About a mile distant from one of the southern barriers of Paris, a
palace was built during _our_ Henry the Sixth's brief and precarious
possession of French royalty, by the Bishop of Winchester. It was known
by the name of Winchester, of which, however, the French kept
continually clipping and changing the consonants, until the Anglo-Saxon
Winchester dwindled into the French appellation of Bicêtre. The Bishop's
old palace was treated as unceremoniously as his name, being burnt in
some of the civil wars. But there is this advantage in a sumptuous
edifice, that its very ruins suggest the thought and supply the means of
rebuilding it. Bicêtre, accordingly, reared its head, and is now a
straggling mass of building, containing a mad-house, a poor-house, an
hospital, and a prison.
To see it is a matter of trifling difficulty, except on one particular
day--that devoted to the rivetting of the _chaine_. A surgeon, however,
belonging to the establishment, promised to procure me admission, and on
receiving his summons, I started one forenoon for Bicêtre. Mortifying
news awaited my arrival. The convicts had plotted a general insurrection
and escape, which was to have taken place on the preceding night. It had
been discovered in time, however, and such precautions taken, as
completely prevented even the attempt. The chief of these precautions
appeared in half a regiment of troops, that had bivouacked all night in
the square adjoining the prison, and were still some lying, some
loitering about. Strict orders had been issued, that no strangers should
be admitted to witness the ceremony of rivetting; and the turnkeys and
gaolers, in appearance not yet recovered from the alarm of the preceding
evening, refused to listen to either bribe, menace, or solicitation. It
was confoundedly vexatious. Whilst expostulating with the turnkey, I
caught a glimpse through a barred window of the interior court, athwart
which the chains lay extended, whilst in one railed off even from this
the convicts were crowded, marching round and round--precaution forbade
their remaining still--and uttering from time to time such yells and
imprecations as might deafen and appal a Mohawk. "I have caught a
glimpse at least," thought I, as we were unceremoniously turned out.
My friend, the surgeon, bade us, however, not despair. When the man of
influence arrived he hoped to prevail; and in the mean time he led us to
view the other curiosities of Bicêtre. There was the well, the kitchen,
the anatomical theatre. The courts were crowded with aged paupers, who
each well knew that his carcass would undergo what laceration the
scalpel of my friend and his comrades chose to inflict upon it. But the
thought seemed not to affect them so much as it did us. Methought the
business of dissecting dead subjects might have been carried on more
remote from the living candidates; but I was wrong, for mystery and
secrecy always beget fear.
The mad-house was another curiosity. It contains many whose brain the
revolution of July, 1830, had turned. One man, a fine youth, had
travelled on foot from a distant part of the kingdom, to shed his blood
as a sacrifice to the memory of Napoleon. He gave his last franc to
obtain admission within the pillar of the Place Vendôme, and when there
opened the veins of both his arms, crying out, "I offer the blood of the
brave to the manes of Napoleon." His rolling black eye was now
contrasted with a face pale as death. He had lost so much blood that few
hopes were entertained of his recovery.
But by far the most curious patient of the mad-house, was a young man
who imagined himself to be a woman. He was handsome, but not feminine in
appearance. He adored a little mirror, with which he was gratified. Rags
of all colours were his delight; and he had made a precious collection.
His coquetry was evident; and he answered pertinently all questions,
never belying at the same time his fixed opinion, that he was endowed
with a maiden's charms.
We looked over the book of reports, and found seven-eighths of the
female patients to have become deranged from love; whilst, with the
majority of the males, the hallucination proceeded from disappointments
of ambition. Surprised, I could make out no case of a religious maniac;
glad, I could discover none of a student.
We now returned to machinations for the purpose of entering the
forbidden prison. Aprons were handed us, not unlike a barber's. They
were surgeons' aprons, always worn by those of the establishment when on
duty. Might not then the barbers' aprons be a tradition of the
barber-surgeons? I refrained from asking the question in that company.
The scheme was, that we should pass for _Carabins_--such is the nickname
of French students in chirurgery--and in this quality demand admission.
The Cerberus of the prison grinned at the deceit, but wearied and amused
by our importunities, he actually opened the _quicket_ and admitted us.
There are two grated doors of this kind, one always locked whilst the
other is opened. In an instant we were in Pandemonium.
The buildings, which surrounded and formed the courts, evidently the
oldest and strongest of Bicêtre, harmonized in dinginess with the scene.
At every barred window, and these were numerous, about a dozen ruffianly
heads were thrust together, to regard the chains of their
companions.--What a study of physiognomy! The murderer's scowl was
there, by the side of the laughing countenance of the vagabond, whose
shouts and jokes formed a kind of tenor to the muttered imprecations of
the other. Here and there was protruded the fine, open, high-fronted
head,--pale, striking, features, and dark looks, of some felon of
intellect and natural superiority; whilst by his side, ignominy looked
stupidly and maliciously on. A handsome little fellow at one of the
grates, was dressing his hair unconsciously with most agitated fingers,
evidently affected by the scene. Our question of "What are you in for?"
aroused him. "False signing a billet of twenty thousand francs," replied
he, with a shrug and a smile. "And he, your neighbour?" asked we
cautiously, concerning one of a fine, thoughtful, philosophic, and
passionate countenance. "Ha! you may ask--he gave his mistress a potion,
for the purpose of merely seducing her, and it turned out to be
poison--a _carabin_ like yourselves." But these made no part of the
_chaine_.
The convicts destined for this operation were kept in movement round a
post in an adjoining court, and were shouting, rarely in intelligible
language, to their companions. Joy was the universal tone, and a
sniveller ran imminent danger. One poor fellow I remarked holding down
his head, when he was saluted with a kick from him who followed, and the
objurgation, _Tu es forçat, toi, heim?_--"You a convict, and durst be
sad." These men were all unmanacled. Methought a general rush on their
part both practicable and formidable. One half must have perished, and
the other half might have escaped.
They were now marched out from the inner court in batches of thirty at a
time, drawn up in rank, stripped, and examined with such rigid scrutiny
as I dare not precise. They were then marched and placed along one of
the extended chains, and made to sit down, resting it in their laps. A
square fetter was then fitted and placed around the neck of each. In
this, before, some detached links from the chain were placed, whilst a
huge smith proceeded to rivet each from behind. Fixing a kind of movable
anvil behind the convict's back, the fetter that encircled his neck was
brought with its joint upon it, and half a dozen blows of the sledge
riveted the captive inextricably to the main chain and to his
twenty-nine comrades. The smith must be adroit at his task, and the
convict steady in his position; for, as the fetter is tight round the
neck, the hammer, in its blow, must pass within a quarter of an inch of
his skull, and a wince on his part might prove fatal. This, indeed, is
the trying moment, when the stoutest cheek is blanched. The sturdiest
frame, shaken by the blows of the sledge, then betrays emotion, and
tears of penitence are at that moment almost always seen to fall. On
sitting down, each had in general an air of bravado, produced in a great
measure by the regards of the seemingly more hardened ruffians from the
windows. Under the riveting there was no smile; whilst after it, apathy
was affected or resumed, each endeavouring to make his iron collar as
supportable and comfortable as possible, by enveloping it in a
handkerchief, and guaranteeing the neck from its chill or galling.
When the _chaine_ was completed, its wearers were made to stand up. They
formed themselves in couples, the chain running betwixt two ranks, and
they walked round the yard to take their first lesson in their galling
exercise. They are thus fettered together till they reach Brest or
Toulon. The choice is left to them of walking or being carried in carts,
more provender being given to those who make the journey on foot.
The only part of their habiliments, which seemed left to themselves to
provide, was a covering for the head, the red or green cap being given
them only upon entering the _bagne_. For their journey, some of the
fellows had provided themselves with strange head-gear, mostly made of
straw; one had a three-cocked hat; others, one of all kinds of _outré_
shapes. A prime vagabond had woven for himself a complete and
magnificent tiara, precisely like the Roman Pontiff's in form, and
surmounted by a cross. This was the _Pope_, the Pope of the _Chaine_,
and I never heard a shout so appalling, as that with which his
appearance was welcomed by the prisoners from the windows of the
building. They danced, they yelled, tore and tumbled over each other in
the most exuberant delight, thrusting their crowded heads and distorted
features almost through the gratings. I have gleaned from it quite an
idea of a scene of merriment and exultation _below_.
The said Pope was a very extraordinary fellow: a slight fair form,
pointed features, and eyes that were penetrating, despite their common
shade of grey. He was called _Champenois_, his real name unknown, not
more than three-and-twenty, and the Lieutenant of the _Chaine_ said, one
of the most talented and extraordinary characters that _he_ had ever met
with. He had been the prime mover of the intended insurrection, but
without a proof against him, except his universal authority, unusual in
so young a thief. His physiognomy was one, which it required not a
second look in order to remember for ever.
Another figure struck me, not so much as singular in itself, as in
contrast with those around. It struck me as that of an English
cabin-boy, a pale, freckled, ill-conditioned lad. On following the
calling over of the register in roll, I found my conjecture too true. He
was an unfortunate young sailor, a native of England, guilty of some
misdemeanour, and by name Aikin. He understood not a word of French, but
protested with a shake of his head against his being English; patriotism
had in him outlived honesty and self-respect. I spoke to him in English:
he wept, but would not reply, puckering up his poor lips in all the
agony of his desolate condition. I was glad to remark the humanity with
which he had been chained to a prisoner, pensive and downcast like
himself.
There were some cases certainly hard; one or two for resisting the
_gen-d'armerie_ in a riot at Rouen. To transport a rioter, unless under
aggravated circumstances, is grievous enough; but after the revolution
of July, that hallowed riot, to make a galley-slave of a _brave_ for
resisting the police, must have been at least surprising to him. The
tribunal no doubt felt the necessity of severity; and we acknowledged it
all in deploring the degradation of these poor devils for an act, which
in so many thousand others was, at the moment, extolled to the skies as
the acmé of heroism. But justice hath her lottery-wheel as well as
fortune.
As the last _chaine_ was completing, an ecclesiastic went round to
collect money of the visitors. But as there were few, so were the
offerings. The convicts at the same time produced the fruits of their
ingenuity in straw work-boxes, needle-cases, carved ivory and wood. The
guardians, to do them justice, seemed humane.
The _bagne_ at Toulon, the destination of the members of the _chaine_,
was respectably peopled when I visited it some years ago. It contained
amongst others, Sarrazin, a famous general, who had deserted to us from
Buonaparte, and whose works on the Spanish and other campaigns, are
still read with interest. The general had caught the inexcusable habit
of marrying a wife in each town wherein he was quartered, and was sent
to the gallies for _trigintagamy_. They boasted a bishop too amongst the
convicts at Toulon, a merry little fellow, that bore his fate gaily, and
who still contrived to exercise a kind of spiritual supremacy over his
unfortunate comrades.
The ingenuity and hardihood of these men is surprising. Despite the
vigilance, the ramparts, the fetters, and the logs, they escape hourly
and daily;--at what risk is manifest from the regulations, by which
three cannon shots always announce the disappearance of a convict,
serving to warn the peasants, and call them to earn the handsome reward
given to whoever arrests one of the branded fugitives. They are easily
recognised by the halt in one limb; as they are wont to drag after them
that which has been accustomed to the bullet.
The only pursuits that seem to pervade the _bagne_, are those of
_eating_ and _dying_: with the exception of escape, all others are
denied. And those who have given up the latter hope, confine their
thoughts either to bettering their meagre fare of beans, or to getting
rid of existence in the most advantageous way. It is remarkable and
degrading to observe the utmost human ingenuity and industry employed,
in order to procure a dish of potatoes fried in grease once in the week.
Yet such is the luxury of a _forçat_, and he must labour for it harder
than even an Hibernian peasant, or a poet of the same line.
The more philosophic, who scorn the luxury of potatoes, and with it the
life that affords no other, meditate how best to get rid of existence;
and this they effect almost ever in one way; viz., by killing their most
obnoxious keeper, and thus earning the guillotine.
It is a frequent scene in the _bagne_, that of an execution. It occurs
every week or fortnight. All the convicts are obliged to attend, for the
purpose of striking them with terror, and working contrition and good
behaviour in them. Alas! it is a huge mistake. For these days are of all
other days of _fête_ to them. Their countenances are marked by universal
joy, and they shout congratulations, not condolences, to their comrade
about to perish. Death to them is indeed an escape. Its ceremony is to
them a marriage feast: and decapitation, what a _black job_ was to Lord
Portsmouth,--the only variety and excitement that could give a spur to
their heavy and painful existence.
Speak as we may against the pains of death, this is worse, not only
physically but morally; for it degrades humanity far lower than is
conceiveable. The French have an idea that they can imitate the American
mode of punishment by solitary confinement. This again will be still
worse than the galleys; since religious consolation can alone redeem or
ameliorate man in this state of durance; and as this makes no part of
the French system, I cannot help thinking the _guillotine_ more
merciful, than either their _bagne_ or their solitary cells.--_Monthly
Magazine._
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