solitude, when the smuggler suddenly came and told us that the wind had
changed most favourably; that there was every chance of it remaining in
its present quarter, and that at about ten that night, he would come
with some sailors’ clothes, and we should set sail under the best
auspices. Happy news! We paid all our scores; we thanked and rewarded
our cook as she deserved; in short, we satisfied all the exigencies of
equity, and even the most generous liberality, and awaited the solemn
moment. It came at last. We put on our clothes, the pantaloons and large
sailor waistcoats brought for us, and we went out with cutlasses at our
sides. We reached the beach, where we found a pretty little skiff of 15
or 16 feet long, without a deck, and launched her. We put up the mast,
unfurled the sail, fixed the helm, and jumped in with the two sailors
given us by Master G----. We pushed off, the sail swelled to the breeze,
and we were gone. A custom-house ship was on guard in the harbour, and
made signs for us to go alongside of it; we did not pay any attention,
and before it had time to lower and arm its boat, we were far ahead, for
our skiff was a swift one, and the darkness shrouded us. We were all
four sailors, and each had his post; one at the helm, another managing
the sail, the third in the front of the boat, and the fourth, furnished
with a night-glass, was commissioned to explore the horizon. A good
breeze was blowing, but the sea was calm; in less than two hours we had
passed Cape Grisnez. We steered a southward course, and each time we
heard a signal of recognition, we answered it in a friendly manner, for
we were provided with all the signals corresponding to those of the
coast. We kept close in shore, so that at the least suspicious movement,
we might be able to reach the coast and land in spite of all the small
boats. At daybreak we boldly entered the little harbour of Vimerene, and
I jumped lightly on land.
“The commander of that post making his usual morning rounds, came up the
moment after, and said with some temper: ‘If I had been present, you
would not have landed, monsieur.’
“‘Sir,’ I answered, ‘even if the emperor, to whom I am devoted body and
soul as much as any man in France, had wished to forbid my touching the
soil of my country, I should have done so in defiance of him and his
valiant guard, in defiance of you and your garrison. I am Colonel
Richemont; make your report.’”
Richemont proceeded direct to Boulogne, and there obtained the liberty
of the two English sailors, who had been temporarily detained, and
rewarded them generously.--(_Mémoires du Général Camus, Baron de
Richemont._)
_CAPTAIN GRIVEL._
1810.
Admiral Rosily having taken refuge in the port of Cadiz with four ships,
the poor remnants of Trafalgar, was, after a gallant struggle, obliged
to surrender to overpowering numbers. The infamous capitulation of
Baylen singularly increased the number of prisoners condemned to the
tortures of those plague-stricken prisons, the guardships. Still, one of
these vessels, the _Vieille Castille_ was a privileged abode. Specially
set apart for the officers, whose daily pay allowed them to live very
comfortably, the _Vieille Castille_, was not ravaged by typhus fever,
nor were the unhappy prisoners there afflicted with the agonies of
hunger. Still, they felt themselves prisoners, and only dreamt of
freedom, the more especially when, on the French army approaching Cadiz,
they discovered their comrades encamped at only an hour’s distance from
their prisons. Many plans were formed, and then abandoned, for peace and
amity did not precisely reign among the prisoners, who kept reproaching
each other with their prudence or temerity. At last, the boldest of
them--Grivel, then captain of the sailors of the guard, now rear-admiral
and senator, agreed with his friends to carry off the first boat
approaching in a high wind. On the 25th February, 1810, the _Mulet_, a
small Spanish ship carrying water barrels, came alongside the _Vieille
Castille_. The breeze was a favourable one; under pretext of helping to
transport the barrels, the chiefs of the plot were lowered into the
boat, and there gained the sailors. The sail was unfurled and spread,
without loss of time. While they were getting under way in great haste,
an English boat left the admiral’s ship, and saluted the fugitives with
a discharge of musketry; the guard on shore, answered the signal, and
soon cannons, muskets, pistols--everything in short, was turned against
the little boat. Only one man, however, perished, a sailor. Captain
Grivel and his companions headed straight among the merchant ships
anchoring near Cadiz, and made a bulwark of them. The greatest interest
was shown in their success. “Hurrah! Hurrah;” cried the different crews.
“Courage _Frenchmen_!” Encouraged by these signs of sympathy, the
fugitives profited by the favourable breeze, and landed, to the number
of thirty-four, on the coast of Andalusia, after an hour of constant
anxiety and danger. Marshal Soult expressed the highest admiration of
their courageous conduct. “_Bah! Marshal_,” answered Grivel, “_it is
only a sailor’s trick!_”
LAVALETTE.
1815.
Arrested on the 18th June, 1815, and imprisoned at the Conciergerie,
Count Lavalette had been condemned to death, for having taken an active
part in the return from Elba. In vain his wife endeavoured to soften
Louis XVIII., who would not forego his revenge; in vain she hoped to
find mercy in the Duchess d’Angouleme. She was cruelly repulsed on every
side. “Literally worn out,” says Lavalette in his Memoirs, “she sank
down on the stone steps of the palace, and stayed there for an hour,
still hoping against hope that she would be allowed to enter. She
attracted the notice of all the passers by, especially of those going to
the chateau; but none dared show her a sign of compassion. At last she
decided on leaving the palace, and returning to my prison, where she
soon arrived, weary and heart-broken.”
The hours of Lavalette were numbered; by dint of questioning his
jailers, he had discovered that the execution was fixed for Thursday
morning, and it was then Tuesday evening. “At six,” says he, “my wife
came to dine with me, and when we were alone, she said, ‘It appears only
too certain that we have nothing now to hope for. It is time then to
decide on something, and this is what I propose: at eight o’clock you
will go from here, in my clothes, and, accompanied by my cousin, you
will step into my sedan chair, which will take you to the Rue des
Saints-Pères, where you will find M. Baudus in a gig: he will take you
to some place prepared for you, and you will wait there till you can
leave France without danger.”
This plan seemed at first quite impracticable to Lavalette; but his wife
urged it so strongly, that he feared to increase her grief, and perhaps
endanger her life by a refusal. He only suggested, that the gig being so
far away, he should not be able to reach it before they had discovered
his escape, and that then he could be easily taken prisoner again. They
then agreed to modify and somewhat change the plan. The next day was
spent in heart-rending adieux.
“At five o’clock, Madam de Lavalette arrived, accompanied by Josephine,
whom I recognised with as much surprise as joy. ‘I think it better,’
said she, ‘to take our child with us, she will now easily follow out my
idea.’ She had put on a dress of merino, lined with fur, and she carried
a black silk skirt in her bag. ‘Nothing more is needed,’ she said, ‘to
disguise you perfectly.’ She then sent her daughter to the window, and
said in a low tone: ‘At seven exactly you will be ready dressed,
everything is well prepared: you will walk out, giving your arm to
Josephine. Mind and walk slowly; and when you cross the large hall, put
on my gloves, and hold my handkerchief to your face. I had thought of
bringing a veil, but unfortunately I have not been accustomed to wear
one during my visits here, so it must not be thought of. Take great
care, when passing under the doors, which are very low, not to knock off
the flowers on your bonnet, for all would be lost then.’” Madame de
Lavalette next proceeded to give the necessary instructions to her
daughter, and had almost finished, when there entered a friend of
Lavalette’s, M. de Sainte-Rose, who came to bid him adieu. It was
important that he should be dismissed as soon as possible. This
Lavalette did under the pretext that his wife was still ignorant of the
fatal hour. He treated in the same manner Colonel de Bricqueville who
had quitted his bed, where he was kept by several serious wounds, to
come and take leave of his friend. “At last dinner was served up. This
meal which perhaps was to be the last in my life, I found horrible. We
could not swallow a morsel; we did not exchange a word, and we were
obliged to pass nearly an hour in that manner. At last the clock struck
the three quarters past six, and Madame de Lavalette rang the bell.
Bonneville, my valet, entered the room; she took him aside, said a few
words in his ear, and added aloud, ‘Be sure to have the porters ready; I
am going soon. Come,’ she said to me; ‘it is time for you to dress now.’
I had had a screen placed in my chamber, so as to form behind it a small
dressing-room; we then went behind this screen. While dressing me with
charming quickness and skill, she never ceased repeating, ‘Don’t forget
to bend your head as you pass under the doors. Walk slowly through the
outer room, like a person worn out by much suffering.’ In less than
three minutes my toilet was completed. We all advanced in silence
towards the door. ‘The porter,’ I said to Emily, ‘comes every night
after you leave. Mind and stay behind the screen, and make a slight
noise by moving some piece of furniture. He will think I am there, and
will go out for the few moments that will give me the necessary time to
escape.’ She understood me, and I pulled the bell rope. We heard the
jailor’s footsteps; Emily sprang behind the screen, and the door was
opened. I passed out first, my daughter next, Madame Dutoit (an old
servant of Madame de Lavalette’s) closed the march. After crossing the
passage I came to the door of the outer room. There I was obliged to
lift my foot on account of the doorstep, and at the same time to bow my
head so that the feathers of the bonnet should not touch the ceiling. I
succeeded; but on raising my head, I found myself opposite to five
jailors, sitting, leaning, standing, the whole length of the way. I held
my handkerchief to my eyes, and waited for my daughter to place herself
near me, as was agreed. The child took my right arm, and the porter
coming down the stairs from his room, which was on the left, advanced
towards me, and placing his hand on my arm, said, ‘You are leaving
early, my lady.’ He seemed very agitated, and probably thought the wife
had bidden the husband adieu for ever. They afterwards said that my
daughter and I cried aloud, though we scarcely dared sigh. At last I
came to the end of the hall. Day and night a turnkey sits there in a
large armchair, in a space narrow enough to allow him to place his hands
on the keys of the two gates, one an iron gate, the other made of wood,
and called the first entrance. The jailor kept looking at me, but did
not open; I therefore passed my hand between the bars to
[Illustration: I held my handkerchief to my eyes.]
make him aware of our presence. At last he turned his two keys, and we
walked out. Once outside, my daughter did not forget, but took my right
arm. There are twelve steps to mount before you get to the court, but
the guard of gendarmes is stationed at the foot of them. About twenty
soldiers headed by the officer, stood three paces from me to see Madame
de Lavalette pass. I at length reached the last step, and entered the
chair which stood two or three yards off. But there were no signs of
porters or servants. My daughter and the old servant were standing near
the chair, the sentinel ten paces off motionless and turned towards me.
To my astonishment succeeded a feeling of violent agitation; my eyes
were fixed on the sentry’s gun, as those of a serpent on its prey. I
felt, so to speak, the gun between my clenched hands. At the slightest
movement, the slightest noise, I felt myself springing on this arm....
This terrible situation lasted about ten minutes only, but to me it
seemed the length of a night. At last I heard Bonneville’s voice, saying
in a low tone: ‘One of the porters was missing, but I have found
another.’ I then felt myself lifted. The chair crossed the great court,
and turned to the right on going out. We proceeded in that way to the
Quai des Orfévres, opposite the little Rue du Harlay. There the chair
stopped, the door opened, and my friend Baudus, offering me his arm,
said aloud; ‘You know, madame, you have still a visit to pay to the
president.’ I stepped out, and he pointed out to me a gig a short
distance off in the small, dark street. I sprang into this carriage, and
one touch made the horse start at a good trot. Passing the quay I saw
Josephine, her hands clasped, and praying to God with all her heart. We
crossed the Pont St. Michel, the Rue de la Harpe, and were soon in the
Rue Vaugirard behind the Odéon, where I began to breathe. I then looked
at the coachman, and what was my astonishment to recognise the Comte de
Chassenon! ‘What! you here!’ said I. ‘Yes; and you have behind you four
double-barrelled pistols. I hope you will use them.’ ‘No; really I do
not wish to endanger you.’ ‘Then I’ll set you the example; and woe to
any who tries to stop you!’ We went as far as the boulevard, at the
corner of the Rue Plumet, where we stopped. On the way I had thrown off
all my feminine attire, and put on a postillion’s coat, with the round
gold-braided hat.
“M. Baudus soon came up. I took leave of M. du Chassenon, and modestly
followed my new master. It was eight in the evening; the rain fell in
torrents, the night was dark, and the solitude complete in this part of
the Faubourg St. Germain. I walked with much trouble, and it was with
great difficulty I followed M. Baudus, whose pace was very rapid. I soon
lost one of my shoes, but still had to go on. We met some gendarmes,
running fast, and little thinking I was there, for they were probably in
search of me. At last after an hour’s march, tired out, one foot in my
shoe, the other naked, I saw M. Baudus stop for an instant at the Rue de
Grenelle near the Rue du Bac. ‘I am going,’ he said, ‘into an hotel;
while I am talking to the porter, enter the court. On the left you will
find a staircase; go up to the last story, and follow the dark passage
on the right; at the end of that is a pile of wood,--stay there and
wait.’ We proceeded a few steps farther along the Rue du Bac, and a sort
of giddiness came over me when I saw him knock at the door of the
minister of foreign affairs. He entered first, and while he stood
talking with the porter, whose head was out of his lodge, I passed
quickly by. ‘Where’s that man going?’ cried the porter. ‘He is my
servant.’ I went up stairs to the third story, and came to the place
mentioned. I had scarcely reached it, when I heard the rustling of a
stuff dress, and felt myself gently taken by the arm, and pushed into a
room, the door of which was closed after me.”
A fire was burning, and on a small table Lavalette saw a candlestick and
some matches, from which he concluded that the room could be lighted
without danger. On the bureau was a paper, containing these words: “No
noise, open the window at night, only wear soft shoes, and wait
patiently.” Near this paper was a bottle of excellent Bordeaux wine,
with several volumes of Molière and Rabelais, and a small basket
containing some elegant toilet fittings.
M. Baudus shortly came in, threw himself in his friend’s arms, and told
him he was in the apartment of M. Bresson, cashier at the office of
foreign affairs. Proscribed under the Reign of Terror, M. Bresson and
his wife had found shelter with some kind people who had concealed them
at the peril of their lives. Lavalette shared this shelter with them for
eighteen days, during all which time he heard the criers in the streets,
threatening severe punishment to any person harbouring him.
Madame de Lavalette was soon discovered by the jailor behind the screen.
The alarm once given, this heroic woman found herself a butt for the
insults of those wretches who were not capable of appreciating her
courage. The procureur général Bellart, ordered them to cease their
noisy rudeness, but assaulted Madame de Lavalette with ribaldry and
abuse, and put her in a room overlooking the court of the women, whose
shouts and coarse talk were a martyrdom for her. After studying with
great care the best means of getting Lavalette out of the kingdom, his
friends took counsel of a young Englishman, Mr. Bruce, who accepted the
proposal with joy, and entrusted it to General Wilson. This latter,
whose efforts to save Marshal Ney had proved so vain, wished to take his
revenge. Everything was settled, every event well provided for, and in
spite of gendarmes, custom-house officers, and all the difficulties of
such a journey, Lavalette, in the uniform of an English officer, was
conducted by General Wilson on to Belgian ground. “On shaking hands with
the general, I expressed with deep emotion all my gratitude; but he,
still preserving his imperturbable calm, only smiled without answering.
Half an hour after, he turned to me, and said very seriously: ‘Now, my
dear fellow, give me your reasons for not wishing to be guillotined?’ I
was surprised, and looked at him without answering. ‘Yes,’ he went on;
‘I was told that you had requested as a particular favour that you might
be shot.’ ‘Because,’ I said; ‘the prisoner is dragged in a cart with his
hands tied behind his back; he is attached to a plank’---- ‘Oh, I
understand; you did not wish to die like a calf.’ A few hours
afterwards, the two friends separated: one proceeding to Germany, the
other returning to Paris, where he underwent several months’
imprisonment for his generous conduct.”
_GIOVANNI ARRIVABENE, UGONI, AND SCALVINI._
1822.
During his campaign of Guaita, in 1820, the Count Giovanni Arrivabene
had had the hardihood to receive Pellico, his two pupils, and their
father, Count Porro, men who, to use the expression of Lamennais, had
dared to pronounce the word country. This crime incurred the penalty of
death, though the tender mercy of Austria sometimes commuted it to
fifteen or twenty years of hard labour. Porro being pursued, and Pellico
arrested, their host could not expect less; and he was, in fact, seized
and arraigned. He was, however, released, but shortly after he found out
that the Austrian police regretted their clemency. He accordingly left
his home one day in the greatest secrecy, crossed Brescia, and came to
the house of his two oldest and most devoted friends, Camillo Ugoni and
Giovita Scalvini, whom he informed of his determination to fly, and of
their own state of insecurity, offering them at the same time places in
his carriage. They did not hesitate a moment, but their preparations for
departure occupied some little time, and they were, of course, anxious
to maintain the greatest secrecy. It being then four in the afternoon,
they decided to wait till daybreak. Scalvini took Arrivabene home with
him, and put him in the bed usually occupied by his mother. The good
lady, from whom they wished to conceal the real state of affairs, was so
effectually kept in the dark, that, without knowing anything of their
secret, she was made instrumental in giving the alarm in case of a visit
from the police. On the 10th of April, 1822, the fugitives and one of
Arrivabene’s servants left Brescia; and choosing the roads along the
valley, they soon dismissed the carriage, and pursued their way on
horseback. They passed three days and three nights in the labyrinth of
valleys, constantly changing guides, and they were received everywhere
with the attention and respect worthy of the most ancient times. At
Edolo, a village on the Adda, twelve hours from Tirano, they saw the
uniforms of some gendarmes hung over a large fire in an inn. “What’s
this?” “Hush! they are asleep! poor wretches, it would be a pity to wake
them!”
The gendarmes had been pursuing three fugitives, and half dead with the
long ride and with the drenching rain, they had taken shelter in the
inn. The three outlaws were too charitably disposed to disturb them; but
one of them, touching the pockets of a sleeping soldier, called out,
“This, perhaps, contains the order for our arrest; let us leave the den
before the lion roars!” In spite of all the kind offers of those around,
they could only procure two horses. The man walked; Ugoni rode one
horse, and Scalvini and Arrivabene mounted the other as best they could.
The gendarmes slept on. At daybreak the fugitives crossed the heights of
the mountain called the Sapei della Briga, where they found some
gendarmes quartered; but the good angel who had sent the men at Edolo to
sleep, did the same for their comrades, and Arrivabene and his
companions passed them unseen. There still remained the most difficult
place to pass,--the frontier. They called themselves cattle drivers,
going to the fair, and quietly crossed the line of Austrian custom-house
officers. The fugitives uncovered their heads, but scarcely had they
passed the boundary mark when they fell exhausted to the ground. The
effect was indescribable. On one side the officers, blaspheming and
threatening, furious at the trick played upon them; and on the other,
the poor exiles, leaving country, fortune, friends, and all they held
most dear; but blessing Heaven for their safety, and only answering the
insults heaped on them by a quiet indifference. The innkeeper of Edolo
was imprisoned for a long period; and his poor wife, whom they had told
that her husband would be hanged, died suddenly of fear and grief. (_My
Prisons._ Silvio Pellico.)
[Illustration: They fell exhausted to the ground.]
_MARRAST, GUINARD, GODEFROI CAVAIGNAC, AND OTHER POLITICAL PRISONERS._
JULY, 1834.
Soon after the riots of April, 1834, at Paris and at Lyons, many men,
whose hostile opinions to the Government were well known, were arraigned
before the court of peers, and accused of having taken part in those
movements. Among those accused were MM. Guinard, Marrast, Godefroi
Cavaignac, brother to the great general of that name, Berrier-Fontaine,
etc.
The trial went on, but on the night of the 12th July, news was brought
that twenty eight of those imprisoned at Sainte Pelagie, formerly the
prison for debtors, had managed to escape.