MAZAS AND LA SANTÉ
Notable inmates of Mazas--Dr. de la Pommerais,
the poisoner--Execution--Strange story of
execution--Troppmann--Massacre of the Kinck family--Father
suspected--Found to be Troppmann--His motives and
measures--Troppmann’s trial and conviction--The theft of
the Duke of Brunswick’s diamonds--La Santé Prison similar
to Mazas--Its interior described--Labor on “contract”
system--Objections--Variety of products--Mild rule--Religious
tolerance--Prison library--Dietaries--No canteen and extras.
The great prison of Mazas received criminals of all sorts and of all
degrees of atrocity in its day; and we may here review the cases
of several of the most notable of these. The crimes of the French
poisoner De la Pommerais followed so closely on those of Palmer, the
English doctor who ruthlessly dealt death to so many of his friends
and relations, that it is quite possible that the first named owed
something of his inspiration to the example of the latter. The
facilities offered to medical practitioners for the administration of
lethal drugs have often tempted doctors to commit murder when greedy
for gain. This Frenchman came to Paris from Orleans in 1839, when four
and twenty years of age, and set up in practice as a homœopathist.
He gave lessons in that branch of science, opened a dispensary, and
gave medical advice for small fees to the poorer classes. He was a
pretentious youth, who sought to pass as a man of title, and called
himself the Count de la Pommerais. He also craved the decoration of St.
Sylvester from Pope Pius IX and the cross of the Legion of Honor, but
obtained neither, as may well be imagined.
His fictitious rank, however, brought him a wife; the orphan child of a
military doctor, whom he married much against the wish of her mother,
a lady of some private means. Madame Dubrizy as she was named, lived
only a couple months, and died in horrible suffering after having dined
with La Pommerais. She had retained her fortune in her own hands, for
she distrusted as well as disliked her son-in-law. He had produced
securities as his contribution to the marriage contract, which she
found were only borrowed for the occasion: by her death he came into
her money.
Strong suspicion of foul play was aroused when a second sudden death
occurred among his acquaintances. A Madame de Pauw, widow of one of his
patients, died suddenly, although she did not appear to have suffered
from any previous illness. The police had kept an eye on La Pommerais
for some time past. His _dossier_, “social character,” was recorded at
the Prefecture, and spoke of him as a dangerous intriguer, who was in
the habit of visiting this Madame de Pauw frequently, although they
were in very different stations in life. He made a great show, and was
well received in society, but she was reputed a mere pauper. On this
same _dossier_ it was stated that he had probably poisoned his deceased
mother-in-law, although there was no direct proof that he had done so.
Now the police ordered a post mortem on Madame de Pauw, which was
entrusted to the eminent toxicologist Doctor Tardieu, who expressed
his belief that she had been poisoned, but could find no trace of the
drug. The cause of death had been certified as a fall down-stairs.
Then the deceased’s sister informed against La Pommerais, stating that
he had effected a large insurance upon her life. Here the influence
of Palmer’s evil example was obvious. Next the criminal himself gave
ground for fresh suspicion by his greediness in seeking payment of
the policies which he held. They had been effected in eight different
offices, and for a total amount of 550,000 francs. The guilty intention
was clear, for the woman was in great indigence, and the first premium
of 18,840 francs had been produced by La Pommerais. Further evidence
was abundantly forthcoming when the doctor was presently arrested.
A great quantity of different poisons was found in his surgery,
especially digitaline, a preparation from the common foxglove, well
known for its baleful effect upon the heart.
The actual arrest was made by the then head of police, M. Claude, who
has told the story in his “Memoirs.” They were acquaintances, and La
Pommerais had so far presumed upon it as to ask M. Claude to back him
in soliciting the appointment of medical officer at Mazas prison. When
the law was to be set in motion Claude kindly thought to break the blow
to the man at whose table he had dined, and went in person to serve the
warrant. He found the two, man and wife, at breakfast. “Good news,” he
began, “you are to have Mazas. I want you to come there with me now.”
The criminal changed countenance for a moment, but the police officer
reassured him. “The fact is,” he went on, “the director of Mazas has
never been favorably disposed towards you, and he may object, still,
to your appointment. You must let me bring you together, and we will
talk him over.” La Pommerais yielded with rather a bad grace, and,
on reaching the cab at the door in which two policemen were already
seated, he knew his fate. This miscreant had one redeeming quality; he
was devotedly attached to his wife, and it is said that when about to
kneel down at the scaffold under the fatal knife he gave a last kiss to
the priest in attendance, “pour Clothilde.”
A very curious story was communicated to the press immediately after
his execution, which has since been definitely contradicted. It was
to the effect that a certain Doctor Velpeau had obtained a promise
from La Pommerais that he would make him some sign after he had passed
the threshold of the grave. Velpeau is reported to have said to La
Pommerais: “When the knife falls I shall be there, just in front of
the scaffold, and I shall arrange that your head, when decapitated,
comes at once into my hands. I propose to whisper into your ear,
‘Monsieur, as we have agreed, will you now, on hearing my voice, lower
your right eyelid three times, keeping the left eye open?’” Velpeau
declared that he carried out his part of the compact, and was prepared
to swear that the severed head had twice made the sign as arranged;
but the eyelid would not lift a third time, and, although Velpeau
again and again asked for the sign, none came, and the head assumed a
fixed rigidity. Death had put an end to the convulsive spasms by which
possibly the previous signs had been produced. The story is extravagant
and apocryphal, for the Abbé Crozes, when invited to give his opinion,
settled the matter by declaring that Velpeau had never had any
conversation with the dead man, and as a matter of fact was not present
at the execution at all.
France contains in her criminal records one of the worst murders ever
committed in any civilised country. The Crime of Pantin, as it was
called at the time, was the wholesale massacre of a family--father,
mother and six children--with the sole idea of becoming possessed
of property to which no survivor could lay claim. Troppmann, who
perpetrated it, laid the plan with such devilish ingenuity that for a
long time the guilt was attributed to the father, Jean Kinck, assisted
by his eldest son, and the first inquiries were centred upon them.
On the morning of the twentieth of September, 1869, at an early hour a
workman, in crossing the plain of Pantin beyond the Buttes-Chaumont, to
the northeast of Paris, noticed the traces of much blood spilt upon the
ground, and near them a blood-stained handkerchief. Further on he saw
protruding above the ground a human arm imperfectly buried, and using a
spade he dug up, first one body and afterwards five more,--the body of
a woman and those of five children. Some of the clothes carried buttons
with the address of a tailor in Roubaix, who recognised them as having
been ordered by a fellow townsman, by name Jean Kinck. This Kinck was
absent from home. He had summoned his wife and children to join him in
Paris on the nineteenth of September. They had duly arrived and taken
rooms at a hotel near the Northern Railway Station, where the husband
was already staying, having registered himself the week before under
the name, Jean Kinck of Roubaix. He did not meet his wife on arrival,
and she seemed much upset, but went out almost immediately with all her
children, and never returned. Next morning, however, Jean Kinck came
in, went up to his room, changed his clothes and again left, but before
the discovery of the corpses was generally known.
Suspicion was soon drawn to this supposed Kinck, and it was found that
some one like him had bought a pick and shovel at a toolmaker’s shop,
which, later in the evening, he had carried off in the direction of
Pantin. No doubt he was bent on digging the graves of his victims. Full
details of his appearance, his condition and ways of life presently
arrived from Roubaix. He was fifty years of age, gray haired, short
of stature and well built, an industrious, enterprising brush maker,
anxious to extend his business; for which purpose he had left Roubaix
five weeks previously for Alsace, where he already owned a house. He
meant to sell it and buy a larger one, in which he could live, and, at
the same time, carry on his trade. Madame Kinck, a native of Turcoing,
did not favor this project. She did not want to move to Germany, as
she did not speak the language, and differences had arisen between the
pair, supplying some motive for the murder. Three days passed before
any satisfactory information came to hand. Nothing had been heard of
the father, Jean Kinck, nothing of the son, but the father had left
Roubaix in the beginning of September, the son Gustav eight or ten
days later: it was generally believed that the Kinck who appeared at
the hotel of the Northern Railway Station was Gustav, as the personal
description tallied with him better than with the father.
Now, as so often happens in mysterious criminal cases, a bolt came
from the blue. Jean Kinck, or some one passing for him, was suddenly
arrested at Havre. Chance had strangely intervened in the interests of
justice, and detection followed in an entirely unexpected manner. News
was telegraphed to Paris that Jean Kinck had been arrested at Havre
under peculiar circumstances. On the morning of the twenty-third of
September a young man entered a café on the sea front at Havre, and
became engaged in conversation with a sailor, whom he met there. He was
anxious to know what steps to take to secure a passage for America.
“Your papers must be in order,” was the first answer he received, and
it came, not from his friend, but from an officious gendarme, who
was loafing about the place, and inspired by the restless spirit of
interference which so constantly disturbs the official mind. “You have
your papers of course?” He received a negative reply. “No? Then you
must come with me to the police office.” There was nothing for it but
to obey, and they started off together, chatting pleasantly, but the
stranger was manifestly uneasy, and when there was a sudden stoppage
in the traffic he slipped aside and ran towards one of the basins of
the dock. The gendarme followed close in his tracks, shouting, “Stop
him, stop him! He is a murderer,” and there was little hope for the
fugitive amidst the gathering crowd. But with one bound he sprang into
the water, caught a floating buoy, and hung on there between life
and death until he was fished out by some of the sailors with ropes
and boat-hooks, and brought to shore half drowned. He was carried
to the hospital, where he was put to bed and interviewed at once by
the Commissary, to whom he would make no reply. He was a young man
of about twenty, short, dark, with black eyes, a long beaky nose and
close cut hair, a description which answered in many respects, save
that of youth, to the missing Jean Kinck. His identity was established,
however, beyond all doubt by the papers found on him. All of them
were documents connected with the Kinck family. There was a contract
for the sale of a house in Roubaix; notes of hand signed by Kinck in
favor of people of the town; the contract of a house from another
proprietor, and a number of private papers and letters in a pocketbook
with a morocco purse, trimmed with copper, containing several coins; a
silk handkerchief and some five-franc pieces; a valuable gold watch, a
second watch, a small ring, a medallion and a pocket knife. Doubts were
still expressed as to the identity of Jean Kinck, and it was generally
supposed that he was Gustav. But then other letters were found in his
possession, addressed to a certain Troppmann, and eventually it was
proved that this was really his name.
The police paid an immediate visit to Roubaix to make further
inquiries, and found that this Troppmann was a personal friend of Jean
Kinck. In the house were a number of letters purporting to be from
the husband, but, as was explained in one of them, written by another
hand because Kinck had injured his wrist. These were the letters that
had persuaded Madame Kinck to come to Paris. When the judges undertook
the interrogation it was proved beyond doubt that these were from a
mechanical engineer, an Alsacian by birth, who had long been intimate
with Kinck, and constantly visited him at the drinking shop of the
“Re-union of Friends,” of which Kinck was proprietor. Troppmann, when
questioned, freely admitted these facts, and it was soon plainly seen
that he bore the marks of a recent struggle with some enraged female.
His cheeks were torn and scratched with many wounds; there were marks
of nails that had gone deep into his flesh. Troppmann, who was brought
without delay to Paris and confronted with the corpses in the Morgue,
made no difficulty of recognising and identifying them; and he went so
far as to confess that the murder had been organised by the Kincks,
father and son, with his knowledge, although he had taken no active
part in it. He refused to throw any light upon the whereabouts of the
Kincks. As the inquiry proceeded, witnesses came forward who recognised
Troppmann as the person who had bought the pick and shovel at the
tool shop, and all that was now needed was to prove a motive for the
crime. His possession of Kinck’s watch and valuables was _prima facie_
evidence, and there were those who spoke as to the close relations
that had existed between them. Troppmann was greedy for money, and was
continually proposing schemes, promising great profit to Kinck if he
would go into them. He was for ever begging him to advance capital, but
Kinck was cautious, and would not risk a sou. Not less did Troppmann
devise plans, by which he might bleed Jean Kinck, and the last seemed
likely to succeed. He declared that he had discovered in the Alsacian
mountains a plentiful supply of precious metals, gold, silver and
mercury in large quantities, ready to be extracted by any enterprising
hand.
Jean Kinck’s movements were at last traced. He had left Roubaix on
the twenty-fourth of August, three or four weeks before the discovery
of the bodies at Pantin, saying he would return in a few days. He
went into Alsace, and was met by Troppmann, with whom he travelled by
diligence to Soultz. This was the last heard of him, although letters
not in his own hand reached Madame Kinck at Roubaix. A search had been
made, however, in the neighborhood where he had last been seen, and
his body was at last found, not far from Wattwiller, in a forest at
the foot of the ruins of the ancient stronghold of Henenflung. It had
been buried beneath a heap of stones raised high above the grave. The
cause of death was not immediately apparent, but doctors presently
reported that he had been poisoned with Prussic acid administered
probably from a flask. No doubt he had been inveigled to this spot by
fictitious reports of the presence of gold. Thus the last victim was
accounted for, Gustav Kinck, the eldest son, having been disinterred
some days before at no great distance from the other bodies in the
plain of Pantin. The chain of damning evidence was complete. Link by
link it wound round the accused, and definitely secured conviction upon
trial. But every point had first been elicited beyond all doubt by
the “instructing” or interrogating judge at Mazas, although Troppmann
long took refuge in persistent denial of every fact or in obstinate
silence. At last came the confrontation. The prisoner, who was examined
throughout at Mazas in a large cell in the infirmary, was taken down
to the Morgue, and suddenly brought into the presence of the corpse
of Gustav Kinck, but then just discovered. He was seized with violent
emotion, hid his face in a handkerchief, and refused to look at his
murderous handiwork. “Come now,” insisted the magistrate, “confess that
you struck the blow.” “No, no, it wasn’t I.” And he repeatedly asserted
that the elder Kinck had taken his son’s life. This was his line of
defence in court, greatly elaborated by his counsel, Maitre Lachaud,
perhaps the most famous and eloquent advocate who has practised at
the French bar; but he also asserted that Troppmann had accomplices,
who should have been arraigned with him, and he insisted that it was
wickedly unfair to allow one culprit to bear the whole brunt of the
crime. The jury, however, remained unmoved by his impassioned appeal,
and almost immediately found Troppmann guilty on all counts, on
which the judge, never having accepted the theory of accomplices and
satisfied that the law had laid its hand upon the real perpetrator of
the crime, sentenced him to death. He was sent to the Conciergerie to
await removal to the Grand Roquette.
Troppmann spent his last hours in a vain combat with the authorities,
but after maintaining it for some days he fell into a state of
prostration, and, when he came out to die, was already a broken-down,
worn-out, old man of fifty, more than double his years. When they came
to warn him for execution, he essayed to appear unconcerned, and,
throughout the remainder of the painful scene, fought hard, but of
course fruitlessly, for his life. Although subjected to the “toilette”
and secured by straps and cords, he managed to break loose when on the
scaffold, and strenuously resisted as they led him to the block. When
his neck was laid under the axe of the guillotine, he pushed it so far
forward that the axe on falling would have struck his shoulder, but the
executioner held him in his place and deftly touched the spring which
released the knife, and all was over. But the dying man in his frantic
resistance had managed to get the executioner’s hand into his mouth and
bit it fiercely.
The trial of Troppmann was in its way a public scandal. The court was
crammed with curious spectators, whose morbid minds drew them to stare
at the hero of this horrible tragedy as though he were a wild beast
in a menagerie, about to be subjected to physical torture. People of
the highest rank and fashion demeaned themselves to gain places in the
audience by any means; by social intrigues, by using private influence
with the judges and officers of the court. Troppmann was the centre
of attraction, the cynosure of every eye. His features and demeanor
were closely scanned, his dress was commented upon critically. It was
noted, also, that he was clean shaved. This was on the demand of his
counsel, who hoped that his small, youthful face, which when smooth
and hairless looked like that of a lad of fifteen, would impress the
jury with the idea that he could not possess the strength to handle a
knife with such deadly effect as had been exhibited in the cruel wounds
of his victims. Before the barber, however, was permitted to use the
razor, Troppmann was put into a strait-waistcoat (_camisole de force_);
he was tied down in a chair, with one warder on either hand, ready to
seize him and check any attempt at self-destruction. Troppmann laughed
at these precautions, and plainly hinted that he had means of suicide
at his disposal, of which they had no idea. It was known that Troppmann
had himself manufactured the prussic acid he gave to Kinck. But he
disdained to use them or to bring discredit on his family, a rather
far-fetched nicety in a miscreant who had been guilty of such crimes.
They were not all murderers who passed through Mazas, although some
were top-sawyers in the criminal business, such as Shaw, the Englishman
who stole the Duke of Brunswick’s diamonds. It will be remembered that
one of the most marked features in the eccentric character of the
late Duke of Brunswick was his passion for precious stones. He long
made Paris his principal home, and resided in a quaint old mansion in
the Beaujour quarter, a house with red walls, massive gateways and
innumerable bolts and bars. The Duke, a worn-out voluptuary, a faded
old beau, who, on the rare occasions when he showed himself in public,
came out painted, made up and bewigged, lived here quite secluded among
his treasures, which he kept in an enormous iron safe. These jewels
were valued at £600,000, a splendid collection, accumulated at great
cost, and carried off by him when he fled from his principality. They
served no purpose but to gratify his greedy passion for possession.
Except when he had taken them out to gloat over them, these priceless
gems never saw the light. He took the most painful care of them. They
were lodged in an inner apartment, to reach which it was necessary to
pass through the Duke’s study and bedroom. There were electric wires
communicating with many bells to give warning of the approach of
any unauthorised person; other bells were attached to the triggers
of revolvers to fire them off automatically at any intruder. It was
the Duke’s craze, not altogether unfounded, that thieves were always
aiming at him. He thought that all the world wanted to rob him. At
his particular request two police officers watched constantly over
him, seldom letting him out of their sight, and keeping a careful eye
upon his treasure house. The fact that the Duke of Brunswick’s house
was full of rich booty was known to every depredator in Europe, and a
thousand plans were devised to break in and rifle it. At last England
acquired the questionable credit of overcoming all obstacles, and
carrying off the Duke’s diamonds.
In 1863 the Duke had an English valet, a very confidential personage
named Shaw, a native of Newcastle-on-Tyne. He had got the place in
the ordinary way through a registry office, supported by first-class
references, all forged; he proved himself to be a very excellent
servant, quiet, attentive, much liked by both his master and his
fellows. He was really the agent and confederate of a gang of thieves
who had especially selected him for the job they had in view. It was
his business to become familiar with the safe and its surroundings,
taking the first opportunity to “lift” its contents when he could do
so without danger to himself. The safe stood in a receptacle behind an
iron door in the wall at the head of the Duke’s bed, and a silk curtain
hung in front of this door, which was secured with special locks.
These might be picked some day, but in behind was the great safe with
its alarm bells and automatic batteries of firearms. There was infinite
danger in interfering with these. Only the practised hand of some one
in the secret of the machinery would dare to risk it. Shaw was patient
and bided his time.
One day (December 17, 1863) the Duke sent for a working jeweller he
employed, meaning to have certain changes made in the setting of some
of his stones. In anticipation he opened the inner safe and, contrary
to his custom, left it open. This did not escape Shaw, who was in
attendance, but he hoped little from it until he saw his royal master,
wearied of waiting for the jeweller, go out without relocking his safe.
The Duke was satisfied to secure the external door at the head of the
bed.
This was Shaw’s opportunity. He had a picklock, and soon used it with
good effect on this the first obstacle. There was no second or inner
defence, and the safe door being ajar the machinery did not work. He
was, in fact, master of the situation, and with all haste made the most
of it. The Duke’s treasures lay at his mercy, jewel-cases, diamond
stars, bags of gold. He soon filled his pockets and hurried out, being
careful to close the outer door and pull the curtain across, hoping
that the abstraction might not be immediately observed. Having packed
a small valise with a few effects he told a fellow-servant to take up
his service with the Duke, on the ground that he was unwell, and then
slipped out of the house.
The theft was, however, quickly discovered, and the French police were
put on the alert. Shaw immediately betrayed himself by addressing an
anonymous letter to a royal personage in London, in which the writer
offered to restore to their rightful owners, the English royal family,
certain jewels wrongfully detained by the Duke of Brunswick, on
receiving a reward of 100,000 francs. This letter was at once handed
over to the authorities in Scotland Yard, who passed it on to Paris.
A postscript was added to the letter, stating that the writer would
meet any messenger sent with the money at Boulogne. Acting at once on
this clue, the French detectives hastened to Boulogne, and, visiting
every hotel, soon found a young man answering the description, who
was arrested and taken back to Paris. The diamonds were found in his
possession. This Shaw, a tall, very thin young man, with a pale,
intelligent face, and very bold, prominent eyes, was soon recognised
by the police as a professional thief of English extraction, who
had worked much abroad, and was indeed a cosmopolitan rogue, having
committed many great robberies in the capitals of Europe, generally by
the same means. He was sentenced to twenty years (_travaux forcés_),
although the Duke, dreading the publicity of the Assize court, would
not appear to prosecute.
The prison known as La Santé was situated in the rue de la Santé close
to the Boulevard Arago, upon the left bank of the Seine. Founded and
completed in the palmiest days of the French Empire, it was the newest
and certainly long the best prison in Paris. Enthusiastic Frenchmen
have, indeed, declared that it was the best and most beautiful building
of the kind in Europe, but the statement is rather far-fetched.
Coming twenty years later than Mazas, it was a marked advance upon
that penitentiary, which it resembled in many respects. It consisted
of two distinct divisions, or “sides,” and the inmates of each were
subjected to different systems of imprisonment. In one, unbroken
cellular confinement was the rule, in the other, prisoners occupied
separate sleeping cells at night, but took their food and exercise,
and worked together during the day. The former régime was applied to
all sentenced for the first time, the latter to _récidivistes_, or
habitual offenders, who fell into trouble again and again. The cellular
division, that first reached when the threshold of the prison, with
its sleepy gatekeepers and punctilious _greffier_, was passed, was
cleaner and tidier than Mazas as I saw it, and altogether better kept.
There were the same radiating wings, extending like the spokes of a
wheel round a central nave, the _rond point_; in which was the same
glass house or observatory, with an altar on top, towards which all
the cell doors, as to their Mecca, religiously turned for the Mass.
The cells were warmed and ventilated by an arrangement of hot water
pipes and fresh air flues, just as is seen in every modern prison since
the days of Sir Joshua Jebb. The cells at La Santé were spacious and
fairly clean; their furniture and fittings of more modern design than
those of Mazas. The hammock was replaced by an iron bedstead, the table
was a flap, fastened on hinges to the wall, and a three-legged stool
replaced the rush-bottomed chair chained by the leg. The floor was
boarded, not paved with bricks, and no small pains were taken to polish
the oak planks, which were rubbed vigorously till they shone like
parquetry. All parts of the cells were not so entirely above reproach,
and a severely critical eye would detect a certain want of neatness in
the interior economy of many. Here and there rubbish was suffered to
accumulate and lie untouched. Upon a shelf in one cell was a quantity
of broken bread; in another several clay pipes and a half empty wine
carafe; the walls of a third, occupied by a prison bookbinder, were
hung with scraps of tawdry decoration, crucifixes, hearts, monograms
shaped out of the gold leaf and colored paper which he used in his
trade. Prisoners were permitted, too, to deface their cells with
impunity by scribbling on the notice boards and writing on the walls.
Remarks upon the articles supplied from the canteen appeared upon
the price list. Expressions of regret, vows of vengeance, even, were
recorded upon the boards of rules. The prison almanac, prepared by the
good chaplain for the special behoof of prisoners, with appropriate
texts and maxims, served really as a calendar, such as school boys
keep, to mark off the days as they slowly dragged along towards release.
Behind and beyond the cellular quarter of the prison was the
“associated” prison, consisting of two spacious quadrangles, in which
were the exercising yards and the lavatories, while around it were
arrayed the ateliers, or workshops, and the dining halls. Upon an upper
floor were the sleeping cells, each containing a bedstead, and nothing
more, each lighted by means of a large barred opening above the cell
doors, through which shone the light of gas lamps in the corridors.
The crowded ateliers of La Santé, instinct with busy life, were an
interesting and instructive sight, and from them a fairly good idea
could be obtained of the peculiar conditions under which prison labor
is utilised in France. This is everywhere accomplished through the
intervention of a contractor or employer from outside, who provides
tools, materials and instructors, and takes in return half the earnings
of the prisoners. The other half, known as the _pécule_, goes to the
prisoner himself, and this is again sub-divided into the _pécule
disponible_ and the _pécule reservé_, the former of which can be drawn
upon and expended by the prisoner in adding to his creature comforts
whilst incarcerated; the latter, accumulating from day to day, to be
handed over to him upon his release to provide means of support during
those early days of freedom, when a man is hesitating between honesty
and the temptation to relapse into fresh crime.
The contract system appears open to many grave objections; for
instance, that it introduces “lay” or outside influences, erecting in
the prison a second authority, to which prisoners look for praise or
blame rather than to the constituted chiefs of the place. At times a
certain antagonism might arise between the two; the one looks naturally
to profits, the other to maintenance of effective discipline, and where
the first was affected, the latter would no doubt sensibly suffer. As
an instance of this may be quoted the case of prisoners sentenced to
very short terms, who, if they are not already acquainted with some
trade, do absolutely nothing at all whilst in prison. To teach them a
_metier_ would be to waste time and materials, and there is in France
no “penal labor,”--as it is commonly understood in England,--no sharp,
correctional employment, such as the treadwheel, stone breaking, or
oakum picking, the execution of which requires no special previous
knowledge or skill. As a matter of fact, therefore, prison has but few
horrors for the offender committed for less than a week, except in the
temporary loss of liberty; and in all that relates to physical comfort,
indeed, in food, shelter and clothing, he is often far better off
inside than out. His confinement may be irksome and monotonous, time
may hang rather heavily on his hands; still he manages to get pretty
comfortably through his days, lounging lazily about the refectories,
or ranging up and down in the exercising yards, pipe in mouth, and
gossiping with any one he meets.
These idlers, it must be confessed, were, at La Santé, the exception
and not the rule. There was no little stir and bustle in the workrooms;
the occupations were many and varied; the prisoners were industrious
and often exhibited no mean skill. Parisians are naturally a
quick-witted and nimble-fingered race, whose talents, when in durance,
prison contractors know well how to turn to the best account. At
La Santé we found tailors at work upon clothes for the slop shops,
shoemakers and cobblers making excellent slippers and shoes. Here a
cabinet-maker completed a drawing-room chair; there, by his side, an
upholsterer covered another in damask or silk. Long rows of prisoners,
seated upon benches, manufactured feather brushes for dusting
furniture, or dolls and children’s toys, or paper boxes for bonbons
and patent medicines, or frills of the same material for the cooks and
confectioners. Some were staining and coloring sheets of paper for the
bookbinders, to be subsequently varnished and polished; others, in
large numbers, were employed upon the manufacture of papier-mâché boot
buttons through all the various stages of inserting the eyelet holes
in rows upon the pasteboard, stamping out the buttons, trimming them,
hardening them and varnishing them. A certain air of contentment, if
not of actual good humor, was visible on every side. Prisoners met my
eye, and did not immediately hang their heads and look down. Silence
was the general rule, but they talked _sotto voce_ to one another, and
to me if I cared to address them. One man, proud of his English, told
me of “another English gentleman,” who recently came to La Santé. “As
a visitor?” “Oh, no, as a _detenu_ (prisoner).” Others, if I appeared
interested in the work in hand, would explain all its intricacies, and
return my salutation with the bow of a finished courtier when I took
leave. All the while the warders in charge exercised an easy-going
surveillance, and were evidently neither hard taskmasters nor severe
disciplinarians.
In the workshops, as elsewhere, it was obvious that the prison rule
did not err on the side of severity. Every care was taken to assure
the moral and physical comfort of the prisoners. There were chaplains
of all persuasions, and intolerance was unknown. For Roman Catholics,
naturally the largest number, there were the regular services in the
_rond point_, with which a large associated chapel communicated.
There was a special chapel for Protestants, and a synagogue for Jews.
A well-stocked library, annually replenished, provided literature
of nearly every kind for all who cared to read. The books were
carefully selected, but included works of fiction, which are often
forbidden in the prisons of some countries. The only novels permitted
however at La Santé,--and the choice implies a high compliment to
English literature,--were translations of Dickens, Fenimore Cooper,
Bulwer-Lytton, Marryat and Scott, which were admitted confessedly on
account of their morality and purity of tone. These, it was said, were
the books in most constant demand.
The hospital arrangements at La Santé, which was long a central depot
for all male prisoners requiring prolonged treatment, were also
excellent of their kind. The wards were large and lofty, and were well
warmed by a clever contrivance, consisting of two concentric iron
cylinders, one within the other, between which hot water circulated,
while fresh external air was passed in at the base and diffused from
the centre and top after being warmed. The clothing of all prisoners
was good and sufficient, although custom had nicknamed the prison shirt
_la limace_ because it had all the rasping roughness of a file. As to
food, the inmates of La Santé certainly could not complain. The diet
of English prisoners of similar category may have been more varied,
but it was scarcely more replete. There were two regular meals at La
Santé, one about eight o’clock in the morning, the other at three.
Both consisted of a pint, or more exactly, two-thirds of a litre, of
thin soup, not unlike a poor Julienne, but tasty and carefully made
by officer cooks, who winked pleasantly when I praised it, and agreed
with me that it was _pas mauvais_, “not so bad,” after all. Twice a
week, on Sundays and Thursdays, four ounces of cooked meat, without
bone, were added, and on these days the prisoner got about twenty-seven
ounces of bread. When there was no meat the bread ration was nearly
thirty ounces. But the foregoing did not comprise all that the prisoner
had to eat. Those who were in funds, whether from private sources or
from the _pécule disponible_ already referred to, were permitted to
sweeten prison life and eke out prison fare by various articles of
food on sale at the canteen. The list was long, and the prices were
not extravagant. For a few centimes smoked herrings could be bought,
or a slice of cheese, fresh and salt butter, sausages, cooked ham,
liquorice, boiled potatoes and a fair allowance of red wine. Tobacco
unlimited could also be purchased, a privilege often peremptorily
forbidden elsewhere in many prisons, as are indeed all such toothsome
additions as those just enumerated.
But La Santé passed away, absorbed into the new and extensive
establishment at Fresnes on the outskirts of Paris, designed to remodel
the entire penal system of the French government. La Santé was a long
step forward in penology; and Fresnes, the next and a still longer
step, has now to be described.