THE CONCIERGERIE.
At a corner of the Pont-au-Change and of the Quai aux Fleurs rose the
remains of the old palace of Saint Louis, called _par excellence_
the palace, as Rome is called the city, and which still continues to
retain the royal cognomen, when the only kings who inhabit it are the
registrars, the judges, and the pleaders.
The house of justice was a large and sombre building, exciting
more fear than love for the merciless goddess. There might be seen
united in this narrow space all the instruments and attributes of
human vengeance. The first wards were assigned to those who had been
arraigned for crime; farther on were the halls of judgment, and lower
down the dungeons of the condemned. By the door was a small space where
the red-hot iron stamped its mark of infamy; and about one hundred and
fifty paces from the first another space, far more extensive, where the
last act of the fearful tragedy took place,--that is to say, La Grève,
where they finished the work previously sketched out for them at the
Palace. Justice, as we see, reigned paramount over all.
All these portions of the edifice joined one with another,
sullen-looking, dark, and gray, pierced by iron-grated windows where
the gaping arches resemble the grated dens extending along the side of
the Quai des Lunettes. This is the Conciergerie.
This prison contains dens washed by the black mud from the waters of
the Seine; it also possesses mysterious outlets, through which were
formerly conducted to the river those miserable victims whom it was
thought necessary to remove.
As seen in 1793, the Conciergerie, unwearying _procureur_ for the
scaffold,--the Conciergerie overflowed with occupants, who within an
hour became the victims of the guillotine. At this epoch the old prison
of Saint Louis was literally the Inn of Death. Under the arches some
gates were hung, and at night a red lantern was suspended there, fit
emblem of this abode of misery and despair.
The evening preceding the day when Lorin, Maurice, and Geneviève were
breakfasting together, a dull rumbling shook the pavement of the quay
and rattled the windows of the prison, then ceased before the arched
gate. The gendarmes knocked with the handles of their swords, the gate
opened, and a carriage entered the court; when the hinges had turned,
and the rusty bolts had creaked, a female descended.
The gaping wicket opened immediately to receive her, and closed upon
her. Three or four curious heads, protruding to gaze upon the prisoner
by the light of the torches, appeared in mezzo-tinto, then vanished in
the darkness, while vulgar jokes and rude laughter passed between the
men leaving, who could be heard though not seen.
The person thus brought remained within the first wicket with the
gendarmes; she saw it would be necessary to pass through a second,
but forgot at the same time to raise the foot and lower the head, as
there is a step to ascend and a beam which descends. The prisoner, not
yet well habituated to prison architecture, notwithstanding her long
sojourn there, omitted to stoop, and struck her forehead violently
against the bar.
"Are you much hurt, Citizeness?" demanded one of the gendarmes.
"Nothing can hurt me now," she replied tranquilly, and passed on
without uttering a single complaint, although sanguinary traces of the
injury remained upon her brow.
Shortly the arm-chair of the keeper became visible,--a chair more
venerated by the prisoners than the throne of the king by his
courtiers; for the keeper of a prison is the dispenser of favor,
and all mercy is important to a prisoner, as sometimes the smallest
kindness may change the darkest gloom to a heaven of light.
The keeper Richard, installed in his arm-chair, felt a due perception
of his own importance. He remained undisturbed even when the rumbling
of the carriage announced a new arrival. He inhaled some snuff,
regarded the prisoner, opened a large register, and looked for a pen
in the little ink-horn of black wood, where the ink, incrusted on the
sides, retained in the centre a mouldy humidity, as in the midst of the
crater of a volcano there always remains some melted matter.
"Citizen Keeper," said the chief of the escort, "write, and write
quickly, for they are impatiently awaiting us at the Commune."
"I will not be long," said the porter, at the same time emptying into
the inkstand some drops of wine remaining at the bottom of his glass;
"I am a good hand at this, thank God! Your name and surname, Citizen,"
said he, and dipping his pen at the same time into this improvised
ink, he commenced entering the new arrival at the bottom of a page
already nearly filled; while standing behind his chair, Madame Richard,
a female of benevolent aspect, contemplated, with a mixture of
astonishment and respect, this woman, so sad, so noble, and so proud,
whom her husband interrogated.
"Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine," replied the prisoner,
"Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France."
"Queen of France!" repeated the keeper, raising himself in astonishment
by the arms of his chair.
"Queen of France," repeated the prisoner, in the same voice.
"Otherwise called the Widow Capet," said the chief of the escort.
"Under which of these names am I to enter her?" demanded the keeper.
"Whichever you please, only do it quickly," said the chief of the
escort.
The keeper reseated himself, and with a trembling hand wrote down the
name, surname, and titles given him by the prisoner, inscriptions the
ink of which still appears visible to this day upon the register of
which the revolutionary rats of the Conciergerie have nibbled the leaf
at its most precious part.
Richard's wife still retained her position behind her husband's chair,
and remained standing with her hands clasped together, commiserating
the situation of the unfortunate being before her.
"Your age?" continued the keeper.
"Thirty-seven years and nine months," replied the queen.
Richard wrote this down, then the description, and finished with the
regular notes and forms.
"There," said he, "that is completed."
"Where shall we conduct the prisoner?" said the chief of the escort.
Richard helped himself to a second pinch of snuff, and looked at his
wife.
"Indeed," said she, "we did not anticipate this, and have had but brief
notice, so that we hardly know--"
"You must find out," said the brigadier.
"There is the council chamber," said Richard's wife.
"Too large," murmured Richard.
"The larger the better; we can the more easily place the guards."
"Go to the council chamber," said Richard. "But it is not habitable at
this moment; it has no bed."
"True," replied his wife, "I had quite forgotten that."
"Bah!" said one of the gendarmes, "you can put a bed there to-morrow,
and to-morrow will soon be here."
"Besides, the citizen could occupy our chamber for one night; could she
not, good man?" said Richard's wife.
"And what are we to do?" said the keeper.
"Oh, we can do without a bed for one night; and as the citizen gendarme
observes, 'the night is nearly gone.'"
"Then," said Richard, "conduct the citizeness to our chamber."
"And in the mean while you will prepare our receipt?"
"It shall be ready on your return."
Richard's wife took the candle from the table, and led the way.
Marie Antoinette followed without uttering a word, calm and pale as
usual. Two turnkeys, at a sign from Richard's wife, followed them.
The queen was shown her bed, on which the woman hastened to place
clean sheets. The turnkeys installed themselves outside; the door was
double-locked; and Marie Antoinette was left alone.
How she passed that night no one ever knew, as she passed it in close
communion with her God. On the next day the queen was conducted to
the council chamber, a long four-sided room, the wicket-door of which
opened upon a corridor of the Conciergerie, and which had been divided
in its whole length by a partition which did not reach the height of
the ceiling.
One of these compartments was occupied by the men on guard. The other
was the chamber of the queen. A window, thickly-grated with small iron
bars, lighted both these cells. A folding-screen, the substitute for a
door, secluded the queen from the guards, and closed the aperture in
the middle. The whole of this room was paved with brick. The walls, at
one period or another, had been covered with gilded wood, where still
hung some shreds of paper fleur-de-lis. A bed was placed opposite the
window, and a single chair near the light. This was all the furniture
the royal prison contained.
On entering, the queen requested that her books and work might be
brought her. They brought her the "Revolutions of England," which she
had commenced in the Temple, the "Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis," and her
tapestry.
The gendarmes established themselves in the adjoining compartment.
History has preserved their names, as it has done that of many
others more infamous, associated by destiny in great events, and who
see reflected on themselves a fragment of that light cast by the
thunderbolt which destroys the thrones of kings, perhaps even the kings
themselves.
They were called Duchesne and Gilbert.
These two men were selected by the Commune, who knew them to be stanch
patriots. They were to remain at their post in their cell till the
sentence of Marie Antoinette. They hoped by this measure to avoid the
irregularities consequent upon a change of office several times during
the day, and therefore laid the guards under a heavy responsibility.
The queen first became acquainted with this new regulation from the
conversation of the gendarmes, whose discourse, not being softly
uttered, reached her ears. She experienced at once joy and disquietude;
for if on the one hand she felt that these men ought to be trustworthy
since they had been chosen from a multitude, on the other side she
reflected that her friends might more easily corrupt two known men
at their post than a hundred unknown individuals selected by chance,
passing near her occasionally, and then only for a single day.
On the first night before she retired one of the gendarmes, according
to his usual custom, began to smoke. The noxious vapor glided
imperceptibly through the apertures of the partition, enveloping the
unfortunate queen, whose misfortunes had irritated instead of deadening
her nerves. She soon felt herself seized with nausea and swimming in
the head; but true to her indomitable system of firmness, she uttered
no complaint.
During her melancholy vigil, while nothing disturbed the deep silence
of the night, she fancied she heard plaintive cries outside. These
cries were mournful and prolonged; there was about them something
weird and piercing, like the howling of wind in the dark and deserted
corridor when the tempest borrows the human voice to animate the
passions of the elements.
She soon became aware that the noise that had at first startled her
was the doleful and persevering cry of a dog howling on the quay. She
immediately remembered her poor little Jet, whom she had not thought
of when they removed her from the Temple, and now believed she could
recognize his voice. Indeed, the poor little animal, who by his
mistaken vigilance had ruined his mistress, had unperceived descended
behind her, had followed the carriage as far as the grating of the
Conciergerie, where he continued till he narrowly escaped being cut in
two by the double iron portcullis which closed behind her.
But the faithful creature had soon returned, and comprehending that
his mistress was confined in this great stone building, he whined and
howled, waiting, within ten feet of the sentinel, a caressing reply.
The queen replied by a heart-broken sigh which reached the ears of her
guards; but as this sigh was not repeated, and no other sound proceeded
from the queen's chamber, they again composed themselves, and relapsed
into their former state of drowsiness.
At break of day the queen rose and dressed herself, then took her seat
near the window, the light from which, intercepted by the grating of
iron bars, fell with a bluish tint upon her emaciated hands, in which
she held a book. She was apparently reading, but her thoughts were far
away.
The Gendarme Gilbert half opened the screen, and regarded her in
silence. The queen heard the noise of the screen, but did not turn her
head. She was so seated that the gendarme could see her head bathed in
the morning light. Gilbert made a sign to his comrade to advance and
look through the opening with him. Duchesne approached.
"Look!" said Gilbert, in a low tone; "how very pale she is; it is
frightful! Those red circles round her eyes denote her suffering. She
has surely been weeping."
"You well know," said Duchesne, "Capet's widow never weeps. She is too
proud for that."
"Then she must be ill," said Gilbert, and raising his voice, "Tell me,
Citizen Capet," said he, "are you ill?"
The queen slowly raised her eyes, and fixed an inquiring look upon the
two men.
"Did you address me, gentlemen?" demanded she, in a voice full of
sweetness, for she fancied she detected the accent of kindness in him
who had spoken to her.
"Yes, Citizeness, we spoke to you," replied Gilbert; "we feared you
were ill."
"Why so?"
"Because your eyes are so red."
"And at the same time you are so pale," added Duchesne.
"Thank you, gentlemen, I am not ill; only I suffered much last night."
"Ah, yes, your misfortunes!"
"No, gentlemen, my miseries are always the same; and my religion having
taught me to carry them to the foot of the cross, I do not suffer more
one day than another. No; I am out of sorts because I could not rest
last night."
"Ah! your new lodging and different bed?" said Duchesne.
"And then the lodging is not very comfortable," added Gilbert.
"Ah! it is not that, gentlemen," said the queen, shaking her head.
"Lofty or lowly, it is all the same to me."
"What is it then?"
"I ask pardon for telling you; but I have suffered much inconvenience
from the smell of the tobacco which that gentleman is smoking at this
moment."
Indeed, Gilbert was smoking, which was his habitual occupation.
"Confound my stupidity!" cried he, much grieved from the kindness with
which the queen had expressed herself. "Why did you not tell me so
before, Citizen?"
"Because I thought, sir, I had no right to deprive you of any
enjoyment."
"Well, you shall be incommoded no more,--by me, at least," said
Gilbert, casting away his pipe, which broke upon the tiles, "for I
shall smoke no more."
He turned round, his companion followed, and he closed the screen.
"Possibly they may cut off her head, that is an affair of the nation;
but why should we cause her any suffering, poor woman? We are soldiers,
and not hangmen, like Simon."
"It rather savors of the aristocrat, comrade, what you did just now,"
said Duchesne, shaking his head.
"Whom do you term an aristocrat? Explain yourself!"
"I call aristocrats all those who annoy the nation, and succor its
enemies."
"Then, according to your theory, I annoy the nation because I cease
to annoy with my smoking the Widow Capet? Go along, then! As for me,"
continued the brave fellow, "I remember my oath to my country, and
the order of my brigadier. As for my order, I know it by heart. Not
to permit the prisoner to escape; not to allow any one to see her; to
resist all correspondence she may endeavor to institute; and to die at
my post,--this is what I promised, and to this will I keep. _Vive la
nation!_"
"That is what I tell you," said Duchesne. "It is not that I disapprove
of your conduct, but I fear lest you should compromise yourself."
"Hush! here is some one."
The queen had not lost one word of this conversation, although carried
on in a low voice. Captivity had rendered her hearing doubly acute.
The noise which had attracted the attention of the two guards was
the sound of several steps approaching the door. It opened, and two
municipals entered, followed by the keeper and some of the turnkeys.
"Well," they inquired, "where is the prisoner?"
"Here she is," replied the two gendarmes.
"How is she lodged?"
"You can see." And Gilbert touched the screen.
"What do you wish?" demanded the queen.
"It is the visit of the Commune, Citizeness Capet."
"This man is kind," thought the queen; "and if my friends--"
"Very good, very good!" said the municipals, pushing Gilbert aside and
entering the queen's chamber; "so much ceremony is not requisite here."
The queen did not even raise her head; and it might have been believed
from her impassibility that she neither saw nor heard them, but
fancied herself alone. The delegates of the Commune curiously observed
everything around the chamber, sounded the wainscoting, the bed,
shaking the grating of the window which looked upon the court of the
female prisoners, and then having recommended to the gendarmes the
utmost vigilance, took their departure without having addressed a word
to the queen, who on her part seemed not to have been aware of their
presence.