They have put them into the prison of Saint-Lazare. Whom? The nuns of
the convent of Picpus. They have put them there because they have been
arrested. But why were they arrested? That is what Monsieur Rigault
himself could not clearly explain. Some of the nuns are old. They have
been living long in seclusion, and have only changed cells; having been
the captives of Heaven, they have become the prisoners of Citizen
Mouton. In such an abject place too, poor harmless souls! Victor Hugo
has said, speaking of that wretched prison, “Saint-Lazare! we must
crush that edifice.” Yes, later, when we have the time; we must now
pull down the Column Vendôme and the Chapelle Expiatoire. In the
meantime these poor ladies are very sad. One of my friends went to see
them; they have neither their prayer-books nor their crucifix; they
have had even the amulets they wore round their necks taken from them.
This seems nothing to you, citizens of the Commune. You are men of
advanced opinions. You care as much about a crucifix as a fish for an
apple; and perhaps you are right. You have studied the question, and
you say in the evening, looking up at the stars, “There is no God.” But
you must understand that with these poor nuns it is quite a different
matter. They have not read philosophical treatises; they still believe
that the Almighty created the world in six days, and that the Son died
on the cross for the sake of the world. When they were free, or rather
when they were in a prison of their own choosing, they prayed in the
morning, they prayed at noon, they prayed at night, and only
interrupted this most pernicious occupation for the purpose of teaching
poor little girls that it is good to be virtuous, honest, and grateful,
and that Heaven rewards those who do rightly. That was their
occupation, poor simple souls, and you have sent them to Saint Lazare
for that. You should have chosen another prison, for their presence
must be disagreeable to the usual female denizens of the place. But
there, or elsewhere, they do not complain; they only ask for a
prayer-book and a wooden crucifix. Come, Citizen Delegate of the
ex-Prefecture, one little concession, and unless the future of the
Republic is likely to be compromised by so doing, give them a cross. A
cross is only two pieces of wood placed one on the other. I promise you
there will be wood enough in the forest the day honest men make up
their minds to exercise their muscles on your backs, you bullying
slave-drivers!