfied with nothing
less than the execution of the superintendant. He was
even plainly charged by Fouquet with having fraudulently
made in his papers a multitude of alterations.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>Le Tellier, though less openly violent than Colbert,
was equally hostile. For the trial of the prisoner
twenty-two commissioners were picked out from the
French parliaments; nearly all—if not all—of them
were notoriously inimical to him, or connected with
persons who were known to be so, and at their head
was the chancellor Seguier, one of his most deadly
enemies.</p>

<p>One benefit the fallen minister derived from this
injustice, and from the protracted trial which ensued;
public opinion, which at first had been adverse to him,
gradually grew more and more favourable. Fouquet
the peculator, brought to judgment before an honest
and impartial tribunal, would have excited no sympathy;
Fouquet, persecuted by his rivals for power, and
destined to be legally assassinated, could not fail to
excite a warm interest in the mind of every one who
was not destitute of honourable feelings.</p>

<p>Those who were in habits of intimacy with Fouquet
needed no other stimulus than the benefits or the
winning courtesies, which they had experienced from
him. He had on his side all who loved or practised
literature, all who could be captivated by prepossessing
manners and boundless generosity. “Never,” says
Voltaire, “did a placeman have more personal friends,
never was a persecuted man better served in his misfortunes.”
Many men of letters wielded the pen in
his behalf, with a courage which deserves no small
praise, when we consider that the Bastile was staring
them in the face. Pelisson in his dungeon tasked all
his powers to defend his ruined master; La Fontaine,
in a touching elegy, vainly strove to awake the clemency
of Louis; Loret eulogized Fouquet in his
“Mercure Burlesque,” and was punished by the loss
of his pension; Hesnault, the translator of Lucretius,
attacked Colbert in the bitterest and boldest of sonnets;
and a crowd of other assailants showered epigrams
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>and lampoons on the vindictive minister. The
authors were, in general, lucky enough to find impunity;
but numbers of newswriters, printers, and
hawkers, were seized, all of whom were imprisoned,
and some were sent from prison to the galleys.</p>

<p>Fouquet began by denying the competency of the
tribunal before which he was summoned. He was,
however, compelled to appear; but, though he answered
interrogatories, he persisted in protesting
against the authority of his judges. He defended
himself with admirable skill, eloquence, and moderation.
There were, indeed, moments when he was
roused to retaliate. A single example of the pungency
with which he could reply, will show that
his persecutors were not wise in provoking him.
Behind a mirror, at his country house of St. Mandé,
was found a sketch of a paper, drawn up by him fifteen
years before, and evidently long forgotten by him.
It contained instructions to his friends how they were
to proceed, in case of an attempt being made to subvert
his power. This was construed into a proof of
conspiracy. Seguier having pertinaciously called on
him to own that the drawing up of such a paper was
a crime against the state, Fouquet said, “I confess
that it is a foolish and wild act, but not a state crime.
A crime against the state is when, holding a principal
office, and being entrusted with the secrets of the
prince, the individual all at once deserts to the enemy,
engages the whole of his family in the same interest,
causes governors to open the gates of cities to the
enemy’s army, and to close them against their rightful
master, and betrays to the hostile party the secrets
of the government—this, sir, is what is called a crime
against the state.” This was a stunning blow to the
chancellor, for it was the past conduct of that magistrate
himself that was thus forcibly described by the prisoner.</p>

<p>The trial lasted three years. It was not the fault
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>of some of his judges that it was not brought to a
speedier issue. They listened with reluctance to his
eloquent defence, and would fain have cut it short.
Possort, one of them, who was an uncle of Colbert,
once exclaimed, on Fouquet closing his speech, “Thank
Heaven! he cannot complain that he has been prevented
from talking his fill!” Others, still more insensible
to shame, made a motion, that he should be restricted
to the mere answering of questions; they were,
however, overruled. It was not till the middle of December,
1664, that Talon, the advocate-general, summed
up the evidence, and demanded that the culprit
should be hanged on a gallows, purposely erected in
the Palace Court. But the time for this excessive
severity was gone by. Some of the judges had become
accessible to feelings of pity; others had been
won over by the potent influence of gold, of which the
superintendant’s friends undoubtedly availed themselves
to a considerable extent. Among the most
conspicuous of those who leaned to the side of mercy
were MM. d’Ormesson and Roquesante, men of unquestionable
integrity. Only nine voted for death; a
majority of the commissioners, thirteen in number,
gave their suffrage for confiscation of property and
perpetual banishment.</p>

<p>The king is said to have been grievously disappointed
by this sentence. Colbert was furious. In
one of her letters, written at the moment, Madame de
Sévigné, who had a warm esteem for Fouquet, says,
“Colbert is so exceedingly enraged, that we may
expect from him something unjust and atrocious enough
to drive us all to despair again.” In another letter,
she hints her fears that poison may be employed; Guy
Patin was also of the same opinion. Neither poison nor
steel was, however, resorted to; it was probably thought
that to render the life of Fouquet a burthen to him,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>would be a more exquisite gratification than taking of
it away. To grant mercy has always been regarded
as the noblest prerogative of a monarch; to refuse it
was more to the taste of Louis. He altered the sentence
of Fouquet from banishment to endless imprisonment
in a remote fortress, and this was in mockery
called a commutation of the penalty. Fouquet was
immediately sent off to Pignerol, and the members of
his family, who were doomed to suffer for his errors,
were scattered in various directions. His judges did
not wholly escape without marks of the king’s anger.
M. de Roquesante, a native of the sunny Provence,
who had spoken in favour of the prisoner, was banished,
in the depth of winter, to the distant and imperfectly
civilised province of Lower Britanny.</p>

<p>On his way to Pignerol, and during his captivity
there, Fouquet was treated with great harshness. About
six months after his arrival, he was placed in imminent
danger. The lightning fell on the citadel where he was
confined, and blew up the powder magazine. Numbers
of persons were buried under the ruins, but he stood in
the recess of a window and remained unhurt. There is a
singular veil of mystery hanging over his last days.
He is generally said to have died at Pignerol, in 1680;
yet Gourville, his friend, positively states him to have
been set at liberty before his decease, and he adds,
that he received a letter from him. Voltaire, too, declares
that the fact of the liberation was confirmed to
him by the Countess de Vaux, the daughter-in-law of
Fouquet; but here all clue to the subject is lost. It
has recently been suggested that Fouquet may have
again been arrested, and that he was the individual
who is known by the appellation of the Man in the
Iron Mask.</p>

<p>While fidelity in friendship, inviolably preserved
under the most trying circumstances, shall continue to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>be admired by mankind, the name of Paul Pelisson
will always be mentioned with respect. He had
talents, too, which were of no mean order. Pelisson,
who from affection to his mother assumed also her
maiden name of Fontanier, was born in 1624, at
Bezières, and was brought up in the Protestant faith.
He attained an early and rapid proficiency in literature
and languages; nor were severer studies neglected—for
at the age of only nineteen he produced an excellent
Latin paraphrase of the first book of Justinian’s
Institutes. He was beginning to shine at the bar
when he was attacked by small-pox. The disease so
excessively disfigured his countenance, and impaired
his constitution, that he was under the necessity of relinquishing
his profession, and retiring into the country
to recruit his health.</p>

<p>As soon as Pelisson was again able to take a part
in active life, he settled in Paris. It was not long
before he acquired a multitude of friends; and the
French Academy, in return for a history which he
wrote of its early labours, made him a supernumerary
member, and destined for him the first vacancy which
should occur. Fouquet, who knew his abilities, appointed
him his chief clerk, and reposed in him an implicit
confidence, which was well deserved. Had Fouquet
followed the advice of his assistant, who counselled
him never to part with his office of attorney-general,
he would have done wisely. When this
advice came to the knowledge of Louis, he said “the
clerk is more sharp-sighted than the master.”</p>

<p>Pelisson shared the fate of Fouquet; he was sent to
the Concièrgerie, whence he was removed to the
Bastile. All attempts to elicit from him the secrets of
the superintendant were made in vain. Once only,
to answer a purpose, he seemed to make a disclosure.
Fearing that, from not knowing whether the documents
were in existence, Fouquet might commit himself
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>in his answers to certain questions, Pelisson
feigned to divulge some unimportant particulars which
related to the subject. Fouquet, who was astonished
at this seeming defection of his friend, was confronted
with him, and denied the correctness of what had been
stated: “Sir,” said Pelisson, in an emphatic tone,
“You would not deny so boldly if you did not know
that all the papers concerning that affair are destroyed.”
Fouquet instantly comprehended the stratagem, and
acted accordingly.</p>

<p>In the early part of his confinement, Pelisson found
means to compose three memorials in defence of Fouquet.
For eloquence and argument they may be considered
as his masterpieces; they were published, and
produced a strong impression. As a punishment, he
was still more closely immured, and pen and paper
were withheld from him; but he contrived to foil his
persecutors, by writing, with ink made of burnt crust
and wine, on the blank leaves and margins of the religious
works which he was allowed to read. They
were equally unsuccessful when, hoping that he might
drop some unguarded words, they gave him, as an
attendant, a spy, who concealed cunning under the
mask of coarse simplicity. Pelisson saw through the
deception, and adroitly converted the spy into an instrument
of his own.</p>

<p>The imprisonment of Pelisson lasted four years and
a half. Among the means which he employed to beguile
his lonely hours is said to have been that of taming
a spider; a task which he effected so completely, that
at a signal, it would fetch its prey from the further
end of the room, or even take it out of his hand. It
is, however, doubtful whether Pelisson was the person
who performed this. De Renneville, who is good authority
on this subject, ascribes the taming of the spider
to the Count de Lauzun, and adds, that the jailer, St.
Mars, brutally crushed the insect, and exclaimed that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>criminals like Lauzun did not deserve to enjoy the
slightest amusement.</p>

<p>The solicitations of Pelisson’s friends at length
procured his release; in memory of which he ever
after yearly liberated some unfortunate prisoner. After
some lapse of time, he was even received into the good
graces of Louis, who probably thought that the man
who had been faithful to a ruined minister would not
be wanting in fidelity to his sovereign. It was, besides,
no small merit in the king’s eyes, that Pelisson had
become a Catholic. Louis first appointed him his
historiographer, with a pension; then gave him several
valuable benefices; and, lastly, entrusted him with the
management of the fund which was employed in purchasing
proselytes. Pelisson died in 1693.</p>

<p>Pelisson was not the only literary character who
was drawn into the vortex by the sinking of Fouquet.
The gay and witty Epicurean philosopher, St. Evremond,
was punished for the crime of being a friend of
the fallen superintendant. Charles St. Evremond was
born in 1613, at St. Denis le Guast, near Coutances.
From the study of the law, and the prospect of a high
station in the magistracy, he was seduced by his love of
arms, and, at the age of sixteen, he obtained an ensigncy.
He still, however, retained his taste for philosophy
and literature. By his bravery he acquired the
esteem of his superiors; and that esteem was heightened
by his varied acquirements and the charm of his
conversation. That he might always enjoy the pleasure
of his society, the Duke of Enghien appointed
him lieutenant of his guards. In this post St. Evremond
fought gallantly at Rocroi, Fribourg, and Nordlingen,
in the last of which battles he was dangerously
wounded. His familiar intercourse with the prince
was not of long duration; Enghien delighted to see
others exposed to the wit and raillery of his lieutenant,
but he could not endure to be himself their object;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>St. Evremond ventured to aim some pleasantries at his
princely protector, and the great Condé had the littleness
to take offence, and to insist on the offender resigning
his commission in the guards. In the war of the
Fronde, St. Evremond served the royal cause with
pen and sword, and he was rewarded with a pension
and the rank of major-general. Some satirical
remarks on Mazarin, which he soon after made at a
dinner party, were the cause of his being thrown into
the Bastile. Mazarin, however, was not of an implacable
nature, like his predecessor Richelieu. At the
expiration of three months he set the prisoner free,
took him into favour, and afterwards, from among a
crowd of rivals, selected him as his companion, when
he went to negociate the peace of the Pyrenees. Dissatisfied
with the terms of that peace, St. Evremond
gave vent to his dissatisfaction, in a private letter to
the Marshal de Créqui. In writing it he unconsciously
wrote his own sentence of banishment. A copy of it
was found among the papers of Fouquet; and Colbert,
who rejoiced to have an opportunity of injuring a friend
of Fouquet, malignantly represented it in such a light
to Louis XIV. that an order was issued to convey the
author to the Bastile. St. Evremond was riding in the
forest of Orleans when he received intelligence from
his friends of the danger that hung over him. As he
did not wish to pay a second visit to a state prison, he
provided for his safety by an immediate and rapid
flight. In England he was welcomed with open arms,
and was idolized by the wits and courtiers. In 1664
he visited Holland, where he met with an equally cordial
reception, and gained the friendship of the Prince
of Orange. Charles II. invited him to return to England,
in 1670, and settled on him a pension. Henceforth,
till his decease, which took place in 1703, he
continued to reside in London. His friends in France
made repeated efforts to obtain his recall; but they
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>could not succeed till 1689, when Louis XIV. was
pleased to grant their request. St. Evremond refused
to accept the tardy boon. Living at his ease in a free
country, and in the highest society, and admired and
esteemed by the fair, the witty, and the noble, he was
too wise to put himself into “circumscription and confine,”
and purchase the privilege of bending before a
despotic monarch, at the risk of being condemned to
solitary meditation in one of the towers of the Bastile.
St. Evremond was ninety when he died, but he preserved
his faculties to the last. He was interred in
Westminster Abbey. His poetry never rises above
mediocrity, and does not always reach it; but his prose
is often excellent. Justice has scarcely been done to
him either by La Harpe or Voltaire.</p>

<p>A harder fate than that of voluntary exile was the
lot of Simon Morin, an insane visionary, a man of
humble birth, who was born about 1623, at Richemont,
in Normandy. His horrible death, which was
in fact a judicial murder, perpetrated by a fanaticism
far worse than his own, leaves an indelible stain on
the character of the judges by whom it was directed.
Morin was originally a clerk in the war-office, but lost
his situation by neglecting his duties; and he subsequently
gained a scanty subsistence as a copyist, for
which he was well qualified by the beauty of his handwriting.
His reason appears to have been early affected,
as he must have been under twenty when he
was first put into prison for his extravagant ideas in
religious matters. After his release, he seems to have
gradually become more and more deranged. Like all
madmen of his class, however, he gained numerous
proselytes, who listened to his harangues, and read
his printed reveries, with implicit belief. His success
drew on him the attention of the government, and, in
July 1644, he was sent to the Bastile. At the expiration
of twenty months he was set at liberty. Imprisonment
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>had only heightened his malady, and he
consequently laboured with more vigour than ever to
disseminate his opinions. Those opinions he embodied
in a work intituled, “Thoughts of Morin, with
his Canticles and Spiritual Quatrains,” dedicated to
the king. He called himself the Son of Man, and
maintained that Christ was incorporated in him; that
in his person was to take place the second advent of
the Saviour in a state of glory; and that the result
would be a general reformation of the Church, and the
conversion of all people to the true faith. There was
much more of the same kind; he was in France what
Brothers, long afterwards, was in England. Of his
tenets, several bear a resemblance to those which,
later in the 17th century, were held by the Quietists.
The publication of this volume again brought the
police upon him. For some time he eluded them, but
he was at last discovered, and re-committed to the
Bastile. In 1649, he retracted his errors, and was
released, and he repeated his retractation four months
after his being set free. It was not long, however,
before he relapsed, and for this he was sent to the
Concièrgerie, whence he was transferred to the Petites
Maisons, as an incurable lunatic. The last was
the only sensible measure which was adopted with
respect to him. By another abjuration, he once more
recovered his liberty; and, as soon as he was let loose,
he once more asserted his claim to be an incarnation
of the Deity. There can be little doubt that he had
short lucid intervals, and that it was during these intervals
that he renounced his errors.</p>

<p>Thus, alternately raving and recanting, Morin went
on till 1661, when, in an evil hour, he contracted an
intimacy with a man who was no less a visionary than
he himself was, and whose nature was deeply tinctured
with malignity and deceit. This man, John Desmarets
de St. Sorlin, a member of the French Academy,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>was the author of several works, now sunk into oblivion,
among which are a ponderous epic, called Clovis,
and several theatrical pieces. From his own showing, he
appears to have been in youth a monster of immorality;
and though in advanced life he affected piety, his conduct
did not prove his heart to be much ameliorated; he became
fanatical instead of becoming virtuous. A brief
specimen, from some of his rhapsodies, will show how
completely his wits were “turned the seamy side without.”
He asserted, that God in his infinite goodness had given
him the key of the treasure of the Apocalypse; that
he was Eliachim Michael, a Prophet; that he had the
Divine command to raise an army of 144,000 men,
bearing the seal of God on their foreheads, which
army was to be headed by the king, to exterminate
the impious and the Jansenists; and that Louis XIV.
was indicated by the prophets as the person who was
destined to drive out the Turks, and extend throughout
the whole earth the kingdom of Christ. Had not
Desmarets been a hater of the Jansenists, and a flatterer
of the monarch, he would undoubtedly have
been sent to study the Apocalypse in the solitude of
a prison.</p>

<p>The trite proverb, that “two of a trade cannot
agree,” was verified by Desmarets; he resolved to
destroy the man who dared to make pretensions that
eclipsed his own. To effect his purpose, he acted
with the cunning of a lunatic, and the dark-heartedness
of a fiend. By paying assiduous court to Morin,
by pretending to be one of his most submissive disciples,
and even by going so far as to write him a
letter, unequivocally recognising him as the Son of
Man, he contrived to insinuate himself into the confidence
of his unfortunate victim, and to draw from
him his most secret thoughts. In the course of their
conversations, Morin is said to have declared, among
other things, that unless the king acknowledged his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>mission he would die. Having thus furnished himself
with evidence against the man whom he had deluded,
Desmarets hastened to denounce him as a heretic and
traitor. Orders were issued for arresting Morin, who
was found engaged in copying out a “Discourse to
the King,” which began with “the Son of Man to the
King of France.” He was brought to trial, and was
sentenced to be burned alive. Some of his followers
were condemned to whipping and the galleys. The
iniquitous judgment passed on Morin was executed
on the 14th of March, 1663. At the stake his reason
seems to have returned; he repeatedly called on the
Saviour and the Virgin, and humbly prayed for mercy
to the Creator of all things.</p>

<p>Little commiseration is due to him whose imprisonment
is next recorded; his baseness met with deserved
punishment. Francis René Crispin du Bec, Marquis
of Vardes, was of a good family, and served with reputation
in Flanders, France, Italy, and Spain. During
the war of the Fronde, he was constant to the
royal party; and it was doubtless his zeal and fidelity
on this occasion which acquired for him the friendship
of Louis XIV. He rose to high rank in the army;
was made captain-colonel of the Hundred Swiss in
1655; and, next year, succeeded the Duke of Orleans
in the government of Aigues-Mortes, and was invested
with the various orders of knighthood. He was on
the point of being created a duke and peer, when the
discovery of a dishonourable act of which he had been
guilty, stopped his promotion, and deprived him of his
liberty. Louis had chosen Vardes as his friend, and
had confided to him his passion for the celebrated
Mlle. de la Vallière, who was one of the maids of
honour to the Duchess of Orleans. It appears that
the duchess and her friend, the Countess of Soissons,
and their lovers, the Count de Guiche and Vardes,
had hoped, by means of La Vallière, to obtain a predominant
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>influence over Louis. But the royal mistress
loved Louis with a sincere and disinterested
affection, and was not disposed to become the instrument
of court intriguers. It was resolved, therefore,
to oust her, and substitute in her stead Mlle. de la
Mothe Houdancourt, who, it was imagined, would be
more subservient. To effect this object, Vardes wrote
a letter, purporting to be from the Spanish monarch,
to his daughter the French queen, informing her of
her consort’s connection with la Vallière; it was
translated into Spanish by Guiche. The letter, however,
fell into the hands of Louis. While endeavouring
to discover the author, the king consulted Vardes,
and Vardes was so ineffably base as to lead him to
believe that the offender was the Duchess of Noailles.
The duchess, a woman of strict virtue, had the superintendence
of the queen’s maids of honour, and had
already dissatisfied Louis by her vigilant care of her
charge. He therefore readily believed the suggestion
of Vardes, and, without farther inquiry, deprived the
duchess and her husband of all the places which they
held, and ordered them to retire to their estate. For
three years the perfidy of Vardes remained a secret,
and it would perhaps always have remained so, had
he not caused a disclosure of it, by conduct which was
at once a flagrant breach of confidence to his friend,
the Count de Guiche, and a gross insult to the Duchess
of Orleans. He obtained possession of the letters
written by the count to the duchess, and refused to
give them up; and he incited the Chevalier de Lorraine
to make offensive advances to her. This proceeding
brought on a quarrel, the result of which was
that the king became acquainted with the treachery
of the man whom he had trusted. Vardes was sent
to the Bastile in December, 1664, from whence he
was removed to the citadel of Montpellier, where he
was closely confined for eighteen months. He was at
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>length allowed to reside in his government of Aigues-Mortes;
but eighteen years passed away before he
was recalled to the court. He is said to have employed
in study the period of his exile, and to have
made himself generally esteemed in Languedoc. When,
after his long banishment, he was graciously received
by the king, Vardes was dressed in the fashion of his
early days, and, when Louis laughed at the antique
cut of his coat, the supple courtier replied, “Sire,
when one is so wretched as to be banished from you,
one is not only unfortunate, but ridiculous!” Vardes
did not long enjoy his re-establishment in the royal
favour; he died in 1688.</p>

<p>To Vardes succeeds another noble, Count Roger
Bussy de Rabutin, who, though he is not accused of
such baseness as that of which Vardes was guilty, was
by no means a model of delicacy and virtue. He seems,
indeed, to have been of opinion, that honour and honesty
were not necessary qualities in the persons whom
he had about him; for, in his Memoirs, he coolly describes
one gentleman, who was of his train, as having
all his life been a cutpurse; and another, on whom he
bestows praise for some things, as being addicted to
every vice, and no less familiar with robbery and
murder than with eating and drinking. Such being
his laxity of principles, it is no wonder that he sometimes
participated in disgusting orgies, and was even
suspected of feeling a more than parental love for
Madame de la Rivière, his daughter. Bussy de Rabutin
was born in 1618, entered the army when he
was only twelve years of age, served in all the campaigns
between 1634 and 1663, and attained the
rank of lieutenant-general. His bravery was undoubted,
but his vanity, arrogance, and satirical spirit,
made him numerous enemies among his brother officers.
On one occasion he lampooned Turenne, and
that great general, deviating from his usual magnanimity,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>avenged himself by writing to the king, that
“M de Bussy was the best officer in the army—for
songs.” In 1641, Bussy was an inmate of the Bastile
for five months. The defective discipline of his regiment,
and its having engaged in smuggling salt, was
the ostensible cause of his imprisonment; he himself
assigned as the reason, that his father was hated by
Desnoyers the minister. The same faults by which
his companions in arms had been converted into foes,
proved his ruin at court. He wrote a libellous work,
called “The Amorous History of the Gauls,” which
was published in 1665, and excited a general outcry
among the personages whom it describes. Bussy affirms,
that it was sent to the press without his consent,
and even with malignant alterations and additions,
by an unfaithful mistress, to whom he entrusted
the manuscript. This production was made the pretext
for committing him to the Bastile; but it is said
that his real offence was a song, in which he ridiculed
the king’s passion for the Duchess of la Vallière. His
imprisonment lasted twenty months, and he candidly
owns, in his Memoirs and Letters, that it was not
very patiently endured. By dint of importunity, seconded
by an illness with which he was attacked, he
at length recovered his liberty. During his captivity,
he was compelled to resign, for a much less sum than
it cost him, the major-generalship of the light cavalry.
But though Bussy was released, he was not pardoned;
he was banished to his estate. Notwithstanding his
abject supplications, which were incessantly renewed,
he remained an exile for sixteen years. At last, in
1682, he was graciously permitted to re-appear at
court. His happiness was, however, still incomplete;
for the courtiers soon began to cabal against him, and
the monarch to treat him coldly; and, though he succeeded
in procuring a pension for himself, and pensions
and preferments for his children, he failed to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>obtain the blue riband and a marshal’s staff, which
were the great objects of his ambition. He died in
1693.</p>

<p>A longer term of imprisonment than was undergone
by Bussy Rabutin fell to the lot of the next prisoner.
Among the victims of the persecution which
was carried on against the Jansenists, was Louis Isaac
le Maistre, better known by the name of Saci, which
is an anagram formed by him from one of his christian
names. He was born in 1613, and was educated at
the college of Beauvais, along with his uncle, the celebrated
Anthony Arnauld. Though he was early
destined to the clerical profession, he did not take
orders till he was in his thirty-fifth year; a praiseworthy
humility having long induced him to doubt
his being competent to fulfill properly the duties of a
gospel minister. He was soon after appointed director
of the Port Royal nuns, on which occasion he took
up his abode in the convent, resigning to it all his
property, except a small annuity, and of that he distributed
the largest portion to the poor. His time
was spent in study, prayer, and pious exercises. But
a blameless life was not sufficient to shield him from
theological hatred. In 1661, he was compelled to fly
from the convent, and he remained in concealment till
1666, when he was discovered and conveyed to the
Bastile. In that prison he was immured for three
years and a half, and he solaced his lonely hours by
undertaking a translation of the Bible, a considerable
part of which he accomplished while he was held in
durance. He, however, did not live to complete it.
In the autumn of 1669 he was set at liberty. The
minister, to whom he was presented on leaving the
Bastile, seems to have been willing to grant him some
favour, as a compensation for his unmerited sufferings;
but all that Saci asked was, that the prisoners might
be more leniently treated. After the destruction of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>Port Royal, he found an asylum in the house of his
cousin, the Marquis of Pomponne, and there he ended
his days, in 1684. Saci was such an enemy to controversy
that, though often attacked, he is said never
to have replied except in one instance. Voltaire speaks
of him as “one of the good writers of Port Royal.”
In the poetical compositions of Saci, which were his
earliest literary attempts, there are passages that rise
above mediocrity. Among his principal works, besides
his version of the Bible, are translations of the
Psalms, St. Thomas à Kempis, two books of the
Eneid, the Fables of Phædrus, and three of the Comedies
of Terence.</p>

<p>From the pious and humble pastor we must turn to
a very different sort of personage, to one of the courtier
species, a man more remarkable for his sudden
rise, and for the vicissitudes which he experienced,
than for genius or virtue. Three of his eminent contemporaries
have left on record their opinion of Antoninus
de Caumont, Count, and afterwards, Duke of
Lauzun. The witty Bussy Rabutin pithily describes
him as being “one of the least men, in mind as well
as body, that God ever created.” The more phlegmatic
Duke of Berwick says of him, “he had a sort
of talent, which, however, consisted only in turning
every thing into ridicule, insinuating himself into
every body’s confidence, worming out their secrets,
and playing upon their foibles. He was noble in his
carriage, generous, and lived in a splendid style. He
loved high play, and played like a gentleman. His
figure was very diminutive, and it is incomprehensible
how he could ever have become a favourite with the
ladies.” The satirical St. Simon has drawn, in his
best manner, a full-length portrait of Lauzun, which
has scarcely a single redeeming feature. He does,
indeed, allow, that he was a good friend, “when he
chanced to be a friend, which was rarely,” and a good
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>relation; that he had noble manners, and was brave
to excess. This is the sole speck of light in the picture;
the rest is all shade. In the likeness drawn by
St. Simon, we see Lauzun, “full of ambition, caprices,
and whimsies, jealous of every one, striving always to
go beyond the mark, never satisfied, illiterate, unadorned
and unattractive in mind, morose, solitary, and
unsociable in disposition, mischievous and spiteful by
nature, and still more so from ambition and jealousy,
prompt to become an enemy, even to those who
were not his rivals, cruel in exposing defects, and in
finding and making subjects for ridicule, scattering his
ill-natured wit about him without sparing any one,
and, to crown the whole, a courtier equally insolent,
scoffing, and base even to servility, and replete with
arts, intrigues, and meannesses, to accomplish his designs.”
Such was the man whom the king long delighted
to honour.</p>

<p>Lauzun, who at his outset bore the title of Marquis
de Puyguilhem, was the youngest son of a noble Gascon
family, and was introduced at court by the Marshal
de Grammont, his relation. He soon became
the favourite of Louis, who heaped riches and places
upon him: some of the latter were expressly created
for him. When the Duke of Mazarin resigned the
mastership of the ordnance, the king promised it to
Lauzun, but bound him to keep the matter secret for
a short time. The folly and vanity of the favourite,
who could not refrain from boasting of his good fortune,
were the cause of his disappointment. Louvois
thus obtained a knowledge of the nomination, and remonstrated
against it so strongly, and with such sound
reasons, that it was revoked by the monarch. On
this occasion a scene took place such as has seldom
occurred between monarch and subject. After having
vainly tried to persuade the king to carry into effect
his original intention, Lauzun burst into a furious
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>passion, turned his back on him, broke his own sword
under his foot, and vowed that he would never again
serve a prince who had violated his word so shamefully.
Louis acted in this instance with true dignity.
Opening the window, he threw out his cane, and, as
he was quitting the room, he coolly said, “I should
be sorry to have struck a man of rank.” The next
morning, however, Lauzun was conveyed to the
Bastile. But Louis was soon induced to forgive the
offender, and even to offer him, as an indemnity for
his loss, the post of captain of the royal guards. It
strongly marks the insolence of Lauzun, that he at
first refused the proffered grace, and that entreaties
were required to induce him to accept it.</p>

<p>Lauzun had scarcely been twelve months out of the
Bastile, before he had an opportunity of becoming the
richest subject in Europe. A grand-daughter of
Henry IV., the celebrated Duchess of Montpensier,
usually known by the appellation of Mademoiselle,
who had reached her forty-second year, fell violently
in love with him. In her Memoirs she gives a curious
and amusing account of her wooing, for the courtship
was all on the side of the lady. So completely
had Lauzun recovered his influence, that the king
gave his consent to their union. The marriage contract
secured to him three duchies and twenty millions
of livres. A second time his fortune was marred by
his vanity. His friends urged him to hasten the nuptials,
but he delayed, that they might be celebrated
with royal splendour. Of this delay his enemies availed
themselves to work upon the pride of the monarch,
and they succeeded in breaking off the match. The
duchess was rendered inconsolable by this event;
Lauzun seems to have borne it with sufficient philosophy.
A secret marriage between them is believed
to have subsequently taken place.</p>

<p>Lauzun was supposed to be now more firmly fixed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>than ever in the king’s good graces. He was placed
at the head of the army which, in 1670, escorted the
king and the court to Flanders, and he displayed extraordinary
magnificence in this command. But, flattering
as appearances were, he was on the eve of his
fall. He had two active and powerful enemies; Louvois,
whom he constantly thwarted and provoked in
various ways, and Madame de Montespan, the king’s
mistress, whom he had more than once grossly insulted.
Political rivalry and hatred and female revenge
were finally triumphant. The minister and the
mistress so incessantly laboured to blacken Lauzun,
whose private marriage with Mademoiselle is said to
have aided their efforts, that, in November 1671, he
was sent to the Bastile, whence he was soon after
removed to the fortress of Pignerol. In that fortress
he was closely confined in a cell for nearly five years.
His situation was at length somewhat ameliorated, but
his imprisonment was continued for five years more.
It is probable that he would have spent the rest of his
days at Pignerol, had not the Duchess of Montpensier
purchased his freedom, by sacrificing the duchy of
Aumale, the earldom of Eu, and the principality of
Dombes, to form an appanage for the illegitimate son
of Louis by Madame de Montespan. It is an additional
stain on the character of Lauzun, that he proved
ungrateful to his deliverer.</p>

<p>Though Lauzun was released, he was not suffered
to approach the court. Tired of his exile from Versailles,
he passed over to England. On the revolution
of 1688 breaking out, James placed the queen and the
infant prince under his care, to be conveyed to France.
This trust opened the way to his re-admission into
the royal presence, and to his being created a duke;
but he never regained the confidence of the monarch.
He led a reinforcement of the French troops to James
in Ireland; and displayed, as the Duke of Berwick
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>states, none of the qualities of a general. He died in
1723, at the age of more than ninety. The closing
scene of his life was perhaps the only one for which
he deserves praise. His disease was cancer in the
mouth, the protracted and horrible torture of which
he bore with astonishing temper and fortitude.</p>

<p>The severe example which was made of de Bouteville,
in the reign of Louis XIII., though it gave a
temporary check to the practice of duelling, was far
from putting an end to it. Nor did better success
attend the ordinances issued in 1634 by Louis XIII.,
and in 1643, 1651, and 1670, by Louis XIV. The
feebleness of the royal authority, during a disturbed
regency, and the war of the Fronde, with the quarrels
arising out of it, doubtless tended to neutralize the laws.
But, even when Louis XIV. was in uncontested possession
of despotic power, we find that the murderous
custom of fighting in parties was still existing. In
1663, a famous duel took place between the two
La Frettes, Saint Aignan, and Argenlieu, on the one
side, and Chalais, Noirmoutier, d’Antin, and Flamarens,
on the other. The axe was at length laid to
the root of the evil, by the edict of August 1679,
which constituted the marshals of France, and the
governors of provinces, supreme judges in all cases
where individuals supposed their honour to have been
wounded. This edict prohibited, under the heaviest
penalties, all private combats and rencounters, both
within and without the kingdom. One clause seems
excellently calculated to produce its intended effect,
no less by the insinuation with which it opens, than by
the denunciations with which it concludes. “Those,”
it says, “who, doubting of their own courage, shall
have called in the aid of seconds, thirds, or a greater
number of persons, shall, besides the punishment of
death and confiscation, be degraded from their nobility,
and have their coat of arms publicly blackened and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>broken by the hangman; their successors shall be
obliged to adopt new arms; and the seconds, thirds,
and other accomplices, shall be punished in the same
manner.” This salutary edict appears to have nearly
accomplished the purpose for which it was framed.
The slavish fear of incurring the displeasure of the
sovereign, a feeling which was so prevalent among the
courtiers of Louis XIV., perhaps aided materially in
producing obedience to the law. It would have been
well if a worse effect had never resulted from that
kind of fear.</p>

<p>Among the fashionable gladiators of those days was
Philip d’Oger, Marquis of Cavoie, a man whom nature
had liberally endowed with the means of shining
in a nobler sphere. Cavoie, born in 1640, and descended
from an ancient Picard family, was the son of
a woman of talent, who gained the good graces of
Anne of Austria, and availed herself of her influence
to forward the fortune of her offspring. His personal
appearance was greatly in his favour; he was one of
the handsomest and best made men in France, and he
dressed with singular elegance. His courage, too, was
no less conspicuous than his corporeal qualities. In
1666, he served as a volunteer on board of the Dutch
fleet, under De Ruyter; and in the battle with the
Duke of Albemarle he distinguished himself by the
perilous exploit of proceeding in a boat to cut the cable
with which some English sloops were towing down a
fire-ship on the Dutch admiral. He succeeded in his
daring attempt, and escaped unhurt. By this gallant
action he acquired the friendship of the celebrated
Turenne. Long before this he had become known as
“the brave Cavoie,” in consequence of his gallant
bearing in the single combats which were still too
common in France.</p>

<p>It was for having acted as second in one of these
combats, that he was immured in the Bastile. His
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>imprisonment would, perhaps, have been protracted,
but for a curious circumstance, of which a pleasant
account is given by the Duke de St. Simon. Mlle. de
Coetlogon, one of the maids of honour to the consort
of Louis XIV., had fallen madly in love with Cavoie.
St. Simon describes her as being “ugly, prudent,
naïve, much-liked, and a very good creature.” It is
no slight proof of her amiability, that, in a frivolous
and satirical court, her sorrows were a subject of pity
instead of laughter. Cavoie was anything but delighted
with her idolatrous fondness, which she seemed
to glory in manifesting; and he strove to rid himself
of it by being obdurate, and even downright harsh.
In spite of his repulsive conduct, however, she became
every day fonder. When he went to the army, her tears
and cries were incessant, and during the whole of the
campaign she obstinately abstained from adorning her
person in the smallest degree. It was not till he came
back that she resumed her customary style of dress.
His being committed to the Bastile renewed her grief.
“She spoke to the king in behalf of Cavoie,” says St.
Simon, “and not being able to obtain his deliverance,
she scolded his majesty so violently as to abuse him.
The king laughed heartily, at which she was so much
incensed that she threatened him with her nails, and
he thought it prudent not to run the risk of them.
He every day dined and supped publicly with the
queen; at dinner it was usual for the Duchess of
Richelieu and the queen’s maids of honour to wait
upon them. On these occasions, Coetlogon never
would hand any thing to the king; either she avoided
him, or she flatly refused, and told him that he did
not deserve to be waited upon by her. Next, she was
ill of jaundice, and had violent hysterics, and fits of
despair. This went so far, that the king and queen
seriously desired the Duchess of Richelieu to accompany
her to the Bastile, to see Cavoie; and this was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>twice or thrice repeated. At last he was released,
and Coetlogon, in raptures, again took to dressing;
but it was not without much difficulty that she could
be reconciled to the king.”</p>

<p>It is delightful to know that the devoted love of
this warm-hearted female was rewarded; and it is
honourable to Louis XIV. that, instead of meanly resenting
her bursts of passion, he kindly and successfully
exerted himself to render her happy. In conjunction
with the queen, he more than once pleaded
for the enamoured lady, but he found Cavoie averse
from a marriage. At length, the death of his grand
maréchal-de-logis enabled the king to attack Cavoie
with advantage. This time, however, he spoke
in the tone of an absolute monarch; for he insisted
that Cavoie should wed Mlle. de Coetlogon; but, in
return, he promised to put him in the road to fortune,
and, as a dowry to the portionless maid, he gave him
the splendid office which had just become vacant.
Despotism thus exercised may be forgiven, if only for
its rarity. Cavoie yielded to the command of his sovereign,
and the desired union took place. The result
was more satisfactory than might have been expected.
Cavoie proved to be an indulgent husband, and she,
on her part, never ceased to look up to him as a sort
of superior being. Neither in her maiden nor in her
married state, was her virtue for a moment doubted.</p>

<p>Cavoie accompanied Louis XIV. in all his campaigns.
At the passage of the Rhine, his intrepidity called
forth praise from the king himself. A report having
soon after been spread, that Cavoie was among the
slain, Louis exclaimed, “O, how grieved M. de Turenne
will be!” The courtiers who surrounded him
were joining in a general chorus of eulogium upon the
supposed dead man, when a horseman was seen plunging
into the river on the opposite side, and swimming
over. It was Cavoie, whom the Prince de Condé had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>sent to the monarch, to announce to him the complete
success of his army.</p>

<p>For many years Cavoie was held in high esteem at
court, and enjoyed the confidence of his master. A
circumstance at length occurred to disturb his peace.
He had hoped to be included in the number of those
on whom the order of the Holy Ghost was conferred
in 1688, but he was disappointed. This disappointment
was the work of Louvois, who hated him, because
he was the old and firm friend of the Marquis
de Seignalai. Wounded by this slight, the grand
maréchal wrote a letter to Louis, informing him that
he intended to retire. But the vows of chagrined
courtiers are as brittle as those of lovers. The king
called him into his cabinet, and, with that graciousness
which he well knew how to assume, he said to him,
“We have lived too long together to part now; I
cannot let you quit me; I will see that you shall be
satisfied.” Cavoie abandoned his design of withdrawing
from court; but the promised blue riband was
never bestowed on him.</p>

<p>At a later period, about twenty years before his
decease, he resumed and carried into execution his
purpose of seceding from public life. He was a patron
of literary characters in general, and was in habits of
close intimacy with Racine, Boileau, and other eminent
authors. Cavoie died in 1716, at the age of 76,
leaving behind him the enviable reputation of having
been a man on whose sincerity and probity an implicit
reliance might with safety be placed.</p>

<p>From Cavoie we pass to an individual of a less estimable
character. Louis, Prince of Rohan, commonly
known by the title of the Chevalier Rohan, a degenerate
descendant from illustrious ancestors, was born
about 1635. Rohan was endowed by nature with a
handsome and graceful person, and many intellectual
qualities; but all these advantages were nullified by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>his follies and vices. The Marquis de la Fare describes
him as being made up of contradictions; sometimes
witty, at others the contrary; sometimes dignified
and brave, at others mean and dastardly. In the
annals of gallantry he seems to have been ambitious
of holding a conspicuous place. The most celebrated
of his amorous adventures was his carrying off, aided
by her brother, the Duke of Nevers, the beautiful
and frail Hortensia Mancini, who was united to the
contemptible Duke of Mazarin. That he gamed high,
and was careless of his gold, we learn from an anecdote
which is related of him. He had lost to the
king, at the gaming-table, a large sum, which was to
be paid in louis-d’or. Rohan counted out seven or
eight hundred, but, not having enough of them, he
added two hundred Spanish pistoles. Louis objected
to the latter, upon which the chevalier snatched them
up, and threw them out of the window, saying at the
same time, “Since your majesty will not have them,
they are good for nothing.” The king complained of
this to Cardinal Mazarin, who replied, “Sire, the
Chevalier de Rohan played like a king, and you
played like a Chevalier de Rohan.” This action of
Rohan has been praised as a “piquant lesson” to
Louis; it seems, however, to have been rather an
absurd mode of rebuking the monarch’s unprincely
conduct.</p>

<p>Rohan continued in favour at court for several years,
and in 1656 was appointed grand huntsman of France,
an office equivalent to our master of the buck-hounds;
he was afterwards made colonel of the guards. He
served in 1654, 1655, 1672, and 1677, and displayed
great valour. The commencement of his decline seems
to have been his being obliged to give up the office of
grand huntsman, in consequence of his amour with the
Duchess of Mazarin. His extravagance and profligacy
at length ruined his fortune and reputation. To
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>repair his shattered finances, he engaged in a plot, at
once treasonable and absurd, which completed the destruction
of his character, and brought him to the
scaffold. Into this scheme he was seduced by Latruaumont,
a Norman officer, a man as impoverished
and licentious as himself. Their accomplices were
Preault, a young officer, the Marchioness of Villiers-Bourdeville,
his mistress, and a schoolmaster, named
Van den Enden; all of whom are said to have disbelieved
that the soul is immortal. Their plan was, to
put into the hands of the Dutch the town of Quillebœuf,
in Normandy, and to excite the province to
revolt, for which service they were to be liberally
rewarded. The magnitude of their project forms a
striking contrast with the scantiness of their means.
The conspiracy was discovered by the government,
before the conspirators could begin their operations.
Rohan was committed to the Bastile, and M. de Brissac
was sent into Normandy to arrest Latruaumont.
The latter defended himself, was mortally wounded,
and died in a few hours. He had at least some honourable
feelings, for, in order to save his confederates,
he persisted to the last moment that he was the sole
criminal. The friends of Rohan nightly made the circuit
of the Bastile, and vociferated, through a speaking-trumpet,
“Latruaumont is dead, and has confessed
nothing.” They were, however, unheard by the chevalier.
He, meanwhile, was perseveringly pressed to
acknowledge his guilt, but he refused; and, as his
participation in the plot was known only to the deceased,
and no written proof existed against him, he
might have saved his life, had he not been circumvented
by one of those stratagems which were employed
against prisoners. De Bezons, one of the
counsellors of state who interrogated the captive, had
the baseness to assure him that the king meant to
pardon him if he would declare the truth, although
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>every thing was already known from the dying avowal
of Latruaumont. Trusting to the assurances of his
treacherous adviser, Rohan acknowledged his treason.
He soon learned the deceit which had been practised
on him; and he burst into such violent paroxysms of
rage, that his keepers were compelled to manacle him
that he might not lay violent hands on himself. Rohan
and his accomplices were soon after sentenced to
death; they were executed in front of the Bastile, on
the 27th of November, 1674. In spite of her erroneous
principles, the sufferer most worthy of pity was,
perhaps, Madame de Villiers, who displayed a noble
fortitude and forgiving spirit. The only evidence
against her was some of her letters to Preault, which
he had unwisely preserved. At first, she uttered a
few words of mild reproof for his fatal imprudence;
but she quickly changed her tone, and said with a
smile, “We must not think on what is passed, but
only how to die.”</p>

<p>The same year that consigned Rohan to the scaffold,
saw his place in the Bastile filled by a youthful
victim, who was doomed to waste a large part of his
life in captivity, for having offended a vindictive and
powerful religious body. His name is not recorded,
but it is evident that he was of a good family.</p>

<p>Louis XIV. was requested, by the Jesuits of Clermont
College, to be present at the representation of a
tragedy by their pupils. He complied, and was highly
gratified by the piece; the more so, perhaps, as it was
thickly strewn with passages in praise of him. A nobleman
in attendance having spoken to him in terms of
admiration, as to the manner in which the drama had
been played, the king replied, “Where’s the wonder?
is it not my college?” These words were not lost
upon the principal of the college, who was standing
by. As soon as the king was gone, the old inscription,
“<i>Collegium Claromontanum Societati Jesus</i>,”
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>which was on the front of the building, was taken
down, and workmen were all night employed to inscribe
the words, “<i>Collegium Ludovici Magni</i>,” in
gold letters, on a tablet of black marble.</p>

<p>In the morning the new inscription was seen conspicuously
displayed on the edifice. A youth of sixteen,
a pupil in the college, had the good sense and
the good taste to be disgusted with this worse than
indecorous adulation, and he gave vent to his feelings
in a Latin distich, which, during the night, he fastened
on the gate. The meaning of his lines may be thus
given:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“Christ’s name expunged, the king’s now fills the stone!</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">O impious race! by this is plainly shown</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">That Louis is the only god you own!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The pungent lines excited a violent clamour among
the Jesuits, and no pains were spared to trace the
writer. The juvenile offender was discovered, and
was shut up in the Bastile. After having been confined
there for a long while, he was transferred to the
citadel of St. Marguerite, on the coast of Provence.
There he continued for several years; after which he
was taken back to the Bastile. One-and-thirty years
he passed in this manner, and the remainder of his
life would doubtless have been consumed in the same
way, had he not, in 1705, become sole heir to the
estates of his family. The confessor of the Bastile,
who was a jesuit, now remonstrated with his brethren
on the impolicy of keeping in prison an individual
from whom, by procuring his release, they might reap
such a golden harvest. His advice was taken, and
the captive was set free at their intercession. There
can be no doubt that their tardy and interested mercy
received a liberal reward.</p>

<p>Among the fellow prisoners of the nameless satirist
of the jesuits was, for a short time, another writer
of verses, but verses of a very different kind. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>person in question was Charles Dassouci, who ludicrously
designated himself as “Emperor of the
Burlesque, the first of that name.” He was born at
Paris, about 1604, and was the son of a barrister.
His bringing up, and his early habits, were not calculated
to make him an estimable member of society.
His parents were separated, and the tyranny of a
female, who was at once the servant and the concubine
of his father, drove him from his home. When he
was only nine years old, he wandered to Calais, where
he passed himself off as an adept in astrology, the son
of Cesar, that dealer in magic whose fate has been
narrated in the preceding chapter. The boy having, by
the power of imagination, worked a cure upon a hypochondriacal
individual, the wise people of Calais
considered this fact to be a decisive proof of his intercourse
with the devil, and were about to throw him
into the sea, but he was saved by some of his friends,
who conveyed him privately out of the place. After
having led a roving life for some time, he became
player on the lute and singer to Christina, Duchess
of Savoy, the daughter of Henry IV. In 1640, he
was introduced to Louis XIII., who gave him the
same situation that he had filled in the household of
the duchess, and he was continued in it during the minority
of Louis XIV. Resolving to return to Turin,
he quitted Paris in 1655; but, before his departure
from the kingdom, he visited various parts in the south
of France. He was accompanied every where by two
handsome youths, called his musical pages; his connexion
with whom afforded to his enemies a reason,
or a pretext, for fixing a deep stain on his moral character.
Failing to obtain patronage at Turin, he went
to Rome, and there he was put into the prison of the
Inquisition, for having satirized some powerful prelates.
On being liberated he went back to Paris,
where he was not more fortunate than he had been in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>Italy, for he was committed to the Bastile, in 1675,
whence he was transferred to the Châtelet. To his
licentious conduct and writings he is said to have been
indebted for his imprisonment, which lasted six months.
He died about 1679. His principal works are, “Ovid
in good humour,” which is a travestie upon part of
the Metamorphoses; Claudian’s Rape of Proserpine
burlesqued; and many poems in a similar style. Dassouci,
who was sometimes called “the ape of Scarron,”
received a lash from the satirical scourge of Boileau,
and he complained heavily of the injury. In his Art
of Poetry, Boileau thus alludes to the popularity which
Dassouci had once enjoyed:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“The scurviest joker charmed some kindred mind,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">And even Dassouci could readers find.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>It must be owned, however, that in the works of
“the emperor of the Burlesque,” there are some passages
which prove that, though his taste and his morals
were defective, he was not destitute of talent.</p>

<p>The reader has seen that, with very few exceptions,
the prisoners who have been mentioned in this chapter
belonged to the courtier-class; that they were
men who seemed to feel a difficulty of breathing whenever
they did not inhale the vapours of a frivolous and
voluptuous court. We ought always to abhor injustice,
and therefore we must hate the power which was unjust
to them; but they have no title to that liberal share
of our pity which is the right of humbler victims, for it
was an implied condition of their artificial existence
that they should bend to a despot’s will; they purchased
the smiles of their master, the pleasures, such as they
were, of the Louvre and Versailles, and a portion of
the public spoils, by the renunciation of their free
agency, and by encountering the risk of being capriciously
transferred from a palace to a dungeon. If,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>relying on his good luck, a man will venture to play
with a gambler whom he knows to assert the privilege
of now and then cogging the dice, his folly perhaps
deserves more compassion than his misfortune.</p>

<p>Let us now see in what manner other classes were
affected by the working of an arbitrary government;
whether its tyranny was impartially distributed among
them. A few examples, taken between the years
1660 and 1670, will enable us to form a tolerably correct
judgment upon this subject. Before we proceed
to give these examples, it may, however, be well to
apprise the reader, that committals to the Bastile were
not things of rare occurrence, but the contrary. In
1663, fifty-four persons were sent to that dreary pile;
in some years the number was fewer; in others it rose
to nearly a hundred and fifty. The Bastile was so
crowded in 1665, that a part of the prisoners were
obliged to be removed to other places of confinement.
It must, indeed, have been full to overflowing, before
this removal could have been thought necessary.
Such being the case with the Bastile, it is probable
that Vincennes, and many other state prisons, were in
a similar situation.</p>

<p>Though, as far as can be judged from imperfect registers,
it appears that a large majority of the persons
incarcerated in the Bastile were the victims of caprice,
malice, or religious and political persecution, there can
be no doubt that many were really criminal. Some
instances of the latter class occur in the years between
1660 and 1670. The crime of coining, which we
have seen so common at an earlier period, was still
prevalent, and was still committed by men who held a
respectable rank in society. In 1666 twelve coiners
were hanged within a fortnight, and they accused several
others, among whom was a M. Delcampe, who
is described as “the celebrated master of an academy
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>in the suburb of St. Germain.” He was escorted in
a carriage to the Bastile, by three companies of the
guards, and little more than a week elapsed before he
was beheaded. The crowd to witness his execution
was so great, that many persons were killed or wounded
by being pressed or trampled on.</p>

<p>The Bastile was often employed as an engine of extortion.
To contribute to the wants of the state, or,
rather, to the prodigalities of the court, immense sums
were levied upon individuals holding offices, and upon
contractors, and all who had had any concern with the
finances. It must, of course, have been taken for granted
that they had robbed the public; and it could hardly
have been expected that they would not indemnify
themselves, by future peculation, for their present loss.
Messat, a registrar of the council, was Bastiled for remonstrating
against a demand of six hundred thousand
livres from himself and three of his colleagues. Catalan,
a contractor, shared the same fate, and was threatened
with death to boot; but after a confinement of several
months, he ransomed himself for six millions of livres.
From another individual nine hundred thousand livres,
and from three of the treasurers of the exchequer several
millions, were squeezed by this powerful instrument.
M. Deschiens, one of M. Colbert’s head clerks,
was also frightened into the payment of a good round
sum, by a visit to the Bastile.</p>

<p>Other equally honourable means of raising money
were resorted to; all of which helped to fill the prisons
as well as the coffers of the monarch. Among them
were “free gifts,” once known in England under the
name of “benevolences.” From the city of Sens, for
instance, twelve thousand livres were demanded as a
free gift, besides nearly thrice as much for the pay of
the gendarmerie. The citizens replied that they had
no money, but would give a thousand hogsheads of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>excellent wine. Whether the wine was accepted, or
whether any of the citizens were imprisoned for the
misdemeanour of being pennyless, I cannot say.</p>

<p>Immense sums were raised by the sale of offices.
For the title of counsellor of the court, 75,000 crowns
were paid, and 90,000 for a place at the board of
exchequer. Numerous purchasers were found at far
higher prices. There is perhaps much truth in Patin’s
sarcastic remark on this occasion: “They must have
robbed at a great rate,” says he, “or they would not
have so much money to squander.” Monopolies likewise
lent their aid to replenish the royal store. Niceron,
a grocer, who appears to have been an agent,
or spokesman, of the Parisian companies of tradesmen,
was lodged in the Bastile for having ventured to remonstrate
against a projected monopoly of whale oil.
Another article of supply was the stopping of the annuities
payable at the town hall; a measure for which
we have seen a precedent in the reign of Henry IV.
Poignant, a respectable citizen of Paris, was sent to
the Bastile for having spoken on this subject; and a
female, named Madame de la Trousse, was, for the
same cause, prohibited from going to the town hall,
or to any other meeting, under pain of corporal punishment!
On another occasion, the President le
Lievre was banished from Paris, for having made some
observations which were unfavourable to the taxes.</p>

<p>The money thus obtained was lavishly spent on the
pomps and amusements of the court. A part was dissipated
at the gaming-table; Louis being then a constant
and an unlucky gamester. Theatrical entertainments
absorbed another portion. The getting up of
a single grand ballet is said to have cost no less than
forty thousand pounds. Guy Patin had reason to
exclaim, “they talk much at the Louvre of balls, ballets,
and rejoicings, but nothing is said of relieving the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>people, who are dying of such unexampled want, after
so great and solemn a general peace has been concluded.
O pudor! ô mores! ô tempora!”</p>

<p>But though, in his private letters, Patin could venture
to censure profusion and exaction, he would soon
have been fitted with what he somewhere calls “a stone
doublet,” had he dared to breathe a word against them
in public. It was dangerous even for a barrister to
perform faithfully his duty to a client. M. Burai, an
eminent advocate, was committed to the Bastile, in
1655, for having undertaken the defence of Guenegaut,
one of the treasurers, who was prosecuted by the
government.</p>

<p>The press was completely muzzled. We find De
Prez, a printer, sent to the Bastile, for having printed
a letter by the Bishop of Aleth, which displeased the
jesuits; a second unlucky typographer, for offending
the Archbishop of Paris; and a third, named Coquier,
for privately printing an answer to a work of the Chevalier
Talon, who had attacked Coquier’s former master,
the superintendant Fouquet. It was a perilous task
for a man to defend himself against the minions of favour.
The Journal des Sçavans having abused Charles
Patin, he was about to reply, when it was intimated to
him that if he did not desist, the Bastile would receive
him: the journal happened to be protected by M. Colbert,
the minister. Such protection gave a decisive advantage
over a less fortunate rival. The conduct of Renaudot,
the printer of the Gazette, affords a strong proof
of the tyrannical use which was made of it. There
appears to have been at this period a sort of partnership,
the members of which gained a livelihood by compiling
and vending a manuscript gazette. As the
sale of this paper diminished that of his own, Renaudot
made a bold attempt to get rid of his competitors.
He is said to have been extremely desirous that they
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>should be hanged; but his benevolent wish was not
gratified. He had, however, the satisfaction of procuring
seven of them to be sent to the Bastile, one of
whom was publicly whipped through the streets. Yet
these measures, harsh as they were, did not succeed in
putting down the manuscript gazetteers; for, five years
afterwards, six more of them were committed to prison.
From its long continuance, and the risks which the
traders were willing to encounter, we may infer that
the trade was productive.</p>

<p>To have a different opinion from the sovereign, as
to the merit of any one whom he placed in office, was a
heavy offence. M. de Montespan expiated, by imprisonment
in Fort-l’Evêque, his having doubted the wisdom
of choosing M. Montausier as governor to the dauphin.
Some were thrown into the Bastile for impossible
crimes; such was the case of St. Severin, a priest,
who was accused of sorcery. Of others, the fault
and the meaning of their punishment are now undiscoverable.
With respect to L’Epine, a priest, for example,
we are only told that he was discharged from
the Bastile, on condition of quitting Paris within twenty-four
hours, and going to Egypt. The reason of this
singular species of banishment must remain an enigma.</p>

<p>One of the instances in which despair prompted an
inmate of the Bastile to commit suicide, occurred in
1669, and is recorded by Patin. “A state prisoner,”
says he, “has poisoned himself in the Bastile, terrified
by the punishment which could not fail to be
inflicted on him, for having spoken very badly <i>de
Domino Priore</i>.”</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</h2>

<p>The Poisoners—The Marchioness of Brinvilliers—Penautier—La
Voisin and her accomplices and dupes—The “Chambre
Ardente”—The Countess of Soissons—The Duchess of Bouillon—The
Duke of Luxembourg—Stephen de Bray—The Abbé Primi—Andrew
Morell—Madame Guyon—Courtils de Sandraz—Constantine
de Renneville—The Man with the Iron Mask—Jansenists—Tiron,
Veillant, and Lebrun Desmarets—The Count de
Bucquoy—The Duke de Richelieu—Miscellaneous Prisoners.</p>

</div>

<p>In the year 1676, the Bastile received a criminal,
whose guilt was of the blackest dye, and who was soon
followed by a crowd of imitators, more profoundly
wicked, if possible, than she herself was. Poisoning
was their crime, and the practice of it became so common,
that Madame de Sévigné expresses a fear that, in
foreign countries, the words Frenchman and poisoner
would be considered as synonymous.</p>

<p>Foremost in the dark catalogue stands the Marchioness
of Brinvilliers, the daughter of Dreux d’Aubrai,
the Civil Lieutenant. She was beautiful, reserved
in her manners, and apparently devout; but her heart
was corrupted to the core. From her own confession,
it appears, that when she was only seven years old,
she had already lost her maiden innocence, and had
also set fire to a house. Her later years were worthy
of this beginning. Between 1666 and 1670, she poisoned
her father, two brothers, a sister, and many of
her acquaintance. She is said to have administered
poison to her husband, though without effect; and also,
with fatal success, to the poor, and the sick in the
hospitals, to whom she gave biscuits, in which deadly
drugs were mixed. The latter facts are denied by Voltaire;
they are, however, positively affirmed by Madame
de Sévigné.</p>

<p>The diabolical art which she so widely practised
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>was learned from St. Croix, a young officer, who was
her paramour. He was a friend of her husband, who,
in opposition to her real or feigned remonstrances,
made him an inmate of his house. A criminal intimacy
soon took place between the wife and the friend.
The husband, a man of dissipated habits, seems to
have been regardless of their intrigue; but her father
was so disgusted by its shameless publicity that he obtained
a lettre-de-cachet, and St. Croix was lodged in
the Bastile, where he continued for twelve months.
There St. Croix was placed in the same apartment
with Exili, an Italian, who was confined on suspicion
of being, as he really was, a compounder and vender
of poisons. Exili taught St. Croix all his detestable
secrets, and the latter communicated them to the marchioness,
who was a willing scholar.</p>

<p>St. Croix died suddenly in 1672, and, as he had no
relatives, the government took possession of his effects.
Among them was a small box, which was importunately
claimed by the marchioness. It was opened, and
found to contain a note, desiring that it might be delivered,
without the contents being disturbed, to Madame
de Brinvilliers. The box was filled with poisons
of all kinds, some of the marchioness’s letters to him,
and a note of hand to him, for 30,000 livres, bearing
her signature.</p>

<p>Disappointed in all attempts to gain possession of
the box, and finding that suspicion began to fall heavily
upon her, Brinvilliers took flight. After having
visited England, she fixed her residence at Liege.
Fresh presumptions of her guilt having arisen, it was
resolved to arrest her. Desgrais, the exempt of police,
was accordingly despatched to Liege. He disguised
himself as an Abbé, pretended to be enamoured of her,
insinuated himself into her good graces, and ultimately
succeeded in seizing the lady and her papers, and conveying
them to Paris.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span></p>

<p>Brinvilliers now disavowed all knowledge of the
box; but it was too late. For a little while her spirits
deserted her, and she made an ineffectual attempt at
suicide. She, however, soon rallied them, and preserved
her courage to the last. Among her papers
was found a written confession of the numerous crimes
which she had committed. To extort an oral confession,
it was resolved to put her to the ordinary question,
which consisted in forcing down the throat of the
culprit an immense quantity of water. When she
saw three buckets in the torture room, she coolly
observed, “This must be for the purpose of drowning
me, for they can never expect to make a woman of my
size drink it all.” She was saved from the trial, by
making a full avowal of her misdeeds. Her sentence
she heard with an unaltered countenance. In the last
twenty-four hours of her existence she is said to have
manifested sincere penitence. She was beheaded, and
her remains were burned, on the 16th of July, 1676.
It will perhaps scarcely be believed that, on the morrow,
the besotted populace collected her ashes; assigning
as their reason for so doing, that she was a saint!</p>

<p>With Brinvilliers was implicated Penautier, who
held the lucrative offices of treasurer-general of the
clergy, and of the states of Languedoc. He was
known to be her intimate friend, and was believed,
apparently with reason, to be one of her favoured
lovers. It is asserted, that in the box which was left
by St. Croix, there was a packet of poison, addressed
to Penautier. That the receiver-general had the reputation
of making use of such packets is certain,
and was a subject of public jest. Cardinal de Bonzi,
archbishop of Narbonne, who was his strenuous protector,
used to say laughingly, “None of those who have
pensions on my benefices are long-lived, for my star is
fatal to them all.” The caustic Abbé Fouquet one day
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>saw the prelate and Penautier in a carriage together,
and he told everybody that he had just met Cardinal
de Bonzi and his star. Penautier was imprisoned,
and appears to have been in imminent danger;
from which he is said to have been extricated only by
the most powerful influence, and the sacrifice of half
his riches.</p>

<p>Instead of operating as a warning, the execution of
the marchioness would rather seem to have stimulated
others to the commission of the horrible species of
crime for which she suffered. After her death, poisoning
is said to have become prevalent to an extraordinary
degree. Loud complaints arose from numbers of
families, members of which were supposed to have
been taken off secretly by their enemies, or by those
who were eager to inherit their riches. It was with
reference to the latter motive that the name of “powder
of succession” was given to the drug administered.
We may believe that the complaints were not unfrequently
groundless—for it has always been the practice
of weak minds to ascribe sudden death to poison—but
still, it is certain that there were very many cases
in which the suspicion was borne out by facts.</p>

<p>So general did the clamour become, that, in January,
1660, the king issued an ordinance, naming commissioners,
who were to hold their sittings at the Arsenal,
for the purpose of trying poisoners and magicians!
This commission is known by the name of <i>la Chambre
Ardente</i>. It has been supposed, that it derived this
appellation from its being established to take cognizance
of crimes which were punishable by fire. This
appears to be a mistake; the name having, in old
times, been given to the hall in which criminals of
high birth were tried, and which was so called because
it was hung with black, and lighted with torches. The
same title was, however, borne by a sort of committee,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>which Francis II. instituted in each parliament, for the
trial of protestants, and which mercilessly condemned
them to the flames.</p>

<p>The principal distributor of the poisons, a widow,
by the name of Monvoisin, but who was known under
the appellation of La Voisin, was already in the Bastile,
with about forty persons charged as her accomplices.
The most prominent of these subordinate
culprits were, a female, named La Vigoureux, and her
brother, and Cœuvrit, a priest, who was called Lesage.
La Voisin was a midwife; but her profession
not proving lucrative, she deserted it for the more
profitable speculation of turning to account the credulity,
the folly, and at last the vices, of mankind.
The most innocent part of her employment consisted
in telling fortunes on the cards, discovering stolen
goods, casting nativities, and selling charms and spells,
to render women beautiful and beloved, and men invulnerable
and fortunate! Her pretensions to supernatural
skill did not stop here; for she boldly undertook
to show spirits, and even the devil himself, to her
dupes. Such is the cullibility of the crowd, whether
of high or low degree, that the number of her visitors,
the majority of whom were people of rank, soon enabled
her to remove from a mean lodging into a splendid
mansion, and keep an equipage and a train of attendants.
That her house was made a convenience for the
purposes of seduction, and for carrying on illicit connexions,
there can be no doubt; many of those who
frequented it, of both sexes, being notorious profligates.
The round of La Voisin’s occupations was completed
by the sale of poisons to those who were desirous of
destroying the proof of incontinence, taking vengeance
on a rival or an enemy, or getting rid of superannuated
husbands and long-lived relatives.</p>

<p>The newly-established tribunal found the whole of
the prisoners guilty. All but La Voisin were condemned
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>to punishments short of death; to imprisonment,
exile, or the galleys. She alone was sentenced
to be burned alive on the Place de Grêve, and her
ashes scattered to the winds. The narrative of her
last hours proves that, to a considerable portion of brutal
courage, or rather insensibility, she added the most
disgusting sensuality, vulgarity, and impiety. When
she was informed of her doom, she invited her guards
to have a midnight revel with her, at which she drank
largely of wine, and sang twenty bacchanalian songs.
The next evening, after having undergone the question,
she repeated the revel; and when she was told
that she had better think on God, and sing hymns,
she sang two hymns in a burlesque style. On the
morning of her execution, she was enraged at being
refused any other food than soup. Before she was
placed in the sledge, she was advised to confess; but
she obstinately refused, and thrust away from her
the confessor and the cross. At Nôtre Dame, it was
impossible to make her repeat the amende honorable,
and when she reached the Grêve she struggled furiously
against the officers, and it was not without using force
that they could take her from the vehicle, bind her,
and place her on the pile. Consistent to the last, she
several times kicked off the straw, poured forth a volley
of oaths, and did not cease her violence till the
flames deprived her of the power of motion and speech.</p>

<p>Either with the hope of obtaining impunity, by implicating
the great and powerful in her crimes, or,
which her character renders more probable, that she
might enjoy the malignant delight of involving them
in her ruin, La Voisin disclosed the names of many
of the noblest personages of the court, who had consulted
her; and she stated circumstances which gave
rise to terrible suspicions against them. Among those
whom she thus dragged into public view, were the
Countess of Soissons and the Duchess of Bouillon,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>nieces of Cardinal Mazarin, the Princess de Tingri,
Madame de Polignac, and the Duke of Luxembourg.
Against some of the suspected or accused individuals,
the Chamber issued warrants; others it summoned to
appear, and answer interrogatories.</p>

<p>The Countess of Soissons, mother of the celebrated
Prince Eugene, was a woman whose reputation was
already sullied by the stains of political and amorous
intrigue. Among the crimes which were attributed to
her, was the death of her husband, who died suddenly
in 1673. In her early years, before he became enamoured
of her sister Mary, Louis had paid her some
attentions. It was probably the remembrance of his
transient flame that induced him to send to the countess
a message, that if she were innocent he advised
her to enter the Bastile, in which case he would befriend
her, but that, if she were guilty, she might retire
wherever she pleased. She replied that she was
blameless, but that she could not endure imprisonment.
The countess immediately set off for Brussels, and
she never returned to France. It would, however, be
doing her injustice to conceal, that she offered to come
back and justify herself, on condition that she should
not be confined while the trial was pending. The condition
was not granted, and she died in exile, in 1708.</p>

<p>The Duchess of Bouillon, her sister, passed through
the ordeal more triumphantly. There is something
amusing in the flippant contempt with which she
treated her judges. The carriages of nine dukes
went in procession with her to the Chambre Ardente,
into which she was handed by her husband and the
Duke of Vendôme. Before she would take notice
of any question that was put to her, she ordered the
clerk to minute down, “that she came there solely
out of respect to the king’s orders, and not at all to
the Chamber, which she would not recognize, because
she would not derogate from the privilege of the ducal
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>class.” She then answered, but with no small disdain,
the various questions, some of which were, in truth,
ridiculous enough. Her reason for going to La Voisin’s
house was, she said, that she wished to see the
Sibyls, which that female had promised to show her.
La Reynie, one of the judges, being absurd enough
to ask if she had seen the devil, she replied that she
saw him at that moment, that he was very ugly and
filthy, and was disguised in the garb of a counsellor of
state. As she quitted the court, she said aloud, that
she had never before heard so many foolish speeches so
gravely uttered. There being nothing more to urge
against her than that she had been credulous and
sillily curious, no further proceedings were taken by
the court, but, angry at her having made laughing-stocks
of his magistrates, Louis sent her in exile to
Nerac, in the distant province of Guienne.</p>

<p>If in France military talents of the highest order,
and important services rendered to the state, had possessed
any protecting influence, Francis Henry de
Montmorenci, Duke of Luxembourg, would not
have been made a prisoner, and nearly a victim, by
an implacable and unprincipled minister. Luxembourg
was the posthumous son of that Bouteville
whom, in a preceding chapter, we have seen consigned
to the scaffold for the crime of duelling. He
was warmly patronised by the Princess of Condé, who
placed him as aide-de-camp to her son. The young
Condé soon became attached to him. At the battle
of Lens, Bouteville distinguished himself so greatly,
that, though he was not more than twenty, Anne of
Austria made him a major-general.</p>

<p>During the war of the Fronde, Bouteville followed
the fortunes of Condé; he joined the Spaniards with
him, acquired in numerous encounters a well-merited
reputation, and, finally, returned to his allegiance along
with his friend. There is an anecdote recorded of him,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>on the latter occasion, which is much to his honour.
After Bouteville had ceased to bear arms against
France, the Spanish monarch sent him 60,000 crowns,
as a reward for his services. He refused to take the
money: “I never,” said he, “considered myself in the
service of Spain, and will receive favours only from
my own sovereign.” Soon after this, he married the
heiress of the house of Luxembourg, by which union
he gained a dukedom, and a splendid fortune. If we
may believe St. Simon, rank and riches were all that
the husband derived from this match, the lady being
“frightfully ugly, both in figure and face,” and not at
all atoning for her personal defects by intellectual
qualities. As far as regarded beauty, the pair had no
right to reproach each other; for Luxembourg himself
had repulsive features, a prominence on his chest,
and another behind.</p>

<p>Between 1667 and 1679, Luxembourg, sometimes
commander-in-chief, sometimes as second to the great
Condé and the Duke of Orleans, displayed, in Franche
Comté, Holland, and Flanders, a degree of skill which
gave him a conspicuous place in the first class of generals:
in fact, Turenne having fallen, and Condé retired,
Luxembourg had no equal in France. The
marshal’s staff was conferred on him in 1675.</p>

<p>But neither the ancient descent, nor the high rank,
nor the still higher renown, of Luxembourg, were sufficient
to shield him from the malice of his potent
enemy. That enemy was Louvois,—Louvois, the
perpetual inciter of Louis to war, the director of the
horrible crimes committed by the French troops in
Holland, and the incendiary of the Palatinate. He
was, at one time, the friend of Luxembourg, but they
quarrelled; and he thenceforth hated him, with even a
more deadly hatred than he had cherished against
Turenne. The affair of the poisoners seemed to afford
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>him an opportunity, which he eagerly seized, of
disgracing, and perhaps destroying, the duke.</p>

<p>It was by a credulous belief in the power of pretended
sorcerers, that Luxembourg was brought into
peril. Bonnard, clerk to one of his lawyers, had lost
some papers, which were indispensable to the success
of a lawsuit instituted by the duke. To recover them,
he applied to Lesage, one of the confederates of La
Voisin. Lesage required 2,000 crowns, and the performance
of certain mummeries by Bonnard; and his
demand was granted. The papers were then found
to be in the hands of a girl named Dupin, who refused
to give them up. A power of attorney was now obtained
from the duke, by Bonnard, authorizing steps to
be taken against Dupin, to compel her to resign the
papers. This he gave to Lesage, who, between the
body of the document and the signature, inserted two
lines, containing a transfer of the duke’s soul to his
Satanic majesty. Luckily, the clumsy forger had
written these lines in a hand writing quite different
from that of the instrument itself. This compact with
the devil formed the main proof against Luxembourg.
He appears, indeed, to have afforded a further pretext
for suspicion, by his weakness in applying to Lesage
for the horoscopes of various individuals.</p>

<p>It was on this slender foundation that the plot
against him was built. When his name began to be
called in question, he is said to have been insidiously
counselled by Louvois, to save himself by flight. The
brave Cavoie, who was his friend, proved himself to be
so, by advising him to surrender himself voluntarily
to the Bastile; and this advice was wisely followed by
the duke. On his arrival there, he was placed in a
comfortable chamber, and, on the second day, he underwent
a preliminary interrogation. But it was not
the intention of the minister who had driven him into
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>a prison, that he should enjoy any comfort there; and
accordingly, on the third day, he was removed to one
of the filthiest of dungeons, not more than six feet and
a half in diameter, and no further notice was taken of
him for five weeks. He claimed his privilege, as a
peer, of being tried by the Parliament, but no attention
was paid to his claim, and he was obliged to be
contented with protesting against this denial of justice.
It was afterwards made a subject of reproach to him,
by some of the peers, that he had not stood up with
sufficient boldness for the rights of the peerage.</p>

<p>Luxembourg remained for fourteen months in the
noisome den into which Louvois had thrown him.
The fetid atmosphere which he breathed, the want of
exercise, and the disturbed state of his mind, brought
on a fit of illness, and so much injured his constitution
that he never thoroughly recovered. It must have
been no small aggravation of his sufferings, that he
was occasionally drawn forth, to be confronted with
the profligate Lesage, and others of the same class,
and to hear them impudently charge him with the
foulest crimes. Lesage maintained, that the duke had
entered into the compact with Satan for the purpose of
procuring the death of Dupin; his accomplices added,
that by his order they had murdered her, cut the body
into quarters, and thrown it into the river. Besides
this improbable story, they told another, equally improbable,
that he had given poisoned wine to a brother
of Dupin, and to a mistress whom that brother kept,
and had endeavoured to destroy several persons by
means of sorcery. Their depositions may, indeed,
contest the palm of absurdity and falsehood with those
of Titus Oates and his perjured associates.</p>

<p>This, however, was not all. It would seem, from
their evidence, that the duke had driven a hard bargain
with the prince of darkness, for they asserted that
the compact was designed not only to bring about the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span>murder of Dupin, but also to obtain the government
of a province or a fortress, and the marriage of his
son with the daughter of Louvois. In a letter to a
friend, Luxembourg has left on record his dignified
answer to the last of these stupid calumnies. After
treating with ridicule the idea that he would sell his
soul for a government, he says, with respect to the
remainder, “I replied that when the villain (Lesage)
told such an untruth, he did not know that I was of a
family which did not purchase alliances by crimes; that
it would have been a great honour to me had my son
married Mdlle. de Louvois, but that I would not
have adopted for the purpose any means which would
have subjected me to self-reproach; and that when
Matthew de Montmorenci espoused a queen of France,
the mother of a minor king, he did not give himself
to the devil for this marriage, since the thing was done
by a resolution of the States General, who declared
that, to gain for the monarch the services of the lords
of Montmorenci, it was necessary to form this union.
It was even out of delicacy that I used the word
<i>services</i>, for I believe that, in the declaration, the word
<i>protection</i> is used.”</p>

<p>Such testimony as was produced against Luxembourg
was not deemed by his judges sufficient to
warrant his conviction, even though a minister of state
was eager for his ruin. He was, in consequence, set
free on the 14th of May, 1680. Notwithstanding the
duke’s acquittal, Louis banished him from the court,
and he remained in exile till the summer of 1681,
when he was recalled, and resumed his duties as
captain of the body-guards. It is somewhat remarkable,
that Louis never made the slightest allusion to
what had passed.</p>

<p>For ten years, Luxembourg remained without a
command. In 1690, however, Louis himself placed
him at the head of the army in Flanders. Luxembourg
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>had scarcely taken the field, before he gained
the splendid victory of Fleurus. The fall of Namur,
or of Charleroi, would probably have been the result
of this success, had he not been thwarted by the
malignant Louvois, who forbade his besieging either
of those fortresses, and deprived him of the best part
of his army, to reinforce Boufflers. In the succeeding
campaigns, Luxembourg pursued his triumphant progress,
and won the battles of Leuze, Steenkirk, and
Neerwinden. Such a number of standards were taken,
and sent to be hung up in the cathedral of Nôtre Dame,
at Paris, that the Prince of Conti wittily denominated
him “the tapestry-hanger of Nôtre Dame.” Irritated
by his defeats, William III. is said to have exclaimed,
“Am I never to beat that hunchback?” “Hunchback!”
said the duke, when he was told of this speech,
“what does he know about it? He has never seen my
back!” The career of Luxembourg was abruptly
closed, by an illness of only five days, on the 4th of
January, 1695.</p>

<p>Several persons of distinction were censured by the
“Chambre Ardente,” and were, in consequence, forbidden
the court, or sent into exile. Among the latter
was Madame de Polignac. The monarch was so decidedly
hostile to her, that, five years afterwards, he
spoke of her with unmeasured severity, and interfered
to prevent the marriage of her son with Mdlle. de
Rambures. It was said, that she had once formed the
scheme of giving him a philtre, to inspire him with a
passion for her.</p>

<p>One of the humbler class of culprits who was imprisoned
in the Bastile, and who finally suffered the
extreme sentence of the law, was Stephen de Bray,
described as the accomplice of James Dechaux and
Jane Chanfrain, who were perhaps rivals of La Voisin
and her confederates in their detestable trade. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>crimes alleged against him were blasphemy, sacrilege,
and poisoning, and he was burned at the Grêve.</p>

<p>From poisoners, and mercenary pretenders to
sorcery, we turn to an adventurer of a less noxious
species. The Abbé Primi was a native of Bologna,
in which city his father was a cap-maker. He had
acuteness, wit, and a pleasing person, and with these
mental and corporeal qualities he hoped to make his
way at Paris. On his journey thither he became acquainted
with a man of talent, named Duval. One of
the travellers in the coach smelt so offensively that
the others were anxious to get rid of him; and accordingly
Duval and Primi secretly concerted a scheme
for that purpose. Primi was to pretend to the gift of
foretelling, from only seeing a person’s handwriting,
what had happened, and would happen, to him. Primi,
being questioned by Duval on this head, gave him elaborate
answers, which the latter admitted to be correct.
Specimens of the penmanship of the rest of the
travellers, who were in the plot, were then handed to
Primi, and, of course, they were satisfied with the result.
The obnoxious passenger at length begged the
oracular Italian to do for him the same favour that he
had done for the rest. When Primi looked at the
paper, he pretended to be shocked, and hastily gave it
back, declining to say more than that “he hoped he
was mistaken.” The applicant, however, solicited so
earnestly to know his fate, that Primi told him he was
destined to be assassinated at Paris, if he went thither.
This startling intelligence produced the designed
effect; the strong-scented querist took the first opportunity
to discontinue his journey, and return to his
home.</p>

<p>When they reached Paris, Duval presented Primi
to the Abbé de la Baume, who was afterwards archbishop
of Embrun; and the abbé introduced him to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span>the Duke of Vendôme, and his brother, the Grand
Prior. The trick played off in the stage was talked
over, and it was agreed that a repetition of it in the
French capital would be productive of infinite amusement.
Primi was therefore kept carefully secluded,
for nearly two months, till he had learned by heart the
genealogy and the secret history of most of the persons
about the court. When he had obtained a thorough
knowledge of their connexions, amours, rivalships,
enmities, and presumed motives, his skill in his novel
kind of divination was spread about by his employers,
and all the rank and fashion of France soon flocked to
consult him. Among the distinguished females who
patronized him, were the Countess of Soissons and the
Duchess of Orleans; the latter of whom Primi firmly
convinced of his powers, by mentioning many circumstances
relative to her correspondence with the Count
de Guiche. The duchess prevailed on Louis XIV. to
let her show his handwriting to the Italian. To her
utter astonishment, Primi no sooner saw it than he
declared it to be written by a miserly curmudgeon, who
was not possessed of a single good quality. When
she returned the paper to Louis, and told him what
Primi had said, the king was no less astonished than
she was. The paper was indeed written by a man of
whom his enemies spoke in the same manner as Primi.
It was the handwriting of Rose, the king’s
cabinet secretary, who wrote exactly like Louis, and
whom he often employed to answer letters, that he
might himself avoid trouble. To get at the bottom of
this mystery, the king ordered Primi to be brought
into his cabinet. “Primi,” said the monarch, “I
have only two words to say—disclose to me your
secret, for which I will pay you with a pension of two
thousand livres—or else make up your mind to be
hanged.” There was no resisting the bribe and the
threat, and Primi consequently related his own history,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>and all that had come to his knowledge since he had
lived in the capital. On going into the queen’s apartment,
Louis mentioned, before the courtiers, that he
had admitted Primi to an interview, and he added,
“I must acknowledge that he told me things which no
being of his kind has ever before revealed to any one.”
This strong testimony to the merit of Primi contributed
not a little to enhance his reputation.</p>

<p>The pension granted to him by Louis placed Primi
above the necessity of resorting to deception for a
livelihood; nor, indeed, was the part which he had
been playing one which could be carried on for any
length of time. He married the daughter of Frederic
Leonard, an eminent Parisian printer, and sought to
gain reputation by chronicling the actions of the French
monarch. In an Italian narrative, which he wrote, of
the Dutch campaign of Louis, he divulged the secret
of the private treaty between that monarch and our
Charles II. For this he was sent to the Bastile; but
he was soon released, and received an ample present.
The publication is believed to have, in fact, been authorized
by the king, to punish the defection of Charles;
the imprisonment of the author being merely a blind,
to prevent his master from being suspected.</p>

<p>Louvois, who will for ever be infamously remembered
for his outrages upon humanity, was the tyrant who
twice consigned to the Bastile the celebrated medallist,
Andrew Morell. Berne was the native place of
Morell, who was born in 1646. He was remarkable
for his memory and acuteness. The study of history led
him to that of numismatics, in which he made an almost
unequalled progress; and he learned drawing, in
order to render his medallic knowledge more perfect
and available. Charles Patin, the son of Guy, then
an exile from France, who was himself no mean numismatist,
became acquainted with Morell, and aided
him by his counsel and purse. It was probably by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>his advice that, in 1680, Morell visited Paris, where
he met with a warm reception from the most distinguished
men of learning and science. Encouraged
by them, he undertook the laborious task of publishing
a description of all the antique medals which were
contained in the numerous cabinets of Europe. As
a prelude, he gave a specimen to the world. But his
scheme was interrupted, for the moment, by a circumstance
which would ultimately have benefited it, had
he not been ungenerously treated. He was appointed
coadjutor of Rainssart, the keeper of the king’s medals.
In assiduously arranging and reducing to order the
vast collection which was placed under his care, he
spent several years. When he claimed his promised
reward it was withheld, and, on his venturing to resent
this breach of faith, he was committed to the Bastile,
in 1688, by Louvois. His friends obtained his release;
but, in little more than twelve months, he was again
immured in that prison, probably for the same reason
as before. Yet, while he was thus persecuted by an
arrogant minister, he continued to enjoy the esteem of
Louis XIV.; a curious fact, which proves how strong
was the influence of Louvois over his master. While
he was in the Bastile, his colleague died, and he was
offered the vacant place of sole keeper of the king’s
cabinet, on condition that he would change his religion.
Morell, however, rejected the offer.</p>

<p>It was not till 1691, nor till the government of
Berne had interfered in his behalf, that Morell was set
free. Disgusted with the treatment which he had
experienced, he returned to his native country. His
subsequent existence was embittered by severe bodily
suffering. His health was so much injured by confinement,
and by vexation at his favourite project being
frustrated, that palsy deprived him of the use of one
side, and rendered him incapable of handling pen or
pencil. He was somewhat recovered, and had acquired
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>the patronage of the Count of Schwartzenburg-Armstadt,
a lover of medals, when he was overturned
in a carriage, and one of his shoulders dislocated.
This accident brought on another attack of
palsy, to which he fell a victim in 1703. The materials
for his unfinished work were arranged and
published, by Havercamp, in 1734, with the title of
“Thesaurus Morellianus.” Another of his works, a
“Numismatic History of the Twelve Emperors,” was
given to the public, in 1753, by Havercamp, Schlegel,
and Gori, who overlaid it with a ponderous mass of
confused and discordant commentaries.</p>

<p>The doctrines of Quietism, the origin of which may
be traced to oriental climes, but of which a Spanish
monk, Michael Molinos, was the European apostle,
and finally the victim, were espoused by one of the
most amiable of French enthusiasts, and they brought
on her, as they had brought on him, calumny, persecution,
and imprisonment. Madam Guyon, whose
maiden name was Bouvier de la Motte, was born at
Montargis, in 1648. Even in very early youth she
had a strong tendency to mysticism, and would have
adopted a monastic life, had her parents not prevented
her. At sixteen she was married; at eight-and-twenty
she became a widow. The visionary ideas
which she had cherished before marriage now resumed
their empire, and a powerful stimulus was given to
them by her confessor, and by the titular bishop of
Geneva, and other ecclesiastics, all of whom laboured
to fill her with the belief that Heaven had destined her
to play an extraordinary part for the advancement of
religion. “Left a widow when she was still tolerably
young,” says Voltaire, “with riches, beauty, and a
mind fitted for society, she became infatuated with
what is called <i>spiritualism</i>. A monk of Anneci, near
Geneva, named Lacombe, was her director. This
man, characterized by a not uncommon mixture of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>passions and religion, and who died mad, plunged the
mind of his penitent into the mystic reveries by which
it was already affected. The longing desire to be a
French St. Theresa did not allow her to perceive how
different the French character is from the Spanish,
and made her go much further than St. Theresa.
The ambition of having disciples, which is perhaps the
strongest of all the kinds of ambition, took entire possession
of her heart.” In ascribing such a motive to
Madame Guyon, Voltaire does her wrong, there not
being a shadow of a reason for supposing that she was
actuated by any thing but a sincere though erroneous
belief, that she was fulfilling a solemn duty. He is
more correct in the description which he gives of her
doctrines. “She taught a complete renunciation of
self, the silence of the soul, the annihilation of all its
faculties, internal worship, and the pure and disinterested
love of God, which is neither degraded by fear,
nor animated by the hope of reward.” It must be
owned that, both in language and ideas, she often fell
into enormous absurdity, in her efforts to explain and
enforce these doctrines.</p>

<p>For five years Madame Guyon wandered through
Piedmont, Dauphiny, and the adjacent provinces,
spreading her opinions by the press as well as by oral
Communication. As was to be expected, she made
many ardent proselytes, and not a few enemies. In
1686 she returned to Paris, and continued her labours,
and was left unmolested for two years. At
length she attracted the notice of the archbishop of
Paris, who affected to be shocked at the resemblance
which her tenets bore to those of Molinos. The see of
Paris was at that time filled by Harlay de Chamvallon,
an individual infamously celebrated for his profligate
debauchery. This prelate, who certainly was not
likely to comprehend a pure and disinterested love of
God, or of man or woman either, procured Lacombe
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>to be sent to the Bastile as a seducer, and Madame
Guyon to the Visitandines convent. At the Visitandines
she was generally beloved, and made several
converts. She was soon after snatched from the
clutches of Harlay by Madame de Maintenon, who admitted
her at St. Cyr, and became much attached to
her. It was at St. Cyr that she was also introduced
to Fenelon; a friendship took place between them
which nothing could ever shake.</p>

<p>But though Fenelon continued true to his friend,
Madame de Maintenon ultimately deserted her. This
desertion was the work of Godet-Desmarais, bishop of
Chartres, who was the religious director of St. Cyr
and of Madame de Maintenon. The mind of the king
was also poisoned against her; and she was exposed to
a long series of persecutions, not the least painful of
which was a slanderous attack on her character, made
in the form of a letter from Lacombe, exhorting her
to repent of their criminal intimacy. Lacombe was
then insane. So irreproachable, however, was her
conduct, that her innocence was universally acknowledged.</p>

<p>In 1695 she was sent to Vincennes, whence she
was removed to the Bastile; but she was released
through the intervention of Noailles, who had succeeded
the shameless Harlay in the archbishopric of
Paris. In 1698 she was again immured in the Bastile,
and was not liberated till 1702. After her liberation,
she was exiled to Blois, where, for fifteen years,
her patience, piety, and charity, were admired by
every one. She died in 1717, at the age of sixty-nine.</p>

<p>Influenced by prejudice, Voltaire has been unjust
to Madame Guyon; he denies that she possessed talent,
and sneeringly says, that “she wrote verses like
Cotin, and prose like Punchinello.” This is not the
first time that truth has been sacrificed, for the sake
of giving an epigrammatic turn to a sentence. To
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>the opinion of Voltaire may be opposed that of the
shrewd Duke of St. Simon, which is very different.
Nor is it probable that Fenelon would have held in
high estimation a mere senseless enthusiast. That in
her writings, which extend to nine-and-thirty volumes,
much erroneous reasoning, mystic jargon, and even
nonsense, may be found, admits of no dispute; but
they also contain many fine sentiments strikingly expressed.
That she was endowed with a prevailing
eloquence appears to be undeniable. There is an
anecdote recorded of her which proves, likewise, that
in the common business of life, she was possessed of a
large share of penetration and sound sense. She was
chosen as sole umpire in a cause in which she and
twenty-two of her relations were interested. After
thirty days’ close investigation of the documents and
claims, she drew up an award, which received the
prompt and full approbation of all the contending
parties. It may be doubted, whether there have been
many arbitrators who have given such universal satisfaction
as Madame Guyon.</p>

<p>About the time that Madame Guyon was released
from the Bastile, that prison became the abode of
Gatien de Courtils de Sandraz, a fertile writer, but
whose productions are, for the most part, of a class
which merits censure rather than praise. This author,
a Parisian, born in 1644, must be reckoned among
those who poison the sources of history. “He was,”
says Voltaire, “one of the most culpable writers of
this kind. He inundated Europe with fictions under
the name of histories.” Many of those fictions profess
to be written by persons who, during the reigns of
Louis XIII. and Louis XIV., had borne a part in
affairs of state and court intrigues. More than forty
volumes of memoirs of this sort, biographies, romances,
and political tracts, were produced by his
indefatigable pen. He was originally a captain in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>regiment of Champagne, but went to Holland in 1683,
and staid in that country for five years. It was while
he was there that he gave some of his earliest works
to the press. In 1689, the partiality which he manifested
on the side of France occasioned him to be sent
out of the Dutch territory, and he went to Paris, where
he continued till 1694. He then returned to Holland,
where he continued for eight years. In 1702, he
went back to his native land, but his reception was
calculated to make him regret having done so. He
was immediately sent to the Bastile, where he languished
for nine years, during the first three of which he
was very harshly treated. His offence is not known;
but his Annals of Paris and the court, in which he attacked
the character of some powerful personages, are
conjectured to have been the cause of his imprisonment.
His decease took place in 1712.</p>

<p>Of those who suffered in the Bastile very few indeed
revealed to the world the secrets of the prison-house.
The first who disclosed them was René
Augustus Constantine de Renneville, a Norman gentleman,
who was born at Caen, in 1650. De Renneville
was the youngest of ten brothers, seven of whom
fell in the service of their country. After having
borne arms in, and retired from, the mousquetaires, he
was patronised by Chamillart, one of the ministers,
who employed him in various confidential affairs, and
rewarded him by a respectable and lucrative office
in Normandy. De Renneville passed several years
in his native province, filling up by literary pursuits
his intervals of leisure from his official duties. The
persecution of the protestants, of whom he was one,
drove him, in 1699, into Holland. Being, however,
unable to find there a satisfactory establishment for
his family, he yielded to the solicitations of Chamillart,
and returned, in 1702, to France. The minister received
him with open arms, gave him a pension, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>promised him the first place that might become vacant
in his own department. But the scene soon changed.
Envy was excited by the reception which he had met
with, and it quickly found or made the means of
crushing him. Some years before, in a splenetic
mood, he had written some <i>bouts rimés</i>, which were
by no means complimentary to France. As, however,
this would hardly authorize a heavy punishment, he
was accused of being a spy, and of keeping up a correspondence
with foreign powers. In consequence of
this he was sent to the Bastile, in May 1702. He was
placed in a wretched chamber, dirty, gloomy, and
swarming with fleas, and his bed was overrun with
vermin of a more disgusting kind. He was nevertheless
tolerably well treated by his jailers till after
the escape of Count de Bucquoy, in which he was
supposed to have assisted. On this supposition he
was thrown into one of the worst dungeons of the
fortress, where he remained till life was nearly extinct.
He tells us that his only sustenance was bread and
water, and that his sleeping place was the bare ground,
where, without straw, or even a stone to lay his head
on, he lay stretched in the mire, and the slaver of
the toads. His situation when he was taken out was
pitiable. “My eyes,” says he, “were almost out of
my head, my nose was as large as a middling-sized
cucumber, more than half my teeth, which previously
were very good, had fallen out by scurvy, my mouth
was swelled, and entirely covered with an eruption, and
my bones came through my skin in more than twenty
places.” His captivity lasted for some years after
his removal from the dungeon, and as though he was
not again reduced to the same degree of misery, he
was treated with much harshness. He bore his misfortune
with courage, and solaced his lonely hours
by reading and composition. His pen was a small
bone, his ink was lampblack mixed with wine, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span>he wrote between the lines, and on the margins, of
books which he had concealed. Under these disadvantages,
he composed several works of considerable
length. Among these works was a “Treatise
on the Duties of a faithful Christian.” They were
taken away from him by his persecutors, and he deeply
regretted the loss of them. After having been confined
for eleven years, he was set at liberty; but was
ordered to quit France for ever. It would have been
strange had he wished to remain there. De Renneville
sought an asylum in England, where George I.
gave him a pension; and in 1715 he published his
“French Inquisition, or the History of the Bastile,”
which went through three or four editions, and was
translated into various languages. It was probably at
the instigation of those who were branded in this book,
that he was attacked in the street by three cut-throats,
whom, however, he bravely repulsed. De Renneville
was living in 1724; but the time and place of his
decease are not known. Among his works is a Collection
of Voyages for the establishment, &amp;c., of the
Dutch East India Company.</p>

<p>The next prisoner comes before us wrapped in such
a mysterious cloud, that he scarcely seems to wear the
aspect of a being of this world. His birth, his name,
his country, his crime, are all unknown; all that we
really know of him is, that he was long a captive, and
that he died. It cannot be necessary to say, that the
problematical individual alluded to is the personage
who is distinguished by the appellation of “The Man
with the Iron Mask.”</p>

<p>There appears to have been in France, during the
first forty years of the 18th century, a sort of indistinct
tradition respecting a masked prisoner, who had
been in various state prisons. It was not, however,
till 1745 that any attempt was made to lift the veil
which covered the subject. In that year came out
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>“Mémoires secrets pour servir à l’histoire de Perse,”
in which French characters were described under
oriental names. In these memoirs, which have been
ascribed to several writers, among whom is Voltaire,
some particulars are given relative to the masked man,
and he is asserted to have been the Count de Vermandois,
natural son of Louis XIV., confined by his
father for having struck the dauphin.</p>

<p>The Memoirs gave rise to a controversy, and to an
extravagant romance by the Chevalier de Mouhy;
but nothing definite was brought forward till 1751,
when Voltaire published, under a feigned name, the
first edition of his “Age of Louis XIV.” Here he
threw a ray of light on a part of the question, leaving,
however, the rest in as much darkness as ever.</p>

<p>“Some months after the decease of this minister
(Mazarin) there happened,” says he, “an event which
has no parallel, and what is no less singular is, that
all the historians have been ignorant of it. There was
sent, with the utmost secrecy, to the castle of the isle of
St. Margaret, on the coast of Provence, an unknown
prisoner, above the common stature, young, and of a
most handsome and noble figure. During the journey,
this prisoner wore a mask, the lower half of which
had steel springs, which allowed him to eat while the
mask was on his face. Orders were given to kill him
if he uncovered himself. He remained in the isle till
a confidential officer, of the name of St. Marc, governor
of Pignerol, having been made governor of the
Bastile in 1690, went to the isle of St. Margaret to
fetch him, and conducted him to the Bastile, always
masked. The Marquis de Louvois went to see him in
that isle before his removal, and spoke to him standing,
and with a deference which bordered on respect.
This unknown personage was taken to the Bastile,
where he was lodged as comfortably as it was possible
to be in that fortress. Nothing that he asked for was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span>refused. His predominant taste was for linen of extreme
fineness, and for lace. He played on the guitar.
His table was profusely served, and the governor
rarely took a seat in his presence. An old physician of
the Bastile, who had often attended this singular man
when he was ill, said that he had never seen his face,
though he had frequently examined his tongue, and
the rest of his person. He was admirably made,
said this physician; his skin was rather brown; he
excited an interest by the mere tone of his voice, but
never complained of his situation, nor gave any
hint of who he was. This unknown individual died
in 1703, and was buried at night in the parish of St.
Paul’s.</p>

<p>“What renders these circumstances doubly astonishing
is, that at the time when he was sent to the isle
of St. Margaret no eminent personage disappeared in
Europe. Yet that the prisoner was one is beyond all
doubt, for the following event took place during an
early period of his residence in the isle. The governor
himself put the dishes on the table, and then withdrew,
after having locked him in. The prisoner one
day wrote with his knife on a silver plate, and threw
the plate out of the window, towards a boat, which
was near the shore, almost at the foot of the tower.
A fisherman, to whom the boat belonged, picked up
the plate, and took it to the governor. Greatly astonished,
the latter asked the fisherman, ‘Have you
read what is written on this plate, or has anybody
seen you with it?’—‘I cannot read,’ replied the
fisherman, ‘I have only just found it, and nobody has
seen it,’ This countryman was detained till the governor
was thoroughly convinced that he could not
read, and that no one had seen the plate. ‘You may
go now,’ said he, ‘and think yourself lucky that you
know not how to read.’ Of the persons who had a direct
knowledge of this fact there is one, of undoubted veracity,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>who is still living. M. de Chamillart was the last minister
who was intrusted with this strange secret. The second
Marshal de Feuillade, his son-in-law, told me that,
when his father-in-law was on his death-bed, he begged
him on his knees to tell him who was the man who
was never known by any other name than that of the
man with the iron mask. Chamillart replied that it
was a state secret, and that he had taken an oath never
to reveal it. There are, besides, others of my contemporaries
who can testify to my statement, and I
know no fact which is more extraordinary or more
firmly established.”</p>

<p>At a later period, Voltaire, in the “Philosophical
Dictionary,” corrected some trifling errors which he
had made in his account of the masked prisoner. He
states that the captive was first confined at Pignerol,
whence he was removed to the isle of St. Margaret,
and that, a few days before his death, he said that he
believed himself to be about sixty. Voltaire then
controverts various guesses which had been hazarded
as to the name of the individual, and then
adds, that the concealment of his face must have been
occasioned by “the fear that a too striking resemblance
might be recognised in his features.” In conclusion,
he hints, that he is well informed on the
subject, but that he will not communicate his knowledge.
It would seem, however, that, after the lapse
of a few years, he changed his mind,—for, in another
edition of the Dictionary, there was inserted an article,
ostensibly by the editor, but which is generally supposed
to be written by Voltaire himself. It is there
roundly asserted that the masked captive was an elder
brother of Louis XIV., illegitimate, and brought up
in secrecy, whom for obvious reasons of state the
reigning monarch was obliged to hold in durance. In
the original account by Voltaire, his pointed mention
of the prisoner’s fondness for fine linen and lace, which
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>was also characteristic of Anne of Austria, appears to
indicate that he believed her to be the mother of the
mysterious individual.</p>

<p>There is in the human mind a restless longing, and
perpetual struggle, to penetrate into every thing that
is shrouded in mystery. Ever since the man with the
iron mask was first mentioned, he has been a subject
of inquiry and controversy; dissertations and volumes
innumerable have been written to dispel the Egyptian
darkness which surrounds him. With the exception
perhaps of Junius, there is probably no personage who
has been the cause of so many books and theories;
and in both cases no approach to certainty has been
made. It is not improbable that Junius may yet be
unveiled; but, with respect to the masked captive, so
long a time has gone by, so much care was taken after
his decease to destroy all traces of his existence, and
it is so likely that the remaining documents, if any
there were, perished during the French revolution,
that there is not a chance of the world being enabled
to say, “<i>This</i> is certainly the man.”</p>

<p>At least twelve or thirteen candidates have been
brought forward for the melancholy honour of being
the personage in question. Two of them are English—the
Duke of Monmouth and Henry Cromwell. Of
the latter it is only necessary to state that he lived a
quiet country life after the restoration, and died in
Huntingdonshire in 1679. The Duke of Monmouth
is supposed, by M. de St. Foix, to have found some
one obliging enough to mount the scaffold in his stead,
and to have been sent to France, to be kept in safe
custody. This ineffably absurd theory is demolished
by the fact, that, when Monmouth was executed, the
man with the mask had been for twenty years in prison.
Equally baseless is the system of the Chevalier
de Taulès, who made a claim for Ardewicks, the patriarch
of the Armenians at Constantinople, who was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>kidnapped, taken to France, and lodged in the Bastile
by the Jesuits, to whom he had given offence. But
Ardewicks was not carried off till 1699 or 1700, and
he is known to have embraced catholicism, recovered
his liberty, and died at Paris. A recent French writer,
of very considerable talent and research, has revived
the idea that Fouquet was the prisoner, and has supported
his argument with great skill; but it is impossible
to reconcile his supposition with the story told by
Voltaire. With respect to Fouquet the precautions
and deference, which Voltaire mentions, would not
have been deemed necessary. We have seen that the
author of the “Secret Memoirs on Persia” asserts the
Count of Vermandois to have been the unknown captive.
Voltaire contemptuously denies the truth of this
assertion; which is, indeed, sufficiently refuted by the
well-ascertained fact, that the count died, of small-pox, at
the army in Flanders, in 1683, and was buried at Arras;
his death was notorious to numbers of persons. The
Duke of Beaufort has been invested with the mask on
no better authority. There can be no doubt that he
was slain, in a sally, at the siege of Candia, in 1669.
But, say those who adopt him as their hero, his body
was never found. It certainly was not recognised;
and for this plain reason, that the Turks stripped it,
and cut off the head. The next asserted owner of the
mask is backed by no less than four champions, Dutens,
Roux-Fazillac, Delort, and the late Lord Dover, and
his cause has been ably supported by them all. The
claimant for whom they contend is Matthioli, secretary
of the Duke of Mantua, who, for having outwitted
Louis in a negotiation respecting the cession of Casal,
was seized by order of the monarch, and imprisoned
at Pignerol and other places. There are, however,
circumstances which seem decisive against his being
the man with the iron mask. It will perhaps suffice
to mention that, instead of meeting with respect
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>and indulgence, he was treated with the utmost harshness,
and even cruelty. It has been argued, as a presumption
on his side, that his name bears a resemblance
to that of Marchiali, under which the unknown captive
was buried. The resemblance, I think, is not a whit
closer than that which Fluellin so ingeniously discovers
between Macedon and Monmouth, and is a sorry basis
on which to build an argument. Another supposition
gives the mask to Don John de Gonzaga, a natural
brother of the Duke of Mantua, who is imagined to
have accompanied Matthioli in disguise to the conference
at which he was seized. This supposition is
rendered untenable, by irrefragable proof that Matthioli
was alone.</p>

<p>We have now arrived at the only remaining name
which has been mentioned as that of the mysterious
prisoner. Voltaire, as we have seen, affirms that he
was a son of Anne of Austria. This assertion seems
to receive support from the language which is said to
have been held by Louis XV. Laborde, the head
valet-de-chambre of that monarch, who enjoyed much
of his confidence, once endeavoured to obtain from
him the long-concealed secret. He did not succeed.
“I pity him,” replied the king, “but his detention was
injurious only to himself, and <i>averted great misfortunes</i>.
Thou must not know the secret.” It is manifest
that such a speech could not be made with reference
to any of the persons who have been enumerated.
It is equally manifest that, as Voltaire has intimated,
the mask could have been worn for no other purpose
than to prevent a striking likeness from being
recognised.</p>

<p>Various conjectures have been made as to the paternity
of the unknown child, to which Anne of Austria
is thought to have given birth. By some the
Duke of Buckingham has been assigned as its father,
others have attributed it to a French nobleman; some
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>have imagined that it was the fruit of a legitimate union
with Cardinal Mazarin, a kind of union which, however,
could not take place; and others, with more tenderness
for the character of the queen, have represented
it to be a twin brother of Louis XIV. The theory of
his royal birth may, perhaps, be as erroneous as all the
rest; but it appears to me to be the only one by which
we can account for the close and perpetual imprisonment,
the pains taken to confine the secret to as few
persons as possible, the carefully concealed features,
and the respect and indulgence which are asserted to
have been uniformly shown to the unfortunate captive&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>.</p>

<p>We must now turn our attention from the victim of
state policy to some of the victims of religious persecution.</p>

<p>To enumerate all whom Jansenism led to the Bastile
would be a tedious labour, and no less uninteresting
than tedious, as little more than a dry list of names
would be the result. Among the Jansenists who
towards the close of Louis XIV.’s reign were sent to
the Bastile, we find Tiron, a Benedictine, who was
prior of Meulan; Germain Veillant, an author; and
Lebrun-Desmarets, a man of much theological erudition.
Tiron was committed “for different writings, on
matters of religion and state, and against the king and
the Jesuits.” The coupling together of the king and
the disciples of Loyola, as though they were coequal
powers, is a striking proof of the vast influence which
the Society of Jesus had acquired. Veillant’s offence
was his being “a violent Jansenist, in connexion with
Father Quesnel, and having got his works printed, and
managed his affairs at Paris.” He was examined
eighty-nine times, and was probably treated with more
than common harshness, for he fell ill on the day
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>that he was released, and died in the course of a few
days.</p>

<p>Lebrun-Desmarets, a native of Rouen, who entered
the Bastile in 1707, two years previous to the destruction
of Port-Royal monastery, was of a family which
was strongly attached to that persecuted establishment.
His father, a bookseller of Rouen, was condemned
to the galleys, for having printed books in
vindication of it. The son was partly educated in the
convent, and never ceased to regard its inmates with
affection and reverence. In 1707, when they were
involved in a harassing lawsuit by their enemies,
Lebrun espoused their cause so ardently that he was
imprisoned. He was held in durance for five years,
and was treated with great severity. After he recovered
his liberty, he took up his abode at Orleans,
where he died, in 1731, at the age of eighty. On
Palm Sunday, the day before his death, fearing that a
priest would refuse to administer the sacrament to him,
he dragged his enfeebled frame to the church, that he
might not quit the world without the consolation of
having participated in the rites of religion. Lebrun’s
principal work is a “Liturgical Journey in France,” in
which he gives an account of the most remarkable customs
and ceremonies of the various churches.</p>

<p>We now revert once more to prisoners whose sins
were political. Count John Albert de Bucquoy, the
next individual who comes under our notice, was of
the family of the celebrated Spanish and Imperial general,
who bore the same name and title. He was a
native of Champagne, in which province he was born
about 1650. A line in Dryden’s severe description of
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, will partly characterize
Bucquoy; he</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“Was every thing by starts, and nothing long.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">The circumstances of his having been left an orphan
at the age of four years, and having received a very
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>imperfect education, may, perhaps, account for some
of his eccentricities. He embraced the military life;
but when he had served for five years, an escape from
danger, which he considered as miraculous, induced
him to make a vow to withdraw from all worldly pursuits.
The rules of the Carthusian monks not being
strict enough to satisfy him, he entered at La Trappe,
where he so much injured his health by supererogatory
austerities that the Abbé de Rancé, the superior
of the convent, was obliged to dismiss him. Bucquoy
then abruptly resumed his warlike attire; but soon
after, with equal abruptness, again cast it off, to dress
himself in rags, and become a hermit. Flying from
the temptations of Paris, he next settled at Rouen,
where, under the name of La Mort, he for two years
kept a school, to give gratuitous instruction to the
poor. The Jesuits of that city admired his talents
and his humble demeanour, and fruitlessly endeavoured
to enrol him in their fraternity. Having been accidentally
recognised by a person who had been a brother
officer, he could no longer preserve his incognito,
and he therefore quitted Rouen, and bent his way to
Paris. There he formed the plan of founding a new
monastic order, destined to prove to unbelievers the
truth of the Christian religion. It appears to have
been about this time that he assumed the garb and
title of an abbé. But while he was thus planning
the demolition of incredulity, he so bewildered himself
in his theological speculations and reasonings, that
he became a sceptic. One thing which contributed
much to produce the change in him was, that, notwithstanding
his self-inflicted severities, he had failed
to obtain the power of working miracles. This alone
would suffice to prove that his intellects were disordered.
At this period, his relatives, who had long
believed him dead, were made acquainted with his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>being in existence, and they procured for him a benefice.
Bucquoy, however, had got rid of his religious
schemes, and had relapsed into a taste for the profession
of a soldier. His wish was now to raise a regiment.
But while he was indulging this new freak, he
attracted the attention of the government by his invectives
against despotism and the abuse of power.
He was mistaken for the Abbé de la Bourlie, who
afterwards became notorious in England under the
name of Guiscard, and was arrested. When the
mistake was discovered, he would have been set free,
had not his indiscreet language and conduct caused him
to be detained. He was committed to Fort-l’Evêque,
from whence, however, he contrived to escape. After
having been at large for a considerable time, he was
caught and shut up in the Bastile, with a strict charge
to the keepers, that he should be closely watched, as
being an enterprising and dangerous person. The
officers of that prison were seldom slack in executing
such orders, yet, in spite of all their vigilance, Bucquoy
took his measures so skilfully, and carried them
into effect with so much secrecy, that, in May 1709,
after having been confined for two years, he left his
jailors in the lurch, and made good his retreat to Switzerland.
As soon as he was in safety, he began to negotiate
with the French ministers for his return to
France, and the restoration of his property. Failing
in this, he journeyed to Holland, and submitted to the
allies a project for converting France into a republic,
and annihilating arbitrary power. This scheme, too,
fell to the ground. It was, nevertheless, beneficial
to him, as it gained for him the friendship of General
Schulemburg, who, in 1714, introduced him, at Hanover,
to George I. The monarch was pleased with
his conversation, admitted him to his table, and gave
him a pension. Bucquoy lived to nearly the age of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>ninety. In his latter days, he wholly neglected his
dress, suffered his beard to grow, and might well have
been mistaken for a squalid mendicant.</p>

<p>There was perhaps a spice of madness in Bucquoy,
which sufficiently accounts for his eccentric conduct.
For the faults, or rather crimes, of the personage who
now comes under our notice there was no such excuse.
Throughout the whole of his existence, which, like
that of Bucquoy, was protracted far beyond the period
usually allotted to man, the Marshal Duke of Richelieu
displayed as few virtues, and as many vices, as any
courtier on record. He had superficial talents, some
wit, polished manners, a handsome person, and much
bravery; and this is all that can be said for him. On
the other hand, he was wholly without honour, morals,
and religion; a supporter and adulator of despotism, a
political intriguer, who could stoop to use the basest
means for the accomplishment of his purposes, a reckless
duellist, and a systematic and heartless seducer;
he was, in fact, an impersonation of the profligacy and
corruption which distinguished the courts of the regent
Duke of Orleans and the fifteenth Louis.</p>

<p>Richelieu, who, in his early years, was known as
the Duke of Fronsac, was born in 1696. He was a
seven months’ child, whom after his birth it was necessary
to keep in a box filled with cotton, and the
preservation of whose existence was long doubtful.
When his health was established, he was put under
able preceptors; but he derived little benefit from their
instructions, and he never could spell with tolerable
correctness. He acquired, however, those showy
graces which, undoubtedly, are an ornament to virtue,
but which, when the possessor has no virtue,
can captivate only persons of frivolous minds. He
was introduced to the court at the early age of fourteen,
and soon, as St. Simon tells us, became its darling.
The female portion of it was in raptures with him,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span>and seems to have expressed its feelings without any
regard to decorum. Fronsac, whose passions were
uncommonly precocious, met the forward with equal
ardour, and spared no pains to ensnare the few who
were more timid or more modest. He went to such a
length that censure began to fall heavily on the
Duchess of Burgundy, and his own father deemed it
prudent to request a lettre-de-cachet against him,
under which he was for fourteen months confined in
the Bastile. During his seclusion, Fronsac was attended
by a preceptor; and he consequently came out
of prison with some knowledge of Latin, and some
addition to his scanty stock of useful information; but,
as far as concerned dignity of mind and purity of
heart, no improvement whatever had taken place.</p>

<p>The licentious career of Richelieu was suspended
for a while, by his serving as a volunteer in the army.
He was present at the battle of Denain, and at the
sieges of the fortresses which were recovered by
Villars in consequence of his victory; and he distinguished
himself so much, that he was made aide-de-camp
to the marshal, and was chosen by him to convey
to Paris the news of the surrender of Friburg. In 1715,
he succeeded to the title of Richelieu. On this occasion
he performed an action which merits praise; the property
which was available for the debts of his father
was far from sufficient to cover them, he generously
paid to the creditors the full amount of their claims.</p>

<p>Again all the faculties of Richelieu were devoted
to licentious pleasures, which were now and then interrupted
by a duel. In 1716 he had a desperate
encounter with the Count de Gacé, for which the
regent committed both parties to the Bastile, where
they remained from March till August. This imprisonment
was, however, less severe than that which he
had to endure two years afterwards. In the spring
of 1719, he was sent, for the third time, to the Bastile,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>but, in this instance, he went with the brand of traitor
upon him, and was treated accordingly. He was concerned
in the Cellamare conspiracy, and had promised
to deliver up Bayonne to the Spaniards, and to join in
exciting the south of France to revolt. “If the Duke
of Richelieu had four heads,” said the regent, “I have
proof enough against him to deprive him of them all.”
On his first arrival at the Bastile, the duke was placed
in a dungeon; but female influence soon obtained his
removal to more comfortable quarters, and permission
for him to walk daily on the ramparts of the fortress.
His walks gave rise to an occurrence, which speaks
volumes as to the unblushing depravity of the high-born
dames of France. During the hour that he was
walking, a string of elegant carriages, filled with women
who notoriously were or had been his mistresses,
passed slowly backward and forward in front of the
spot where he was, and an intercourse of signs was
kept up between the prisoner and these unscrupulous
ladies. It was by the intercession of two princesses,
who were enamoured of him, that his release was obtained,
after he had suffered a captivity of five months.</p>

<p>The danger to which Richelieu had been exposed
on this occasion, though it did not render him less
vicious, rendered him, at least in one respect, more
prudent; he did not again put his head in the way of
being brought to the block. Thenceforward he limited
his political intrigues, in France, to acquiring benefits
for himself, circumventing his rivals, providing mistresses
for the king, and making those mistresses the
instruments of his designs; and by these arts he became
a thriving courtier. Honours of all kinds, military
and civil, were showered upon him. At the age
of twenty-four, without any literary pretensions whatever,
he was unanimously chosen a member of the
French Academy; and, in 1734, he was nominated an
honorary member of the Academy of Inscriptions and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>Belles Lettres. In the army he rose to the rank of
marshal; but his titles as a soldier were not unearned.
At Kehl, Philipsburg, Dettingen, Friburg, Fontenoy,
Laufeldt, Genoa, and Minorca, they were fairly won.
In his last campaign, however, that of Hanover, in
1757, he sullied his laurels by the most infamous conduct.
His rapacity and extortion were a scorpion
scourge to the country which France had subdued;
and, as though he feared that his own endless exactions
would not suffice to make him hated, he allowed,
if not encouraged, his troops to be guilty of marauding,
and of various other enormities. The subsequent
defeats of the French army were the righteous result
of these dishonourable proceedings. As a negotiator,
Richelieu manifested considerable skill. He was twice
employed in that capacity; at Vienna, from 1725 to
1729, and at Dresden, in 1746. In both instances
he fully accomplished the purpose of his mission, and
in both he displayed a degree of ostentatious magnificence
which had seldom been equalled. When he
entered Vienna, his train consisted of seventy-five carriages;
and his horses, and those of his officers, were
shod with silver, the shoes being slightly fastened, that
they might fall off and be left for the populace. In
the state employments which he held, there appears to
have been but a solitary instance in which he was entitled
to praise. As lieutenant-general of the king in
Languedoc, he once deviated into the right path; by a
judicious mixture of firmness and mildness, he averted
the disturbances which were about to arise from the
persecution of the protestants. But it was not in his
nature to be permanently good. At a later period,
his harshness, in the same country, was rewarded by
his being appointed governor of Guienne and Gascony;
and his pride and tyranny very soon rendered
him an object of detestation in both of these provinces.
At court, his influence and his example had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span>a baneful effect. He for more than a quarter of a
century possessed the friendship of Louis XV., and he
foully abused it; he pandered to the monarch’s lusts,
and strained every nerve, with too much success, to
prevent the misguided sovereign from carrying into
effect his occasional resolves, to lead in future a life
more suitable to his years, and to the lofty station
which he filled. He was the Mephistopheles of his
royal master.</p>

<p>Richelieu was so fortunate as not to be exposed to
the revolutionary tempest; his disgraceful career was
brought to a close in August, 1788, when he had attained
the age of ninety-two.</p>

<p>Of prisoners less known, or less important, during
the period to which this chapter refers, it will suffice to
give a scanty specimen. Religious intolerance contributed
largely to people the jails. To enumerate all
who expiated in dungeons the crime of being protestants,
would be an endless task; in 1686 a hundred
and forty-seven persons, and in 1689 sixty-one, were
sent to the Bastile alone, almost all of whom were
hugonots. To unite in marriage the members of that
proscribed class was a heinous offence; a priest, named
John de Pardieu, was doomed to the Bastile for committing
it. Whole families were immured for endeavouring
to leave the kingdom. Some of the victims
were driven to despair by the manner in which they
were treated. Such was the case with the Sieur Braconneau,
who, as the register specifies, was “imprisoned
on account of religion, and died of a wound
which he gave to himself with a knife.” The protestants
were, however, not the sole sufferers; the Jansenists,
too, came in for an ample share of persecution.</p>

<p>Real or pretended plots and evil speaking against the
king were another fruitful source of commitments. The
following are a few instances: Don Thomas Crisafi “suspected
of intrigues with the Spanish ambassador against
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>the interests of the king.” Joseph Jurin, a footman,
for having said, “Who can prevent me from killing the
king?” The Sieur Beranger de Berliere, “for a plot
against the king’s person.” The Count de Morlot,
accused of “detestable purposes against the king’s
life.” Desvallons, “for speaking insolently of the
king.” Laurence Lemierre, shoemaker, and his wife,
for dangerous discourse about the king; and Francis
Brindjoug for the same offence. The Sieur Cardel,
“for important reasons, regarding the safety of the
king’s person.” Jonas de Lamas, a baker, “for execrations
against the king.” This man was twenty
years in the Bastile, and was then removed to the
Bicêtre. The Sieur de la Perche, a fencing-master,
accused of having said that “the king oppressed his
subjects, and thought only of amusing himself with his
old woman; that he would soon be a king of beggars;
that his officers were starving; that he had ruined the
kingdom by driving away the hugonots; and that he
cared not a pin for his people.” The last article of
the Sieur de la Perche’s charge against the sovereign
was made in language which is too vulgar to be translated.</p>

<p>Under the head of miscellaneous offences may be
mentioned the following: Pierre His, “for having
assisted several persons to go clandestinely to
America.” Those persons were probably hugonots.
The Sieur Marini, envoy from Genoa. This commitment,
for which no reason is assigned, took place in
1684, the year in which Louis XIV. made his disgraceful
attack on Genoa. Besnoit, called Arnonville,
“an evil-minded woman, who held improper discourse.”
Charles Combon, called Count de Longueval,
“a maker of horoscopes, a fortune-teller, and
vender of drugs to procure abortion.” The Abbé
Dubois, “a wicked and troublesome person.” Papillard,
“a bad catholic.” Saint Vigor, “affecting to be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span>a hermit, but a man of licentious manners.” John
Blondeau, a hermit, “a suspected person.” Peter
John Mere, professing himself a physician, “for selling
improper drugs.” After having been thirty years in
the Bastile, Mere was sent to the Bedlam at Charenton.
Bailly, a hatter, “for a design to establish a
hat manufactory in a foreign country.” Louisa Simon,
a widow, “pretends to tell fortunes, to have secrets
for inspiring love, and to be able to make marriages.”
John Galembert, of the gens-d’armes, “a great traveller,
suspected of corresponding with the enemies of
the state.” He was subsequently exiled to Languedoc,
his native province, within the limits of which he was
ordered to remain. The Prince de Riccia, “one of
the party at Naples that is against the French succession.”
Nicholas Buissen, “for insolent letters against
Samuel Bernard (the court banker), with an intention
to hurt his credit.” The Sieur de Soulange, formerly
a captain of infantry in the Orleannois regiment,
“a rogue, and spy on both sides.”</p>

<p>It will be seen that, in some of those instances, the
individuals deserved legal punishment; that, in others,
the charges were trivial, or vague, or ridiculous; and
that in at least one case the French monarch displayed
gross contempt of the law of nations. His imprisonment
of Marini, the Genoese envoy, can only be
paralleled by the manner in which the Turks used to
treat Christian ambassadors on the breaking out of
hostilities. But it was of a piece with the rest of his
conduct towards the Genoese republic. It was retributive
justice that he, the wanton disturber and insulter
of Europe, should himself live to have his pride trodden
into the dust, and to dread the approach of a hostile
army to the walls of his own capital.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2>

<p>Reign of Louis XV.—Regency of the Duke of Orleans—Oppressive
measures against all persons connected with the Finances—Their
failure—Prisoners in the Bastile—Freret—Voltaire—The
Cellamare conspiracy—The Duchess of Maine—Madame de
Staal—Malezieu—Bargeton—Mahudel—The Mississippi
scheme—Count de Horn—Death of the Regent—Administration
of the Duke of Bourbon—La Blanc—Paris Duverney—The
Count de Belleisle—The Chevalier de Belleisle—Madame
de Tencin.</p>

</div>

<p>When the Duke of Orleans assumed the regency,
the finances of the kingdom were in a lamentable
state. The protracted and expensive wars into which
Louis XIV. had wantonly plunged, the boundless extravagance
in which he had indulged, and the peculations,
and wasteful expenditure of every kind, which
had so long prevailed, had not only drained the treasury,
but had also caused a heavy load of debt, and
almost dried up the sources of supply. The government
was indebted to an enormous amount, the revenue
of three years had been anticipated, and public credit
was destroyed. From all quarters a loud cry was
raised for fiscal reform. A national bankruptcy was
proposed in the council, but the proposal was unanimously
rejected. The means which were adopted in
its stead were, however, scarcely less unjust; they
were the same clumsy and violent means which former
rulers had almost uniformly employed. Contracts,
entered into by the ministers of the late king, were
capriciously annulled, annuities and pensions were cut
down to one half, offices, which the holders had bought
at a great price, were abolished without any compensation
being given, a new coinage was issued at a higher
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span>nominal value, and government securities, to the
amount of six hundred millions, were at one stroke
reduced to two hundred and fifty millions, and even
of this diminished sum the creditors were defrauded of
more than a fifth part. But the grand panacea, for
restoring the consumptive exchequer to its pristine
vigour, was the establishment of a court, antithetically
denominated a chamber of justice. This chamber was
directed to institute a rigorous inquiry into the conduct
of all persons who had any connection with the
finances, or with contracts of any kind, and compel
them to disgorge their spoil. A sweeping edict
brought under the jurisdiction of this inquisitorial body
several thousands of individuals, from the richest
farmer-general, or contractor, down to the poorest
clerk. “The custom,” says Lemontey, “of drawing
back by proscriptions the rapines which a vicious administration
has tolerated, is an Asiatic art which ill
beseems regular governments. But, condemned to a
financial anarchy by its squandering habits, France, for
a long while, could find no other than this odious remedy.”
The remedy was indeed an odious one! The
retrospective operation of this edict extended as far
back as seven-and-twenty years; so that it clutched in
its iron grasp not only living presumed criminals, but
the children, grandchildren, and relations of those who
had ceased to exist, and thus at once inflicted torment
on a multitude of guiltless victims, and shook property
to its very basis. The means employed to give effect
to the edict were of the most base and barbarous kind.
Death was the penalty denounced against all who were
convicted, whoever made an incorrect declaration of
his fortune was doomed to the galleys, and, that there
might be no lack of evidence, the pillory was held up
<i>in terrorem</i> to negligent witnesses. But, bad as all
this was, there was something still worse. Informers
were to be rewarded with a fifth part of the confiscations,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>and to receive a certificate, stating that they
were under the king’s protection, and exempt from
being sued by their creditors; to slander them was
rendered punishable with death. By another enactment,
servants were allowed to denounce their masters,
under fictitious names; a happy invention for destroying
all domestic confidence! To excite the people,
already sufficiently excited, a medal was struck, on
which the culprits were typified by the robber Cacus,
horrible songs and prints were circulated, and it was
ordered that a portion of the confiscated property
should be distributed among the inhabitants of the
place where the condemned individual resided. The
whole scheme of proceeding was consistently infamous;
it never deviated into anything like justice.</p>

<p>To prevent the escape of those who were marked
out for prosecution, an order was suddenly issued, forbidding
them to leave their abodes on pain of death.
Such, however, was the terror inspired by this unexpected
measure that many took flight, and others put
an end to their own existence. Of those who remained,
multitudes were dragged from their homes in
the most studiously disgraceful manner, amidst the
hootings of the populace, who lent their willing aid to
the officers of police. The Bastile and the other prisons
were speedily so crowded, that numbers were
obliged to be left in their houses under a guard. For
six months the chamber proceeded in its career, purveying
liberally for the pillory, the galleys, and the
scaffold. It was at last discovered, that this was a
tedious and unsatisfactory process; that though revenge
and malice were gratified, there was little profit;
and the system was in consequence changed. To
levy enormous fines and impositions was the new course
which was adopted. Twenty lists of pecuniary proscription
were made out, containing the names of
4470 heads of families, from whom the sum of two
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span>hundred and twenty millions of livres—about nine
millions sterling—was demanded. The celebrated
Bourvalais, who had risen from being a footman to be
one of the richest financiers in France, was taxed at
4,400,000 livres. In many instances envy or personal
enmity contrived to have insufferable burthens
laid upon obnoxious individuals. Then, on the part of
the sufferers, ensued solicitations and bribes to men
and women in power, to procure more favourable
terms; the golden harvest was eagerly reaped by the
courtiers, and the court became a theatre of underhand
manœuvres and gross corruption. The people, meanwhile,
were rapidly growing disgusted with the chamber
of justice. They found that they had derived no
benefit whatever from its labours, the sums extorted
by it having chiefly been wasted in gifts and pensions to
the privileged classes. There was another and yet
stronger reason for their dissatisfaction. Trade, and the
demand for labour, had fallen off to an alarming degree,
and money was rapidly disappearing; for no one would
display riches, and indulge in luxuries, when his so
doing might render him an object of persecution. So
loud a cry was therefore raised against the chamber
that, after having been twelve months in existence, it
was suppressed. By the subsequent reversal of most
of its sentences, and by a declaration, that no measure
of a similar kind should again be resorted to, a severe
but just censure was in fact passed upon the defunct
tribunal, and upon the whole transaction.</p>

<p>From tyranny in the gross we must now turn our
attention again to tyranny in the detail. Oriental
despotism, in its most capricious mood, could not have
inflicted punishment more ridiculously and unjustly
than the French government inflicted it upon the
celebrated Freret. This eminent individual, who was
born at Paris in 1688, was remarkable for his precocious
talents and multifarious learning. Chronology,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>geography, mythology, history, and the laws, customs,
and literature of ancient and modern nations, were all
thoroughly known to him, he was not ignorant of the
abstruse sciences, and his knowledge, instead of being
a chaotic mass, was well arranged, systematically
linked together, and readily available. An authoritative
tone, and some ruggedness of manner, were the
only defects imputed to him; but they were merely
superficial, and did not prevent him from being kind,
charitable, and a sincere and constant friend. He died
at the age of sixty-one, his constitution, which was
naturally strong, being worn out by incessant study.
The edition of his works, in twenty volumes, is incomplete.
Several irreligious productions have been
calumniously attributed to him.</p>

<p>It was a “Memoir on the Origin of the French” which
was the cause of his being sent to the Bastile in 1705,
and the Abbé de Vertot is asserted to have been the
person to whom he owed his imprisonment. His
offence was, that the origin which he assigned to his
countrymen was an affront to the national dignity.
It is said that, after having been closely interrogated
at the Bastile, he begged leave to ask a single question,
“Why am I here?” To this the reply was, “You have
a great deal of curiosity.” When he was at length
released, one of the magistrates sneeringly said to him,
“Let France, and the French, and modern subjects,
alone; antiquity offers such a wide field for your
labours.” It is probable that no Turkish cadi, in the
fifteenth century, ever uttered a speech of such insolent
stupidity as is ascribed, three centuries later, to
this magistrate of a polished nation.</p>

<p>Various as were the acquirements of Freret, there
was in the Bastile, and nearly contemporaneously with
him, a prisoner, who far transcended him on that
score, and who possessed a splendid genius. Poet, in
almost every style of poetry, dramatist, historian,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span>novellist, essayist, philosopher, controversialist, and
commentator, the universal Voltaire was pre-eminent
in several departments of literature, and was below
mediocrity in none. “He was,” says a French author,
“one of our greatest poets; the most brilliant, the
most elegant, the most fertile, of our prose writers.
There is not, in the literature of any country, either in
verse or in prose, an author who has written on so
many opposite kinds of subjects, and has so constantly
displayed a superiority in all of them.” It has been
said that Voltaire is a superficial writer, but this assertion
is not borne out by the fact. On the contrary, it
is wonderful that so gay and witty and fertile a writer,
who was so much in the whirl of society as he was,
should have displayed such profound research, such a
vast command of materials, as Voltaire has undoubtedly
done.</p>

<p>As a man, Voltaire could be a warm friend, and
was a champion of humanity, and a strenuous opponent
of intolerance, superstition, and oppression. From
our admiration of him a considerable drawback must,
however, be made, for the readiness with which he
lavished incense upon such worthless nobles as the
Duke of Richelieu; for the aristocratical feelings which
occasionally peep out even from among his liberal
opinions; for his duplicity in showering praises and professions
of kindness upon men whom he was at the
same moment devoting to ridicule; for his meanness
in stooping to falsehood, whenever he feared that
avowing the truth would expose him to inconvenience;
for his inflammable passions, which so often blinded
his reason; for the sleepless animosity with which he
strove to hunt down, disgrace, and crush whoever had
offended him; for his obscenity and nauseating indelicacy;
and for the fury with which he attacked objects
which, in all ages, wise and good men have held
sacred.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span></p>

<p>Voltaire, whose family name was Arouet, was
born, in 1694, at Chatenay, and received a thorough
education at the Jesuits’ College, in the French capital.
One of his tutors predicted that he would be the
Coryphæus of deism in France; and the society which
the youthful poet frequented, elegant, but immeasurably
licentious and irreligious, was not likely to falsify
the prediction. His father destined him for a place in
the magistracy, but the literary propensity of the son
was unconquerable. In his twenty-second year he
was sent to the Bastile, by the regent Duke of Orleans,
on an unfounded suspicion of his being the author of
a libel. It was while he was in prison that he formed
the plan of the Henriade, and completed the tragedy
of Œdipus. He was in the Bastile above a year
before the regent recognised his innocence, and set
him free. The regent desired to see him, and the
Marquis de Nocé was ordered to introduce him. While
they were waiting in the ante-chamber, a circumstance
occurred which strongly marks the profaneness and
indiscretion of Voltaire. A violent storm burst over
Paris, upon which the poet looked up at the clouds,
and exclaimed, “If it were a regent that governed
above, things could not be managed worse.” When
de Nocé presented him to the duke, he said, “Here,
your highness, is young Arouet, whom you have just
taken out of the Bastile, and whom you will send back
again,” and he then repeated what had been said. The
duke, however, did not send him back again; he
laughed heartily, and made the offender a liberal present.
“I thank your royal highness for taking care
of my board,” said Voltaire, “but I must request that
you will not again provide me with lodging.”</p>

<p>Œdipus was represented in 1718, with complete
success. Two other tragedies, Artemise and Mariane,
by which it was succeeded, were less fortunate. The
Duke of Orleans was dead, and the reins of government
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span>were now held by the Duke of Bourbon. Voltaire
having ventured to resent a dastardly insult
offered to him by the worthless Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot,
the chevalier thought it safer to imprison his
adversary than to meet him in the field. His friends
applied to the Duke of Bourbon, and raised his anger
by showing him an epigram which the poet had composed
on him. Their plan was successful; Voltaire
was committed to the Bastile, and remained there for
six months. This act of injustice induced him to take
up his residence in England. In this country he lived
for three years, was flatteringly received by many
illustrious characters, and obtained a splendid subscription
for the Henriade. The produce of this
subscription formed the basis of that large fortune
which he subsequently obtained by various lucky
speculations. In 1728 he returned to his native land,
and, between that year and 1749, he produced his
tragedies of Zara, Alzira, Mahomet, and Merope, and
many other works, was admitted into the French Academy,
and was appointed gentleman in ordinary of the
king’s bed-chamber, and historiographer of France.</p>

<p>In 1750 Voltaire accepted an invitation to Berlin,
which was given to him by the king of Prussia. For
a while the sovereign and the poet were on the most
amicable terms; but, in 1753, their friendship was
broken, and Voltaire quitted the Prussian dominions
in disgust. Paris, in consequence of the intrigues of
his enemies, being no longer an eligible abode for him,
he lived for short periods at Geneva and other places,
and at length purchased an estate at Ferney, in the
Pays de Gex, on which he finally settled. There, in
possession of an ample fortune, and surrounded by
friends, he gave free scope to his indefatigable pen.
In April, 1778, he went once more to Paris, after an
absence of nearly thirty years. He was received with
almost a frenzy of enthusiasm, his bust was crowned
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span>on the stage, and was placed by the academicians
next to that of Corneille. These honours, however,
he did not long enjoy, for he expired on the 30th of
May; his death is supposed to have been hastened
by an over-dose of laudanum, which he took to calm
the pain occasioned by strangury, and to procure sleep,
of which he had long been deprived. In the edition
of Beaumarchais, the collected works of Voltaire form
seventy volumes.</p>

<p>By the detection of the Cellamare conspiracy, in
1718, a large accession of prisoners fell to the share
of the Bastile. Wounded female pride had the chief
share in getting up that conspiracy. The Duchess of
Maine was the prime mover. This princess, whose
small frame was animated by a high and restless spirit,
had seen her family degraded in a manner which it was
not unnatural that she should violently resent. By
an edict, dated in 1710, Louis XIV. not only granted
to the Duke of Maine, and his other legitimated children,
the same rank and honours which were enjoyed
by princes of the blood, but also declared them capable
of inheriting the crown, on failure of descendants
in the legitimate branches. This step was highly
offensive to the French peers, and was opposed by the
parliament; but, while the king lived, resistance was
unavailing. But the scene was about to change.
Though Louis had reinforced his decree by a declaration
in 1714, and by a clause in his testament, his
death soon afforded another proof of the little respect
that is paid to a deceased despot. The will, as every
one knows, was set aside, without a voice being heard
in support of it. In 1717, at the instance of the Duke
of Bourbon, and the peers, the council of regency
deprived the legitimated princes of all the privileges of
princes of the blood, with the exception of a seat in
the parliament. It was in vain that the Duchess of
Maine and her partisans moved heaven and earth to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span>avert this blow; all their writings, speeches, and
manœuvres, were entirely thrown away. It must,
however, be owned, that the duchess displayed wonderful
talent and industry on this occasion; while the
struggle continued, she was constantly to be seen half
buried in a pile of dusty volumes, records, and other
documents, in which she sought arguments and examples
to support her cause. When the dreaded blow was
finally struck, her passion rose to the highest pitch.
“There is nothing left to me now,” exclaimed she to
her more patient husband, “but the shame of having
married you!” In the following year fresh fuel was
heaped upon the flame. The Duke of Maine was
reduced to take rank below all the peers, except those
who were created posterior to 1694, and was likewise
divested of the tutorship of the young king, which
was assumed by the Duke of Bourbon. This gave
rise to another outbreak of passion on the part of the
duchess, who, on receiving notice to give up to the
triumphant Bourbon the official apartments in the
Tuileries, broke the glasses, the china, and everything
which she had strength enough to destroy. Thus
stung to the quick, she resorted to conspiracy for
vengeance, and she speedily rallied round her a band
of subaltern intriguers and discontented politicians.
To expel the Duke of Orleans from the regency, and
place the government under the tutelage of Philip V.
of Spain, was the design of the plotters. The Spanish
monarch, who detested the Duke of Orleans, and
who, in spite of his renunciation, had still views on
the French crown, was by no means averse from forwarding
the scheme of the duchess. The correspondence
was carried on through the Prince de Cellamare,
the Spanish ambassador at Paris. The Duke of
Orleans was, however, not in the dark with respect to
these proceedings; they were betrayed to him by
some of the parties concerned; and, as soon as the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span>proof was complete, the whole of the offenders were
arrested. The Duchess of Maine was sent to the
castle of Dijon, and allowed only one female servant
to attend her, the duke was closely confined in the
citadel of Dourlens; the Abbé Brigault, the Marquis
of Pompadour, the Count of Laval, the Chevalier
Menil, Malezieu, Mademoiselle de Launay, and many
more, found lodgings in the Bastile; and Vincennes
and other prisons received their share of captives. Of
de Launay and Malezieu some account shall be given;
the rest deserve no record.</p>

<p>The Baroness de Staal, whose maiden name was
de Launay, was born at Paris, in 1693. Her father
was a painter, who was compelled to retire to England
before her birth; her mother, who seems not to have
been overburdened with maternal feelings, found with
her infant a retreat in a convent at Rouen. Even in
infancy, De Launay manifested the dawning of a very
superior intellect, and her manners were so fascinating
that she became the darling of the convent. She had
an extreme longing for knowledge, her questions were
incessant, and, as all the nuns were eager to gratify
and improve her, she soon acquired a larger and more
valuable stock of ideas than falls to the lot of children
in general. Among her friends in the convent was
Madame de Grieu, who, on being nominated prioress
of St. Louis at Rouen, took the child with her to her
new abode. “The convent of St. Louis,” says Madame
de Staal, “was like a little state in which I
reigned sovereignly.” The abbess and her sister enjoyed
a small pension from their family, which they
devoted to the payment of masters for their favourite.
By the time that she was fourteen, De Launay had
studied the philosophy of Descartes, and pondered
over the speculations of Malebranche, and, not long
after, she turned her attention to the science of
geometry.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span></p>

<p>Her intellectual powers and her winning qualities
brought many admirers around her; among whom
were the Abbé de Vertot, M. Brunel, and M. Rey.
None of them, however, made any impression on her
heart. With respect to the passion of M. Rey, she
makes one of those quiet yet piquant remarks, which
are so common in her Memoirs. He was accustomed
to escort her back to the convent, when she had been
visiting some neighbouring friends. “We had to pass
through a large open space,” says she, “and at the
beginning of our acquaintance, he used to take his
way along the sides. I found now, that he crossed
over the middle of it; from which I concluded, that
his love was at least diminished in the proportion of
the difference between the diagonal and the two sides
of a square.” It was not long ere she ceased to be
able to speak of love in a sportive tone. She became
deeply enamoured of the Marquis de Silly, the brother
of a friend. He respected her, and acted the part of
a counsellor, and almost a brother, but he could not
return her affection: and the unfortunate fair one has
touchingly described the sufferings she endured from
her idolatrous and hopeless passion. Years elapsed
before it was eradicated.</p>

<p>This woe was aggravated by another. The death
of the prioress, Madame de Grieu, in 1710, obliged
her to quit the convent, and threw her without resources
on the world. She accompanied to Paris the
sister of her late patroness, and found a temporary
refuge in the Presentation convent. To the purses of
her friends she resolutely determined to make no
appeal, while her means of repayment were uncertain,
but rather to welcome servitude than forfeit her
self-estimation. Her finances and hopes were almost
at the lowest ebb, when the report of her astonishing
abilities reached the gay, frivolous, and volatile duchess
of La Ferté. The duchess was delighted with the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>idea of getting possession of, and exhibiting, what in
fashionable cant phrase is called “a lion.” She could
not rest till the new wonder was brought to her; an
event which was somewhat retarded by the necessity
under which Mademoiselle de Launay was placed,
of borrowing decent clothes to appear in. The duchess
was one of those persons who are apt to take sudden
and violent likings, and she instantly pronounced her
to be an absolute prodigy. She lauded her without
measure in all quarters, hurried her about from place
to place, and showed her off, much in the same way
that a remarkably clever monkey is managed by an
itinerant exhibitor of wild beasts. Madame de Staal
has given an account, which is at once ludicrous and
painful, of what she endured at this period. Fortunately
for her, she became acquainted with men of
talent, and acquired some valuable friends, among
whom were Fontenelle and Malazieu.</p>

<p>Disappointed in her hopes of being received into
the household of the Duchess of La Ferté, or of obtaining
an establishment elsewhere through her means,
De Launay accepted an offer from the Duchess of
Maine, to whom she had been introduced. This defection,
as it was deemed, threw her late patroness
into a paroxysm of rage. Her new situation was an
unenviable one. She filled the place of a lady’s maid,
who had retired; her apartment was a wretched low
closet, in which it was impossible to move about in an
upright posture, and which had neither chimney nor
window; and her chief occupation was to make up
shifts, in which she confesses herself to have been so
inexpert, that, when the duchess came to put on some
of her handywork, she found in the arm what ought
to have been in the elbow. By the duchess, and all
the upper classes in the house, she was utterly neglected,
as a mere drudge; by those of her own class,
she was envied, hated, and persecuted, for her natural
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>superiority over them. Life at last became a burthen,
and there was a moment when she seriously meditated
the commission of suicide.</p>

<p>A happy chance lifted her at once from this slough
of despond into her proper sphere. There was an
exceedingly beautiful female, named Testard, who laid
claim to supernatural powers; by desire of the Duke
of Orleans, Fontenelle had visited her, and, prejudiced
by her charms, is said to have manifested too
much faith in her. This folly of a philosopher, who
was not remarkable for believing too much, excited a
loud clamour. “You had better write to M. de Fontenelle,
to let him hear what every body is talking
against him about Testard,” said the duchess one day
to her despised attendant. De Launay did write;
and her letter, though brief, was such a finished composition,
such an admirable mixture of delicate reproof
and delicate praise, that, in the course of a few days,
innumerable copies of it were spread throughout Paris.
She, meanwhile, was unconscious of the effect which
she had produced, till she was apprised of it by the
duchess’s visitors, who overwhelmed her with compliments
and attentions.</p>

<p>From this time Mademoiselle de Launay was looked
upon by the duchess as a person whose opinion was of
some consequence, and was admitted into her parties,
and enjoyed her confidence. She now shared with
Malezieu the task of supplying plans and verses for
the spectacles at Sceaux. Her literary connections
became more widely extended, and she had no lack of
lovers. Among those who paid the most devoted
homage to her, was the Abbé de Chaulieu; the
passion, as she herself hints, could have been only
platonic, for he was then verging on eighty, but she
owns that she had “a despotic authority over everything
in his house.” It must, however, be mentioned,
to her honour, that she displayed a rare disinterestedness,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>and steadily refused presents from him, which
would have tempted a woman of a common mind,
especially under De Launay’s circumstances. The
princely gift of a thousand pistoles, which the Abbé
offered, would have saved her from the slavery, endured
night after night, of reading a duchess to sleep,
while her own health was endangered by want of
rest.</p>

<p>In the memorial which the Duchess of Maine drew
up in behalf of the legitimated princes, she was assisted
by De Launay. “I turned over,” says the latter,
“the old chronicles, and the ancient and modern jurisconsults,
till excessive fatigue disposed the princess to
rest. Then came my reading, to lull her to sleep;
and then I went to seek for slumber, which, however,
I never found!”</p>

<p>In the proceedings of the duchess, with respect to
the Cellamare conspiracy, she was deeply implicated;
a part at least of the correspondence passed through
her hands. Her good sense anticipated, long before
the event, what would be the final result. The storm
burst at last. She was arrested on the 19th of December,
1718, and, three days after, was committed
to the Bastile. With a truly philosophical spirit, she
soon became reconciled to her fate. Luckily, she had
an invaluable companion in her maid Rondel, faithful,
affectionate, and acute, the very model of domestics.
But it must not be concealed, that she had another consolation,
to lighten her prison hours. She inspired two
persons with an ardent attachment. One of these was
a fellow prisoner, on the Cellamare score, the Chevalier
de Menil; the other was the king’s lieutenant in the
fortress, M. de Maisonrouge. Reason would have
chosen the latter as the proper object of fondness; but
her wayward heart decided in favour of the former.
No writer has ever imagined a more elevated, devoted,
self-sacrificing passion than that of Maisonrouge. He
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>lived and breathed but for her; ever watchful to forerun
all her wishes, having no delight but to behold
and converse with her, he had even the magnanimity
to convey her letters to Menil, and to bring about
interviews, when he found that her heart was irrevocably
bestowed on him. The catastrophe is painful.
The favoured Menil, who had solemnly pledged himself
to make her his wife, was no sooner set free than
he proved faithless to his vows. The noble-minded
and unfortunate Maisonrouge never recovered the
shock which he sustained from his loss; he died the
victim of his unrequited love.</p>

<p>The confinement of Mademoiselle de Launay was
continued for two years; she was the last to be
liberated. Her imprisonment was protracted by her
repeated resolute refusals to confess anything that
could tend to derogate from the safety and character
of the Duchess of Maine. She persisted in this
course even after she had the duchess’s permission
to speak out, and she was released at last after having
made only an imperfect confession. This heroic conduct
gained, as it deserved, universal praise. It is
mortifying to relate that, after her sufferings, she was
received by the duchess without that warm greeting
which she had a right to expect. The duchess even
carried her indifference so far as to let her remain
almost in rags, all her clothes having been worn out in
the Bastile. Yet she would not hear of her quitting
Sceaux, and when Dacier, who was rich, would have
married De Launay, she frustrated the negotiation, in
the dread of losing her. At length, when her ill-used
and exhausted dependent was meditating to retire into
a convent, the duchess bestirred herself, and brought
about an union with the Baron de Staal, a half-pay
Swiss officer. The baroness was now admitted to
all the honours enjoyed by the highest ladies in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span>household, and from this period till her decease in
1750, she was comparatively happy.</p>

<p>Nicholas de Malezieu, a native of Paris, was born
in 1650. Like Madame de Staal, he possessed much
talent, and, like her, he displayed it in childhood. By
the time that he was four years old he had, with
scarcely any assistance, taught himself to read and
write, and at twelve years of age had gone through a
complete course of philosophy. His merit gained for
him the friendship of Bossuet, and the Duke of
Montausier, and so highly did those eminent men rate
it, that they recommended him as tutor to the Duke
of Maine. Fenelon was subsequently added to the
list of his friends, and, notwithstanding the breach
between that amiable prelate and Bossuet, he retained
the good-will of both. He seems, too, to have lived
in harmony with all the principal contemporary authors.
The marriage of the Duke of Maine with the
high-spirited and intelligent grand-daughter of the
great Condé drew still closer the ties which bound
Malezieu to the family of the duke. His learning
embraced a wide circle, he was a proficient in mathematics,
elegant literature, Greek, and Hebrew, and his
extemporary translations from the Greek dramatists
and poets, and his illustrations and comments on them,
are said to have been delivered with a degree of eloquence
which excited universal admiration. The
duchess listened to his instructions with delight. It
is therefore not wonderful, that he acquired an almost
unbounded influence in the ducal palace. “The decisions
of M. Malezieu,” says Madame de Staal, “were
thought as infallible as were those of Pythagoras
among his disciples. The warmest disputes were at an
end the moment any one pronounced the words ‘<i>He</i>
said it.’” There was another reason which had, perhaps
no small effect in rendering him a favourite
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span>with the duchess. He was not one of those stately
personages who think that it derogates from their dignity
to attend to graceful trifles. The duchess was
fond of giving magnificent spectacles and entertainments,
and having plays acted, at Sceaux, where she
held a sort of miniature court. Malezieu had the
management of them, and when verses, and sometimes
pieces, were wanted, his ready pen was called in to
supply them. From these light occupations he was
taken away for a time, to become mathematical preceptor
to the youthful Duke of Burgundy; in this
task he was for four years engaged, and he performed
it in a manner which enhanced his reputation. The
lessons which he gave to his royal pupil were afterwards
published, under the title of “Elements of Geometry.”
The days of Malezieu were spent in uninterrupted
tranquillity, till the period when the duchess rashly
plunged into intrigues with the Spanish court. It
was not unnatural that he should espouse warmly the
cause of his noble patrons, and he was perhaps led
to the verge of treason before he was aware. His
heaviest offence seems to have been his writing, at
the request of the Duchess of Maine, sketches of two
letters against the Duke of Orleans which were to be
sent to the Spanish monarch, for the purpose of being
addressed by him to Louis XV. and the parliaments.
Malezieu long persisted in denying the fact, and asserting
the innocence of his employer, and for this
persistency he was kept in the Bastile after the whole
of the plotters, with the exception of himself and De
Launay, had been discharged. It was not till he
knew that proof was in the hands of the government,
and the duchess had confessed, that he avowed the
authorship of the letters. He was then released, but
was exiled for six months to Etampes. His decease
took place in 1727.</p>

<p>There remains yet another person who suffered by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span>the Cellamare conspiracy, though he was not one of
its agents. He had the fate of the unlucky stork in
the fable, who got into dangerous company. Bargeton,
one of the most celebrated advocates of the parliament
of Paris, was born, about 1675, at Uzès, in Languedoc.
If he was not of humble birth, his parents at
least were poor; for, before he had emerged from
obscurity, all relationship with him was disclaimed by
a Languedocian family which claimed to be noble.
When, however, his fortune and fame were established,
one of that family was anxious to prove his consanguinity
with the formerly despised advocate, and hoped
to flatter him, by descanting on the antiquity of their
common origin. Bargeton cut short the harangue of
his would-be kinsman. “As you are a gentleman by
birth,” said he, “it is impossible that we can be
relations.”</p>

<p>Bargeton was the law adviser of some of the highest
personages of the kingdom. The duke and duchess
of Maine placed entire confidence in him. This circumstance
gave rise to suspicion that he was connected
with the Cellamare plot, and he was consequently
committed to the Bastile. In a short time
his innocence was recognized, and he was set at
liberty.</p>

<p>The legal reputation of Bargeton, both as a
civilian and common lawyer, induced Machault, the
comptroller-general of finances, to apply to him, in
1749, for assistance. The clergy had hitherto contributed
to the wants of the state only by voluntary gifts;
and, of course, asserted the privilege of not being
compelled to contribute at all. Machault determined
to put an end to this pretended privilege, by subjecting
them, like the rest of the people, to the payment of
the twentieth. Had he succeeded, his success would
have put an end to one of the abuses which contributed
to produce the Revolution, and, most probably,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span>would at length have caused the downfall of another
equally crying abuse with respect to the nobles.
Though Bargeton was thoroughly convinced that the
clergy had no right to an exemption from imposts,
yet, being aware that the firmness of Louis XV. was
not to be relied on, he advised Machault either to prohibit
the ecclesiastics from holding meetings, or to
decline a contest with them. “I have the king’s promise
to stand by me,” said Machault. “He will break
it,” replied the advocate, who, in this instance, proved
to be a prophet. Bargeton, nevertheless, lent his aid
to the comptroller-general, and wrote a series of admirable
letters, on the subject of the clerical immunity.
His labour was in vain. Unchangeable in nothing but
sensuality and despotism, the king yielded; the clergy
triumphed; and the letters of Bargeton were suppressed
by an order of council. The author did not live to
witness this event; he died early in 1753, before his
work had passed through the press.</p>

<p>The suspicion of carrying on an improper correspondence
with Spain, though it does not appear that he
was connected with the Duchess of Maine’s party, gave
another prisoner to the Bastile. Nicholas Mahudel,
who was born at Langres, in 1673, was by profession a
physician; but his celebrity was acquired by his profound
knowledge of history and numismatics. So
extensive were his talents and information upon those
subjects, that he was chosen a member of the Academy
of Inscriptions, and he took a very active part
in the proceedings of that learned body. His servant
having betrayed to the police some letters which his
master had written to Spain, at the period when all
intercourse with that country was looked upon with a
jealous eye, the consequence was, that Mahudel was
lodged in the Bastile for several months. It was
while he was in prison that he wrote his “History of
Medallions,” of which only four copies were printed.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span>His other productions are chiefly dissertations on
medals, and on historical questions. He died in 1747.</p>

<p>It has seldom happened that a captive has been reluctant
to quit his prison. Such an uncommon anomaly
did, however, actually occur with respect to an
individual who was implicated in the Cellamare plot.
Five years had elapsed since the discomfiture of that
plot, and the government believed that all who were
connected with it had been released, when it was by
mere chance discovered that one of them, the Marquis
de Bon Repos, had been left in the Bastile by mistake.
Bon Repos, an aged officer, who, notwithstanding
his title, was miserably poor, was anything but
grateful for his proffered release. He had become habituated
to confinement, and was rejoiced to be safe
from want, and he manifested a strong dislike to “a
crust of bread and liberty.” It was not without much
murmuring that he consented to change his quarters
in the Bastile for others in the Hôtel des Invalides.</p>

<p>It might have been supposed that the tremendous
explosion of the Mississippi scheme, which spread ruin
over France, would have filled the prisons with real
or imagined offenders. But this was not the case.
Law himself, more unfortunate and imprudent perhaps
than criminal, received a passport from the regent,
and reached Brussels in safety. The only persons
who appear to have at all suffered, were his brother,
William Law, and two of the directors, who were sent
for a short time to the Bastile.</p>

<p>The next remarkable inmate of the Bastile, the
Count de Horn, a Flemish noble, was no less infamous
by crime than he was illustrious by birth. He was
allied to several princely houses, and could even claim
relationship with the regent Duke of Orleans. So
thoroughly had he disgraced himself, by his fraudulent
and debauched conduct, that at the very time when he
was meditating the atrocity which drew on him the vengeance
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span>of the law, his family had despatched a gentleman
to pay his debts, to request his expulsion from
Paris, and to bring him back, by force if necessary, to
his own country. Their agent arrived too late. Some
of the count’s freaks, disgraceful as they were, might
have been charitably ascribed to the licentious manners
of the age, and the turbulent passions of a youth
of twenty-two, had he not been guilty of a crime
which proved that his heart was still more faulty than
his head.</p>

<p>The two indiscretions—if so mild a name may be
given to them—for which the Count de Horn was sent
to the Bastile, were not too harshly punished by his
imprisonment; as they manifested a degree of brutality
which was ominous of worse deeds. In company
with some of his libertine companions, he was passing
the cloisters of St. Germain, where a corpse was waiting
for interment. “What are you doing here? Get
up!” he exclaimed to the body, which was lying uncovered.
He seconded his speech by striking the
corpse several blows with his sword, and overturning
it among the sacred vessels, which were placed in readiness
for the funeral service.</p>

<p>As no notice was taken of this outrage, he was
emboldened to make the church of St. Germain once
more the scene of his exploits. It is necessary to
mention that, at the period in question, almost the
whole population of Paris was labouring under the
epidemic madness of the famous Mississippi scheme.
An ordinance relative to bank notes had just been
issued by the government, and a hawker was crying
it for sale in the street. From this man the count
purchased a copy of the ordinance, and gave him a
crown for it, on condition of his placing a large stone
at the great door of the church. On this stone De
Horn mounted, and while high mass was being celebrated
within the building, he thundered out the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span>anthem which is sung when the dead are committed to
the ground, and he concluded by proclaiming the
burial of bank notes. This second insult to public
decency was too much to be borne; the priest laid his
complaint before the government, and the offender
was conveyed to the Bastile.</p>

<p>In the course of a few days the youthful profligate
was set at liberty. But his brief imprisonment had
worked no beneficial change upon him. It seems,
indeed, to have had a contrary effect. So slight a
chastisement perhaps induced him to calculate upon
impunity for greater crimes. A very short time
elapsed before he dipped his hands in blood. In the
sanguinary deed which brought him to destruction,
he had two accomplices, Laurent de Mille, a half-pay
captain, and Lestang, a youth of twenty, the son of a
Flemish banker. Every Frenchman, who could any
how obtain the means of speculating, was then
busily engaged in the Rue Quincampoix, which was
the Parisian stock exchange. De Horn, too, was
there; but his speculation was of a more diabolical
nature than that which engaged the multitude. Having
picked out a rich stock-jobber, who was known to
carry about with him a large sum in notes, he lured
him by pretending to be in possession of shares, which
he was willing to sell considerably under the market
price. These bargains were usually concluded in a
tavern; and, accordingly, De Horn and his associates
proceeded with their unsuspecting victim to a house of
that kind in the Rue de Venise. There he stabbed
the unfortunate stock-jobber, and robbed him of his
pocket-book. He then, with his accomplices, leaped
out of the window, and endeavoured to make his escape.
Lestang got off, but the count and the half-pay captain
were less fortunate; they were overtaken, and lodged
in prison.</p>

<p>Justice, on this occasion, was not delayed. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span>trial of the delinquents followed close upon the commission
of the murder; no circumstance of mitigation
could be pleaded in their behalf, and they were both
condemned to be broken on the wheel. No sooner
did the sentence become known than the whole of the
aristocratical class in France, Flanders, and Germany,
was in commotion. To subject a nobleman to such a
degrading punishment was declared to be an unprecedented
and abominable measure. The regent was
beset on all sides by solicitations for a pardon, or, at
least, for a change in the mode of executing the criminal.
When the first of these boons was found to be
hopeless, redoubled exertions were made to obtain the
second. Among the arguments employed to move
the regent, that of the culprit being related to him was
strongly urged. But, though Philip of Orleans was
stained by many vices, there were moments when his
better nature prevailed, and he was capable of acting
nobly. To the near relations of the count, who
pressed him incessantly on the subject, he replied,
“When I have impure blood in my veins, I have it
drawn out.” Then, quoting the sentiment of Corneille,
“’tis crime that brands with shame, and not
the scaffold,” he added, “I must share in the disgrace
of which you complain, and this ought to console the
rest of his kindred.” It is said, however, that he was
at length on the point of yielding so far as to commute
the form of punishment for one less obnoxious; but
that Mr. Law and the Abbé Dubois insisted on the
absolute necessity of allowing justice to take its course.
Popular indignation would, they justly remarked, be
roused by any favour being shown to the perpetrator
of such a heinous offence. The regent acquiesced in
their opinion; and, that he might not be harassed by
further appeals to his clemency, he went privately to
St. Cloud, where he remained till the murderers were
executed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span></p>

<p>Having lost all hope from the Regent, the Princes
of Robecq and Isengheim, who were nearly allied to
De Horn, tried a new method of evading the dreaded
stigma. They gained admission to his prison, and
exhorted him to escape the wheel, by taking poison,
which they offered. But either religious scruples, or
a lingering belief that he might yet be pardoned, induced
him to decline acceding to their wishes. Finding
that all their intreaties and remonstrances were unavailing,
they quitted him in a rage, exclaiming, “Go,
wretch! you are fit only to die by the hand of the
executioner.”</p>

<p>The firmness of the regent was worthy of applause.
It was, nevertheless, looked upon as an inexpiable
insult by the aristocracy in general, and especially by
the kinsfolk of the malefactor. The regent having
directed that the confiscated property of the count
should be restored to the prince, his brother, the
haughty noble rejected the proffered boon, and gave
vent to his high displeasure in the following insolent
letter. “I do not complain, Sir, of the death of my
brother; he had committed so horrible a crime, that
there was no punishment he did not deserve. But I
complain, that, in his person, you have violated the
rights of the kingdom, of the nobility, and of nations.
For the offer of his confiscated property, which you
have been pleased to make, I thank you; but I should
think myself as infamous as he was, if I were to accept
of the slightest favour from your Royal Highness.
I hope that God and the king will, some day, mete out
to you the same rigid justice that you have dispensed
to my unfortunate brother.”</p>

<p>By the death of the Duke of Orleans, in 1723, all
the power of the state fell into the worthless hands of
the Duke of Bourbon. The vices of Orleans had
been at least palliated by great talents, some virtues,
and a heart which, though corrupted, was not dead to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span>kind and noble feelings; but Bourbon, harsh in disposition,
rude in manners, repulsive in personal appearance,
and governed by an artful and profligate mistress,
had no one good quality to throw even a faint lustre
over his numerous defects. The sway of Bourbon
lasted little more than two years, and, in that brief
space of time, he committed so many enormous political
errors, springing from ignorance, presumption,
and intolerance, that the kingdom was thrown into
discontent and confusion.</p>

<p>The minister of the war department, Claude le
Blanc, was one of those who suffered by the change
which took place on the death of the Duke of Orleans.
Le Blanc was born in 1669, and had filled several
important offices before he became one of the ministers.
The machinations of his enemies, one of the most
inveterate of whom was the Marshal de Villeroi, procured
his temporary banishment from court in 1723,
on suspicion of his having participated in peculation
committed by the treasurer. He was confined in the
Bastile by the Duke of Bourbon, and the parliament
was directed to bring him to trial. To secure his
conviction, his adversaries calumniously asserted, that
he had employed an assassin to murder one of his
principal accusers. The parliament, however, fully
acquitted him of all the charges which were brought
against him. He was, nevertheless, exiled by the
duke. In 1726, Cardinal de Fleury placed him once
more at the head of the war department, where he
continued till his decease, in 1728. It is in favour of
his character that he died poor, and that he was beloved
by the people.</p>

<p>Le Blanc was scarcely restored to his office, before
his vacant place in the Bastile was filled by one who
had been among the most active of his enemies. Joseph
Paris Duverney, a native of Dauphiné, of humble birth,
was one of four brothers, all of whom were men of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span>talent. A fortunate chance gave them the opportunity
of exercising their talents in a wider field than, considering
their primitive station in life, they could have
hoped to find. They were the sons of a man who kept
a small solitary inn at the foot of the Alps, and whom
they assisted in his business. The Duke of Vendôme
was then at the head of the French army in Italy, and
all his plans were rendered abortive by the failure of
supplies. This want of subsistence was caused by the
scandalous conduct of Bouchu, the commissary general.
Bouchu, who was old, had the folly to make
love to a young girl, and she had the good sense to
prefer his deputy, who had youth and personal appearance
on his side. To revenge himself for this slight,
Bouchu retarded the collecting of provisions, in order
to throw the blame on his deputy, who was charged
with the merely mechanical part of the operations.
Knowing that further delay would be ruin to him, the
deputy contrived to collect a portion of the supplies
that were wanted; but he was yet far from being out
of his difficulties, for the Alps were interposed between
him and the French army, and he knew not where to
find in the neighbourhood a practicable pass. While
he was labouring under this embarrassment, he luckily
fell in with the four brothers, and they engaged to
extricate him from it. They were thoroughly acquainted
with every path and goat track in that wild
region, and they conducted the convoy with so much
skill, through apparently impassable ways, that they
reached the French camp without having suffered the
slightest loss.</p>

<p>This service, for which they were liberally rewarded,
laid the foundation of their fortune. The contractors
and commissaries employed them, and promoted them
rapidly; and, at no distant time, the brothers became
themselves contractors, and extensive commercial speculators.
Riches rapidly flowed in upon them, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span>they were called to take a share in managing the
finances of the state. They experienced, however, a
temporary eclipse during the ascendancy of Law, to
whom they were hostile, and who avenged himself by
procuring their exile into Dauphiné. The flight of
Law put an end to their banishment; they returned
to Paris, were in higher credit than ever, and contributed
much to mitigate the evils which had been
caused by the Mississippi scheme. They continued
to have great weight in the government, till they
lost it in consequence of a political intrigue, in which
Joseph Paris imprudently engaged, with the Marchioness
de Prie, the Duke of Bourbon’s mistress.
Their intent was to exclude Cardinal de Fleury from
public affairs, and to give the duke an unbounded
ascendancy over the youthful monarch. Fleury discovered
the plot; the duke was deprived of power;
and the brothers were once more exiled. Joseph was
soon after arrested, at his asylum near Langres, and
was sent to the Bastile, where he remained for nearly
two years. In 1730, however, he recovered his
influence, and he kept it till his death, in 1770.
France is indebted to Joseph Duverney for the project
of the Royal Military School, which was carried into
execution in 1751.</p>

<p>Two grandsons of the unfortunate Fouquet, the
Count de Belleisle, and the Chevalier de Belleisle, were
involved in the fall of Le Blanc, and were for some time
inmates of the Bastile. The count was born in 1684;
the chevalier in 1693. The count had acquired a high
military character, in the war of the succession, and
in the Spanish campaign of 1719, when, with his
brother, he was immured in a prison. After his
release, he served with distinction in various quarters,
and rose to the rank of marshal. Cardinal de Fleury
placed entire confidence in his civil as well as his
military talents. It was not, however, till the breaking
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span>out of the war of 1741 that his genius shone forth in
its full lustre. The secret negotiations for raising the
Elector of Bavaria to the dignity of emperor were
carried on by him, and on this occasion he gave convincing
proof of his diplomatic skill. Placed at the
head of the French army, which was to maintain
Charles VII. on the throne, Belleisle carried Prague
by assault. But while, as ambassador extraordinary
of Louis XV., he was securing the election of Charles
at Frankfort, the Austrians threatened to deprive
him of his recent conquests. He, therefore, hastened
back to his army, obtained some advantages, and
would probably have triumphed, had not the sudden
defection of Prussia and Saxony left him to bear the
whole weight of Maria Theresa’s forces.</p>

<p>Prague, garrisoned by 28,000 French, was soon
invested by 60,000 enemies. Belleisle offered to
give up the Bohemian capital, on condition of being
allowed to retire without molestation; but the besiegers
would listen to nothing short of a surrender at discretion.
After having made a protracted defence,
he began to be threatened by famine, and, in this
extremity, he resolved to break through the Austrian
quarters. At the head of 15,000 men, with twelve
days’ provisions, he sallied from Prague, on the night
of the 16th of December, 1742, and directed his march
upon Egra, which city was at the distance of thirty-eight
leagues. He took his measures so well, that,
though he was closely pursued by the enemy’s light
troops, he sustained little injury. The sufferings of
the French army were, nevertheless, extreme. Compelled
to bivouac for ten nights among snow and ice,
and often without wood for fires, the mortality among
the troops was appalling. The line of the retreat
was marked throughout by whole platoons frozen to
death; seventeen hundred men perished in the course
of the ten days. In 1746 and 1747, Belleisle was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span>charged with the defence of Dauphiné; these were
his last campaigns. In 1748 he was created a duke
and peer, and in 1757 he became war minister. He
held the war department for three years, and reformed
many abuses. In 1761 he died childless, the last of
his family, his heir, the Count of Gisors, having fallen
at the battle of Crevelt.</p>

<p>His brother, the chevalier, had gone before him, the
victim of an intemperate courage. From 1734 to
1746, the chevalier was often actively engaged, both
in fighting and negotiating, and displayed equal talents
in each occupation. It being an object of importance
to open a passage into the heart of Piedmont, the two
brothers agreed that an attack should be made on the
formidable intrenched post of the Piedmontese, at the
Col de l’Assiette. The chevalier was animated by the
prospect of gaining the rank of marshal, in case of
success. The position of the enemy was all but inaccessible,
and was fortified with more than usual care,
well provided with artillery, and held by a large force.
Belleisle led his men to the attack, but found it impossible
even to approach his antagonists, who
scattered death among his ranks, with almost perfect
impunity to themselves. Instead of retiring from a
hopeless contest, he madly persisted in his efforts,
till the slaughter became horrible. He at last put
himself at the head of a body of officers, and made a
desperate but fruitless assault, in which he fell, along
with most of those who surrounded him. Nearly four
thousand of the assailants were slain, and half as many
wounded, while the loss of the Piedmontese fell far
short of a hundred men.</p>

<p>We have, in the former part of this chapter seen
one literary female an inmate of the Bastile, we must
now contemplate in the same situation another, of equal
talents, but with a more sullied character. The second
of these females was Madame de Tencin, sister of the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span>cardinal of that name. Though, like most Frenchwomen
of that period, it is probable that Madame
de Staal did not preserve an inviolate chastity, she certainly
paid more respect to appearances than was paid
by Madame de Tencin, and was less stimulated by
mere animal passion. “I shall paint only my bust,”
Madame de Staal is said to have replied, when she
was asked how, in her Memoirs, she would contrive
to speak of her love affairs; with respect to Madame de
Tencin, it may be doubted whether, at least while she
was moving in the circle of the court, she would have
hesitated to delineate a whole-length likeness of herself.</p>

<p>Tencin was a name derived from a small estate; the
family name was Guerin. The lady in question was
born in 1681, and her father was president of the
parliament of Grenoble. She was placed in the convent
of Montfleury, near Grenoble, where she resided for
five years. If credit may be given to the statements
of St. Simon and others, her conduct while she wore
the veil was anything but pious and decorous. The
consequence of one of her amours is said to have
rendered it indispensable for her to leave the convent,
of which she was already tired. Her great object was
to shine in Paris, and this she accomplished. Through
the interest of Fontenelle, who took a great interest in
her, she obtained a dispensation from the Pope, and
she then gave full swing to her pleasures. She became
the mistress of the ultra profligate Dubois; and
the scandalous chronicles of the time charge her with
having joined in the orgies of the regent and his companions,
and prostituted her talents by the composition
of obscene works. With Law, the Mississippi projector,
she was intimate, and she and her brother
appear to have profited largely by speculations during
that period of national madness. It is one pleasing
feature in her character, that she was more anxious to
establish her brother than herself.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span></p>

<p>The celebrated d’Alembert was the fruit of one of
her amours; the father was the Chevalier Destouches.
The infant was, in the first instance, deserted by its
parents; it was left on the steps of the church of St.
John de la Ronde, where it was found in such a state
of weakness that, instead of sending it to the Foundling
Hospital, the commissary of police humanely gave it
to the wife of a poor glazier to be nursed. Such a
want of maternal feeling, had it not been in some
measure atoned for, would have justified a sarcasm of the
Abbé Trublet, who, on some one praising to him the
mild disposition of Madame de Tencin, replied, “Oh,
yes! if she had an interest in poisoning you, she would
choose the mildest poison for the purpose.” The parents
are, however, said to have relented in the course
of a few days; the father settled on him a pension of
1200 livres.</p>

<p>It was the fatal result of another of her amours that
gave her a place in the Bastile. In 1726, La Fresnaye,
one of the members of the Great Council, shot himself
through the head at her house. A paper in his
handwriting was found, in which he declared that, if
ever he died a violent death, she would be the cause of
it. From this paper, which certainly bears on the face
of it a very different meaning, it was hastily and
harshly concluded, that she had a hand in his murder.
She was consequently committed to the Concièrgerie,
whence she was removed to the Bastile; but she was
not long a prisoner.</p>

<p>In her later years, the conduct of Madame de
Tencin underwent a complete reformation; the
catastrophe of La Fresnaye perhaps contributed to
the change. She kept up a correspondence with
Cardinal Lambertini, which was not discontinued when
he became Pope Benedict XIV., and her house was
the resort of all the wit and talent of Paris, with Fontenelle
and Montesquieu at their head. Her assemblage
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span>of literary men she used jocosely to call her
menagerie, and her animals, and it was her custom, on
New-year’s-day, to present each individual with two
ells of velvet, for a pair of breeches. It is not easy
to suppress a smile at the ludicrous idea of such a
present. Madame de Tencin died in 1749. Her
three romances, the Count de Comminge, the Siege
of Calais, and the Misfortunes of Love, still deservedly
maintain a high rank among works of that class. It
has been said, that she was assisted in writing them
by two of her nephews; but the truth of this is at
least doubtful.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</h2>

<p>Reign of Louis XV. continued—The Bull Unigenitus—A Notary
Public—G. N. Nivelle—G. C. Buffard—Death of Deacon
Paris—Rise, progress, and acts, of the Convulsionaries—Persecution
of them, and artifices employed by them to foil their persecutors—Lenglet
Dufresnoy—La Beaumelle—F. de Marsy—Marmontel—The
Abbé Morellet—Mirabeau the elder—The
Chevalier Resseguier—Groubendal and Dulaurens—Robbé de
Beauveset—Mahé de la Bourdonnais—Count Lally—La Chalotais—Marin—Durosoi—Prévost
de Beaumont—Barletti St.
Paul—Dumouriez.</p>

</div>

<p>Religious intolerance, on the one hand, and disgusting
fanaticism, on the other, contributed largely to
swell the number of captives in the Bastile, and in
other places of confinement. For many years after
Pope Clement XI., at the instigation of the bigoted
Le Tellier and Louis XIV., had thrown among the
clergy of the Gallican church that ecclesiastical firebrand
the bull Unigenitus, it continued to spread the
flames of fierce contention, hatred, and persecution.
The first individual for whom the bull found an abode
in a prison was, I believe, a notary public. While the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span>regency was held by the Duke of Orleans, the bishops
of Mirepoix, Senez, Montpellier, and Boulogne, had
the boldness to sign an act, protesting against the
bull, and appealing from the pope to a future council;
and, accompanied by a notary, they solemnly presented
this act to the assembled Sorbonne. As to have imprisoned
the four bishops would scarcely have been
politic, they were only ordered to retire to their
dioceses; the notary, of whom a scape-goat could more
conveniently be made, was sent to the Bastile.</p>

<p>Backed by power, the supporters of the bull were
finally triumphant, and they did not fail to make the
vanquished party experience the consequence of being
defeated by men who did not consider forbearance as
a virtue. It would be useless to dwell upon the many
appellants who were chastised for having ventured to
doubt the pontifical infallibility, and insist on referring
the question in dispute to a future council; I will,
therefore, only make mention of two individuals.</p>

<p>Among those who were most active in opposing
the bull Unigenitus, and who, consequently, were
proscribed by its champions, was Gabriel Nicholas
Nivelle; he was indefatigable in drawing up memorials
and tracts, and soliciting appeals against it. He
more than once contrived to elude his pursuers; but,
in 1730, he was taken and committed to the Bastile,
where he remained for four months. His zeal was,
however, rather excited than cooled by this imprisonment;
and, till his decease in 1761, when he was in
his seventy-fourth year, he continued to be a determined
opponent of the bull. Nivelle edited several
voluminous works relative to the contest in which
his party was engaged; the principal of which, in four
folio volumes, bears the title of The Constitution
Unigenitus denounced to the Universal Church, or
a General Collection of the Acts of Appeal.</p>

<p>Equally hostile to the bull, and equally persecuted
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span>by its victorious friends, was Gabriel Charles Buffard,
a native of Bayeux, who was born in 1683. He was
rector of the university of Caen, and canon of Bayeux;
but was expelled from his offices, and banished out
of the diocese, in 1722. Buffard settled at Paris,
where he was not long allowed to remain in quiet.
He was conveyed to the Bastile, and, after having
been there for some time, he was exiled to Auxerre.
From Auxerre he was speedily dragged to suffer
another imprisonment in the Bastile. Fortunately,
he found a protector in Cardinal des Gesvres, through
whose intercession he was set at liberty. Buffard
thenceforth lived in retirement, and gained a subsistence
by giving opinions as a chamber counsel, and
by assisting young scholars in the study of the canon
law. He died in 1763.</p>

<p>It was an opinion of Bishop Butler, the celebrated
author of The Analogy of Religion, that “whole
communities and public bodies might be seized with
fits of insanity, as well as individuals;” and, indeed,
that “nothing but this principle, that they are liable
to insanity, equally at least with private persons, can
account for the major part of those transactions which
we read of in history.” Singular as, at first sight,
this opinion may appear to be, there are many circumstances
which ought to induce us to pause, before we
reject it as erroneous. The strange scenes, for
instance, which took place among the Jansenists,—scenes
arising out of the death of the deacon Paris,—may
almost authorize a belief, that large bodies of
individuals can be simultaneously smitten with monomania,
or at least can communicate it to each other
with wonderful rapidity.</p>

<p>Francis Paris, a strenuous opponent of the bull
Unigenitus, was the son of a French counsellor.
Pious, humble, and benevolent, Paris relinquished to
his brother all claim to the paternal succession, renounced
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span>the world, lived by the labour of his own
hands, and spent his leisure moments in prayer, and
in succouring, consoling, and instructing the poor.
His modest estimate of his own abilities deterred him
from taking holy orders. He died on the 1st of
May, 1727, and was buried in the church-yard of
St. Medard. Many of those to whom he had been
a comforter and guide, looked upon him as a beatified
being, and came to pray at his tomb. Among the
number were many females. Rumours soon began
to be spread, that miracles were worked by the influence
of the sainted defunct; sight was said to be
restored, and contracted limbs extended to their full
longitude. Multitudes now flocked to the sacred
ground. Then ensued, especially among the women,
contortions and convulsive movements, attended by
cries, shrieks, and groans, all of which were regarded
as manifestations of divine power. All convulsive
movements are catching, and consequently, the number
of persons who displayed them at St. Medard,
increased daily to an enormous extent. The jargon
which was uttered by the convulsionaries, during their
paroxysms, was next supposed to be the language of
prophecy; and a whole volume of it was actually
published, under the title of “A Collection of Interesting
Predictions.” Before, however, we laugh at
our Gallic neighbours for such folly, it may be well
to remember some things which have happened in
England, within the last quarter of a century.</p>

<p>After these practices had gone on, with hourly increasing
vigour, for some years, the government closed the
church-yard of St. Medard, which was become the
theatre of exhibitions calculated to mislead the weak-minded,
and disgust men of sound intellect. But the
sect of the convulsionaries—for it had by this time grown
into a strong and regularly organized sect,—was not
discouraged by this measure. Earth from the church-yard
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[350]</span>where the deacon Paris was interred, and water
from the spring which had supplied him with drink, became
the symbols of this buried idol, and the means
of working miracles. Meetings were held in private
houses, and there fanaticism, of the darkest, wildest
kind, gave full scope to all its gloomy inspirations.
A regular system of torture was practised by the
deluded votaries; women being the principal sufferers.
To be beaten with logs on the tenderest portions of
the human frame; to bend the body into a semi-circular
form, and allow a weight of fifty pounds to be
dropped from the ceiling on to the abdomen; to lie
with a plank on the same part, while several men
stood on it; to be tied up with the head downwards;
and to have the breasts and nipples torn with pincers;
were among the inflictions to which females submitted,
and apparently with delight. The blows were inflicted
by vigorous young men, who were called Secouristes.
The highly sublimed madness of some pushed them
to still more dreadful extremities; it prompted them
to be tied on spits, and exposed to the flames, or to
be nailed by the hands and feet to a cross. The performance
of these unnatural acts was denominated
“the work.”</p>

<p>The Convulsionaries did not form a homogeneous
body; as was to be expected, they were split into
parties, bearing various appellations, and being, in
some instances, hostile to each other. There were the
Vaillantistes, the Augustinians, the Melangistes, the
Margoullistes, the Figuristes, and many more. The
Vaillantistes took their name from Peter Vaillant, a
priest, who taught that the prophet Elijah was resuscitated,
and that he would appear on earth, to convert
the Jews and the court of Rome. His disciple,
Housset, maintained that Vaillant himself was the
prophet. Darnaud, another priest, boldly assumed
the character of the prophet Enoch. The Augustinians,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[351]</span>who carried their fanaticism to such a pitch
that they were looked upon as heretical by other convulsionary
sects, were the followers of a friar of the
name of Augustin. Among their peculiar follies, was
that of making nocturnal processions, with torches in
their hands, and halters round their necks, to Nôtre
Dame, and thence to the place de Grêve; these processions
were a sort of rehearsal of the tragic scene
in which they expected they should ultimately be
called upon to perform. The Melangistes were those
who distinguished two causes producing convulsions;
one which gave rise to useless or improper acts,
another which inspired divine and supernatural acts.
The tenets of the Margoullistes have not been handed
down to us. The Figuristes were so called from their
representing, in their convulsive paroxysms, various
phases of the passion of Christ, and the martyrdom of
the saints.</p>

<p>The fierce enthusiasm of all these sectarians has
never been exceeded. Like American Indians, they
set at defiance the utmost severity of pain. Even
slight stimulus would rouse them into violent action.
“I have seen them,” says Voltaire, “when they were
talking of the miracles of St. Paris, grow heated by
degrees, till their whole frame trembled, their faces
were disfigured by rage, and they would have killed
whoever dared to contradict them. Yes, I have seen
them writhe their limbs, and foam, and cry out ‘There
must be blood!’” Not the slightest concession would
they make to avoid punishment. A pardon was offered
to several of them, who were sentenced to the pillory;
they refused it, for they could not, they said, repent of
having done right. No lapse of time could eradicate
this feeling from their minds. In 1775, when M. de
Malesherbes visited the Concièrgerie, he found there
a male and a female convulsionary, who had been imprisoned
for forty-one years. Age had not chilled in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[352]</span>them the resentment which was excited by their
wrongs. He offered them liberty, if they would only
ask for it; but they firmly replied, that they had been
unjustly detained, and that it was the business of
justice to atone for its errors, and to give the reparation
to which they were entitled. They were released.</p>

<p>It must not be imagined that the sect of the convulsionaries
consisted merely of poor and ignorant
people. Such was not the case. Strange as the fact
may appear, the sect included great numbers of pious,
learned, and intellectual men. Very many rich individuals
also belonged to it, and contributed to the
maintenance of their less fortunate brethren. A
Count Daverne was sent to the Bastile “for wasting
his property in supporting the convulsionaries;” and
the same crime brought a similar penalty on other
individuals. That there were, however, numerous
impostors, who pretended to espouse the doctrines of
the sect in order to further their own purposes, admits
of no doubt. There were men who gave regular lessons
in the art of bringing on convulsions.</p>

<p>A hot persecution was perseveringly carried on
against this sect, and with the usual result; the sect
throve in spite of it, or rather, perhaps, in consequence
of it. For five-and-thirty years it mocked all
attempts to exterminate it, and it did not begin to
decline till it was left to the withering influence of
ridicule and neglect. It is believed to have retained
a few votaries even to a recent period. The Bastile
and the other Parisian prisons were yearly crowded
with convulsionaries. Of those who were confined
in the Bastile, one of the earliest was Peter Vaillant,
from whom the Vaillantistes derived their name. He
had previously suffered there an imprisonment of three
years, for his opposition to the bull Unigenitus. In
1734, he was again sent thither, and, after having
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[353]</span>been there for two-and-twenty years, he was transferred
to Vincennes, where he died. Housset, his
disciple; Darnaud, who called himself the prophet
Enoch; the Abbé Blondel, author of Lives of the
Saints; the Abbés Deffart, Planchon, and Deribat;
Lequeux, prior of St. Yves, the learned editor of
Bossuet’s works; and Carré de Montgeron, a counsellor
of the parliament of Paris; were of the number
of those who were sent to the Bastile. Montgeron
was born in the French capital, in 1686, and we have
his own word for it that, till he was suddenly converted
in St. Médard’s church-yard, he was a thoroughly worthless
unbeliever. By a natural transition, he became
one of the most credulous and enthusiastic of dupes.
In 1737, he printed a quarto volume, illustrated with
twenty plates, “to demonstrate the truth of the
miracles operated by the intercession of the beatified
Paris.” This volume he presented to Louis XV. at
Versailles, and the next day, by order of the monarch,
he was conveyed to the Bastile. He was afterwards
an inmate of various prisons, and died at last in the
citadel of Valence. While he was in confinement, he
added two more volumes to his rhapsody.</p>

<p>In hunting down the humbler class of delinquents,
the police found abundant employment, and they performed
their task in the most oppressive manner.
Hénault, the lieutenant of police, an irascible and unreasoning
man, was an ardent partisan of the Jesuits,
and, of course, was a violent enemy of the proscribed
sect. His myrmidons spread terror in all directions.
They are charged with having, “even in the dead of
night, penetrated into the dwellings of individuals,
scaled the walls, broken open the doors, and shown
no respect to age or sex, when their object was to
discover, imprison, consign to the pillory, banish, and
ruin, those who favoured the convulsionaries.” It
was dangerous to be subject to epileptic or other fits;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[354]</span>persons who were attacked by them in the streets
having been pitilessly hurried off to jail.</p>

<p>The vigilance of the police was also kept on the
stretch, and in a majority of cases was eluded, by the
prints, posting-bills, pamphlets, and periodical writings
of the convulsionaries, as well as by their secret meetings.
Of the prints, one represented the tree of religion,
in the branches of which were seated Quesnel,
Paris, and other apostles of Jansenism, while two
Jesuits were striving to root it up. For this, a rhymer
and engraver, Cointre by name, was committed to
the Bastile. In another, Archbishop Vintimille was
seen throwing a stone at the sainted deacon Paris, and
the lieutenant of police was holding the archiepiscopal
cross, and stimulating the prelate. This print procured
for Mercier, the vender of it, a place in the
Bastile. In a third of these caricatures was depicted
the pope larded with a dozen Jesuits.</p>

<p>In placarding the walls, and distributing hand-bills,
all sorts of stratagems were employed. The following
is one of the most ingenious modes which was adopted
by the bill-stickers. A woman, raggedly dressed,
with a large pannier strapped on her back, leaned her
pannier against the wall, as though she wished to rest
herself. In the pannier was a child, who, as soon as
she stopped, opened the cover, and fixed a bill on the
wall. As soon as his task was performed he closed
the aperture, and his bearer proceeded with him to
another convenient place. The bills and short pamphlets,
which were made public in this and other ways,
were innumerable. In the library of the Duke de la
Vallière, there was an imperfect collection of them,
which formed thirteen quarto volumes. Most of them
seem to have been printed in the environs of the
capital; they were often brought into the city by
females, and in searching for them, the police officers
were guilty of the grossest indecency.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[355]</span></p>

<p>But the great object which the police sought to
obtain, and in which it was utterly foiled, was the suppression
of a periodical publication which bore the
title of Nouvelles Ecclesiastiques. This obnoxious
work was vigorously continued for more than twenty
years, without the government being able to lay hands
on the writers, or to stop the printing and distributing
of it. Many persons were, indeed, committed to the
Bastile and other prisons, on suspicion of being its
editors or contributors, but no positive proof could
ever be procured. The police were wholly at fault;
and the authors of the paper appear to have taken a
provoking pleasure in showing the lieutenant of police
their contempt of his efforts. In one instance, while
his satellites were fruitlessly searching a house which
was suspected of being the printing-office, a bundle of
the papers, wet from the press, was thrown into his
carriage almost before his face. The paper was sometimes
printed in the city, and sometimes in the neighbourhood.
At one time the press was secreted even
under the dome of the Luxembourg; at another, it
was hidden among piles of timber, and the printers
were disguised as sawyers; on other occasions, it was
contained in a boat on the Seine. When the paper
was printed in the vicinity of Paris, various artifices
were resorted to for smuggling it into the town, one
of which deserves especial notice. Water-dogs were
trained as carriers; they were closely shorn, the
papers were wrapped round them, a large rough skin
was then sewn carefully over the whole, and the sagacious
animals then took their way, unsuspected, to
their several destinations.</p>

<p>But enough has been said on the victims of religious
delusion; and we must now turn our view to persons
of a different class. The fertile author of little short
of thirty works, and the editor of an equal number,
nearly all of which are forgotten, Lenglet Dufresnoy,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[356]</span>who was born at Beauvais in 1764, was perhaps a
more frequent visiter to the Bastile than any other
person. It is said that he was so accustomed to
lettres de cachet, that as soon as he saw M. Tapin,
the officer, enter his apartment, he would greet him
with, “Ah, M. Tapin, good day to you;” and then
say to his servant, “Come, be quick; make up my
little bundle, and put in my linen and my snuff;”
which being done, he would add, “Now, M. Tapin, I
am at your service.” Between 1718 and 1751, he
was at least five times in the Bastile. He was also
acquainted with Vincennes and other jails. His first
committal to the Parisian state prison was perhaps
the one which was most dishonourable to him; he
was sent there to act the part of a spy, and worm out
the secrets of the persons who were in durance for
being concerned in the Cellamare conspiracy. It is
asserted, that he had already appeared in a similar
degrading character at Lille, in 1708, where he was
paid for intelligence by the allies and the French, and
betrayed both parties. Lenglet was of a quarrelsome
and caustic disposition, which involved him in personal
disputes, and he appears to have paid little
respect to truth; but he had at least one estimable
quality, an unconquerable love of independence,—no
offers, however flattering or lucrative, could prevail
on him to place himself under the galling yoke of the
rich and the great. His death, which took place in
1755, was occasioned by his falling into the fire while
he was asleep.</p>

<p>The Bastile twice received Laurent Angliviel la
Beaumelle, who was born in 1727, at Vallerangue, in
Lower Languedoc. His first imprisonment, in 1753,
which lasted six months, was caused by his Notes on
the Age of Louis XIV.; for his second, in the following
year, he was indebted to a passage in his Memoirs
of Madame de Maintenon, which charged the Austrian
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[357]</span>court with keeping poisoners in its pay. His
release, at the end of five months, was generously
obtained by the intercession of that court which he
had so grossly insulted. La Beaumelle was brought
up in the Catholic religion, but, during a residence
of some years in Geneva, he became a protestant.
At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed professor
of French literature at Copenhagen, and his first work,
“Mes Pensées,” was published in the Danish capital.
Lured by the patronage which Frederic of Prussia
held out to authors, La Beaumelle removed to Berlin.
Voltaire, who was then at the Prussian court, visited
him, and expressed a wish to be numbered among
his friends; but their amicable intercourse was soon
changed into deadly hostility. There was a short
paragraph in Mes Pensées, which wounded the vanity
of Voltaire, and La Beaumelle was also guilty of
having a respect for Maupertuis, whom Voltaire detested,
and missed no opportunity of ridiculing. The
rabid hatred with which Voltaire ever after pursued
his foe, and the virulent and even low abuse which he
lavished on him, can excite only disgust. The malign
influence of Voltaire having rendered Berlin a disagreeable
abode, La Beaumelle returned to his native
country. After having resided in peace at Toulouse
for several years, he obtained a place in the King’s
Library, at Paris, which, however, he did not long
retain; his death, which happened in 1779, followed
close upon his appointment. La Beaumelle had certainly
no mean talents; and it is much to be regretted,
that they were so often thrown away upon literary
squabbles. Of his works, the best are Mes Pensées;
a Defence of the Spirit of Laws; and Letters to M.
de Voltaire.</p>

<p>The literary successor of La Beaumelle in the
Bastile, was Francis de Marsy, a native of Paris, born
in 1714. After he had finished his studies, he was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[358]</span>admitted a member of the society of Jesuits. His
first productions were two Latin poems, on Tragedy
and Painting, from which, particularly the latter, he
derived considerable reputation, his Latinity being
good, his versification flowing and spirited, and his
imagery poetical. Encouraged perhaps by the praise
which he received for these works, he became an
author by profession, and wasted, in the ungrateful
occupation of writing for booksellers, those talents
which, otherwise employed, might have given him
permanent fame. One of his tasks, an analysis of
the works of Bayle, which he published in 1755, was
condemned by the parliament of Paris, and made
him, for some months, an inmate of the Bastile. He
died in 1763. Among his works are the first twelve
volumes of the History of the Chinese, Japanese, &amp;c.;
and an edition of Rabelais in eight volumes. The
former is a hasty compilation; the latter he spoiled,
by retouching and modernizing the style—it is probable,
however, that the clothing of Rabelais in a
modern garb was a sagacious scheme of the publishers.</p>

<p>To hazard censure upon an individual of the privileged
class, or even to be suspected of having done
so, was an infallible passport to the Bastile. That versatile
and elegant writer Marmontel was one of those
who were taught the danger of a courtier’s hostility.
This enemy was the Duke d’Aumont, whom, in his
Memoirs, he truly describes as being “the most stupid,
the most vain, and the most choleric, of all the gentlemen
of the King’s chamber.”</p>

<p>John Francis Marmontel, the son of parents in a
humble station, was born in 1723, at the town of Bort,
in the Limousin. He has drawn a delightful picture
of the comfort and content in which his family lived.
“The property on which we all subsisted was very
small. Order, domestic arrangement, labour, a little
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[359]</span>trade, and frugality, kept us above want. Our little
garden produced nearly as many vegetables as the consumption
of the family required; the orchard afforded
us fruits; and our quinces, our apples, and our pears,
preserved with the honey of our bees, were, in winter,
most exquisite breakfasts for the good old women and
children. They were clothed by the small flock of
sheep that folded at St. Thomas. My aunts spun the
wool, and the hemp of the field that furnished us with
linen; and in the evenings, when, by the light of a
lamp, which our nut-trees supplied with oil, the young
people of the neighbourhood came to help us to dress
our flax, the picture was exquisite. The harvest of
the little farm secured us subsistence; the wax and
honey of the bees, to which one of my aunts carefully
attended, formed a revenue that cost but little; the oil
pressed from our green walnuts had a taste and smell
that we preferred to the flavour and perfume of that of
the olive. Our buck-wheat cakes, moistened, smoking
hot, with the good butter of Mont d’Or, were a delicious
treat to us. I know not what dish would have
appeared to us better than our turnips and chesnuts;
and on a winter evening, while these fine turnips were
roasting round the fire, and we heard the water boiling
in the vase where our chesnuts were cooling, so relishing
and sweet, how did our hearts palpitate with joy!
I well remember, too, the perfume that a fine quince
used to exhale when roasting under the ashes, and the
pleasure our grandmother used to have in dividing it
amongst us. The most moderate of women made us all
gluttons. Thus, in a family where nothing was lost,
trivial objects united made plenty, and left but little to
expend, in order to satisfy all our wants. In the
neighbouring forest there was an abundance of dead
wood of trifling value—there my father was permitted
to make his annual provision. The excellent butter
of the mountain, and the most delicate cheese, were
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[360]</span>common, and cost but little; wine was not dear, and
my father himself drank of it soberly.”</p>

<p>Marmontel was designed by his father to be brought
up to trade, but his desire of learning was unconquerable,
and was at last allowed to be gratified. His early
education he received from the Jesuits, at the humble
college of Mauriac, and he completed it at Clermont
and Toulouse. At one time he fancied that he had a
vocation for the ecclesiastical state, and he would have
become one of the fraternity of Jesuits, had he not
been deterred by the pathetic entreaties and remonstrances
of his mother. It was at Toulouse that he
made his first literary essay, in a competition for one
of the prizes bestowed by the academy for Floral
Games. A correspondence into which he entered
with Voltaire, induced the poet to advise him to take
up his abode in Paris, and on this advice he acted in
1745. For a considerable time after his settling in
the capital, he had to contend against poverty. The
complete success which attended his tragedy of Dionysius
the Tyrant, lifted him at once into fortune and
fame. “In one day,” says he, “almost in one instant,
I found myself rich and celebrated. I made a worthy
use of my riches, but it was not so with my celebrity.
My fame became the origin of my dissipation, and the
source of my errors. Till then my life had been obscure
and retired.” It is honourable to him that all
his family benefited by his improved circumstances;
and, in palliation of his errors, we must consider how
difficult it was for a young and flattered poet to escape
the contagious effect of a corrupted capital. He
finally renounced his licentious habits, and became an
affectionate and happy husband and father.</p>

<p>Dionysius was followed by Aristomenes, Cleopatra,
and other tragedies, of which only Aristomenes was
eminently successful. His wide-spread reputation at
length gained for him the patronage of Madame de
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[361]</span>Pompadour, through whom he obtained the place of
Secretary of the Royal Buildings, and a pension on the
French Mercury. It was for the Mercury that he began
those tales, which have been translated into English
under the erroneous appellation of Moral Tales.
On the death of Boissy in 1758, Marmontel, by the
favour of Pompadour, received the patent of the Mercury;
and, under his management, the work rose into
high repute. He, however, enjoyed this lucrative employment
for only two years. Cury, a wit, who had
been deeply injured by the stupid and spiteful Duke
d’Aumont, composed a satire on his titled enemy. He
repeated the verses to Marmontel, and the latter, who
had an excellent memory, repeated them to a company
at Madame Geoffrin’s. This circumstance was instantly
reported to the Duke d’Aumont, who lost not
a moment in procuring a lettre de cachet, by virtue of
which Marmontel was conveyed to the Bastile, charged
with being the author of the satire. His confinement
lasted only eleven days; but as he generously refused
to betray the writer’s name, the patent of the Mercury
was taken from him, and nothing was left to him
except a pension payable out of the profits of the work.</p>

<p>In 1763, Marmontel became a member of the
French Academy, and, twenty years later, he was
appointed its perpetual secretary. After he was deprived
of the Mercury, he pursued his literary labours,
for many years, with equal vigour and credit. Among
the works which he produced during that period are
Belisarius, the Incas, a translation of the Pharsalia,
a new series of tales, various comic operas, miscellaneous
pieces, a History of the Regency of the Duke of
Orleans, Elements of Literature, and Memoirs of his
own Life. During the fierce struggles between the
republican parties, after the downfall of the throne,
Marmontel lived in retirement, and in a state of penury
which bordered upon poverty. He was elected a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[362]</span>member of the council of elders, in 1797, but the revolution
of the 18th Fructidor deprived him of his
seat, and he withdrew to his cottage in Normandy,
happy in not being exiled to another hemisphere, as
was the case with many of his colleagues. Marmontel
died of apoplexy, on the last day of 1799.</p>

<p>Morellet, the friend, and by marriage the relative,
of Marmontel, was, like that writer, one who suffered
from the vengeance of the great. It must be owned,
however, that there was less injustice in his punishment
than in that of his friend, as he was really the
author of the satire for which he was confined, and it
was published under circumstances which made even
Voltaire doubt whether the conduct of the writer was
perfectly justifiable. Andrew Morellet, to whom some
of his acquaintance gave the punning appellation of
Mord-les, or Bite-’em, was born at Lyons, in 1727.
He received the early part of his education at the
Jesuits’ College in that city, and he completed his
studies at Paris, in the seminary of Trente-Trois, and
the Sorbonne. He appears, however, to have paid at
least as much attention to the works of modern philosophers
as to those of the theologians. At Paris he
became intimate with D’Alembert, Diderot, and other
contributors to the Encyclopædia. Returning to Paris,
after a tour which he made with a pupil, he was gladly
admitted into the most talented society in the capital.
Palissot, in his comedy of the Philosophers, having
ridiculed the philosophical party, Morellet resented the
insult by a satirical production, called The Vision. In
this work there were some severe lines on the princess
of Robecq, an enemy of the encyclopedists, who was
then lying on her death-bed. For these lines Morellet
suffered an imprisonment of several months in the
Bastile. Morellet was admitted into the French Academy
in 1784, and he contributed much to the
Dictionary of that body. In 1803 he became a member
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[363]</span>of the Institute, and in 1807 attained a seat in the
legislature. His life was protracted to the age of
ninety-two, and, for nearly the whole of that time his
pen was actively employed on subjects of political
economy and general literature, and in translations,
principally from the English language. A selection
from his writings was made by himself, in four volumes,
with the title of Literary and Philosophical Miscellanies
of the 18th Century. He died in 1819.</p>

<p>By Marmontel, who married his friend’s niece, he
is thus characterized: “The Abbé Morellet, with more
order and clearness, in a very rich magazine of every kind
of knowledge, possessed in conversation a source of
sound, pure, profound ideas, that, without ever being
exhausted, never overflowed. He showed himself at
our dinners with an openness of soul, a just and firm
mind, and with as much rectitude in his heart as in his
understanding. One of his talents, and the most distinguishing,
was a turn of pleasantry delicately ironical,
of which Swift alone had found the secret. With this
facility of being severe, if he had been inclined, no man
was ever less so; and, if he ever permitted himself to
indulge in personal raillery, it was but a rod in his
hand to chastise insolence or punish malignity.”</p>

<p>A less amiable captive than Marmontel and Morellet
next claims our attention. Though he was by no
means destitute of talent or information, Victor Riquetti,
Marquis of Mirabeau, owes the redemption of
his name from oblivion less to his numerous literary
productions than to his being the father of the celebrated
Mirabeau. The marquis, who was descended
from a Florentine family, was born at Perthes in 1715.
He became a disciple of Quesnay, and published many
works, to disseminate the doctrines of the political
economists. His compositions are disfigured by a detestable
style, great affectation, and a want of method.
Of his labours, which amount to more than twenty
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[364]</span>volumes, it will suffice to mention L’Ami des Hommes
and the Théorie de l’Impôt. With reference to the former,
Voltaire satirically speaks of Mirabeau as “the
friend of man, who talks, who talks, who talks, who decides,
who dictates, who is so fond of the feudal government,
who commits so many blunders, and who gets
so often into the wrong box—the pretended friend of
the human race.” He bestows equal contempt on the
second work—“I have read the Theory of Taxation,”
says he, “and it seems to me no less absurd than ridiculously
written. I do not like those friends of man,
who are for ever telling the enemies of the state ‘we
are ruined;—come;—you will have an easy task.’”
The government seems to have been of the same opinion
as Voltaire, for the Theory of Taxation procured
for its author a lodging in the Bastile. Mirabeau,
however, continued to write and to publish till nearly
his last moments; he died in 1789. This pretended
friend of the human race, as Voltaire with justice calls
him, deserved abhorrence in all the relations of social
life. He was an oppressive master, and a tyrannical
and brutal husband and father. He was perpetually
soliciting for lettres de cachet to plunge some branch or
other of his family into a dungeon. Of those letters he
is said to have obtained fifty-four, many of which were
enforced against his highly-gifted though erring son,
the Count de Mirabeau, whom he hated, and whom,
by his persevering cruelty, he contributed to drive into
desperate courses.</p>

<p>Among those who felt the vengeance of the vindictive
Pompadour was the Chevalier Resseguier, a native
of Toulouse, who was much admired in the Parisian
circles for his gaiety and wit. An epigram which he
aimed at the royal mistress, speedily made him an inmate
of the Bastile. There, like many other unfortunate
victims of the marchioness, he might perhaps
have spent the rest of his days, had not his brother, a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[365]</span>member of the parliament of Toulouse, hastened up to
the capital and succeeded in mollifying Pompadour.
In their way home from the Bastile, the grave magistrate
began to give his brother some prudent advice.
Little disposed to listen to it, the chevalier thrust his
head out of the coach window, and, in the words of
Philoxenus of Syracuse, exclaimed, “take me back to
the quarries!” The brother still persisting to administer
caution and reproof, the chevalier lost all patience,
censured him bitterly for having stooped to ask a
favour from the marchioness, and then leaped from the
carriage. Resseguier of course continued to scatter his
sarcasms on all sides. For one of them, directed
against the notorious President Maupeou, who was
afterwards chancellor, he ran considerable risk of paying
a second visit to the Bastile. He was dining, on
a fast-day, at the house of M. de Sartine, and some of
the guests were admiring the size of the fish. “Yes,”
said Marin, (whose name the reader will meet with
again) “they are very fine fish; but I dined yesterday
with the president, and we had still larger.” “Ah!”
replied Resseguier, “I do not wonder in the least at
that; it is the place for everything monstrous.” Louis
XV. was informed of this pungent attack on the instrument
of his despotism, and was greatly irritated
by it.</p>

<p>The next literary prisoner was the involuntary
proxy of an offender, who took care to get beyond the
reach of the police. In 1761, Grouber de Grouberdal,
a German by birth, and barrister by profession,
author of Irus, ou le Savetier du Coin, and a poem
with the title of Le Sexe Triomphant, was sent to the
Bastile, on suspicion of having written a satire called
the Jesuitics, to which he appears to have only contributed
some verses. Grouber, however, escaped
with no more than a month’s imprisonment. A friend
of Grouber’s was the real author. Henry Joseph
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[366]</span>Dulaurens was born at Douay, and very early displayed
abilities of a superior order. He was less
amiable than talented; for he is said to have been
suspicious, sarcastic, hasty, restless, and turbulent:
that he was licentious, is proved by his works. Dulaurens
was destined for the church, but abandoned
the clerical profession. His satire, the Jesuitics,
which was modelled on the celebrated Philippics of
La Grange Chancel, was aimed at the Jesuits, to
whom he had long been bitterly hostile. Fearing that
it would bring him into peril, he set off for Holland,
on the morning after it was published, without warning
his friend Grouber that danger was to be apprehended.
In Holland he became a writer for the booksellers;
but, though his pen was extremely fertile, and his
productions, which were generally marked by originality
and spirit, obtained an extensive sale, he was
scarcely able to avoid sinking into poverty: the booksellers
throve on those fruits of his talent, by which
he himself was barely kept alive. By his flight from
Paris, Dulaurens had eluded a residence in the
Bastile, but it ultimately brought on him a more
protracted confinement than he would have endured
had he remained in France. In the hope of bettering
his condition, he quitted Amsterdam, and went to
Liege, whence he removed to Frankfort. While he
was living in the latter city, he was prosecuted by the
ecclesiastical chamber of Mentz, as an anti-religious
writer, and was condemned to perpetual imprisonment.
He died in 1797, in a convent near Mentz,
after having been a prisoner during thirty years. Of
his works, the most remarkable are, Le Compère
Mathieu, L’Evangile de la Raison, Irma, and L’Aretin
Moderne, in prose; and Le Balai, and La Chandelle
d’Arras, two mock-heroic poems;—of these poems,
which are of considerable length, the first was composed
in twenty-two days, and the second in fifteen.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[367]</span></p>

<p>Of all the writers who, during the reign of Louis
XV., found or deserved a lodging in the Bastile,
Peter Robbé de Beauveset may, perhaps, be considered
as one of the most degraded, in a moral point
of view. He was born at Vendôme, in 1714, received
a good education, and was not destitute of talent.
At an early age, he began to write poems of the
coarsest obscenity, and he continued the practice till
almost the close of a long life. To repeat them to all
companies that would listen, seems to have been one
of his greatest pleasures. Next to licentious composition,
he delighted in satire. His verses were insufferably
harsh; but they now and then displayed happy
thoughts and forcible expressions. To give an idea
of his propensity to wallow in the mire, it will be
sufficient to say, that he chose for one of his themes
the only disease which is a disgrace to the sufferer,
and that the song was worthy of the theme. This
drew on him the sarcasm, likely enough to be true,
that he was “the bard of the unclean malady, and
that he was full of his subject.” Having tried his
satirical skill upon Louis XV., an order was issued
to seize his papers, and he would certainly have paid
a visit to the Bastile, had he not skilfully parried the
blow. Being timely warned of his danger, he destroyed
the obnoxious piece, and substituted in its place
another of an opposite kind. This stratagem was
successful. Instead of sending him to prison, the
king pensioned him, and gave him apartments in the
palace of St. Germain. Severe censors have hinted,
that the debauched monarch wished to have a monopoly
of the poet’s obscene rhymes. Robbé likewise
received a pension from the Archbishop of Paris, on
condition that he should not publish his objectionable
pieces. He kept to the letter of his agreement; he
did not print them; he contented himself with reciting
them to as many hearers as he could find. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[368]</span>motive of the archbishop we can comprehend; but it
is not easy to perceive what could have induced the
duchess of Olone to leave a legacy of 15,000 francs
to so shameless a writer, and to speak in flattering
terms of his reputation as an author! Before his
death, which took place in 1794, he is said to have
manifested some signs of reformation.</p>

<p>The liability to be thrust into a prison, for the
purpose of gratifying a courtier, or other powerful
enemy, was not the fate of authors alone; the men
who devoted their talents, and shed their blood, to
enlarge or defend the dominion of their country, were
equally subject to it. Striking proof of this fact is
afforded by the persecution which fell to the lot of
Mahé de la Bourdonnais and Count Lally.</p>

<p>Bernard Francis Mahé de la Bourdonnais was born
in 1699, at St. Malo, entered the service of the East
India Company at an early period, and displayed such
talent, and such consummate knowledge of mercantile
as well as of naval concerns, that, in 1735, he was
appointed governor-general of the isles of France and
Bourbon. On his arrival in the Isle of France, he
found everything in a state of penury and confusion.
In a very short time, however, he showed what can
be done by a man of abilities and perseverance. A
new and vivifying spirit was breathed by him into the
languishing frame of the colony. Laws and police
were established; arsenals, docks, forts, magazines,
and canals, were constructed; and the cultivation of
indigo, cotton, manioc, and sugar, was introduced. All
this was accomplished within the space of five years.
Twice La Bourdonnais was sent to the coast of Coromandel,
with succours for his ungenerous rival and
enemy Dupleix; the first time in 1741, the second
in 1746. To narrate all the exertions of La Bourdonnais,
on these occasions, would require a volume.
His conduct was such as to win the warm praise of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[369]</span>the English, who suffered by his success. The result
of his operations, in 1746, was the surrender of
Madras; but the terms of the capitulation were dishonourably
violated by Dupleix, in spite of the remonstrances
of the indignant conqueror. Dupleix having
appointed another governor at the Isle of France, La
Bourdonnais returned to Europe, and on his way
homeward was taken by an English vessel. In
England he met with that reception which was due
to a talented and noble foe, and was allowed to proceed
on parole to his native country. A far different
greeting awaited him in France, where his mean and
malignant enemies had long been labouring effectually
for his ruin. He had only been three days in Paris
before all his papers were seized, and he was hurried
to the Bastile. There he was kept in solitary confinement
for twenty-six months, not even his wife and
children being allowed access to him; nor was he
permitted to have the means of writing. One of the
charges against him, founded on the testimony of a
soldier who had been hired to perjure himself, was that
he had secretly conveyed on board of his vessel a
large sum of money from Madras. To refute this
charge, by showing that it was impossible for the
witness to have seen any such proceeding from the
spot where he was posted, La Bourdonnais, destitute
as he was of materials, drew from memory an exact
plan of Madras, and contrived to have it conveyed to
the commissioners who were appointed to investigate
his conduct. The plan was drawn on a white handkerchief,
with a rude sort of pencil formed from a slip
of box, and dipped in brown and yellow colours, which
he obtained from coffee, and the verdigris scraped
from copper coins. This curious document quickened
the movements of his judges, and they took steps to
bring the question to an issue. After having undergone
an imprisonment of three years, he was pronounced
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_370">[370]</span>innocent, and was released. The gift of
liberty came too late to save his life; his health was
undermined by grief, anxiety, and the unwholesomeness
of his dungeon, and his fortune had melted away
in the hands of his persecutors; he languished in
severe pain, and in a state of indigence, till 1755, when
death put an end to his sufferings.</p>

<p>A doom still more severe than that of La Bourdonnais
was assigned to the unfortunate Count Lally.
Thomas Arthur Lally was born in 1702, and was the
son of Sir Gerard Lally, one of those high-minded but
mistaken Irishmen, whose ideas of duty led them to
expatriate themselves rather than renounce their allegiance
to the second James. Young Lally was early
conversant with war; he was not twelve years old
when he first mounted guard, in the trenches before
Barcelona. In the course of the next thirty years, he
distinguished himself in numerous battle fields, particularly
at Dettingen and Fontenoy, and was employed
in missions to England and Russia, the former of
which, not a little perilous, was undertaken in 1737,
for the service of the Stuart family. To the house of
Hanover he was an inveterate foe, and he was fertile
in plans for its overthrow. On the breaking out of
the war between England and France in 1756, he was
made a lieutenant-general, and appointed commandant
of all the French establishments in Hindostan. Unfortunately
for him, the government unwisely delayed
his departure, and withdrew a part of the force which
had been intended to accompany him. When he
reached Pondicherry he found everything in confusion,
none of the resources which he had expected to find,
and, worse than all, men in office who knew that he
meant to punish peculators, and who were therefore
incessantly on the alert to thwart all his plans. Their
machinations were aided by his own defects; for he
was harsh, violent, and headstrong, in an extraordinary
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_371">[371]</span>degree. Voltaire says of him, that “he had
found the secret of making himself hated by everybody,”
and that “every one, except the executioner,
had a right to kill him.” There is much exaggeration
in this; but it is certain that Lally was, and deserved
to be, an unpopular man.</p>

<p>In spite of the scantiness of his means, Lally took
the field against the English, with a firm resolve to
drive them out of India. His first operations were
successful. He made himself master of Goudalour,
Fort St. David, and Devicotta, but here his good fortune
ended; he was foiled in an attack on Tanjore,
and was subsequently compelled to raise the siege of
Madras. His failure must not be attributed to want of
military skill; he was nearly without resources, and
there was in his own army a powerful faction which
was hostile to him. The council of Pondicherry, too,
hated him with such a deadly hatred that it rejoiced in,
and even helped to cause, his disappointments. Invested
at last in Pondicherry by the English, he defended the
place with desperate courage, but was compelled by
famine to surrender.</p>

<p>On his return to France, Lally attacked his enemies
with his wonted impetuosity. Their influence, however,
was superior to his, and he was sent to the
Bastile. Nineteen months elapsed before he was even
questioned. The trial was at last commenced, and it
occupied more than two years. The whole of the
proceedings teemed with the most flagrant injustice;
there was a manifest determination to send the prisoner
to the scaffold. The language used by some of
his judges deserved the severest punishment. Sentence
of death was pronounced on the 6th May, 1766.
On its being made known to him, Lally stabbed himself
with a pair of compasses, but the wound was not
mortal. Three days afterwards, he was taken to execution,
and, that nothing might be wanting to lacerate
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_372">[372]</span>his feelings, he was conveyed in a mud-cart, and his
mouth was gagged. This brutality had a contrary
effect to that which was expected; it excited for him
the sympathy of the spectators, and covered his enemies
with execration and disgrace. The son of Count Lally,
advantageously known during the revolution as Count
Lally-Tolendal, obtained, some years afterwards, a
solemn reversal of the sentence, and the restoration of
his parent’s honour.</p>

<p>Caradeuc de la Chalotais, a Breton magistrate,
estimable for his talents and rectitude, is the next
who comes forward on the scene. He appears to
have been indebted for his misfortunes partly to
the Jesuits, whose order he had assisted to suppress
in France, and partly to the Duke d’Aiguillon,
whom he had offended, by venturing to hint a
doubt of his courage. He was a native of Rennes,
born in 1701, and became attorney-general in the
parliament of Brittany. His two Comptes Rendus,
against the Jesuits, which contributed much to
their overthrow, and his Essay on National Education,
which forms a kind of supplement to them,
are spoken of in the most laudatory terms by
Voltaire. La Chalotais subsequently acted a conspicuous
part, when the parliament of Brittany
refused to register some of the royal edicts, which
violated the Breton privileges. The Duke d’Aiguillon
was then governor of the province, and we
may believe that he was not sorry to take vengeance
for the sarcasm which the attorney-general
had aimed at him. The Jesuits, too, are said to
have spared no pains to accomplish their enemy’s
destruction. In November, 1765, La Chalotais,
his son, and four of the parliament counsellors,
were arrested, and in the following month, they
were placed in close confinement in the citadel of
St. Malo. The main charges against La Chalotais
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_373">[373]</span>were, that he had written two anonymous
letters to one of the secretaries of state, which
contained insults upon the king and his ministers,
and that he had entered into a conspiracy against
the regal authority. With respect to the letters,
though some persons accustomed to examine handwritings
asserted them to be his, the vulgar style
and incorrect spelling render it in the highest
degree improbable that he was their author. He
himself denied the charge in the most emphatic
manner. La Chalotais was carefully secluded from
all correspondence, and deprived of pen and ink;
he, nevertheless, contrived to produce three eloquent
memorials in his defence, and to procure
a wide circulation of them. They were written
on scraps of paper which had contained sugar and
chocolate, with a pen made from a toothpick, and
ink composed of soot, sugar, vinegar, and water. A
commission was at first formed to try the prisoners,
but the cause was afterwards removed into the
council of state, and the captives were transferred
to the Bastile. A stop was, however, put to the
proceedings by the king, and the accused individuals
were exiled to Saintes. An attempt was
made to prevail on La Chalotais to resign his
office, but he refused to listen to the messenger.
On the death of Louis XV. his successor allowed
La Chalotais to resume his seat in parliament, and
the magistrate retained it till his decease in 1785.</p>

<p>The celebrated Curran, whose conversational
talents no one that witnessed them could possibly
forget, once said to me, in allusion to the transient
intoxication produced by champagne, that it made
a runaway rap at a man’s head. It may, perhaps,
from a similar reason, be allowable to say, that a
runaway rap was made at the liberty of the person
who is the subject of this sketch. Francis Louis
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_374">[374]</span>Marin had scarcely time to lament the loss of his
liberty before it was restored to him. Marin was a
Provençal, born at Ciotat, in 1721; after having
been a chorister, and then an organist, he adopted
the clerical profession, and went to Paris, where
he became tutor to the son of a nobleman. His
manner and figure, which were good, and his talents,
which were far from contemptible, gained him many
patrons in the French capital. He now quitted his
ecclesiastical pursuits, was admitted a barrister, and
published various works, one of which, the History
of Saladin, is perhaps the best of all his productions,
and is still in repute; it was dedicated to St. Florentin,
one of the ministers, and gained for its author
the appointment of royal censor, to which was subsequently
added that of secretary-general to Sartine,
who had been placed at the head of the inquisitorial
office, to which printers and publishers were
amenable. As secretary-general he seems to have
satisfied no one; he was desirous of befriending
the philosophical party, in which he had several
friends, but was still more desirous of retaining
his lucrative post. The consequence was, that he
sometimes winked at, and even aided, infractions of
the law, and then sought to propitiate his employers
by additional vigilance and severity. Marin was
certainly not overburthened with delicacy; and, unless
he is much belied, he increased his income by
acting as purveyor to the disgraceful amours of his
royal master. In 1763, he was confined for twenty-four
hours in the Bastile, for having, in his censorial
character, neglected to expunge some lines from one
of Dorat’s tragedies. A few years afterwards, he was
deprived of a pension of 2000 livres, because he had
allowed Favart’s comic opera of the Gleaner to be
acted and published. In 1771, he was made editor of
the Gazette de France, in which capacity he brought
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_375">[375]</span>upon himself a perpetual shower of epigrams and
sarcasms. Many of these annoying shafts were
aimed at him by the Nouvelles à la Main, and he
had the weakness to demand that the editor of the
paper should be arrested. He had soon the misfortune
or the folly to provoke a much more formidable
enemy, the witty and eloquent Beaumarchais,
who covered him with ridicule. To complete
his vexation, no long time elapsed before the
Count de Vergennes dismissed him, and in the most
humiliating manner, from the royal censorship and
the superintendence of the Gazette. Marin then retired
to his native town, where he busied himself
in literary pursuits. By the revolution he lost a
considerable part of his income; but to his credit it
must be owned, that he did not lose his temper or his
spirits; he died in 1809. Marin had some praiseworthy
qualities; he is said to have been ready to
do acts of kindness, and even to have often run
serious risks to serve his friends. But here we must
stop, for it appears that his principles and his morals
were lamentably defective; one of his biographers,
who writes of him in a friendly spirit, owns that in
extreme old age he had “a taste for pleasure, and
even for libertinism.”</p>

<p>Less fortunate than Marin, Farmain De Rozoi, or,
as he was generally called Durosoi, did not pay
a visit of only twenty-four hours to the Bastile.
Durosoi was a Parisian by birth, and seems to
have early betaken himself to “the idle trade” of
literature. He tried many kinds of authorship, and
was far below mediocrity in all; novels, histories,
poems, and plays, especially the latter, he poured
forth in rapid succession, drawing down abundance of
bitter sarcasms from the critics, and gaining little
emolument to himself. Among the dramatic subjects
which he chose was Henry IV., and he was so delighted
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_376">[376]</span>with his hero, that he brought him on the
stage in three different pieces. The appellation of
“the Modern Ravaillac,” which he acquired by these
pieces, shows how woefully the monarch fared under
his hands. But Durosoi had worse enemies than
the critics; on an erroneous suspicion of his being
the author of two obnoxious works, he was shut up
for two months in the Bastile. When the revolution
broke out he espoused the royal cause, and
became editor of the Gazette de Paris. He was a
zealous and certainly an honest advocate of that
cause. Though slenderly endowed with talents, he
was by no means deficient in courage and noble
feelings. When Louis XVI., after his flight to the
frontier, was under restraint in the Tuileries, Durosoi
formed the romantic but generous project of
obtaining the king’s liberty, by inducing the friends
of Louis to offer themselves as hostages for him;
and a great number of individuals actually consented
to render themselves personally responsible for the
sovereign’s conduct. Durosoi did not slacken in his
hostility to the revolutionists, till their final success
on the 10th of August compelled him to drop the
pen. He was one of their earliest victims on the
scaffold, he being executed by torch-light only nineteen
days after the downfall of the monarchy. He
died with the utmost firmness; in a letter which he
left behind him, he declared, that “a royalist like
him was worthy to die on St. Louis’s day, for his
religion and his king.” It is said that, with the
laudable desire of benefiting mankind by his death,
he was desirous that his blood should be employed in
trying the experiment of transfusion.</p>

<p>The French revolution, which ultimately consigned
Durosoi to death, opened the prison-gates
of a man, of whom few particulars are recorded, but
whose courage and unmerited sufferings deserve our
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_377">[377]</span>admiration and pity. It will scarcely be credited
that, from a very early period of the reign of Louis
XV. there existed an infamous monopoly of grain,
which was managed for the benefit of the monarch.
Corn, bought at a low price in plentiful seasons,
was hoarded up, and sold at an immense profit in
times of scarcity. The circumstance was kept as
secret as possible for many years, but the truth got
out, and the name of “the compact of famine” was
popularly given to the monopoly. A patriotic individual,
Prévost de Beaumont, the secretary of the
clergy, formed the daring project of at one sweep
gaining possession of all the documents relative to this
affair, and revealing to France the whole machinery
of the scandalous system. When, however, he was
about to carry his plan into effect, he was seized by
the police, and conveyed to the Bastile. In that prison,
and at Vincennes, he spent twenty-two years, his
hands and feet heavily ironed, a bare board for his bed,
and a scanty portion of bread and water for his daily
subsistence; he would no doubt have perished in his
dungeon, had not the chains which he had so long
worn been broken by the strong hand of the French
people.</p>

<p>A striking proof how liable to abuse is irresponsible
power, placed in the hands of ministers of state and of
monopolizing corporations, is afforded by the persecution
of Barletti St. Paul, a man of considerable
abilities, who was born at Paris, in 1734. So precocious
was his talent, that, at the age of sixteen, he
had made himself master of all that the best teachers
could communicate to him. After having been for
a while sub-preceptor of the junior branches of the
royal family, he was involved in a quarrel, in consequence
of which he quitted France. He resided for
six years at Naples, after which he was intrusted by
the Dauphin with a diplomatic mission at Rome;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_378">[378]</span>and, when he had fulfilled this mission, he returned to
his native country.</p>

<p>Rapidly as St. Paul had acquired knowledge, he
was thoroughly dissatisfied with the method of instruction
then in use, and particularly with the various and
discordant systems which were followed by preceptors.
He, therefore, undertook the Herculean task of forming
a collection of elementary treatises on the sciences
and arts, with new modes of studying languages. On
this encyclopedic labour he was, at intervals, employed
during nearly the whole of his life. Eighteen volumes
of it were completed, and he was on the point of seeing
them brought before the public, when his prospects
were destroyed by the base jealousy of one learned
body, and the legal despotism of another. As the
cost of printing the work would be great, a society of
his friends was formed, for the purpose of accomplishing
the publication in concert, and a public meeting
was announced, to deliberate on the necessary arrangements.
But the University of Paris had taken the
alarm. Like all old and pampered institutions, it
hated novelty, and trembled lest its monopoly should
be shaken. To avert the dreaded evil, it had recourse
to the parliament; and the compliant parliament
issued a prohibition against the meeting. This step was
backed by the appointment of four commissioners to
examine the work. It did not require the spirit of
prophecy to predict that commissioners, chosen under
such auspices, would be anything but impartial. The
hackneyed joke, of suing his Satanic majesty in one of
the infernal courts, is pretty sure to be realised on
such occasions. The report which they made was so
unfavourable, that a complete stop was put to the
scheme of publishing. St. Paul did not tamely submit
to this treatment. He procured to be printed, at
Brussels, a pamphlet, which was entitled The Secret
Revealed. Sartine, the minister of police, who had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_379">[379]</span>been one of his active enemies, was somewhat roughly
handled in this production. The king of spies, jails,
and gibbets, was not a man to be attacked with impunity,
and he avenged himself in a manner which
was worthy of him, by suppressing the pamphlet, and
sending its author to the Bastile.</p>

<p>At the expiration of three months, the intercession
of the Cardinal de Rohan obtained the liberation of
St. Paul. He then went to Spain, where he became
professor of belles-lettres at Segovia; an appointment
which he held for three years. Returning again to
France, he published a New System of Typography,
to diminish the labour of compositors. For this the
government rewarded him by a grant of twenty thousand
livres, and by printing five hundred copies of his
volume at the Louvre press. His improvement consisted
in casting in one mass the diphthongs, triphthongs,
and all the most frequently occurring combinations
of letters. A similar plan, with the name of
the Logographic, was tried in London, a few years
afterwards, but it was soon abandoned.</p>

<p>St. Paul continued to labour indefatigably on his
ameliorated system of education; he gained in its
favour the suffrage of Sicard, who was one of three
persons whom the National Institute nominated to
examine it; but he did not live to complete it, and
only a small specimen of it was ever published. He
passed unhurt through the storms of the Revolution,
and died at Paris, in 1809. One of his best works,
“The means of avoiding the customary errors in the
instruction of Youth,” suggests a mode by which two
scholars may reciprocally give lessons to each other.</p>

<p>Almost the last prisoner, perhaps the last of any
note, who was committed to the Bastile in the closing
year of Louis the Fifteenth’s reign, was a man who
subsequently acted a conspicuous part in politics and
war. Charles Francis Duperier Dumouriez, born at
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_380">[380]</span>Cambray, in 1739, was the son of an army commissary,
who translated the Ricciardetto, and wrote some
dramatic pieces. After having been educated with
much care, Dumouriez obtained a cornetcy, and, before
the close of the seven years’ war, he had received
two-and-twenty wounds, nineteen of which were inflicted
on him in a combat which he gallantly maintained
against twenty hussars, five of whom he disabled.
Peace being concluded, he travelled in Italy,
Spain, and Portugal. In 1768 and 1769, he served
with distinction in Corsica, and rose to the rank of
colonel. The Duke de Choiseul employed him, in
1770, on a mission in Poland, to support the confederation
of Bar against the Russians, but the dismissal
of the duke, which took place soon after, led to the
recall of the envoy. Dumouriez was next intrusted,
by Louis XV., with a secret mission to the court of
Gustavus of Sweden, relative to the revolution which
that sovereign was then planning. This was done by
Louis, who was in the habit of taking similar steps,
without the knowledge of the Duke d’Aiguillon, the
minister for foreign affairs. Dumouriez was, in consequence,
arrested at Hamburgh, by order of the duke,
and conveyed to the Bastile, Louis not having spirit
enough to avow his own acts. During his six months’
imprisonment, Dumouriez wrote various works. The
accession of Louis XVI. restored the captive to liberty;
and he successively obtained the government of Cherbourg,
and the command of the country between Nantes
and Bordeaux. That such a man should not take an
active part in the French revolution was impossible.
But Dumouriez was not, as the ultra-royalists have
unjustly described him to be, an enemy of the throne;
he was, in truth, a constitutional royalist. In 1792,
he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-general,
and was appointed minister for foreign affairs, from
which office he was shortly afterwards removed to the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_381">[381]</span>war department. That department, however, he held
only for four days, at the end of which term he resigned.
The duration of his official existence did not
exceed three months. He was now placed at the
head of the army which was destined to repel the
Prussians, who were led by the Duke of Brunswick.
By a masterly disposition of his troops, in the defiles
of Champagne, he completely foiled the enemy, and
compelled them to make a ruinous retreat. He then
broke into the Netherlands, gained the battle of
Jemappe, revolutionized the whole country, and carried
the French arms into Holland. Quitting his
army for a while, he visited Paris, for the purpose of
endeavouring to save the king, but in that he failed,
and rendered himself an object of suspicion. The
tide of military success, too, at length began to turn
against him. He lost the battle of Neerwinden, and
was forced to abandon the Low Countries. Commissioners
were now sent by the Convention to arrest
him; and, after having vainly endeavoured to rally
his army on his side, he was obliged to seek for safety
in flight. After having resided in various foreign
countries, he finally settled in England, where he was
often consulted by the ministers. Though he was
decidedly hostile to the emperor Napoleon, he took
no share in the restoration of the Bourbons, nor did
he approve of their conduct. Dumouriez died on the
14th of March, 1823, and was interred at Henley, in
Oxfordshire. His works are numerous; the most
interesting of them are, his Memoirs, and the Present
State of Portugal.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_382">[382]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</h2>

<p>Captivity and Sufferings of Masers de Latude—Cause of his Imprisonment—He
is removed from the Bastile to Vincennes—He
escapes—He is retaken, and sent to the Bastile—Kindness of
M. Berryer—D’Alegre is confined in the same apartment with
him—Latude forms a plan for escaping—Preparations for executing
it—The Prisoners descend from the summit of the Bastile,
and escape—They are recaptured in Holland, and brought
back—Latude is thrown into a horrible dungeon—He tames
rats, and makes a musical pipe—Plans suggested by him—His
writing materials—He attempts suicide—Pigeons tamed by him—New
plans suggested by him—Finds means to fling a packet of
papers from the top of the Bastile—He is removed to Vincennes—He
escapes—Is recaptured—Opens a communication with his
fellow-prisoners—Is transferred to Charenton—His situation
there—His momentary liberation—He is re-arrested, and sent to
the Bicêtre—Horrors of that prison—Heroic benevolence of
Madame Legros—She succeeds in obtaining his release—Subsequent
fate of Latude.</p>

</div>

<p>In one of the finest passages that ever flowed from his
pen, Sterne alludes to the comparatively trifling effect
produced on the mind, when it endeavours to form a
collective idea of the misery which is felt by a throng
of sufferers. “Leaning my head upon my hand,”
says he, “I began to figure to myself the miseries of
confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I
gave full scope to my imagination.</p>

<p>“I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures
born to no inheritance but slavery; but
finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could
not bring it near me, but that the multitude of groups
in it did but distract me, I took a single captive, and
having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked
through the twilight of his grated door to take his
picture.</p>

<p>“I beheld his body half wasted away with long
expectation and confinement, and felt what sickness of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_383">[383]</span>the heart it was which arises from hope deferred.
Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in
thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned
his blood; he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that
time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed
through his lattice.”</p>

<p>It is even as Sterne asserts. The contemplation of
the woes which are undergone by a large aggregate of
persons, seems indeed to act on the mind somewhat
in the manner of a heavy misfortune; it bewilders
and benumbs the feelings. When we read of a single
individual falling beneath the knife of a murderer, we
are more violently startled and thrilled, and the impression
made is more permanent, than when we read
of the thousands who groan out their lives on the field
of battle; though, in the latter case, the largest part
of the victims, mutilated, torn, trampled on, and slowly
dying without succour, and distant from all that is
dear to them, endure agonies far beyond those which
are inflicted by the stab of an assassin.</p>

<p>Let us, therefore, now follow the example of Sterne.
Hitherto the reader has seen only a rapid succession
of captives passing before him, like the shadows of
a magic lantern; he has had but glimpses of the
wretchedness that falls to the lot of a prisoner; for,
with respect to nearly the whole of the individuals
chronicled in this volume, we know, as to their situation
while in durance, little beyond the circumstance
of their having been incarcerated; their persecutors
ensured their silence by retaining them till they sunk
into the grave, or by the terror of becoming once
more inmates of a dungeon. While the Bastile was
standing, few would venture even to whisper what they
had experienced within its walls. Fortunately, however,
there does exist one faithful record of the severest
woes, protracted by untirable tormentors, through a
series of years, extending to half the natural life of man.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_384">[384]</span>Let us then avail ourselves of it, fix our attention
steadily on a single individual, watch his anguish,
bodily and mental, his privations, his struggles, and his
despair, and mark how deeply the iron can be made to
enter into his soul by vindictive and ruthless tyrants.</p>

<p>Henry Masers de Latude, the person alluded to,
spent thirty-five years in the Bastile and other places
of confinement. If we did not know that power, when
it is held by the base-minded, is exercised by them
without mercy, to punish whoever offends them, we
might suppose that Latude brought his long agonies
upon himself by the commission of some enormous
crime. That he committed a fault is undeniable, and
it was a fault of that sort which most disgusts high-spirited
men, because it bears the stamp of meanness
and fraud. It deserved a sharp reprimand, perhaps
even a moderate chastisement; but no heart that was
not as hard as the nether millstone, could have made
it a pretext for the infliction of such lengthened misery
as he was doomed to undergo.</p>

<p>Latude, who was in his twenty-fifth year when his
misfortunes began, was the son of the Marquis de
Latude, a military officer, and was born in Languedoc.
He was intended for the engineer service, but the
peace of Aix-la-Chapelle prevented him from being
enrolled. The notorious Marchioness de Pompadour,
who united in herself the double demerit of being the
royal harlot and procuress, was then in the zenith of
her power, and was as much detested by the people as
she was favoured by the sovereign. As Latude was
one day sitting in the garden of the Tuileries, he
heard two men vehemently inveighing against her;
and a thought struck him, that, by turning this circumstance
to account, he might obtain her patronage.
His plan was a clumsy one, and it was clumsily executed.
He began by putting into the post-office a
packet of harmless powder, directed to the marchioness;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_385">[385]</span>he then waited on her, related the conversation which
he had overheard, said that he had seen them put a
packet into the post-office, and expressed his fears that
it contained some extremely subtle poison. She offered
him a purse of gold, but he refused it, and declared
that he was only desirous of being rewarded by her
protection. Suspicious of his purpose, she wished to
see his handwriting; and therefore, under pretence of
intending to communicate with him, she asked for his
address. He wrote it, and, unfortunately for him, he
wrote it in the same hand in which he had directed
the pretended poison. He was then graciously dismissed.
The sameness of the writing, and the result
of the experiments which she ordered to be made on
the contents of the packet, convinced her that the
whole was a fraud. It is scarcely possible not to smile
at the blundering folly of the youthful impostor; had
he sent real poison, and disguised his handwriting, he
would perhaps have succeeded.</p>

<p>But this proved to be no laughing matter to the
luckless Latude. The marchioness looked upon the
trick as an unpardonable insult, and she was not slow
in revenging it. In the course of a few days, while
he was indulging in golden dreams, he was painfully
awoke from them by the appearance of the officers of
justice. They carried him to the Bastile, and there
he was stripped, deprived of his money, jewels, and
papers, clothed in wretched rags, and shut up in
the Tower du Coin. On the following day, the 2nd
of May, 1749, he was interrogated by M. Berryer, the
lieutenant of police. Unlike many of his class, Berryer
was a man of feeling; he promised to intercede
for him with the marchioness, and, in the meanwhile,
he endeavoured to make him as comfortable as a man
could be who was robbed of his liberty. To make the
time pass less heavily, he gave him a comrade, a Jew,
a man of abilities, Abuzaglo by name, who was accused
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_386">[386]</span>of being a secret British agent. The two captives
soon became friends; Abuzaglo had hopes of speedy
liberation through the influence of the Prince of Conti,
and he promised to obtain the exercise of that influence
in behalf of his companion. Latude, on his part, in
case of his being first released, bound himself to
strain every nerve to rescue Abuzaglo.</p>

<p>Ever on the listen to catch the conversation of the
prisoners, the jailors appear to have obtained a knowledge
of the hopes and reciprocal engagements of the
friends. When Latude had been four months at the
Bastile, three turnkeys entered, and said that an order
was come to set him free. Abuzaglo embraced him,
and conjured him to remember his promise. But no
sooner had the joyful Latude crossed the threshold of
his prison, than he was told that he was only going to
be removed to Vincennes. Abuzaglo was liberated
shortly after; but believing that Latude was free, and
had broken his word to him, he ceased to take an
interest in his fate.</p>

<p>It is not wonderful that the health of Latude gave
way under the pressure of grief and disappointment.
M. Berryer came to console him, removed him to the
most comfortable apartment in the castle, and allowed
him to walk daily for two hours in the garden. But
he did not conceal that the marchioness was inflexible,
and in consequence of this, the captive, who felt a
prophetic fear that he was destined to perpetual imprisonment,
resolved to make an attempt to escape.
Nearly nine months elapsed before he could find an
opportunity to carry his plan into effect. The moment
at length arrived. One of his fellow-prisoners, an ecclesiastic,
was frequently visited by an abbé; and this
circumstance he made the basis of his project. To
succeed, it was necessary for him to elude the vigilance
of two turnkeys, who guarded him when he walked,
and of four sentinels, who watched the outer doors,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_387">[387]</span>and this was no easy matter. Of the turnkeys, one
often waited in the garden, while the other went to
fetch the prisoner. Latude began by accustoming the
second turnkey to see him hurry down stairs, and join
the first in the garden. When the day came on which
he was determined to take flight, he, as usual, passed
rapidly down the stairs without exciting any suspicion,
his keeper having no doubt that he should find him in
the garden. At the bottom was a door, which he
hastily bolted to prevent the second turnkey from
giving the alarm to his companion. Successful thus
far, he knocked at the gate which led out of the castle.
It was opened, and, with an appearance of much
eagerness, he asked for the abbé, and was answered
that the sentinel had not seen him. “Our priest has
been waiting for him in the garden more than two
hours,” exclaimed Latude; “I have been running after
him in all directions to no purpose; but, egad, he shall
pay me for my running!” He was allowed to pass;
he repeated the same inquiry to the three other sentinels,
received similar answers, and at last found himself
beyond his prison walls. Avoiding as much as
possible the high road, he traversed the fields and
vineyards, and finally reached Paris, where he shut
himself up in a retired lodging.</p>

<p>In the first moments of recovered liberty, the feelings
of Latude were those of unmixed pleasure. They
were, however, soon alloyed by doubt, apprehension,
and anxiety. What was he to do? whither was he
to fly? To remain concealed was impossible, and,
even had it been possible, would have been only another
kind of captivity; to fly from the kingdom was
nearly, if not quite as difficult; and, besides, he was
reluctant to give up the gaieties of the capital and his
prospects of advancement. In this dilemma he romantically
determined to throw himself upon the generosity
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_388">[388]</span>of his persecutor. “I drew up,” says he, “a memorial,
which I addressed to the king. I spoke in it of
Madame de Pompadour with respect, and on my fault
towards her with repentance. I entreated she would
be satisfied with the punishment I had undergone; or,
if fourteen months’ imprisonment had not expiated my
offence, I ventured to implore the clemency of her I
had offended, and threw myself on the mercy of my
sovereign. I concluded my memorial by naming the
asylum I had chosen.” To use such language was,
indeed, sounding “the very base-string of humility.”</p>

<p>This appeal of the sheep to the wolf was answered
in a wolf-like manner. Latude was arrested without
delay, and immured in the Bastile. It was a part of
the tactics of the prison to inspire hopes, for the purpose
of adding the pain of disappointment to the other
sufferings of a prisoner. He was accordingly told
that he was taken into custody merely to ascertain by
what means he had escaped. He gave a candid account
of the stratagem to which he had resorted; but,
instead of being set free, as he had foolishly expected,
he was thrown into a dungeon, and subjected to the
harshest treatment.</p>

<p>Again his compassionate friend, the lieutenant of
police, came to his relief. He could not release him
from his dungeon, but did all that lay in his power to
render it less wearisome. He condoled with him; tried,
but in vain, to soften his tormentor; and, as a loop-hole
in the vault admitted light enough to allow of
reading, he ordered him to be supplied with books,
pens, ink, and paper. For six months these resources
enabled Latude to bear his fate with some degree of
fortitude. His patience was then exhausted, and he
gave way to rage and despair, in the paroxysms of
which he vented his angry feelings in epigrams and
satirical verses. One of these compositions, which is
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_389">[389]</span>certainly not deficient in bitterness, he was imprudent
enough to write on the margin of a book which had
been lent to him—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
  <div class="poetry">
    <div class="stanza">
      <div class="verse indent0">“With no wit or allurements to tempt man to sin,</div>
      <div class="verse indent2">With no beauty and no virgin treasure in store,</div>
      <div class="verse indent0">In France you the highest of lovers may win—</div>
      <div class="verse indent2">For a proof do you ask? Then behold Pompadour.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Latude had taken the precaution to write this in a
feigned hand; but he was not aware, that, whenever
a prisoner returned a book, every page of it was carefully
examined. The jailers discovered the epigram,
and took the volume to John Lebel, the governor, who
dutifully hastened to lay it before the mistress of the
king. The fury of the marchioness was extreme.
Sending for M. Berryer, she exclaimed to him, in a
voice half smothered with passion, “See here! learn
to know the man for whom you are so much interested,
and dare again to solicit my clemency!”</p>

<p>Eighteen dreary months passed away, during which
Latude was strictly confined to his dungeon, scarcely
hearing the sound of a human voice. At last M.
Berryer took upon himself the responsibility of removing
him to a better apartment, and even allowing
him to have the attendance of a servant. A young
man, named Cochar, was found willing to undertake
the monotonous and soul-depressing task of being domestic
to a prisoner. He was gentle and sympathising,
and in so far was qualified for his office; but he had
miscalculated his own strength, and the weight of the
burden which he was to bear. He drooped, and in a
short time he was stretched on the bed of mortal sickness.
Fresh air and liberty might have saved him.
Those, however, he could not obtain; for it was a rule
that the fate of any one who entered into the service
of a prisoner became linked with that of his master,
and that he must not expect to quit the Bastile till his
employer was set at large. It was not till Cochar was
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_390">[390]</span>expiring, that the jailers would so much as consent to
remove him from the chamber of Latude. Within
three months from his entrance into the Bastile, he
ceased to exist.</p>

<p>Latude was inconsolable for the loss of the poor
youth, who had always endeavoured to comfort him,
as long as he had spirits to do so. To mitigate his
grief, M. Berryer obtained for him the society of a
fellow-captive, who could scarcely fail to have a perfect
communion of feeling with him. This new associate,
D’Alegre by name, was about his own age, full
of activity, spirit, and talent, and had committed the
irremissible crime of offending the Marchioness de
Pompadour. Taking it for granted that she was reclaimable,
though on what ground he did so it would
be difficult to discover, he had written to her a letter,
in which he apprised her of the public hatred, and
pointed out the means by which he thought she might
remove it, and become an object of affection. For
giving this advice, he had already spent three years
within the walls of the Bastile. Yet his woes were
now only beginning. The unfortunate D’Alegre had
ample cause to lament his having forgotten the scriptural
injunction, not to cast pearls before swine.</p>

<p>M. Berryer took the same warm interest in D’Alegre
as in Latude. He was indefatigable in his exertions
to obtain their pardon, and for a while he flattered
himself that he should succeed. At last, wearied by
his importunity, the marchioness vowed that her vengeance
should be eternal, and she commanded him
never again to mention their names. He was, therefore,
obliged to communicate to them the melancholy
tidings, that their chains could be broken only by her
disgrace or death.</p>

<p>D’Alegre was almost overwhelmed by the first shock
of this intelligence; it inspired Latude, on the contrary,
with a sort of insane energy, and his mind immediately
began to revolve projects of escape. The
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_391">[391]</span>very idea of escaping would seem to be indicative of
madness; egress through the gates, tenfold guarded as
they were, was utterly impossible, and to ascend to
the summit of the lofty tower, which must be done
through the grated chimney, then to descend from the
dizzy height into the ditch, and, lastly, to break through
or climb the outward wall, appeared to be equally impracticable.
Yet, with no apparent means of accomplishing
his purpose, Latude firmly made up his mind
to try the latter plan. He had two things in his favour,
time and perseverance, and their sovereign efficacy has
often been proved.</p>

<p>When Latude mentioned to him his scheme, D’Alegre
considered it as little better than the ravings of delirium.
Latude, however, continued to meditate deeply
upon it, though in silence. The first step towards the
execution of it, without the success of which no other
could be taken, was to find a hiding-place for the tools
and materials which must be employed. From his being
unable to hear any of the movements of the prisoner
in the chamber below, Latude concluded that there was
a space between the floor of his own room and the ceiling
of his neighbour’s, and he immediately set himself to
ascertain whether this was the fact. As he was returning
with D’Alegre from mass, he contrived that his fellow-prisoner
should drop his toothpick to the bottom
of the stairs, and request the turnkey to pick it up.
While the turnkey was descending, Latude looked
into the under chamber, and estimated its height at
about ten feet and a half. He then counted the number
of stairs between the two rooms, measured one
of them, and found, to his infinite delight, that there
must be a vacancy of five feet and a half between the
bottom of the one room and the top of the other.</p>

<p>As soon as they were locked in, Latude embraced
D’Alegre, and exclaimed that, with patience and courage,
they might be saved, now that they had a spot
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_392">[392]</span>where they could conceal their ropes and materials.
At the mention of ropes, D’Alegre thought that his
companion’s wits were wandering, and, when he heard
him assert, that he had more than a thousand feet of
rope in his trunk, he felt sure that the assertion was
prompted by madness. “What!” said Latude, “have
I not a vast quantity of linen&#x2060;<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>—thirteen dozen and a
half of shirts—many napkins, stockings, nightcaps,
and other articles? Will not these supply us? We
will unravel them, and we shall have abundance of
rope.”</p>

<p>D’Alegre began to have a gleam of hope, but he
still started numerous difficulties, among which were
the want of wood for ladders, and of tools to make
them, and to wrench the iron gratings from the chimney.
Latude silenced him by replying, “My friend,
it is genius which creates, and we have that which
despair supplies. It will direct our hands; and once
more I tell you, we shall be saved.”</p>

<p>Their first essay in tool-making was to grind down
to an edge, on the tiled floor, two iron hooks, taken
from a folding table; with these they meant to remove
the chimney gratings. The next was to convert a
part of the steel of their tinder-box into a knife, with
which they made handles for the hooks. The hooks
were immediately applied to raise the tiles, in order to
find whether there was really a cavity beneath. After
six hours’ toil, the prisoners found that there was an
empty space of about four feet, and, having gained this
satisfactory knowledge, they carefully replaced the
floor of their cell. The threads of two shirts were
then drawn out, one by one, tied together, wound into
small balls, and, subsequently, formed into two larger
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_393">[393]</span>balls, each composed of fifty threads, sixty feet in length.
These were ultimately twisted into a rope, from which
was made a ladder of twenty feet, intended to support
the captives, while they extracted the bars by which
the chimney was closed.</p>

<p>The removal of the bars was a work of horrible
labour. Cramped into the most painful postures, it
was impossible for them to work more than an hour
at a stretch, and their hands were always covered with
blood. The mortar was nearly as hard as iron, they
had no means of softening it but by blowing water on
it from their mouths, and they thought themselves
lucky when they could clear away as much as an
eighth of an inch in the course of a night. As fast as
the bars were extracted they replaced them, that their
operations might not be betrayed. Six months’ unremitting
toil was bestowed upon this single object.</p>

<p>Having opened the passage up the chimney, they
proceeded to construct their ladders. Their fuel, which
was in logs of about eighteen or twenty inches long,
supplied the rounds for the rope ladder, by which they
were to descend from the tower; and the whole of
that by which they were to scale the outward wall.
More tools being required to cut the wood, Latude
converted an iron candlestick into a saw, by notching
it with the remaining half of the steel which belonged
to the tinder-box. To this implement he afterwards
added others. They then set to work on their wooden
ladder, which it was necessary to make of the length
of twenty or five-and-twenty feet. It had only one
upright, three inches in diameter, through which the
rounds passed, each round projecting six inches on
either side; the pieces of which it consisted were joined
by mortises and tenons, and each joint was fastened
by two pegs, to keep them perpendicular. As fast as
the pieces were finished, the rounds were tied to them
with a string, that no mistake might occur when they
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_394">[394]</span>were put together in the dark. They were then carefully
hidden under the floor.</p>

<p>As in case of the prison spies chancing to overhear
them talking about their employment, it was of
consequence to prevent their enemies from understanding
what was said, they invented a vocabulary of
names for all the tools and the portions of the apparatus.
For instance, the saw was <i>the monkey</i>, the reel
<i>Anubis</i>, the hooks <i>Tubal Cain</i>, the wooden ladder
<i>Jacob</i>, the rounds <i>sheep</i>, the ropes <i>doves</i>, a ball of
thread <i>the little brother</i>, and the knife <i>the puppy dog</i>;
the hole in which they concealed them was christened
<i>Polyphemus</i>.</p>

<p>It now remained for them to make their principal
rope ladder. This was an arduous and almost endless
task, as it was more than a hundred and eighty feet
long, and, consequently, double that length of rope
was wanted. “We began,” says Latude, “by unravelling
all our linen, shirts, towels, nightcaps, stockings,
drawers, pocket-handkerchiefs,—every thing which
could supply thread or silk. When we had made a
ball, we hid it in <i>Polyphemus</i>; and when we had a
sufficient quantity, we employed a whole night in
twisting it into a rope, and I defy the most skilful
rope maker to have done it better.”</p>

<p>There was still a pressing necessity for another enormous
quantity of rope. Along the upper part of the outside
of the Bastile ran a kind of cornice, which stood
out three or four feet beyond the wall. The effect of
this would be, to make the ladder hang loosely in the
air, and vibrate in such a terrific manner, that there
would be great danger of the captive who led the
way being precipitated headlong to the ground. To
avert this peril, they made a second rope, three hundred
and sixty feet long, to be tied round the person first
descending, and passed gradually through a sort of
block fixed above, in order to steady him. Shorter ropes
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_395">[395]</span>were also provided, to fasten the ladder to a cannon,
and for any other occasion that might occur. On
measuring the whole of their manufacture, they found
that it extended to more than fourteen hundred feet.
Two hundred and eight rounds were required for the
ladders, and, lest their knocking against the wall should
give the alarm, they covered them with the linings of
their morning gowns, waistcoats, and under waistcoats.
These last preparations for flight occupied
eighteen months.</p>

<p>It had originally been their intention, after having
reached the ditch, to climb the parapet, and get into
the governor’s garden, and from thence descend into
the moat of the gate of St. Antoine. On consideration,
however, this plan was abandoned, because in
this part they would be more exposed than elsewhere
to be detected by the sentinels. It was therefore
deemed advisable, though the labour would be greatly
increased, to break a way through the wall which
divided the ditch of the Bastile from that of the St.
Antoine gate. Latude was of opinion that the mortar
of the wall on this side, having been weakened by frequent
floods, might be removed with comparative ease.
Two bars from the chimney were to be used as levers
to raise the stones, and an auger, to make holes for
the insertion of the bars, was fabricated out of a screw
from one of the bedsteads, to which a wooden cross
handle was added.</p>

<p>All was now prepared for their flight, and they had
only to decide upon the day for attempting their
hazardous enterprise. The 25th of February, 1756,
was the day which they chose. A portmanteau was
filled with a change of clothes, the rounds were fastened
into the rope ladder, the wooden ladder was got
ready, the two crowbars were put into cases to prevent
them from clanging, and a bottle of brandy was
prudently added to their baggage, to hearten them
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_396">[396]</span>while they worked in the water—for the Seine had
overflowed, and at that moment there was from four
to five feet water in the moat of the Bastile, and ice
was floating upon it.</p>

<p>Supper being over, and the turnkey having locked
them in for the night, the captives, doubtless with
throbbing hearts, began their operations. Latude was
the first to ascend the chimney. “I had the rheumatism
in my left arm,” says he, “but I thought little
of the pain, for I soon experienced one more severe.”
Before he reached the top, his knees and elbows were
so excoriated, that the blood ran down from them.
When he arrived at the summit, he let down a rope,
by means of which he successively drew up the portmanteau,
the ladders, and the other articles. The end
of the rope ladder he allowed to hang down, and the
upper part he fastened across the funnel with a large
wooden peg. D’Alegre was thus enabled to mount
with less difficulty than his predecessor had experienced.</p>

<p>At last they breathed the free air of heaven on the
platform of the Bastile. As the du Trésor tower
appeared to be the most favourable for their descent,
they carried their apparatus thither. One end of the
rope ladder was made fast to a cannon, and it was gently
let down. The safety rope was next passed through
a firmly fixed block, and it was tied securely round
the body of Latude. The daring adventurer now commenced
his fearful descent of more than fifty yards;
D’Alegre meanwhile slowly letting out the rope. It
was well that they had taken this precaution; for, at
every step that he took, Latude swung so violently in
the air that it is probable he would have lost his hold,
had not the safety rope given him confidence. In
a few moments, which however must have seemed
hours, he reached the ditch unhurt. The portmanteau
and the other effects were then lowered to him, and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_397">[397]</span>he placed them on a spot to which the water had not
risen. D’Alegre himself followed; and, as Latude
applied all his strength to steady the ladder, the descent
of his companion was effected with less annoyance
and hazard than his own had been. That regret,
at being unable to carry away their ladder and implements,
should have found a place among the feelings
by which they were agitated, may at the first glance
seem strange, but was certainly not unnatural; articles
on which they had bestowed such persevering toil,
which had proved the instruments of their deliverance,
and were also the trophies of their triumph, they
must have regarded with something like affection.</p>

<p>As they heard a sentinel pacing along at the distance
of ten yards, they were obliged finally to relinquish the
scheme of climbing the parapet, which they had still
cherished a hope of carrying into execution. There
was, therefore, no resource but to break a hole through
the wall. Accordingly they crossed the ditch of the
Bastile, to the spot where the wall separated it from
that of the St. Antoine gate. Unluckily, the ditch
had been deepened here, and the water, on which ice
was floating, was up to their arm-pits. They, nevertheless,
set to work with a vigour which can be inspired
only by circumstances like those under which they were
placed. Scarcely had they begun, when, about twelve
feet above their heads, they saw light cast upon them
from the lantern which was carried by a patrol major;
they were compelled instantly to put their heads
under water, and this they had to do several times in
the course of the night. The wall at which they
were working had a thickness of a yard and a half;
so that, although they plied their crowbars without
intermission, they were nine mortal hours in making a
hole of sufficient size for them to creep through. Their
task was ultimately achieved, they passed through the
aperture, and were now beyond the walls of their
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_398">[398]</span>prison. But even at this moment of exultation, they
had a narrow escape from perishing. In their way to
the road by which they were to go, there was an
aqueduct; it was not more than six feet wide, but it
had ten feet of water and two feet of mud. Into this
they stumbled. Fortunately, Latude did not lose his
upright position; having shaken off his companion,
who had mechanically grasped him, he scrambled up
the bank, and then drew out D’Alegre by the hair of
his head.</p>

<p>The clock struck five as they entered the high road.
After having joyously clasped each other in a long and
close embrace, they dropped on their knees, and
poured forth fervent thanks to the Divine Being, who
had so miraculously aided them in their dangerous
undertaking. In consequence of the evaporation
which was taking place, they now began to feel more
acutely than when they were in the water the effects
of their immersion; their whole frame was rapidly
becoming rigid. They, therefore, drew a change of
clothes from the portmanteau; but they were so much
benumbed and exhausted, that neither of them could
dress without being assisted by his friend. When
they were somewhat recovered, they took a hackney-coach,
and eventually found shelter in the house of a
kind-hearted tailor, a native of Languedoc, who was
known to Latude.</p>

<p>To gain strength after their toils, as well as to let
the hue and cry die away, the friends remained nearly
a month in concealment. It having been settled between
them that, in order to avoid being both caught at
once, they should quit the country separately, D’Alegre,
in the disguise of a peasant, set out on his journey to
Brussels. He reached that city in safety, and informed
Latude of his success. Furnished with a parish register
of his host, who was nearly of his own age, and
with some old papers relative to a lawsuit, and dressed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_399">[399]</span>as a servant, Latude departed. He went on foot a
few leagues from Paris, and then took the diligence
for Valenciennes. He was several times stopped,
searched, and questioned, and, on one occasion, was in
imminent danger of being detected. By dint, however,
of sticking to his story, that he was carrying
law papers to his master’s brother at Amsterdam,
he got safely to Valenciennes, at which town he removed
into the stage for Brussels. He was walking
when they reached the boundary post which marks the
frontier line of France and the Netherlands. “My
feelings,” says he, “got the better of my prudence;
I threw myself on the ground, and kissed it with transport.
At length, thought I, I can breathe without
fear! My companions, with astonishment, demanded
the cause of this extravagance. I pretended that, just
at the very moment, in a preceding year, I had escaped
a great danger, and that I always expressed my gratitude
to Providence by a similar prostration when the
day came round.”</p>

<p>Latude had appointed D’Alegre to meet him at the
Hôtel de Coffi, in Brussels. Thither he went immediately
on his arrival; but there disappointment and
sorrow awaited him. The landlord at first denied any
knowledge of D’Alegre, and, when further pressed,
he hesitated, and became extremely embarrassed. This
was enough to convince the inquirer that his friend had
been seized; and the conviction was strengthened, by
his having heard nothing from him, though D’Alegre
knew the moment when his companion would reach
Brussels. As his friend could be arrested on the
Austrian territory, it was obvious that Latude could
not remain in it without danger; and, with a heavy
heart, he resolved to fly instantly from this inhospitable
soil. He secured a place in the canal boat,
which was that night to proceed to Antwerp. In the
course of the voyage, he learned the fatal truth from a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_400">[400]</span>fellow-passenger. He was told, that one of the two
prisoners, escaped from the Bastile, had arrived at
the Hôtel de Coffi, had been apprehended by a police
officer, and had been ultimately sent under a strong
escort to Lille, and there delivered into the custody
of a French exempt; and, moreover, that all this
was kept as secret as possible, in order not to alarm
the other fugitive, the search after whom was carried
on with such activity that he must inevitably fall into
the hands of his pursuers.</p>

<p>Believing that, if he went on immediately to Amsterdam
he would find there an officer of the police
waiting to seize him, he directed his steps to Bergen-op-Zoom.
But now another trouble fell upon him. He
had nearly exhausted his scanty stock of money, and
had not found at Brussels a remittance which he expected
from his father; he afterwards learned that it
had been intercepted by the French exempt, who was
employed to trace him. While he remained at Bergen-op-Zoom,
which was till he supposed that his enemies
would have lost the hope of his coming to Amsterdam,
he wrote to his father for a supply. But a considerable
time must elapse before he could receive it,
and, in the meanwhile, he would run the risk of starving.
When he had paid the rent of his wretched
garret at Bergen-op-Zoom, and the fare of the boat
which was to convey him to Amsterdam, a few shillings
was all that was left. In this state of penury, unwilling
to beg, he tried whether life could be supported
by grass and wild herbs alone. The experiment failed,
for his stomach rejected the loathsome food. To render
his herbs less disgusting, he bought four pounds
of a black and clay-like rye bread, to eat with them.</p>

<p>Hoping that by this time the bloodhounds of the
marchioness had desisted from seeking him in the
Dutch capital, Latude ventured to embark. To hide
his poverty, he kept aloof as much as possible from his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_401">[401]</span>fellow-voyagers. He was, however, not unobserved.
There was in the boat one John Teerhorst, who kept
a sort of humble public-house, in a cellar at Amsterdam.
Under his unprepossessing exterior, he had a
heart as kind as ever beat in a human breast. Chancing
to catch a sight of Latude’s sorry fare, he could
not help exclaiming, “Good God! what an extraordinary
dinner you are making! You seem to have
more appetite than money!” Latude frankly owned
that it was so. The good-natured Dutchman immediately
led him to his own table. “No compliments,
Mr. Frenchman,” said he, “seat yourself there, and eat
and drink with me.” On further acquaintance with
him, Latude discovered that his host was not only a
truly benevolent man, but that he had also the rare
talent of conferring favours with such delicacy as not
to wound the feelings of the person whom he obliged.</p>

<p>When they reached Amsterdam, Teerhorst offered
to introduce him to a Frenchman named Martin, who,
judging from himself, he doubted not would be delighted
to serve him. Latude, however, found that his fellow-countryman
was one of the most soulless animals whom
he had ever seen; a being who cared only for self.
He was better fitted to be a turnkey of the Bastile
than the consoler of one of its victims. The
tears and low spirits of his guest disclosed to the
Dutchman the reception which Latude had met with,
and the forebodings that oppressed him. Taking his
hand, he said, “Do not weep—I will never abandon
you: I am not rich, it is true, but my heart is good;
we will do the best we can for you, and you will be
satisfied.”</p>

<p>Teerhorst’s underground habitation was divided by
a partition into two rooms; one of which served as
kitchen, while the other was at once shop, sitting-room,
and bed-room. Though the narrow tenement
was already crowded, Teerhorst contrived to make a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_402">[402]</span>sleeping place for Latude in a large closet, and he and
his wife cheerfully gave him a mattress from their own
bed. Not content with feeding and lodging the fugitive,
Teerhorst strove to divert him from melancholy
thoughts, by taking him wherever there was anything
that could amuse him. His charitable efforts were but
partially successful; for the mind of Latude was
deeply begloomed by his own precarious situation, and
still more by his incessantly brooding over and regretting
the fate of D’Alegre.</p>

<p>Though Latude had found no sympathy in Martin,
he was more fortunate in another of his countrymen,
Louis Clergue, who was a native of Martagnac, where
the fugitive was born. Rich and compassionate, Clergue
gave him a room in his house, made him a constant
partaker of his table, and furnished him with clothes
and linen. The linen was not the least acceptable of
these gifts; for Latude had been forty days without a
change of it. Clergue also assembled his friends, to
hear the story of his guest, and to consult what could
be done for him. They were all of opinion that Latude
had nothing to fear, as neither the States General
nor the people of Amsterdam would ever consent to
deliver up a persecuted stranger, who had confidingly
thrown himself on their protection. Even Latude
himself began to believe that at last he was safe.</p>

<p>The unfortunate man was soon woefully undeceived.
Not for a moment had his pursuers slackened in the
chase, not a single precaution had they neglected that
could lead to success. In aid of the subaltern agents,
the French ambassador had also exerted himself. By
representing the fugitive as a desperate malefactor, he
had obtained the consent of the States to arrest him.
Calumny was one of the weapons uniformly employed
against prisoners, in order to insulate them from their
fellow-creatures, by extinguishing pity. But, in this
instance, there seems reason for believing that bribery
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_403">[403]</span>was an auxiliary to calumny; the expense of following
up the fugitives was no less than 9000<i>l.</i> sterling—a
sum for which it is impossible to account, without
supposing that much of it was expended in bribes.</p>

<p>Though Latude had changed his name, and the
address to which his friends were to direct their communications,
the active agents of the marchioness
had succeeded in intercepting all his letters. One was
at last allowed to reach him, as the means of effecting
his ruin. It does not appear whether his residing in
the house of M. Clergue was known to them; probably
it was; but, if it were, they perhaps thought that
it would be imprudent to seize him there, as his protector
might proclaim to the populace the innocence of
his guest, and thus excite a tumult. A letter from
Latude’s father, containing a draft on a banker, was
therefore forwarded to him. Into this snare he fell.
As he was proceeding to the banker’s, the Dutch
police officers pounced upon him, and he was immediately
fettered and dragged along. The crowd which
had by this time gathered, were told that he was a
dangerous criminal; but, as the numbers nevertheless
continued to increase, the brutal officers, who were
armed with heavy bludgeons, dealt their blows liberally
on all sides, to clear the way to the Town Hall. One
of these blows struck the prisoner with such violence,
on the nape of his neck, that he dropped senseless to
the ground.</p>

<p>When consciousness returned, he was lying on a
truss of straw, in a dungeon; there was not a ray of
light visible, not a sound to be heard. He seemed to
be cut off from the human race, and he resigned himself
wholly to despair. His tumultuous reflections
were interrupted, in the morning, by a visit from St.
Marc, the French exempt, who had pursued him from
Paris. This brutal caitiff had the baseness to aggravate
his sufferings by an awkward attempt at irony.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_404">[404]</span>“He told me,” says Latude, “that I ought to pronounce
the name of the Marchioness de Pompadour
with the most profound respect; she was anxious only
to load me with favours; far from complaining, I ought
to kiss the generous hand that struck me, every blow
from which was a compliment and an obligation.” In
a second visit, some time after, the exempt brought
him an ounce of snuff, which he strongly recommended,
but which Latude did not use, because he imagined,
and not unreasonably, that it was poisoned.</p>

<p>Latude remained nine days in this dungeon, while
his captors were waiting for permission to carry him
through the territory of the Empress Maria Theresa.
They were anxious to receive it without delay, for M.
Clergue and the other friends of the prisoner were
loudly asserting his innocence, and the citizens began
to murmur at the disgrace which was cast upon their
country by his seizure being permitted. The permission
soon came, and the myrmidons of the Marchioness
hastened to bear off their prey.</p>

<p>In this instance, the Dutch and Austrian governments
must bear the shame of having been ready instruments
of the persecutors. It is, however, doubtful
whether, had those governments acted otherwise,
the fugitives would have escaped. To effect their purpose,
the emissaries of the Bastile did not scruple to
violate the territory of foreign powers. In 1752, a M.
Bertin de Fretaux was carried off from England. He
was secretly seized at Marylebone, put on board ship
at Gravesend, and conveyed to the Bastile, where he
died after having been confined for twenty-seven years.
Even foreign subjects were not safe. The publisher
of a Leyden Gazette having printed a satire on Louis
XIV., he was kidnapped in Holland, and conveyed to
the rock of St. Michael, on the Norman coast, and
shut up in a cage till he died.</p>

<p>At two in the morning, on the 9th of June, 1756,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_405">[405]</span>the jailers of Latude came to remove him. Round
his body they fastened a strong leathern belt, on which
were two large rings, fastened by padlocks. Through
these rings his hands were passed; so that his arms
were pinioned down to his sides, without the power of
motion. He was then conveyed to a boat, into the
foulest corner of which he was thrown. As he could
not feed himself, the office of feeding him was committed
to two men; they were so horribly filthy that
he refused, for four-and-twenty hours, to take nourishment
from them. Force was then employed to
make him eat. “They brought me,” says Latude, “a
piece of beef swimming in gravy; they took the meat
in their hands, and thrust it into my mouth; they then
took some bread, which they steeped in the grease,
and made me swallow it in a similar manner. During
this disgusting operation, one of these ruffians blew
his nose with his fingers, and, without wiping them,
soaked some bread, and approached it to my mouth.
I turned my head aside, but it was too late. I had
seen these preliminaries, and my stomach revolted. The
consequence was, a long and severe fit of vomiting,
which left me almost without strength or motion.”</p>

<p>The mode of confinement by the belt was absolute
torture to the prisoner. At length, thanks to the
compassionate interference of a servant on board, who
declared that, if no one else would, he himself would
cut it, the belt was removed, and Latude was indulged,
by being only handcuffed on the right arm, and chained
to one of his guards. When they arrived at Lille, St.
Marc halted for the night, and sent the prisoner to the
town jail, where he was bolted to the chain of a deserter,
scarcely nineteen, who had been told that he was
to be hanged on the morrow. The despairing youth
spent the night in trying to convince him that he, too,
would be hanged, and in proposing that they should
elude a public execution by strangling themselves with
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_406">[406]</span>their shirts. For the remainder of the journey, Latude,
with his legs ironed, travelled in a carriage with
St. Marc, who took the precaution of carrying pistols,
and had likewise an armed servant by the side of the
vehicle, whose orders were to shoot the captive if he
made the slightest motion.</p>

<p>By his associates at the Bastile, St. Marc was received
like some victor returning from the scene of his
triumph. They swarmed round him, listened with
greedy ears to the tale of his exertions and stratagems,
and lavished praises and attentions upon him. The
group must have borne no very distant resemblance to
fiends exulting over a lost soul.</p>

<p>Stripped, and reclothed in rags which were dropping
to pieces, his hands and feet heavily ironed, the prisoner
was thrown into one of the most noisome dungeons
of the fortress. A sprinkling of straw formed
his bed; covering it had none. The only light and
air which penetrated into this den of torment came
through a loop-hole, which narrowing gradually from
the inside to the outside, had a diameter of not more
than five inches at the furthest extremity. This loop-hole
was secured and darkened by a fourfold iron
grating, so ingeniously contrived that the bars of one
net-work covered the interstices of another; but there
was neither glass nor shutters, to ward off the inclemency
of the weather. The interior extremity of this
aperture reached within about two feet and a half of
the ground, and served the captive for a chair and a
table, and sometimes he rested his arms and elbows on
it to lighten the weight of his fetters.</p>

<p>Shut out from all communication with his fellow-beings,
Latude found some amusement in the society
of the rats which infested his dungeon. His first attempt
to make them companionable was tried upon a
single rat, which, in three days, by gently throwing
bits of bread to it, he rendered so tame that it would
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_407">[407]</span>take food from his hands. The animal even changed its
abode, and established itself in another hole in order to
be nearer to him. In a few days a female joined the first
comer. At the outset she was timid; but it was not
long before she acquired boldness, and would quarrel
and fight for the morsels which were given by the prisoner.</p>

<p>“When my dinner was brought in (says Latude) I
called my companions: the male ran to me directly;
the female, according to custom, came slowly and
timidly, but at length approached close to me, and
ventured to take what I offered her from my hand.
Some time after, a third appeared, who was much less
ceremonious than my first acquaintances. After his
second visit, he constituted himself one of the family,
and made himself so perfectly at home, that he resolved
to introduce his comrades. The next day, he came,
accompanied by two others, who in the course of the
week brought five more; and, thus, in less than a
fortnight, our family circle consisted of ten large rats
and myself. I gave each of them names, which they
learned to distinguish. When I called them they
came to eat with me, from the dish, or off the same
plate; but I found this unpleasant, and was soon forced
to find them a dish for themselves, on account of their
slovenly habits. They became so tame that they allowed
me to scratch their necks, and appeared pleased
when I did; but they would never permit me to touch
them on the back. Sometimes I amused myself with
making them play, and joining in their gambols.
Occasionally I threw them a piece of meat, scalding
hot: the most eager ran to seize it, burned themselves,
cried out, and left it; while the less greedy,
who had waited patiently, took it when it was cold,
and escaped into a corner, where they divided their
prize: sometimes I made them jump up, by holding
a piece of bread or meat suspended in the air.” In
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_408">[408]</span>the course of a year, his four-footed companions
increased to twenty-six. Whenever an intruder appeared
he met with a hostile reception from the old
standers, and had to fight his way before he could
obtain a footing. Latude endeavoured to familiarize a
spider, but in this he was unsuccessful.</p>

<p>Another source of comfort was unexpectedly opened
to the solitary captive. Among the straw which was
brought for his bed, he found a piece of elder, and he
conceived the idea of converting it into a sort of flageolet.
This, however, was a task of no easy accomplishment,
for his hands were fettered, and he had no
tools. But necessity is proverbially inventive. He
succeeded in getting off the buckle which fastened
the waistband of his breeches, and bending it into a
kind of chisel by means of his leg irons; and, with
this clumsy instrument, after the labour of many
months, he contrived to form a rude kind of musical
pipe. It was probably much inferior to a child’s whistle,
but his delight when he had completed it was extreme;
the feeling was natural, and the sounds must have been
absolute harmony to his ear.</p>

<p>Though his flageolet and his animal companions
made his lonely hours somewhat less burthensome,
and at moments drew his attention wholly from maddening
thoughts, the longing for liberty would perpetually
recur, and he racked his mind for plans to shake off his
chains. The thought occurred to him, that if he
could be fortunate enough to suggest some plan which
would benefit the state, it might be repaid by the gift
of freedom. At that time the non-commissioned military
officers were armed only with halberts, which
could be of no use but in close engagement; Latude proposed
to substitute muskets for the halberts, and thus
make effective at least 20,000 men. But how was he
to communicate his idea to the king and the ministers?
he had neither pen, ink, nor paper, and strict orders
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_409">[409]</span>had been given that he should be debarred from the use
of them. This obstacle, however, he got over. For
paper, he moulded thin tablets of bread, six inches
square; for pens he used the triangular bones out of
a carp’s belly; for ink his blood was substituted—to
obtain it he tied round a finger some threads from his
shirt, and punctured the end. As only a few drops
could be procured in this way, and as they dried up
rapidly, he was compelled to repeat the operation so
often, that his fingers were covered with wounds, and
enormously swelled. The necessity of frequent punctures
he ultimately obviated, by diluting the blood with
water.</p>

<p>When the memorial was finished, there was yet another
difficulty to be surmounted; it must be copied. In
this emergency, Latude clamorously demanded to see
the Major of the Bastile. To that officer he declared
that, being convinced he had not long to live, he
wished to prepare for his end, by receiving religious
assistance. The confessor of the prison was in consequence
sent to him, was astonished and delighted by
the memorial, became interested in his favour, and
obtained an order that he should be supplied with materials
for writing. The memorial was accordingly
transcribed, and presented to the king.</p>

<p>The suggestion was adopted by the government; the
unfortunate prisoner was, however, left to languish
unnoticed in his dungeon. Again he tasked his faculties
for a project which might benefit at once his country
and himself. At this period no provision was
made in France for the widows of those who fell in
battle. The king of Prussia had recently set the example
of granting pensions; and Latude deemed it
worthy of being imitated. But, knowing that an
empty treasury would be pleaded in bar, he proposed
a trifling addition to the postage of letters, which he
calculated would raise an ample fund. His memorial
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_410">[410]</span>and the data on which it was founded, were forwarded
to the monarch and the ministers. The tax was soon
after imposed, and nominally for the purpose pointed
out by Latude; but the widows, nevertheless, continued
to be destitute, and the projector unpitied.</p>

<p>Foiled in all his efforts, the firmness of Latude
gave way. He had been pent for three years and five
months in a loathsome dungeon, suffering more than
pen can describe. Exposed in his horrible fireless and
windowless abode to all the blasts of heaven, three
winters, one of which was peculiarly severe, had sorely
tortured his frame. The cold, the keen winds, and
a continual defluxion from his nostrils, had split his
upper lip, and destroyed his front teeth; his eyes were
endangered from the same causes, and from frequent
weeping; his head was often suddenly affected by a
sort of apoplectic stroke; and his limbs were racked by
cramp and rheumatism. Hope was extinct; intense
agony of mind and body rendered existence insufferable;
and the unhappy victim resolved to throw off a
burthen which he could no longer bear. No instrument
of destruction being within reach, he tried to
effect his purpose by starving himself; and for a hundred
and thirty-three hours he obstinately persisted in
refusing all food. At last, his jailers wrenched open
his mouth, and frustrated his design. Still bent on
dying, he contrived to obtain and secrete a fragment
of broken glass, with which he opened four of the large
veins. During the night he bled till life was all but
extinct. Once more, however, he was snatched from
the grave, and he now sullenly resigned himself to
await his appointed time.</p>

<p>After he had been confined a considerable time
longer, a fortunate overflowing of the Seine occasioned
his removal. The turnkey complained heavily that he
was obliged to walk through the water to the prisoner,
and Latude was in consequence removed to an apartment
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_411">[411]</span>in the tower of La Comté. It had no chimney,
and was one of the worst rooms in the tower,
but it was a paradise when compared with the pestiferous
hole from which he had emerged. Yet, so strong
is the yearning for society, that, gladdened as he was
by his removal, he could not help bitterly regretting
the loss of his sociable rats. As a substitute for them,
he tried to catch some of the pigeons which perched
on the window; and, by means of a noose, formed from
threads drawn out of his linen, he finally succeeded
in snaring a male and a female. “I tried,” says he,
“every means to console them for the loss of liberty.
I assisted them to make their nest and to feed their
young; my cares and attention equalled their own.
They seemed sensible of this, and repaid me by every
possible mark of affection. As soon as we had established
this reciprocal understanding, I occupied myself
entirely with them. How I watched their actions,
and enjoyed their expressions of tenderness! I lost
myself entirely while with them, and in my dreams
continued the enjoyment.”</p>

<p>This pleasure was too great to be lasting. He had
been placed in his present apartment because it was
under the care of a brutal turnkey named Daragon,
who had been punished for Latude’s former escape,
and cherished a rankling feeling of revenge. It was
Daragon who purchased the grain for the pigeons, and
for this service the prisoner, besides the large profit
which the turnkey made, gave him one out of the seven
bottles of wine which was his weekly allowance. Daragon
now insisted on having four bottles, without
which he would purchase no more grain. It was to
no purpose that Latude pleaded that the wine was indispensably
necessary to restore his health; the turnkey
was deaf to reason. Latude was provoked into
asperity; Daragon rushed out in a rage; and in a
short time he returned, pretending that he had an
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_412">[412]</span>order from the governor to kill the pigeons. “My
despair at this,” says Latude, “exceeded all bounds,
and absolutely unsettled my reason; I could willingly
have sacrificed my life to satisfy my just vengeance on
this monster. I saw him make a motion towards the
innocent victims of my misfortunes; I sprang forward
to prevent him. I seized them, and, in my agony, I
crushed them myself. This was perhaps the most miserable
moment of my whole existence. I never recall
the memory of it without the bitterest pangs. I
remained several days without taking any nourishment;
grief and indignation divided my soul; my sighs were
imprecations, and I held all mankind in mortal horror.”</p>

<p>Fortunately, a humane and generous man, the Count
de Jumilhac, was, soon after, appointed governor of
the Bastile. He compassionated the sufferings of Latude,
and exerted himself to relieve them. He obtained
for him an interview with M. de Sartine, the minister
of police, who gave him leave to walk for two hours
daily on the platform of the Bastile, and promised to
befriend him. That promise he soon broke. Hope revived
in the breast of Latude, and he again set to work
to form plans for the good of the country. Schemes
for issuing a new species of currency, and for establishing
public granaries in all the principal towns, were
among the first fruits of his meditations. With respect
to the latter project, he says, “nothing could be more
simple than the mode I suggested of constructing and
provisioning these magazines. It consisted in a slight
duty upon marriage, which all rich people, or those
who wished to appear so, would have paid with eagerness,
as I had the address to found it upon their vanity.”
This project pleased M. de Sartine so much, that he
wished to have the merit of it to himself, and, by means
of a third person, he sounded Latude, to know whether
he would relinquish his claim to it, on having a small
pension secured to him. Latude gave a brief but peremptory
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_413">[413]</span>refusal, and M. de Sartine was thenceforth
his enemy. All letters and messages to him remained
unnoticed.</p>

<p>While he was one day walking on the platform, he
learned the death of his father. The sentinel who
guarded him had served under his father, but did not
know that the prisoner was the son of his old officer.
Latude was overwhelmed by this fatal intelligence, and
he fainted on the spot. His mother still lived; but
she, too, was sinking into the grave from grief. It was
in vain that, in the most pathetic language, she repeatedly
implored the harlot marchioness to have mercy
on the captive. Her prayers might have moved a
heart of flint, but they had no effect on Madame de
Pompadour. But the horrors of imprisonment were
not enough to be inflicted on him; he was made the
victim of calumny, and a stain was fixed upon his character.
To get rid of importunity in his behalf, the
men in office replied to his advocates, “Beware how
you solicit the pardon of that miscreant. You would
shudder if you knew the crimes he has committed.”</p>

<p>Thus goaded almost to madness, it is not to be wondered
at that he was eager to take vengeance on his
persecutors. Since the heart of Madame de Pompadour
was inaccessible to pity, he determined that it
should at least feel the stings of mortification and rage.
His plan was, to draw up a memorial, exposing her
character, and to address it to La Beaumelle, who
had himself tasted the rigours of the Bastile. “I had
only,” says he, “to place in trusty hands the true history
of her birth and infamous life, with all the particulars
of which I was well acquainted; in depriving
me of existence, she would dread my dying words, and
even from the tomb I should still be an object of terror
to her. There was nothing then to restrain the blow
with which I had the power of crushing her. The
faithful friends who were to become the depositaries
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_414">[414]</span>of my vengeance, in apprising her of the danger,
would merely give her a single moment to escape it by
doing me justice.”</p>

<p>It was while he was walking on the platform of the
Bastile that he formed this chimerical project, for chimerical
it was, there being scarcely a probability that
any one would have courage enough to second his attack
on the potent and vindictive marchioness. Having
calculated the distance between the top of the tower
and the street of St. Anthony, on which he looked
down, he perceived that it was possible to fling a packet
into the street. Nothing of this kind could, however,
be done while he was closely watched by Falconet the
aid-major, and a serjeant, both of whom always attended
him in his walk. Falconet was insufferably garrulous,
particularly on his own exploits, and Latude hoped to
disgust him by perpetual sarcasm and contradiction.
He succeeded in silencing him, but Falconet still clung
to him like his shadow. To tire him out, Latude
adopted the plan of almost running during the whole
of the time that he was on the platform. The aid-major
remonstrated, but the prisoner answered, that
rapid motion was indispensably necessary to him, in
order to excite perspiration. At last, Falconet suffered
him to move about as he pleased, and fell into gossiping
with the serjeant, in which they both engaged so deeply
that Latude was left unnoticed.</p>

<p>The next step of Latude was to gaze into the windows
of the opposite houses, and scrutinise the faces of
the persons whom he saw, till he could see some one
whose countenance seemed indicative of humane feelings.
It was on the female sex, as having more sensibility
than the male, that he mainly relied for pity and succour;
and his attention was finally fixed on two young women,
who were sitting by themselves at work in a chamber,
and whose looks appeared to betoken that they were of
kind dispositions. Having caught the eye of one of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_415">[415]</span>them, he respectfully saluted her by a motion of his
hand; the sign was answered by both of them in a similar
manner. After this dumb intercourse had continued
for some days, he showed them a packet, and they
motioned to him to fling it; but he gave them to understand
that it was not yet ready.</p>

<p>The means of conveyance for his intended work
were now secured, but, as he no longer had materials
for writing, he had still much to contrive. But he was
not of a nature to be discouraged even by serious obstacles.
He had fortunately been allowed to purchase
some books, and he resolved to write between the lines
and on the margins of the pages. As a pen made of a
carp bone would not write a sufficiently small hand for
interlineations, he beat a halfpenny as thin as paper, and
succeeded in shaping it into a tolerable pen. Ink was
yet to be provided, and this was the worst task of all
to accomplish. Having on the former occasion narrowly
escaped gangrene in his fingers, he was afraid to
use blood, and was therefore compelled to find a substitute.
To make his ink of lampblack was the mode
which occurred to him; but as he was allowed neither
fire nor candle, how was the black to be obtained? By
a series of stratagems he managed to surmount the difficulty.
Under pretence of severe tooth-ache, he borrowed
from the serjeant, who attended him on the platform,
a pipe and the articles for lighting it, and he
secreted a piece of the tinder. By a simulated fit of
colic, he got some oil from the doctor. This he put
into a pomatum pot, and made a wick from threads
drawn out of the sheets. He then made a bow and
peg, like a drill, and with this and the piece of tinder,
by dint of rapid friction, he ignited two small bits of
dry wood, and lighted his lamp. The first view of the
light threw him, he says, into a delirium of joy. The
condensed smoke he collected on the bottom of a plate,
and in six hours he had sufficient for his purpose. But
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_416">[416]</span>here he was stopped short, and all his trouble seemed
likely to be thrown away; for the light and oily black
floated on the water instead of mixing with it. He
got over this by affecting to have a violent cold. The
prison apothecary sent him some syrup, and Latude
employed it to render the lamp black miscible with
water.</p>

<p>Thus provided with materials for writing, Latude
sat down to compose his work. “My whole heart
and soul were in it,” says he, “and I steeped my
pen in the gall with which they were overflowing.”
Having completed the history of his persecutor, he
wrote a letter of instructions to La Beaumelle, another
to a friend, the Chevalier de Mehegan, in case of La
Beaumelle being absent, and a third to his two female
friends, in which he directed them how to proceed,
and entreated them to exert themselves in his behalf.
The whole of the papers he packed up in a leathern
bag, which he formed out of the lining of a pair of
breeches. As the packet was rather bulky, and the
carrying of it about his person was dangerous, he was
anxious to get rid of it as soon as possible. Some
time, however, elapsed before he could catch sight of
his friendly neighbours. At length one of them saw
his signal, descended into the street, and caught the
packet. Three months and a half passed away, during
which he frequently saw them, and they seemed to be
pleased with something that related to him, but he
was unable to comprehend their signs. At last, on
the 18th of April, 1764, they approached the window,
and displayed a roll of paper, on which was written in
large characters, “The Marchioness of Pompadour
died yesterday.”</p>

<p>“I thought I saw the heavens open before me!”
exclaimed Latude. His oppressor was gone, and he
felt an undoubting confidence that his liberation would
immediately follow as a necessary consequence. He
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_417">[417]</span>was soon cruelly undeceived. After some days had
passed over, he wrote to the lieutenant of police, and
claimed his freedom. Sartine had given strict orders
to all the officers of the Bastile to conceal the death of
the marchioness, and he instantly hurried to the prison,
to discover how the news had reached Latude.
He summoned the prisoner into his presence, and
harshly questioned him on the subject. Latude perceived
that a disclosure might be prejudicial to the
kind females, and, with equal firmness and honour, he
refused to make it. “The avowal,” said Sartine, “is
the price of your liberty.” The captive, however,
again declared that he would rather perish than purchase
the blessing at such a cost. Finding him inflexible,
the baffled lieutenant of police retired in
anger. Irritated by repeated letters, petitions, and
remonstrances being neglected, and having been led
to fear that he was to be perpetually imprisoned, to
prevent him from suing Pompadour’s heirs, Latude in
an evil hour lost all command over himself, and wrote
a violent epistle to Sartine, avowedly for the purpose
of enraging him. This act of insane passion was
punished by instant removal to one of the worst
dungeons, where his fare was bread and water.</p>

<p>After Latude had been for eighteen days in the
dungeon, M. de Sartine obtained an order to transfer
him to Vincennes, and immure him in an oubliette.
Before he removed the prisoner, he circulated a report
“that he meant to deliver him, but that, to accustom
him by degrees to a change of air, he was going to
place him for a few months in a convent of monks.”
On the night of the 14th of August, 1764, an officer
of police, with two assistants, came to convey him to
his new prison. “My keepers,” says he, “fastened
an iron chain round my neck, the end of which they
placed under the bend of my knees; one of them
placed one hand upon my mouth, and the other behind
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_418">[418]</span>my head, whilst his companion pulled the chain with
all his might, and completely bent me double. The
pain I suffered was so intense, that I thought my loins
and spine were crushed; I have no doubt it equalled
that endured by the wretch who is broken on the
wheel. In this state I was conveyed from the Bastile
to Vincennes.”</p>

<p>At Vincennes he was placed in a cell. His mind
and body were now both overpowered by the severity
of his fate, dangerous illness came on, and he every
day grew weaker. Fortunately for Latude, M. Guyonnet,
the governor of the fortress, had nothing of “the
steeled jailer” about him; he was a generous, humane
man, of amiable manners. He listened to the mournful
tale of the captive, wept for his misfortunes, took
on himself the responsibility of giving him a good
apartment, and obtained for him the privilege of walking
daily for two hours in the garden.</p>

<p>Despairing, as well he might, of being ever released
by his inflexible enemies, Latude meditated incessantly
on the means of escaping. Fifteen months elapsed
before an opportunity occurred, and then it was brought
about by chance. He was walking in the garden, on
a November afternoon, when a thick fog suddenly
came on. The idea of turning it to account rushed
into his mind. He was guarded by two sentries and a
serjeant, who never quitted his side for an instant;
but he determined to make a bold attempt. By a violent
push of his elbows he threw off the sentries, then
pushed down the serjeant, and darted past a third
sentry, who did not perceive him till he was gone by.
All four set up the cry of “Seize him!” and Latude
joined in it still more loudly, pointing with his finger,
to mislead the pursuers. There remained only one
sentry to elude, but he was on the alert, and unfortunately
knew him. Presenting his bayonet, he threatened
to kill the prisoner if he did not stop. “My dear
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_419">[419]</span>Chenu,” said I to him, “you are incapable of such an
action; your orders are to arrest, and not to kill me.
I had slackened my pace, and came up to him slowly;
as soon as I was close to him, I sprang upon his
musket, I wrenched it from him with such violence,
that he was thrown down in the struggle; I jumped
over his body, flinging the musket to a distance of
ten paces, lest he should fire it after me, and once
more I achieved my liberty.”</p>

<p>Favoured by the fog, Latude contrived to hide
himself in the park till night, when he scaled the wall,
and proceeded, by by-ways, to Paris. He sought
a refuge with the two kind females to whom he had
entrusted his packet. They were the daughters of a
hair-dresser, named Lebrun. The asylum for which
he asked was granted in the kindest manner. They
procured for him some linen, and an apartment in
the house, gave him fifteen livres which they had
saved, and supplied him with food from all their own
meals. The papers confided to them they had endeavoured,
but in vain, to deliver to the persons for
whom they were intended: two of those persons were
absent from France; the third was recently married,
and his wife, on hearing that the packet was from the
Bastile, would not suffer her husband to receive it.</p>

<p>Latude was out of prison, but he was not out of
danger. He was convinced that, to whatever quarter
he might bend his steps, it would be next to impossible
to elude M. de Sartine, who, by means of his spies,
was omnipresent. In this emergency, he deemed it
prudent to conciliate his persecutor; and he accordingly
wrote a letter to him, entreating forgiveness for
insults offered in a moment of madness, promising
future silence and submission, and pathetically imploring
him to become his protector. This overture
had no result. He tried the influence of various
persons, among whom was the prince of Conti, but
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_420">[420]</span>everywhere he was met by the prejudice which Sartine
had raised against him; and, to add to his alarm and
vexation, he learned that a strict search was making
for him, and that a reward of a thousand crowns was
offered for his apprehension.</p>

<p>As a last resource, he determined to make a
personal appeal to the duke of Choiseul, the first
minister, who was then with the court at Fontainebleau.
It was mid-December when he set out, the
ground was covered with ice and snow, and the cold
was intense. A morsel of bread was his whole stock
of provisions, he had no money, and he dared not
approach a house, proceed on the high road, or travel
by day, lest he should be intercepted. In his nightly
circuitous journey, of more than forty miles, he often
fell into ditches, or tore himself in scrambling through
the hedges. “I hid myself in a field,” says he,
“during the whole of the 16th; and, after walking
for two successive nights, I arrived on the morning
of the 17th at Fontainebleau, worn out by fatigue,
hunger, grief, and despair.”</p>

<p>Latude was too soon convinced that there was no
chance of escaping from the vengeance of M. de
Sartine. As soon as he had announced his arrival to
the duke, two officers of the police came to convey
him, as they said, to the minister; but their mask
was speedily thrown off, and he found that they were
to escort him back to Vincennes. They told him
that every road had been beset, and every vehicle
watched, to discover him, and they expressed their
wonder at his having been able to reach Fontainebleau
undetected. “I now learned,” says he, “for the
first time, that there was no crime so great, or so
severely punished, as a complaint against a minister.
These exempts quoted to me the case of some
deputies from the provinces, who, having been sent
a short time before to denounce to the king the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_421">[421]</span>exactions of certain intendants, had been arrested,
and punished as dangerous incendiaries!”</p>

<p>On his reaching Vincennes, he was thrown into
a horrible dungeon, barely six feet by six and a half
in diameter, which was secured by four iron-plated,
treble-bolted doors, distant a foot from each other.
To aggravate his misery, he was told that he deserved
a thousand times worse treatment; for that he had
been the cause of the serjeant who guarded him being
hanged. This appalling news entirely overwhelmed
him; he gave himself up to frantic despair, and incessantly
accused himself as the murderer of the unfortunate
man. In the course of a few days, however,
a compassionate sentinel, who was moved by his
cries and groans, relieved his heart, by informing
him that the serjeant was well, and had only been
imprisoned.</p>

<p>The kind-hearted governor sometimes visited
Latude, but the information which he brought was
not consolatory. He had tried to move M. de Sartine,
and had found him inflexible. Sartine, however, sent
to offer the prisoner his liberty, on condition that he
would name the person who held his papers, and he
pledged his honour that no harm should come to that
person. Latude knew him too well to trust him.
He resolutely answered, “I entered my dungeon an
honest man, and I will die rather than leave it a
dastard and a knave.”</p>

<p>Into the den, where he was as it were walled up,
no ray of light entered; the air was never changed
but at the moment when the turnkey opened the
wicket; the straw on which he lay was always rotten
with damp, and the narrowness of the space scarcely
allowed him room to move. His health of course
rapidly declined, and his body swelled enormously,
retaining in every part of it, when touched, the
impression of the finger. Such were his agonies that
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_422">[422]</span>he implored his keepers, as an act of mercy, to terminate
his existence. At last, after having endured
months of intense suffering, he was removed to a
habitable apartment, where his strength gradually
returned.</p>

<p>Though his situation was improved, he was still entirely
secluded from society. Hopeless of escape, he
pondered on the means of at least opening an intercourse
with his fellow-prisoners. On the outer side of
his chamber was the garden, in which each of the prisoners,
Latude alone being excluded, was daily allowed
to walk by himself for a certain time. This wall was
five feet thick; so that to penetrate it seemed almost as
difficult as to escape. But what cannot time and perseverance
accomplish! His only instruments were a
broken piece of a sword and an iron hoop of a bucket,
which he had contrived to secrete; yet with these, by
dint of twenty-six months’ labour, he managed to perforate
the mass of stone. The hole was made in a
dark corner of the chimney, and he stopped the interior
opening with a plug, formed of sand and plaster.
A long wooden peg, rather shorter than the hole, was
inserted into it, that, in case of the external opening
being noticed and sounded, it might seem to be not
more than three inches in depth.</p>

<p>For a signal to the prisoner walking in the garden,
he tied several pieces of wood so as to form a stick
about six feet long, at the end of which hung a bit of
riband. The twine with which it was tied was made
from threads drawn out of his linen. He thrust the
stick through the hole, and succeeded in attracting the
attention of a fellow-captive, the Baron de Venac,
who had been nineteen years confined for having presumed
to give advice to Madame de Pompadour. He
successively became acquainted with several others,
two of whom were also the victims of the marchioness;
one of them had been seventeen years in prison, on
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_423">[423]</span>suspicion of having spoken ill of her; the other had
been twenty-three years, because he was suspected of
having written against her a pamphlet, which he had
never even seen. The prisoners contrived to convey ink
and paper to Latude through the hole; he opened a
correspondence with them, encouraged them to write
to each other, and became the medium through which
they transmitted their letters. The burthen of captivity
was much lightened to him by this new occupation.</p>

<p>An unfortunate change for the prisoners now took
place. The benevolent and amiable-mannered Guyonnet
was succeeded by Rougemont, a man who was a
contrast to him in every respect; he was avaricious,
flinty-hearted, brutal, and a devoted tool of M. de Sartine.
The diet which he provided for the captives
was of the worst kind; and their scanty comforts were
as much as possible abridged. That he might not be
thwarted in the exercise of his tyranny, he dismissed
such of the prison attendants as he suspected of being
humane, and replaced them by men whose dispositions
harmonised with his own. How utterly devoid
of feeling were the beings whom he selected, may be
judged by the language of his cook. This libel on the
human race is known to have said, “If the prisoners
were ordered to be fed upon straw, I would give them
stable-litter;” and, on other occasions, he declared, “If
I thought there was a single drop of juice in the meat
of the prisoners, I would trample it under my foot to
squeeze it out.” Such a wretch would not have
scrupled to put poison into the food, had not his
master had an interest in keeping the captives alive.
When any one complained of the provisions, he was
insultingly answered, “It is but too good for prisoners;”
when he applied for the use of an article, however
insignificant, the reply was, “It is contrary to the
rules.” So horrible was the despotism of the governor
that, within three months, four of the prisoners
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_424">[424]</span>strangled themselves in despair. “The Inquisition
itself,” says Latude, “might envy his proficiency in
torture!”</p>

<p>Latude was one of the first to suffer from the brutality
of Rougemont. The apartment in which Guyonnet had
placed him commanded a fine view. The enjoyment
of a prospect was thought to be too great a luxury for a
prisoner, and, accordingly, Rougemont set about depriving
him of it. He partly built up the windows, filled
the interstices of the bars with close iron net-work; and
then, lest a blade of grass should still be visible,
blockaded the outside with a blind like a mill-hopper,
so that nothing could be perceived but a narrow slip
of sky. But his situation was soon made far worse.
In a fit of anger, caused by his being refused the means
of writing to the lieutenant of police, he imprudently
chanced to wish himself in his former cell again. He
was taken at his word. On the following morning,
when he had forgotten his unguarded speech, he was
led back to his dark and noisome dungeon. “Few
will believe,” says he, “that such inhuman jests could
be practised in a civilised country.”</p>

<p>M. de Sartine, being now appointed minister of the
marine, was replaced by M. Le Noir. It was some
time before Latude knew of this change, and he derived
no benefit from it, the new head of the police being
the friend of Sartine. He wished to address the minister,
but the means were refused, and he again tasked
his skill to remove the obstacle. The only light he
enjoyed was when his food was brought to him. The
turnkey then set down the lamp at the entrance of the
wicket, and went away to attend to other business. Of
the turnkey’s short absence Latude availed himself to
write a letter; it was written on a piece of his shirt, with
a straw dipped in blood. His appeal was disregarded;
and, to prevent him from repeating it in the same manner,
the governor ordered a socket for the candle to be fixed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_425">[425]</span>on the outside of the wicket, so that only a few feeble
rays might penetrate into the dungeon. But the captive
was not to be easily discouraged; and, besides, he took
a delight in baffling his persecutors. He had remaining
in a pomatum pot some oil, sent by the surgeon to
alleviate the colic pains which were caused by the
dampness of his abode. Cotton drawn from his stockings
supplied him with a wick. He then twisted some
of his straw into a rope, which he coiled up, and
fastened, in the shape of a bee-hive. With another
portion of straw he made a sort of stick, five feet long,
with a bit of linen at the end of it. The turnkey was
always obliged to bring his food at twice; and, while
he was fetching the second portion, Latude thrust out
the stick, obtained a light from the candle, lighted his
taper, and then closely covered it over with the bee-hive
basket. When he was left by himself he unhooded
the lamp, and wrote a second letter with his
own blood. The only result was, to make his jailers
believe that he was aided by the prince of darkness.</p>

<p>It was not till Latude was again at death’s-door
that he was removed from his dungeon; on being
taken out he fainted, and remained for a long while
insensible. When he came to himself his mind
wandered, and for some time he imagined that he
had passed into the other world. Medical aid was
granted to him, and he slowly recovered his health.
The turnkeys now occasionally dropped obscure hints
of some beneficial change, which he was at a loss to
understand. The mystery was at length explained.
The benevolent M. de Malesherbes had lately been
appointed a cabinet minister, and one of his first acts
was to inspect the state prisons. He saw Latude,
listened to his mournful story, was indignant at his
six-and-twenty years’ captivity, and promised redress.</p>

<p>Latude had been more than eleven years at Vincennes,
when the order arrived for his release. His
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_426">[426]</span>heart beat high with exultation; but he was doomed
to suffer severe disappointment. At the moment when
he imagined that he was free, an officer informed
him, that the minister thought it expedient to accustom
him gradually to a purer air, and that he was
therefore directed to convey him to a convent, where
he was to remain for a few months. These were the
very same words which had been spoken to him when
he was sent from the Bastile to Vincennes; and,
knowing their meaning but too well, they almost
palsied his faculties. His enemies had been busily
at work; by gross misrepresentations, and by forging
in his name an extravagant memorial to the king,
they had induced M. de Malesherbes to believe that
the prisoner’s intellects were disordered, and that he
could not be immediately released without peril.</p>

<p>It was to the hospital of Charenton, the Parisian
bedlam, that the officers were removing Latude. When
he was about to quit Vincennes, he heard the brutal
Rougemont describe him to them as a dangerous and
hardened criminal, who could not be too rigorously
confined. It was also hinted, that the prisoner was
gifted with magical powers, by virtue of which he had
thrice escaped in an extraordinary manner. When
he was turned over to the monks, called the Brothers
of Charity, who had the management of Charenton,
these particulars were faithfully reported to them, and
he was introduced under the name of Danger, in
order to excite an idea of his formidable character.</p>

<p>Unacquainted with the nature of Charenton, Latude,
on seeing the monks, had supposed that he
was in a monastery. On finding that he was in a
mad-house, he dropped lifeless to the ground. He
was conducted to a cell, which was over the vault
where the furious lunatics were chained, and their
shrieks and groans were horrible. In the night he
heard the sound of voices, and discovered that two
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_427">[427]</span>prisoners, one in the adjoining room, and the other
in that above, were talking about him, out of their
windows. They were both of them state prisoners,
the hospital being occasionally converted into a jail
by the ministers; one was named St. Magloire, the
other the Baron de Prilles. Latude introduced himself
to them, and they promised him all the services
in their power. De Prilles possessed considerable
influence with the officers of the establishment, and
he exerted it so effectually, that he obtained permission
for Latude to be visited by his fellow-captives.
He had, however, enjoyed this comfort only for a
short time, when Rougemont came and gave orders
for his being placed in close and solitary confinement.</p>

<p>Latude remained in seclusion for a considerable
time; but, at length, by dint of incessant remonstrances,
De Prilles induced the superiors of the hospital
to allow his new friend to take his meals in the
apartment of St. Bernard, one of his fellow-captives.
Another favour was soon after granted; he was permitted
to take some exercise in the smaller court,
when all the inmates of the place had been shut up
for the night. It was then winter; and, at eight
o’clock, the keeper led him to the court; and, when he
was not disposed to walk with him, he placed his lantern
on a stone, and watched him through some holes
purposely bored in the door.</p>

<p>Trifling as were these indulgences, the worthy
monks had disobeyed positive orders in allowing them.
But they did not stop here. The head of the hospital,
Father Facio, was so deeply moved by the injustice
done to the captive, that he waited on M. de Malesherbes
to intercede for him. On his assuring the
minister that the prisoner was submissive, docile, and
perfectly sane, his hearer, who had been told that
Latude was a furious madman, was astonished and indignant
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_428">[428]</span>at having been deceived. He promised that
he would speedily release him, and desired that he
might, in the meanwhile, enjoy as much liberty as the
hospital regulations would allow. Unfortunately,
however, for Latude, Malesherbes very shortly after
ceased to be one of the ministers.</p>

<p>Though he failed to obtain his freedom, the situation
of Latude was much ameliorated; he might roam
wherever he would, within the bounds of the establishment.
He derived additional comfort from several of
the state prisoners being now suffered to take their
meals together, instead of having them separately in
their apartments. The party thus formed admitted to
their society several of the lunatics who had been liberally
educated, and were harmless. One of these
unfortunate men asserted himself to be the Divinity,
another claimed to be a son of Louis XV., a third took
a higher flight, and was the reigning monarch. These
aspiring pretensions were strongly contrasted with the
humility of others. A barrister, whose intellect love
had shaken, manifested his insanity by throwing himself
at every one’s feet and imploring pardon. Another
individual, who had been a hermit, obstinately
persisted in believing that Latude was a German
elector, and, in spite of all attempts to prevent it,
would perform for him the meanest domestic offices.
“If I told him in the morning,” says Latude, “that
a flea had disturbed my rest, he would not leave my
chamber till he had killed it: he would bring it to me
in the hollow of his hand, to show me what he had
done. ‘My lord,’ he would say, ‘it will bite no
more, and will never again disturb the sleep of your
most serene highness.’”</p>

<p>A fellow prisoner who had recently been confined
in a cell during a furious paroxysm of insanity, now
gave some information to Latude, which deeply wounded
his feelings. From him Latude learned that his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_429">[429]</span>early friend D’Alegre was in the prison, a raving
maniac, shut up in an iron cage. His entreaties were
so pressing, that the monks granted him permission
to visit this unfortunate being. He found him a lamentable
spectacle, shrunk to a skeleton, his hair
matted, and his eyes sunken and haggard. Latude
rushed to embrace him, but was repelled with signs of
aversion by the maniac. In vain he strove to recall
himself to the maniac’s recollection; the lost being
only looked fiercely at him, and exclaimed, in a hollow
tone, “I know you not!—begone!—I am God!”
This victim of despotism had been ten years at Charenton,
and he continued there, in the same melancholy
state, during the remainder of his existence, which was
protracted till a very late period.</p>

<p>After Latude had been for nearly two years at
Charenton, his friends succeeded in obtaining an order
for his release, on condition that he should permanently
fix his abode at Montagnac, his native place. He
quitted the prison without hat or coat; all his dress
consisting of a tattered pair of breeches and stockings,
a pair of slippers, and a great-coat thirty years old,
which damp had reduced to rottenness. He was
penniless, too; “but,” says he, “I was regardless of
all these circumstances; it was enough that I was
free!”</p>

<p>With some money, which he borrowed from a person
who knew his family, Latude procured decent
clothing. He called on M. Le Noir, who received him
not unfavourably, and desired him to depart without
delay for Montagnac. Unfortunately, he did not follow
this advice. He lingered in Paris to draw up a
memorial to the king, soliciting a recompense for his
plans; and he had an interview with the Prince de
Beauveau, to whom he related his woeful story. In
his memorial, he mentioned M. de Sartine; and,
though he intimates that he said nothing offensive, we
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_430">[430]</span>may doubt whether he manifested much forbearance.
The ministers now gave him peremptory orders to
quit Paris; it is obvious that they were acquainted
with his memorial, and were irritated by it beyond
measure. He had proceeded forty-three leagues on
his journey to the south of France, when he was overtaken
by an officer of police, who carried him back a
prisoner to the capital.</p>

<p>Latude was now taught that hitherto he had not
reached the lowest depth of misery; he was doomed
to experience “a bitter change, severer for severe.”
Till this time his companions in suffering had been
men with whom it was no disgrace to associate; but,
in this instance, he was tossed among a horde of the
most abandoned ruffians on earth; he was immured in
the Bicêtre, in that part of the jail which was appropriated
to swindlers, thieves, murderers, and other
atrocious criminals, the scum and offscouring of
France. On his arrival there, he was stripped, clad
in the coarse and degrading prison attire, thrust into a
dungeon, and supplied with a scanty portion of bread
and water.</p>

<p>He was now in the midst of wretches, who tormented
him with questions as to what robberies and
murders he had committed, boasted of their own numerous
crimes, and laughed at his pretending to innocence.
“I was condemned,” says he, “to endure their
gross and disgusting language, to listen to their unprincipled
projects, in short to breathe the very atmosphere
of vice.” It was in vain that, to procure his
liberation from this den of infamy, he wrote to the
friends who had rescued him from Charenton; some
of them were silenced by the old falsehood that he was
a dangerous madman, and others were alienated by
being told that he had broken into the house of a lady
of rank, and by threats had terrified her into giving
him a large sum of money. This last calumny stung
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_431">[431]</span>him to the soul, and he wrote to M. de Sartine to
demand a trial; but his letter produced no other effect
than the issuing of an order to take from him the
means of writing. Such accumulated injustice soured
his mind, and, brooding over the hope of revenge, he
assumed the name of Jedor, in allusion to a dog so
called, the figure of which he had seen on the gate of
a citadel, with a bone between its paws, and underneath,
as a motto, “I gnaw my bone, expecting the
day when I may bite him who has bitten me.”</p>

<p>While the money lasted which Latude had taken
into the prison, he could obtain a supply of food, bad
indeed in quality, and villanously cooked, but still
capable of supporting nature. But the money was
soon spent, and he was then reduced to the prison
allowance, which was scanty in quantity, of the worst
kind, and often polluted by an admixture of filth and
vermin. Latude was a large eater, and the portion of
food allowed to him was so trifling, that he was tortured
by hunger. To such extremity was he driven,
that he was compelled to petition the sweepers to give
him some of the hard crusts which were thrown into
the passages by the richer prisoners, and which were
collected every morning for the pigs.</p>

<p>Bad as the fare of Latude was, his lodging was far
worse. His windowless cell, only eight feet square,
swarmed with fleas and rats to such a degree that to
sleep was all but impossible; fifty rats at a time were
under his coverlet. He had neither fire nor candle,
his clothing was insufficient, and the wind, rain, and
snow beat furiously through the iron grating, which
barely admitted the light. In rainy weather, and
during thaws, the water ran in streams down the walls
of the dungeon.</p>

<p>Eight-and-thirty months were spent in this infernal
abode. Rheumatism, that prevented him from quitting
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_432">[432]</span>his pallet, was the first consequence of his exposed
situation. This brought with it an aggravation of another
evil; for when Latude was unable to approach
the wicket, the keeper flung in his bread, and gave
him no soup. Scurvy of the most inveterate kind at
length attacked him, his limbs were swelled and blackened,
his gums became spongy, and his teeth loose,
and he could no longer masticate the bread. For
three days he lay without sustenance, voiceless and
moveless, and he was just on the point of expiring,
when he was conveyed to the infirmary. The infirmary
was a loathsome place, little better than a charnel-house,
but the medical aid which he obtained there
restored him, after a struggle of many months, to a
tolerable state of health.</p>

<p>On his recovery he was placed in a decent apartment.
He did not, however, long enjoy it. Having
attempted to present a petition to a princess of the
house of Bouillon, who came to see the Bicêtre, he
was punished by being thrust into a dungeon more
horrible than that which he had previously inhabited.
His own words will best describe what he underwent.
“I was,” says he, “still enduring a physical torture
which I had experienced before, though never to so cruel
and dangerous an extent. After having triumphed
over so many disasters, and vanquished so many enemies
by my unshaken constancy, I was on the point
of yielding to the intolerable pain occasioned by the
vermin which infested my person. My dungeon was
totally dark, my eye-sight was nearly extinguished,
and I tried in vain to deliver myself from the myriads
of these noxious animals that assailed me at once; the
dreadful irritation made me tear my flesh with my
teeth and nails, until my whole body became covered
with ulcers; insects generated in the wounds, and
literally devoured me alive. It was impossible to sleep:
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_433">[433]</span>I was driven mad with agony, my sufferings were drawing
to a close, and death in its most horrid shape
awaited me.”</p>

<p>Gloomy as appearances were, the dawn of a brighter
day was at hand. A providential occurrence, which
seemed calculated to destroy his last hope, was the
cause of his redemption. In 1781, the President de
Gourgue visited the Bicêtre, heard the story of Latude,
desired that the captive would draw up a memorial,
and promised to exert himself in his behalf. Latude
wrote the memorial, and intrusted it to a careless
messenger, who dropped it in the street. The packet
was found by a young female, Madame Legros, who
carried on in a humble way the business of a mercer,
and whose husband was a private teacher. The envelope
being torn by lying in the wet, and the seal
broken, she looked at the contents, which were signed
“Masers de Latude, a prisoner during thirty-two
years, at the Bastile, at Vincennes, and at the Bicêtre,
where he is confined on bread and water, in a dungeon
ten feet under ground.”</p>

<p>The gentle heart of Madame Legros was shocked
at the idea of the protracted agony which the prisoner
must have suffered. After she had taken a copy of
the memorial, her husband, who participated in her
feelings, carried it to the president. But the magistrate
had been deceived by the falsehood, that the
captive was a dangerous incurable lunatic, and he advised
them to desist from efforts which must be fruitless.
Madame Legros, however, who had much good
sense and acuteness, would not believe that the captive
was mad; she again read the memorial attentively,
and could perceive in it no indication of disordered
intellect. She was firmly convinced that he was the
victim of persecution, and she resolved to devote her
time and her faculties to his deliverance. Never, perhaps,
was the sublime of benevolence so fully displayed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_434">[434]</span>as by this glorious woman, whose image ought to have
been handed down to posterity by the painter’s and
the sculptor’s hand. In the course of her philanthropic
struggles, she had to endure calumny and
severe privations, she was reduced to sell her ornaments
and part of her furniture, and to subsist on hard
and scanty fare, yet she never paused for a moment
from the pursuit of her object, never uttered a sentence
of regret that she had engaged in it. Her husband,
too, though less personally active, has the merit
of having entirely coincided with her in opinion, and
aided her as far as he had the power.</p>

<p>It is delightful to know that her noble labours were
crowned with success. Her toils, and the result of
them, are thus summed up by Latude, who has also
narrated them at great length. “Being thoroughly
convinced of my innocence, she resolved to attempt
my liberation; she succeeded, after occupying three
years in unparalleled efforts, and unwearied perseverance.
Every feeling heart will be deeply moved
at the recital of the means she employed, and the
difficulties she surmounted. Without relations, friends,
fortune, or assistance, she undertook everything, and
shrank from no danger and no fatigue. She penetrated
to the levées of ministers, and forced her way to
the presence of the great; she spoke with the natural
eloquence of truth, and falsehood fled before her
words. They excited her hopes and extinguished
them, received her with kindness and repulsed her
rudely; she reiterated her petitions, and returned a
hundred times to the attack, emboldened by defeat itself.
The friends her virtues had created trembled
for her liberty, even for her life. She resisted all
their entreaties, disregarded their remonstrances, and
continued to plead the cause of humanity. When
seven months pregnant, she went on foot to Versailles,
in the midst of winter; she returned home
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_435">[435]</span>exhausted with fatigue and worn out with disappointment;
she worked more than half the night to obtain
subsistence for the following day, and then repaired
again to Versailles. At the expiration of eighteen
months, she visited me in my dungeon, and communicated
her efforts and her hopes. For the first time
I saw my generous protectress; I became acquainted
with her exertions, and I poured forth my gratitude in
her presence. She redoubled her anxiety, and resolved
to brave everything. Often, on the same day, she
has gone to Montmartre to visit her infant, which was
placed there at nurse, and then came to the Bicêtre to
console me and inform me of her progress. At last,
after three years, she triumphed, and procured my
liberty!”</p>

<p>In the first instance, the boon of liberty could not
be said to be more than half granted; Latude being
ordered to fix his abode at Montagnac, and not to
leave the town without the permission of the police
officer of the district. As his fortune was entirely
lost, a miserable pension of four hundred livres (about
£16) was assigned for his subsistence. By the renewed
exertions of Madame Legros, however, the
decree of exile was rescinded, and he was allowed to
remain at Paris, on condition of his never appearing
in the coffee-houses, on the public walks, or in any
place of public amusement. The government might
well be ashamed that such a living proof of its injustice
should be contemplated by the people.</p>

<p>It was on the 24th of March, 1784, that Latude
emerged into the world, from which he had for five-and-thirty
years been secluded. He and his noble-minded
benefactress were, for a considerable time,
objects of general curiosity. Happily, that curiosity
did not end in barren pity and wonder, but proved
beneficial to those who excited it. A subscription was
raised, by which two annuities, each of 300 livres,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_436">[436]</span>were purchased, one for Latude, the other for his deliverer.
Two other pensions, of 600 livres and 100
crowns, were soon after granted by individuals to
Madame Legros, and the Montyon gold medal, annually
given as the prize of virtue, was unanimously
adjudged to her by the French Academy. The income
of Latude also obtained some increase; but it was not
till 1793 that it received any addition of importance;
in that year he brought an action against the heirs of
the Marchioness de Pompadour, and heavy damages
were awarded to him. Notwithstanding the severe
shocks his frame had undergone, the existence of
Latude was protracted till 1805, when he died at the
age of eighty.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</h2>

<p>Reign of Louis XVI.—Enormous number of Lettres de Cachet issued
in two reigns—William Debure the elder—Blaizot imprisoned
for obeying the King—Pelisseri—Prisoners from St.
Domingo—Linguet—Duvernet—The Count de Paradès—Marquis
de Sade—Brissot—The Countess de la Motte—Cardinal de
Rohan—Cagliostro—The affair of the Diamond Necklace—Reveillon
takes shelter in the Bastile—Attack and capture of
the Bastile by the Parisians—Conclusion.</p>

</div>

<p>The reign of Louis XV., which, as far as regarded
himself, was every way inglorious, was protracted to
the length of fifty-nine years; a duration which has
rarely been equalled. Popular enthusiasm, or rather
popular folly—the terms are often synonymous—at one
time conferred on him the title of “the Well-beloved;”
he lived to be sincerely hated, and he died unlamented,
except by such of his flatterers and parasites as feared
that they would be cast off by a new monarch. Of
the enormous amount of private misery which, during
the period of his sway, he must have inflicted, in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_437">[437]</span>exercising only one attribute of his despotism, some
idea may be formed, from the circumstance of more
than 150,000 <i>lettres de cachet</i> having been issued
while he occupied the throne; an annual average of
more than 2500. How many wives, parents, children,
must have been yearly driven to despair by this
atrocious tyranny! Though it is certain that the prisoners
were not all treated with the same brutality as
Masers de Latude, the mass of suffering must, nevertheless,
have been more than can be contemplated
without a shudder by any one who is not dead to the
feelings of humanity.</p>

<p>In 1774, Louis XVI. ascended the throne. He
was a perfect contrast to his predecessor. In his
manners there was little of the dignity of a sovereign,
and he was deficient in firmness and penetration; but,
pure in morals, kind in heart, and honest in principle,
he was unfeignedly desirous to do justice to his people,
and to contribute to their welfare. Yet, so difficult is
it to uproot a long-established abuse, and such is the
power of ministers and men in office, that, even under
the government of this well-meaning king, no fewer
than 14,000 <i>lettres de cachet</i> are said to have been
granted in the fifteen years which elapsed between the
accession of Louis and the meeting of the States
General.</p>

<p>The very first instances which I shall bring forward
of the use made of <i>lettres de cachet</i>, in this reign, will
afford proof of the unprincipled and arbitrary spirit of
the men who held authority. We commence with
William Debure the elder, one of the most eminent
and intelligent of the Parisian booksellers. The
family of the Debures carried on, from father to son,
the same business in Paris, for nearly two centuries.
The subject of this sketch was in habits of intimacy
with the most distinguished literary characters. His
catalogues of celebrated libraries, to the number of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_438">[438]</span>forty-three, are much esteemed. At the time of his
decease, in 1820, when he was eighty-six, he was the
oldest bookseller in France, and was considered as the
patriarch of bibliography. It was in 1778 that he was
sent to the Bastile. In 1777, the Council of State
thought proper to issue an ordinance, decreeing that
the term of copyright should not in future extend
beyond the time which was required to defray the
expense of publishing. The Council followed this up
by another ordinance, authorizing the sale of pirated
editions, on payment of a stamp duty. These acts,
equally absurd and unjust, were, in fact, licenses to
commit robbery upon authors and publishers, for the
benefit of the treasury, which shared the spoil with the
robbers. Debure then held in his company the place
of syndic, which seems to be analogous to that of
master in our stationers’ company. To him fell the
task of stamping the pirated works. Well knowing
that a great number of booksellers would inevitably be
ruined by the new law, or rather violation of law,
which the Council had promulgated, Debure declined
to comply with it, and desired that he might be allowed
to resign. His resignation was not accepted, and he
was thrice summoned to proceed to the stamping of
the spurious books; and in each instance the significant
hint was thrown out, “Stamp, or if you do not——.”
Debure remained immovable, and he was at length
committed to the Bastile. The ministers, however,
either became ashamed of their conduct, or, which is
more probable, were overruled by the monarch; for,
in the course of a few days, he recovered his liberty.</p>

<p>Another bookseller is said to have been punished
in the same manner, for the extraordinary offence of
executing, in the way of trade, an order which was
given to him by his sovereign. Suspecting that his
ministers kept him in ignorance of the sentiments and
wishes of the people, Louis determined to obtain some
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_439">[439]</span>knowledge of them from another quarter. To peruse
the various political pamphlets of the day seemed to
him the best mode of accomplishing his purpose. Accordingly,
he directed a bookseller, named Blaizot, to
send them regularly and secretly to a certain place,
whence they were to be conveyed to him. This was
done for about two months. Alarmed to find the king
possessed of so much information, upon subjects with
which they had believed him to be unacquainted, the
ministers set to work to discover the source of it. Either
Blaizot’s imprudence, or the activity of their spies,
soon made them masters of the secret. The luckless
bookseller was speedily taught that there was an influence
behind the throne which was greater than the
throne itself. The Bastile received him. This audacious
act is attributed to the Baron de Breteuil; of
whom, however, it is but justice to state, that he is
said to have liberated many prisoners, and much ameliorated
the prison discipline. But he was at times
harsh and impetuous, and may, perhaps, on this occasion,
have yielded to passion, or to the wish of his
colleagues. Surprised by the customary supply of
pamphlets being abruptly stopped, Louis inquired into
the cause of it, and was equally astonished and indignant
to find that Blaizot had been lodged in the Bastile,
by virtue of one of those laconic billets which were
signed Louis, and countersigned by a cabinet minister.
Blaizot was instantly released, and the Baron de Breteuil
was reprimanded, in the severest language, by his
offended master.</p>

<p>That Breteuil, highly aristocratic in his principles,
and believing the established order of things to be perfection
itself, should consider it as a matter of course
to silence all opponents by means of the Bastile, can
excite no wonder; but, if a minister who sprang from
the people, a republican by birth, and a professed
friend of reform, could punish by imprisonment a man
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_440">[440]</span>who ventured to criticise his measures, we must wonder
indeed! Yet, if M. Linguet was not misinformed,
such a case did actually happen. He tells us that,
while he was in the Bastile, there was in the prison a
captive named Pelisseri, who had been three years in
confinement, and whose sole crime was that he had
made some remarks on the financial operations of M.
Necker. The story is not probable. With some important
faults, the minister had many virtues, and
certainly had nothing cruel in his nature. It is very
likely that the captivity of Pelisseri was the work of
some secret enemy, who hated both him and Necker,
and doubly gratified his vindictive feelings, by incarcerating
the one and calumniating the other.</p>

<p>The agents of the French government in the colonies
seem not to have been backward in following the
example of tyranny which was set to them by their
superiors at home. In one instance, a governor of St.
Domingo, who had quarrelled with all the members of
a court of justice, adopted a summary mode of proceeding
against them. He shipped the whole of them,
and sent them off to France as criminals. On their
arrival they were placed in the Bastile, and kept
separate from each other; and in this painful situation
they remained for eight months. They were at length
pronounced innocent, and were conveyed back to
St. Domingo; but they received not the slightest
compensation for more than a year’s endurance of
bodily and mental suffering.</p>

<p>The Bastile received, in September, 1780, a man
whose talents were more worthy of praise than his
temper. This was Simon Nicholas Henry Linguet,
a native of Rheims, who was born in 1736. He was
learned, acute, and eloquent both in speech and
writing; but paradoxical, changeful, suspicious, violent,
and wrong-headed. At the age of sixteen, he
gained the three highest University prizes. After
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_441">[441]</span>having visited Poland with the Duke of Deux Ponts,
and Portugal with the Prince de Beauveau, he commenced
his literary career by a History of the Times
of Alexander the Great. Disappointed by D’Alembert,
in his wish to obtain a seat in the French
Academy, he became an inveterate enemy of D’Alembert,
and the party which was called the philosophical.
His works succeeded each other with uncommon
rapidity: the most remarkable of those which he
published at this period are, the History of the Revolutions
of the Roman Empire, and the Theory of
Civil Laws. Both these works, which in many
respects have great merit, excited a loud clamour,
especially the latter, by the leaning which they manifest
towards despotism. Linguet had soon reason to
change his opinion on this subject.</p>

<p>The literary labours of Linguet might seem sufficient
to occupy all his time; but the fact was not so.
He was all the while a barrister in extensive practice.
In splendid eloquence, and in the successful management
of causes, he had few if any rivals. He boasted
that he never lost more than two causes, “and those,”
said he, “I had a strong inclination to lose.” It was
mainly by his efforts that the obnoxious Duke d’Aiguillon
escaped from deserved punishment. The duke
proved ungrateful, and his irritated counsellor wrote
him word that he had “stolen him from the scaffold,”
and that, if the peer did not do what was right with
regard to his advocate, “he would keep him hanging
for ten years at the point of his pen.” D’Aiguillon
thought it prudent to yield, but he took care to avenge
himself in the end. The lucrative career of Linguet,
as a barrister, was suddenly brought to a close by his
brethren of the bar, some of whom envied his superior
gains, and all of whom had been irritated by his
violent and sarcastic language. They refused to plead
with him, and the parliament sanctioned this resolution,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_442">[442]</span>and expunged his name from the roll of
counsellors.</p>

<p>Shut out from forensic honours and emoluments,
Linguet devoted himself to literature and politics.
He began to publish a journal in 1774, but, in 1776,
it was suppressed by the minister Maurepas. Apprehensive
for his liberty, he quitted France, and
successively resided in Switzerland, Holland, and
England. It was in 1777, while he was in exile, that
he established his well-known work, the Political,
Civil, and Literary Annals of the Eighteenth Century,
which forms nineteen volumes. The Count de Vergennes
gave him permission to return to France; but
scarcely had he availed himself of it ere he was
shut up in the Bastile, where he continued for above
two years. On his release, he settled at Brussels,
and gained the good-will of the emperor Joseph,
which, however, he soon lost, by espousing the party
of the Belgian revolutionists. In 1791, he returned
to France. During the reign of terror, he withdrew
into retirement. He was, however, unable to elude
the vigilance of the Jacobins; he was sent by them
before the revolutionary tribunal, which, without
suffering him to make any defence, condemned him
to death, and he was accordingly executed in the
summer of 1794.</p>

<p>While Linguet was in the Bastile, one of his opponents
was sharing the same fate, though for a much
shorter term. Duvernet, an ecclesiastic, published a
pamphlet, anonymously, in 1781, in which he indulged
his wit at the expense of Linguet, D’Espremenil, and
other well-known characters. This he might have
done with impunity; but he also attacked the government;
and the government, in return, sent him to the
Bastile for three weeks, to learn prudence. The
lesson was thrown away upon him; for, soon after his
release, he ventured to animadvert upon the conduct
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_443">[443]</span>of the Count de Maurepas, and was again lodged in
the Bastile. His confinement lasted longer than in
the first instance; and he availed himself of this compulsory
leisure to write a life of Voltaire. The minister
of police detained the manuscript; but the work,
nevertheless, found its way into print in 1786, and
had such an extensive sale, that the French bishops
took the alarm, and commissioned the keeper of the
seals to complain to the king. Louis XVI., however,
replied, “I will not meddle with this affair; if
Duvernet is wrong, let him be refuted,—that is the
business of the bishops.” The author afterwards
enlarged and remodelled his work; but he died in
1796, the year before the new edition was published.</p>

<p>Another prisoner, who was also contemporary with
Linguet in the Bastile, was an individual of mysterious
origin and conduct, who ought to have found a place
in an English prison rather than in a French one.
This was a person who assumed the title of the Count
de Paradès. He himself claimed to be descended from
an ancient Spanish family of the same name; some
affirmed him to be the natural son of a Count de
Paradès; but he was generally believed to be of far
humbler origin, the offspring of a pastry-cook named
Richard, who resided at Phalsburg. Of his early life
nothing is known; it is at the age of twenty-five that
we find him entering on his public career; and, by
some means or other, he contrived to procure an extremely
flattering reception at the French court. Fearing
that he was too old to attain elevated rank in the
military profession, he looked about for another road
to fortune, and thought he had found it in adopting
the perilous and undignified occupation of a spy.
France was at that period secretly preparing for hostilities
against England, the revolt of the British American
colonies seeming to afford her a favourable
opportunity of taking vengeance for the defeats and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_444">[444]</span>disgrace which she had suffered in the seven years’
war. Deeming this an excellent opportunity to bring
himself forward, Paradès voluntarily visited England,
where he gathered some valuable information relative
to our arsenals, ports, and naval and military establishments.
The memorial which, on his return, he
presented to Sartine, the French minister of marine,
was so much approved of, that he was despatched to
procure further particulars. He was so successful in
his inquiries, that he was regularly engaged as a spy
by Sartine, and was profusely supplied with the means
to purchase the services of British traitors. Paradès
was not idle; he bribed highly, and, if his own assertion
may be credited, he found no difficulty in corrupting
many clerks and officers of an inferior class.
Though he may have exaggerated in this respect, there
can be no doubt that there were too many base-minded
wretches who were willing to sell their country. This
fact is established by the circumstances which came
out on the trial of La Motte, his less fortunate successor.
Paradès reconnoitred all the English and
Irish ports. In a part of his journeys he was accompanied
by an officer of engineers, and they were several
times in the utmost danger of being discovered.
For the purpose of keeping up an intercourse with the
French ministry, he fitted out a vessel, and had a regular
establishment of messengers; the vessel served
the double purpose of trading and conveying his despatches.
Many of the communications which he made
were highly important; he complains, in his memoirs,
that some of them, which would have enabled France
to strike fatal blows, were unaccountably neglected.
One of his projects was to set fire to the British fleet
in the harbour of Portsmouth. His services were not
unrewarded; he was pensioned, and appointed a colonel
of cavalry. In the short time that he had been acting
his part, he had also contrived to amass about
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_445">[445]</span>£35,000 by speculations in commerce and the funds,
and perhaps by pocketing a heavy per centage on the
remittances from the French ministry. Nearly
£30,000 was sent to him by his employers, and it is
obvious that, as to the disbursement of it, they could
have no check whatever upon him. It was with a
scheme for seizing upon Plymouth that he closed his
career as a spy. In that port he either had, or pretended
to have emissaries, and to have corrupted a
serjeant and several soldiers of the feeble garrison. It
was in pursuance of this plan that D’Orvilliers, with
the combined French and Spanish squadrons, consisting
of sixty-five sail, entered the Channel. It is notorious
that Plymouth was then in an extremely imperfect
state of defence, and would have been much
endangered by a vigorous attack. Fortunately, however,
D’Orvilliers, in spite of the remonstrances of
Paradès, declined to make an attempt upon the place.
Paradès now visited France, and immediately received
instructions to return to England; but, before he
could depart, his adventurous occupation was brought
to an abrupt close. He is said to have been suspected
of playing the Janus-faced traitor, equally bribed by
England and by France. The suspicion, though natural,
was probably unjust, and may have been
prompted by the friends of those officers whom he had
accused of missing favourable opportunities. He was
committed to the Bastile in April 1780, and was not
liberated till April 1781. He was allowed to have
what books he pleased, to carry on a free correspondence,
and to be visited by his friends. The presumptions
against him could not have been strong; if they had
been so, he would have been rigorously treated, and
permanently confined. For three years after he was
set free, Paradès continued to press the government
for the payment of £25,000, which he asserted to be
due to him. The war, however, had exhausted the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_446">[446]</span>French treasury, and he consequently solicited in vain.
In 1784 he sailed to St. Domingo, where he had purchased
an estate, and he died there in the course of the
following year.</p>

<p>He who appears next on the list of captives was a
man—if indeed the name of man is not misapplied to
him—whose crimes were of so dark a dye that to
imprison him for them was unjust, solely because it
was nothing less than assisting him to evade the
punishment which justice would have inflicted on
him. This abandoned individual has been correctly
described, by a French writer, as “the profound villain
named the Marquis de Sade, who, by his atrocious
examples, and his equally horrible writings, proved
himself to be the apostle of every crime,—of assassination,
of poisoning,—and the enemy of all social order;
this monster spent great part of his life in prison, and
was twenty times saved from the scaffold by his title
of marquis.”</p>

<p>The Marquis de Sade, who was descended from an
ancient family of the Comtat Venaissin, was born at
Paris, in 1740. He embraced the military profession,
and served in all the German campaigns of the seven
years’ war. In 1766, he married an amiable and
virtuous woman, to whom he proved a perpetual source
of wretchedness. A sense of duty induced her, for a
considerable period, to aid in extricating him from the
difficulties in which he involved himself, but she was
finally obliged to give him up. In the same year that
he was united to her, one of his infamous adventures
caused him to be imprisoned and exiled; and no sooner
was he allowed to return to Paris than he took an
actress into keeping, carried her to Provence, and introduced
her as his wife to the gentry around his mansion.
These, however, were merely the venial offences
of Sade. His criminality took a far higher flight. In
1778, he would have fallen a victim to the justice of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_447">[447]</span>his country, for horrible cruelty to a female, had he
not been snatched from it by a <i>lettre de cachet</i>, which
confined him for a time at Saumur, whence he was
removed to Pierre-Encise.</p>

<p>This danger did not operate as a warning to him.
At Marseilles, in 1772, in company with his valet, who
was the companion of his debaucheries, he acted in
such a manner that the parliament of Aix prosecuted
him and his servant, and ultimately pronounced them
guilty of unnatural acts and of poisoning; the persons
poisoned are said to have been two loose women, to
whom they administered stimulants of the most dangerous
kind. Sade took flight, but was seized in Savoy
by the king of Sardinia, and sent to the castle of
Miolans. He made his escape from the castle, and
concealed himself in Paris, where, in 1777, he was
discovered, and sent to Vincennes. He escaped, was
retaken, was lodged again at Vincennes, and was treated
with great rigour for two years. In 1784, he was
transferred to the Bastile.</p>

<p>At Vincennes and the Bastile he wrote the earliest
of those works which alone would suffice to brand his
name with indelible infamy. It is truly said of them,
that “everything the most monstrous and revolting,
that can be dreamt by the most frenzied, obscene, and
sanguinary imagination, seems to be combined in these
works, the mere conception of which ought to be
looked upon as a crime against social order.” Sade
was a voluminous writer, and produced many other
works, plays, romances, verses, and miscellanies, which
have never seen the light.</p>

<p>At the Bastile, but a short time before the attack
on it, he quarrelled with the governor, and, by means
of a sort of speaking trumpet, harangued the passengers
in St. Anthony’s Street, and endeavoured to
excite them to arms. For this he was sent off to
Charenton. In 1790, the decree of the National
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_448">[448]</span>Assembly, which liberated all the victims of <i>lettres
des cachet</i>, put an end to his imprisonment, after it had
continued for thirteen years. Sade was a partisan
of the revolution, in its worst aspect; but even the
revolutionists of 1793 shrank from contact with so
foul a being. He was arrested by them, and for
nearly a year was an inmate of various prisons.
After this, he remained at large till the reins of government
were assumed by Napoleon. The First
Consul put a stop, in 1801, to the publication of
Sade’s works, and sent him to St. Pelagie; from
that prison he was removed to Charenton, in 1803,
and there he spent his days till the close of his dishonoured
existence in 1814, when he was seventy-five
years of age. To the very last his detestable
doctrines and habits experienced not the slightest
change.</p>

<p>One of the most eminent of the French revolutionists,
from whom a considerable party took its
denomination, was among the latest prisoners of the
Bastile. John Peter Brissot was born in 1754, at
the village of Ouarville, near Chartres, where his
father, who was a pastry-cook in Chartres, had a
trifling property. It was from his native place, the
name of which he anglicised, that he afterwards
styled himself Brissot de Warville. He received a
good education, and, as he also read with great
avidity, he accumulated a large stock of miscellaneous
but undigested knowledge. In the English language
he acquired a proficiency which was unusual among
Frenchmen at that period, and his study of it contributed
powerfully to give his sentiments a republican
tinge; for he dwelt with delight on the characters
of the great men who withstood the tyranny of
Charles the First. Brissot was placed in an attorney’s
office at Paris; and it is a curious circumstance,
that one of his fellow-clerks was Robespierre, who
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_449">[449]</span>afterwards became his deadly political foe. In two
years Brissot got tired of legal drudgery, and determined
to look to literature for subsistence. His
first essay was a satire, which he subsequently owned
to contain much injustice, and for which he narrowly
escaped being lodged in the Bastile. A pamphlet
which he published attracted the notice of Swinton,
an Englishman, a man utterly devoid of honourable
feelings, who engaged him to superintend the reprinting
of the Courrier de l’Europe, at Boulogne.
This engagement was soon terminated; and Brissot,
who had received two hundred pounds on his father’s
death, purchased the necessary titles for practising at
the bar. The money thus laid out was thrown away,
he being soon compelled to resign all hope of succeeding
as an advocate. His next scheme, of the
success of which he did not allow himself to doubt,
was to establish, in the British capital, a Lyceum,
which was to serve as a point of union to literary
men of all countries, and was to carry on a universal
correspondence with them, and to issue a periodical
work for the more wide diffusion of English literature.
As might have been foreseen, this magnificent institution,
of which he was of course to be the presiding
genius, proved to be nothing more than an abortion.
Instead of reaping fame and profit from the periodical,
Brissot found that no one would buy it, and he was arrested
and imprisoned by the printer. Having, however,
contrived to get free, he returned penniless to
France in 1784, where another prison was ready to
receive him. Merely, it is said, because he had spoken
lightly of the works of D’Aguesseau, he was sent to
the Bastile. Others attribute his imprisonment to the
malice of his inveterate and unprincipled enemy Morande,
who accused him of having written a libel, entitled
le Diable à Quatre, which was from the pen of
the Marquis de Pelleport. Through the influence of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_450">[450]</span>Madame de Genlis, Brissot was released at the expiration
of two months. This visit to the Bastile was not
calculated to diminish his republican fervour. That
fervour was no doubt much increased by his visit to
the United States, whither he went early in 1788, and
whence he returned in the following year.</p>

<p>Brissot, on his return, threw himself with all his
heart and soul into the Revolution. His mind was
heated by the reading of ancient and modern writers,
who have held up republican heroes to our admiration,
and it was irritated by wrongs which arbitrary power
had inflicted; and he rashly and illogically concluded,
that under a monarchy it was impossible for liberty
to exist. Such was the case, also, with many of the
talented, eloquent, and warm-hearted men who, acting
in concert with him, were known by the title of
Brissotins and Girondists. No one who has attentively
perused the numerous documents relative to the
French revolution can deny that, at a moment when,
according to their own confession, there was not a
handful of republicans in France, the Brissotins had
determined to subvert the monarchical government and
establish their favourite system. It is as certain, too,
that they were not delicate in the choice of means, and
that truth was not allowed to stand in the way of their
designs. Believing a republican order of things to be
the perfection of human wisdom, they seem to have
thought that, “to do a great right, they might do a
little wrong.” They were soon taught by woeful experience
that the strict rule of right can never be
violated without danger; and that, however good his
intentions may be, he who does a little wrong opens
the way for the commission of the worst of crimes.</p>

<p>Brissot was elected a member of the Parisian Common
Council, an assembly which, in less than four
years, became infamous for its ferocious and sanguinary
proceedings. It must have been gratifying to his feelings,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_451">[451]</span>that one of the first acts which it fell to his lot to
perform, was to receive the keys of the Bastile. He now
established a newspaper called the French Patriot, in
which he made daily violent attacks on the monarch,
the ministers, and all the institutions of the state. It
was he who, in conjunction with Laclos, after the
flight of Louis XVI. to Varennes, drew up the petition
which called on the Constituent Assembly to depose
the king, and which gave rise to a riot that
cost some blood. At the period when the election of
members to the Legislative Assembly was going
forward, the court exerted itself to prevent him from
being chosen a representative. Its misdirected efforts,
however, as was the case in many other instances,
only produced a diametrically opposite effect to that
which was intended; the attention of the electors was
directed to Brissot, and he was unanimously returned
as one of the Parisian members.</p>

<p>Brissot was nominated a member of the diplomatic
committee, and its reports were almost uniformly
drawn up by him. It was principally by his exertions
that a war was brought about with Austria; his purpose
in producing that war was to forward the dethroning
of the king. In the Legislative Assembly
he, for a while, enjoyed great popularity, and he
availed himself of it to batter in breach the tottering
fabric of the monarchy. But the Jacobins, meanwhile,
with Robespierre at their head, all animated by
a deadly hatred of Brissot and his friends, were gradually
gaining influence; and, in proportion as they
won over the populace and the most hot-headed of the
legislators, the power of Brissot declined. For a
moment he meditated making common cause with the
constitutional royalists, in order to avert the disastrous
consequences which he began to dread would ensue,
in case the Jacobins should triumph. The plan, however,
was abandoned. In the revolution of the 10th
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_452">[452]</span>of August he did not participate; Danton was the
prime mover in that transaction. The department of
the Eure deputed Brissot to the convention; and
thenceforth, with a few exceptions, his conduct was
prudent and moderate. From the moment that he
and his friends took their seats, they were daily and
furiously assailed by the Jacobins. They maintained
the contest for several months, but they were finally
overthrown, and the majority of them perished on
the scaffold. Brissot was put to death on the 31st
of October, 1793, and met his fate as calmly as
though he had only been ascending the tribune to
read a report to his late colleagues. The few tears
which he shed during his imprisonment were not for
himself, they were wrung from him by the agonizing
thought that he must leave a beloved wife and children
in a state of destitution.</p>

<p>The last prisoners that remain to be noticed, owed
their residence in the Bastile to an affair which excited
the public attention in an extraordinary degree,
and contributed greatly to render the Queen of
France an object of suspicion and unpopularity.
This was the affair of the diamond necklace, in
which the principal part was played by the Countess
de la Motte. The countess, and a brother and
sister, were descendants of Henry de St. Remi, a
natural son of Henry II., but her family had been
reduced to beggary. The three children, two of
whom she had found asking alms, were taken under
the protection of the Marchioness of Boulainvilliers,
who charitably brought them up at her own expense.
D’Hozier, the eminent genealogist, having ascertained
that they really sprang from the house of
Valois, the Duke of Brancas presented to the queen
a memorial in their favour, and a small pension was
in consequence granted to each of them.</p>

<p>In 1780, Jane, the eldest, married the Count de
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_453">[453]</span>la Motte, who was one of the guards of the Count
d’Artois. Their united resources being exceedingly
scanty, the Countess looked about for the means of
improving them at the cost of some dupe. She had
a prepossessing appearance, fluency of speech, and
considerable talents for intrigue, masked by a semblance
of openness and candour. The personage
whom she selected to try her experiment on, was the
Cardinal Prince de Rohan, Bishop of Strasburgh,
who was then in his fiftieth year. Rohan, though a
bishop and a cardinal, did not think it necessary to
assume even the appearance of decorum and virtue.
He was weak, vain, dissolute, presumptuous, and extravagant.
For a long time he had been in great
disfavour with Maria Antoinetta, the Queen of
France. She, as well as her mother, the Empress
Queen, had been disgusted by his unseemly conduct,
some years before this, while he was ambassador at
Vienna, and the queen’s disgust was heightened by
his indiscreet language respecting her, and by the
insulting manner in which he had spoken of her
mother, in a letter to the Duke d’Aiguillon. She,
however, did not interfere to prevent his obtaining
several ill-deserved appointments from the government,
but she manifested her resentment by refusing
to admit him into her presence, and by expressing
her unbounded contempt of him.</p>

<p>Rohan was in despair at not being admitted into
the society of the queen. All that he enjoyed seemed
worthless, while he was denied that privilege. It
was on this egregious weakness that Madame de
la Motte founded her hopes of success. The deceiver
acted her part with much skill; she gradually
led the besotted cardinal to believe that she had acquired
the queen’s entire confidence, and could exercise
great influence over her. She was, therefore,
obviously the fittest person to bring about the reconciliation
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_454">[454]</span>for which he was so eager. The countess
readily undertook to be the mediator. Week after
week she deluded him by tales of her pleadings to the
queen, and of the slow but sure progress that she
made in restoring him to the royal favour. At last
he was told, that though the queen had forgiven him,
there were reasons why she could not alter her behaviour
towards him at court, and that all intercourse
between them must be carried on through the medium
of Madame de la Motte. Billets, forged by a
M. Villette, now began to be addressed to him in her
Majesty’s name; twice the writer requested a loan
from Rohan, and the request was granted by the delighted
dupe. To lure him on still further, he was
informed, that Maria Antoinetta would admit him to
an interview at night, in the Bois du Boulogne. To
play this character, a lady of easy virtue, named
d’Oliva, whose person and voice resembled the
queen’s, was tutored by La Motte. The cardinal
saw her for a moment, and was in raptures, but he
had not time to express them before the nocturnal
farce was put an end to, by a preconcerted interruption.
This last fraud having raised the infatuation
of the cardinal to the highest pitch, measures were
taken to turn his folly to advantage. There was in
the hands of Bœhmer and Bossange, the court jewellers,
a splendid diamond necklace, valued at 1,800,000
francs, which the queen had recently declined to
purchase, on the ground that it was too expensive.
It was this rich prize which La Motte had in view.
To get possession of it, she made Rohan her tool;
she succeeded in making him believe—for his fund of
credulity appears to have been inexhaustible—that
the queen was extremely desirous to be mistress of
the necklace; but that, as she did not choose to be
seen in the affair, she wished him to negotiate for
her, and to purchase it on his own credit. A forged
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_455">[455]</span>authority, from Maria Antoinetta, was produced, in
support of this fiction. Rohan rushed blindly into
the snare; he bought the necklace, giving for it four
bills, payable at intervals of six months, which the
jewellers consented to receive, on his showing them
the paper authorizing him to treat with them. Another
forged document, bearing the queen’s signature,
enabled Madame de la Motte to get the necklace into
her own possession. Her husband is said to have
been immediately sent off to London, to dispose of a
part of the diamonds.</p>

<p>When the first bill became due, it was dishonoured,
for Rohan had no money, and had relied upon receiving
the amount from the queen. The alarmed
jewellers hastened to the palace, to remonstrate with
her majesty on the subject. The queen was indignant
and astonished at the story which they told.
Cardinal de Rohan, the Countess de la Motte, and
some others, were arrested, and conveyed to the
Bastile. The parliament was charged with the trial
of the prisoners. The trial was not brought to a
conclusion till the 31st of May, 1786. Rohan was
acquitted, but Madame de la Motte was sentenced to
make the <i>amende honorable</i>, to be branded on both
shoulders, and publicly whipped, and be confined for
the rest of her days in the prison of the Salpêtrière.
Villette, the forger, and d’Etionville, his accomplice,
were condemned to the galleys for life. After having
undergone the ignominious part of her sentence, the
countess contrived to escape, and joined her husband
in London, where she died in 1791.</p>

<p>Rohan, though acquitted, was compelled by the
king to resign the office of high almoner, and the
Order of the Holy Ghost, and was exiled to one of
his abbeys. In the early part of the Revolution, he
for a short time seemed friendly to it; but, his aristocratic
feelings soon getting the upper hand, he became
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_456">[456]</span>one of its most inveterate enemies, and strained
every nerve to forward the designs of the emigrants.
He died in Germany, in 1803.</p>

<p>Besides La Motte and Rohan, there were committed
to the Bastile some subordinate actors in the affair of
the diamond necklace, and also a singular adventurer,
who was known to the world under the title of Count
Cagliostro. The count himself, while he threw a veil
of mystery over his birth, appeared to claim an
oriental and illustrious origin; but his enemies assert
that his real name was Joseph Balsamo, and that he
was the son of poor parents at Palermo, where he
was born in 1743. They represent him, too, as a
degraded being, sometimes living by the sale of
chemical compositions, sometimes by swindling, and,
still more frequently, by the prostitution of a handsome
wife. Yet it is certain that, in his travels over
the largest portion of Europe, he gained the esteem
and confidence of many distinguished characters.
That he was a man of talents is undeniable; his
person and manners were attractive, he was acquainted
with most of the European and Asiatic
languages, his knowledge is said to have been extensive,
and he had a powerful flow of eloquence.
Where he procured the funds, by which he kept up
the appearance of a man of distinction, it would not be
easy to ascertain. He was intimate with Cardinal
de Rohan, who had sought his friendship, and this
intimacy was the cause of his being incarcerated, on
suspicion of being an accomplice of the cardinal.
He was acquitted by the parliament. Cagliostro
subsequently spent two years in England, whence he
passed into Italy. At Rome, his wanderings were
brought to a close; he was arrested in 1791, and
sent to the castle of St. Angelo, on a charge of
having established a masonic lodge, and written a
seditious, heretical, and blasphemous work, entitled
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_457">[457]</span>Egyptian Masonry. He was condemned to death,
but for this penalty the Pope substituted perpetual
imprisonment. He is believed to have died in confinement
in 1795.</p>

<p>The long catalogue of captives is now exhausted;
ruin impends over the fortress in which they spent
their solitary and mournful hours; but, before its
doom is sealed, we must see it changing its character,
and becoming, for the first time, a place of refuge to
a persecuted individual. In April 1789, at a period
when the minds of all Frenchmen were in a state of
fermentation, and when, like the ground-swell, which
announces a coming tempest, popular outbreaks were
happening in various quarters, there occurred a riot
of a very serious nature in the suburb of St. Antoine.
Reveillon, a man of good character, who had himself
risen from the working class, was the person against
whom the fury of the mob was directed. He was a
paper-hanging manufacturer, and employed three
hundred men. The charge against him, which was
calumniously made by an abbé, who was in his debt,
was, that he had declared bread to be not yet dear
enough, and expressed a hope that hunger would
compel the workmen to labour for half their present
wages. The thoughtless multitude, always too ready
to credit such slanders, immediately determined to
take summary vengeance on him; the first step of
the rioters was to hang him in effigy. On the first
day they were prevented from going further, but on
the following day, they returned to the charge with
increased numbers and means of offence. Reveillon’s
house and manufactory were plundered of everything
that was portable, and were then burned to the ground.
It was not till the mischief was completed, that the
troops arrived. They seem to have thought it necessary
to atone for their extraordinary delay by extraordinary
severity; a furious contest ensued, and
between four and five hundred of the rioters are said
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_458">[458]</span>to have been slaughtered on the spot. Each of the
political parties accused its rival of having, for sinister
purposes, been the planner of this sanguinary scene.
In the midst of the confusion, Reveillon was so fortunate
as to escape from the mob, and he sought for
shelter in the Bastile, where, during a whole month,
he deemed it prudent to remain.</p>

<p>In little more than three months after the destruction
of Reveillon’s establishment, the storm of popular
anger, which had long been gathering in the capital,
burst forth with irresistible violence, and shook to its
very basis the throne of France. Matters were, indeed,
come to a crisis, between the royalist and the
reforming parties. The court seemed resolved to
commit the question to the decision of the sword; a
formidable force, consisting chiefly of foreign troops,
was accumulated around the metropolis; and the
language held by some of the courtiers and ministers
was of the most sanguinary kind. The Baron de
Breteuil did not hesitate to say, “If it should be
necessary to burn Paris, it shall be burned, and the
inhabitants decimated: desperate diseases require
desperate remedies.” To dissolve the National Assembly
by force, and to consign to the scaffold its
most distinguished members, were among the remedies
which this political Sangrado designed to administer
for the purpose of checking the disease.</p>

<p>As a preliminary to the projected operations, the
ministry of M. Necker was abruptly broken up, and
another was formed, composed of men notorious for
their hostility to the rights of the people. It was a
sufficient indication of what was intended, that Necker,
Montmorin, De la Lezarne, De Puysegur, and De
St. Priest, were replaced by Breteuil, Broglie, De la
Vauguyon, and others of the same stamp. Necker
was ordered to quit the kingdom, and to keep his
departure a profound secret.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_459">[459]</span></p>

<p>The dismissed minister obeyed the order so strictly
that not even his daughter knew of his setting out;
but the ridiculous silence which was required of him
was of no avail. On the following day, which was
Sunday, the 12th of July, it was known at Paris that
the favourite of the people was expelled from office,
and was leaving the country. All the citizens were
instantly in alarm. Groups assembled in every street,
and more than ten thousand persons were soon congregated
at the Palais Royal. Every one was enraged,
but no one knew what to propose, till Camille Desmoulins
ascended a table, in the Palais Royal, and
exhorted his hearers to take up arms; he then plucked
a green leaf, which he put into his hat, as a rallying-sign,
and the symbol of hope. His example was universally
followed. The crowd now proceeded to a
waxwork museum, took from it the busts of Necker
and the Duke of Orleans, covered them with crape,
carried them in procession through the streets, and
compelled the passengers to take off their hats. Near
the place Vendôme, they were assailed by a detachment
of the Royal German regiment, and several
persons were wounded. The Germans were, however,
repulsed. At the place de Louis XV. there was
another contest. They were charged by the dragoons
of the Prince de Lambesc, who dispersed them, and
killed a soldier of the French guards, and one of the
bearers of the busts. The prince himself, a brutal
character, followed some of them into the garden of
the Tuileries, sabring indiscriminately the fugitives
and those who were walking; among those who fell
beneath his hand were a female and an aged man.
The multitude rallied, and chairs, stones, and everything
that could be converted into a weapon, was
employed against the dragoons, who were finally compelled
to fly. By this time the French guards, who
were confined in their barracks, because they favoured
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_460">[460]</span>the people, had learned the death of their comrade.
It was impossible to restrain their rage; they broke
out, fired on the Royal German regiment, and then
took post to cover the multitude from further attack.
Some of the Swiss regiments were ordered to reduce
them to obedience, but they refused to obey; and it
was thus rendered obvious, that the court had fatally
miscalculated in relying upon the army for support.</p>

<p>During that night, and the whole of the succeeding
day, Paris was like a hive about to send forth a swarm.
In the course of the night, the most disorderly part
of the populace burned the custom-houses at the barriers,
and plundered the gunsmiths’ shops. Weapons
of every kind, and of all ages and countries, were
eagerly sought for and brought into use. In the
morning, the electors met at the town-hall to decide
upon the steps which ought to be taken. It was
manifest that they had nothing to expect from the
leniency of the court; it was, in fact, understood that
Paris was to be attacked on seven points in the evening
of the 14th, and it was therefore absolutely necessary
to provide the means of defence. In a few hours
a plan was matured and proclaimed, for arraying forty-eight
thousand Parisian militia. The alarm-bells were
kept incessantly ringing throughout Paris, and drums
were beating in every street, to summon the inhabitants
to their posts. The scanty supply of arms was the most
serious obstacle which the citizens had to overcome.
To remove it in part, pikes were fabricated, fifty
thousand of which were distributed within six-and-thirty
hours. Fortunately, it was discovered that
there was a large quantity of arms at the Hôtel des
Invalides; these were immediately seized upon, and
thus 28,000 muskets, besides sabres and some cannon,
were obtained. Sufficient powder was procured, and
hundreds of men were occupied in casting balls.</p>

<p>The position of the Bastile, interrupting the communication
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_461">[461]</span>between various parts of the capital, and
commanding a considerable portion of the city, was a
cause of much embarrassment to the citizens. M. de
Launey had received instructions to defend his post
to the last extremity. He was provided with ample
means, as far as regarded ammunition and arms; for
he had on the ramparts fifteen cannon, and twelve
wall-pieces, each of which carried a ball of a pound
and a half; he had also plenty of shot, 15,000 cartridges,
and 31,000 pounds of powder. Besides these,
there were, on the summit of the building, six cartloads
of paving-stones, bars of iron, and other missiles,
to hurl on an approaching enemy, when the cannon
could no longer reach him. But, with unaccountable
negligence, no magazine of provisions had been
formed; there was not food enough in the place to
last for twenty-four hours. The garrison consisted
of 32 Swiss and 82 invalids.</p>

<p>It is certain that the Committee of Electors, sitting
at the town-hall, did not entertain any idea of reducing
the Bastile by arms. A sort of neutrality was
the most for which they hoped. That this is the fact,
is proved by their having twice sent a deputation to
the governor, calling on him to admit a detachment of
the Parisian militia, to act in conjunction with the garrison.
The ground on which they claimed this admission
was, that the city ought to have a control over any
military force which was stationed within its limits.
To such a proposal the governor could not accede
without perilling his head.</p>

<p>A M. Thuriot was now sent, by the district of St.
Louis de la Culture, to desire that the cannon might
be removed from the towers. De Launey replied that
this could not be done without the king’s orders, but
that he would withdraw them from the embrasures to
prevent their appearance from exciting alarm. Thuriot
was permitted to ascend to the summit of the fortress,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_462">[462]</span>that he might be enabled to report to those who sent
him the real state of things, and he availed himself of
this permission to exhort the soldiers to surrender.
This they refused to do, but they unanimously and
solemnly promised that they would not be the first to
fire.</p>

<p>But though the Committee of Electors was not disposed
to engage in hostilities which seemed likely to
be both fruitless and dangerous, there were others, who
were more daring, and some, perhaps, who were aware
that the garrison had no provisions, and little inclination
to fight. From various parts, but especially from
the suburb of St. Antoine, an enormous multitude,
with every variety of weapon, hurried to the fortress,
shouting “We will have the Bastile! down with the
troops!” Two of them boldly ascended the roof of
the guard-house, and with axes broke the chains of the
great drawbridge. The throng then pressed into the
court, and advanced towards the second bridge, firing
all the while upon the garrison. The latter replied
with such effect, that the assailants were driven back;
but they placed themselves under shelter, whence they
kept up an incessant discharge of musketry.</p>

<p>A despatch to the governor, informing him that succour
was at hand, having been intercepted by the
committee, that body sent a third deputation to prevail
on him to admit the Parisian forces. It reached
the outer court, and was invited to enter the place by
some officers of the garrison; but either it mistook the
meaning of the invitation, or was intimidated by the
scene of carnage, for it retired without fulfilling its
mission. The firing was recommenced by the people,
and was answered with deadly effect by their antagonists.
Three waggon-loads of straw were now brought
in and set on fire, to burn the buildings near the
fortress; but they were so unskilfully managed, that
they proved obstacles to the besiegers, who were compelled
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_463">[463]</span>to remove them. While they were thus employed,
they received a discharge of grape-shot from
the only cannon which the garrison fired during the
conflict.</p>

<p>The French guards now arrived with four pieces of
cannon, to take a part in the attack. The sight of this
reinforcement entirely depressed the spirits of the
besieged, which had already begun to sink. They
called on their commander to capitulate. Anticipating,
no doubt, the fate which was reserved for him,
he is said to have seized a lighted match, intending to
apply it to the powder-magazine. A large portion of
the neighbourhood would have been destroyed with the
Bastile, had not two non-commissioned officers repelled
him with their bayonets from the dangerous spot.
A white handkerchief was hoisted on one of the
towers as a flag of truce, and a parley was beaten by
the drums of the invalids. These signs were unnoticed
for a considerable time by the besiegers, who
continued their fire. At length, finding that all was
silent in the Bastile, they advanced towards the last
drawbridge, and called to the garrison to let it down.
A Swiss officer looked through a loop-hole, and required
that his comrades should be allowed to march out
with the honours of war. That being refused, he declared
that they were willing to submit, on condition
of not being massacred. “Let down the bridge, and
nothing shall happen to you,” was the reply. On this
assurance, the governor gave up the key of the bridge,
and the conquerors entered in triumph.</p>

<p>A vast majority of the assailants were undoubtedly
brave and honourable men; but there were among
them numbers of the most infamous of mankind; men
who lent their aid in tumults only that they might
gratify their love of plunder and blood. To these degraded
wretches must be attributed the cruelties which
sullied the victory. No sooner was the day won, than
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_464">[464]</span>they began to gratify their diabolical propensities.
Their first achievement was to attempt to throw into
the flames a young girl, whom they found in a fainting
fit, and supposed to be the governor’s daughter. She
was, however, saved by one of the Parisian volunteers.
Others were less happy. The unfortunate De Launey
was massacred on his way to the town-hall, after
having received innumerable sword and bayonet stabs
from the savages around him. Five of his officers
were put to death in an almost equally barbarous manner.</p>

<p>The loss of the besiegers was eighty-three killed
on the spot, fifteen who died afterwards, thirteen
crippled, and sixty wounded.</p>

<p>In the Bastile there were found only seven prisoners;
four of them had forged bills to an immense
amount, two were insane, and the last, the Count de
Solange, had been confined at the request of his father
for dissipated conduct.</p>

<p>The Bastile soon ceased to exist. It was demolished
by order of the civic authorities of Paris; and, when
the demolition was completed, a grand ball was given
on the levelled space. The capture and downfall of
this obnoxious fabric were hailed with delight by the
friends of liberty in every part of the globe, and they
long furnished a favourite and fertile theme for moralists,
orators, and poets.</p>

<p class="titlepage">THE END.</p>

<p class="center smaller">LONDON:<br>
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS,<br>
WHITEFRIARS.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="footnotes">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOOTNOTES">FOOTNOTES</h2>

</div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> M. Linguet says, that each of these niches was but just large
enough for one person, and had neither light nor air except at the
moment when the door was opened.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> M. de Fratteaux was seized in England, and carried off, by the
French officers of police. “His misfortunes seem to have been
owing to an unnatural father, who being on terms of intimacy with
the minister, obtained a <i>lettre de cachet</i> to arrest and confine
his son.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Prisoners who were not allowed to have a servant of their own,
sometimes were indulged with an invalid soldier to attend them;
but those who had neither, made their bed, lighted their fire, and
swept their room, themselves.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> I have passed lightly over the life of Palissy, because I shall
have occasion to dwell upon it, in another volume of the Family
Library.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> Henry pointed his advice with a pun, which is not translatable.
He recommended to Biron, “Qu’il l’otât d’auprès de lui, sinon
que <i>La Fin l’affineroit</i>.” In English, if such a deceiver’s name
were Cousin, we might similarly say, “If you do not get rid of that
Cousin, he will cozen you.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Biographers and historians differ with respect to the circumstances
which ensued on the pardon being announced. While some
give the statement which I have adopted, others affirm that, when
de Jars was taken back to prison, he remained for a long while
speechless, and seemingly deprived of all consciousness. This is
asserted by Madame de Motteville; and, as she was his intimate
friend, her authority has considerable weight. But her assertion
may be correct, and yet it is more than probable that de Jars may
have made the reply which is attributed to him. I think the conduct
ascribed to him in the text more consonant than any other
with his intrepid character. Nature, however, can endure only to a
certain point, and the effort that is made to bear up, and which, as
long as danger is present, seldom fails with the honourable and
brave, necessarily produces exhaustion when the struggle is over.
It may therefore, easily be believed, that, though de Jars was capable
of answering Laffemas with his wonted spirit—and the very
sight of such a monster would stimulate that spirit—he might sink
into insensibility on his return to prison.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> It has been conjectured, by some writers, that Richelieu was
stimulated to this new attack upon the queen by the circumstance
of her being pregnant, which induced him to dread that her influence
would be greatly increased, if he did not find the means of
rendering her an object of suspicion. But the conjecture is erroneous,
as a comparison of dates will prove. The attack upon her
was commenced in the summer of 1637 (La Porte was sent to the
Bastile in August), and the queen was not brought to bed till September
1638, thirteen months afterwards.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> The mask is said to have been improperly described as being of
iron; it being formed of black velvet. Only the frame work and
the springs were of metal.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> This seems to be a quantity of linen so enormous as to stagger
belief. But Latude is probably correct in his assertion. In
some of the French provinces, families have an immense stock of
linen; and it is necessary that they should, as the operation of
washing is not performed more than twice or thrice a year.</p></div>

</div>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76902 ***</div>
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