LA FORCE.
We may, perhaps, be accused, from the space accorded to the following
scenes, of injuring the unity of our story by some episodical pictures;
but it seems to us that, at this moment particularly, when important
questions of punishment are engaging the attention of the legislature,
that the interior of a prison--that frightful pandemonium, that gloomy
thermometer of civilisation--will be an opportune study. In a word, the
various physiognomies of prisoners of all classes, the relations of kin
or affection, which still bind them to the world from which their gaol
walls separate them, appear to us worthy of interest and attention. We
hope, therefore, to be excused for having grouped about many prisoners
known to the readers of this history other secondary characters,
intended to put in relief certain ideas of criticism, and to complete
the initiation of a prison life.
* * * * *
Let us enter La Force. There is nothing sombre or repulsive in the
aspect of this house of incarceration in the Rue du Roi de Sicile, in
the Marais. In the centre of one of the first courts there are some
clumps of trees, thickened with shrubs, at the roots of which there are
already, here and there, the green, precocious shoots of primroses and
snowdrops. A raised ascent, surmounted by a porch covered with
trellis-work, in which knotty stalks of the vine entwine, leads to one
of the seven or eight walks assigned to the prisoners. The vast
buildings which surround these courts very much resemble those of
barrack or manufactory kept with exceeding care. There are lofty facades
of white stone, pierced with high and large windows, which admit of the
free circulation of pure air.
The stones and pavement of the enclosures are kept excessively clean. On
the ground floor, the large apartments, warmed during the winter, are
kept well ventilated during the summer, and are used during the day as
places of conversation, work, or for the meals of the prisoners. The
upper stories are used as immense dormitories, ten or twelve feet high,
with dry and shining floors; two rows of iron beds are there arranged,
and excellent bedding it is, consisting of a palliasse, a soft and thick
mattress, a bolster, white linen sheets, and a warm woollen blanket. At
the sight of these establishments, comprising all the requisites for
comfort and health, we are much surprised, in spite of ourselves, being
accustomed to suppose that prisons are miserable, dirty, unwholesome,
and dark. This is a mistake.
It is such dogholes as that occupied by Morel the lapidary, and in which
so many poor and honest workmen languish in exhaustion, compelled to
give up their truckle-bed to a sick wife, and to leave, with hopeless
despair, their wretched, famishing children, shuddering with cold in
their infected straw--that is miserable, dark, dirty, and pestilent! The
same contrast holds with respect to the physiognomy of the inhabitants
of these two abodes. Incessantly occupied with the wants of their
family, which they can scarcely supply from day to day, seeing a
destructive competition lessen their wages, the laborious artisans
become dejected, dispirited; the hour of rest does not sound for them,
and a kind of somnolent lassitude alone breaks in upon their overtasked
labour. Then, on awakening from this painful lethargy, they find
themselves face to face with the same overwhelming thoughts of the
present, and the same uneasiness for the future.
But the prisoner, indifferent to the past, happy with the life he leads,
certain of the future (for he can assure it by an offence or a crime),
regretting his liberty, doubtless, but finding much compensation in the
actual enjoyment, certain of taking with him when he quits prison a
considerable sum of money, gained by easy and moderate labour, esteemed,
or rather dreaded, by his companions, in proportion to his depravity and
perversity, the prisoner, on the contrary, will always be gay and
careless.
Again, we ask, what does he want? Does he not find in prison good
shelter, good bed, good food, high wages,[1] easy work, and, especially,
society at his choice,--a society, we repeat, which measures his
consideration by the magnitude of his crimes? A hardened convict knows
neither misery, hunger, nor cold. What is to him the horror he inspires
honest persons withal? He does not see, does not know them. His crimes
made his glory, his influence, his strength, with the ruffians in the
midst of whom he will henceforward pass his life. Why should he fear
shame? Instead of the serious and charitable remonstrances which might
compel him to blush for and repent the past, he hears the ferocious
applauses which encourage him to theft and murder. Scarcely imprisoned,
he plans fresh crimes. What can be more logical? If discovered, and at
once apprehended, he will find the repose, the bodily supplies of a
prison, and his joyous and daring associates of crime and debauchery. If
his experience in crimes be less than that of others, does he for that
evince the less remorse? It follows that he is exposed to brutal
scoffing, infernal taunts, and horrible threats. And--a thing so rare
that it has become the exception to the rule--if the prisoner leaves
this fearful pandemonium with the firm resolution to return to the paths
of honesty by excessive labour, courage, patience, and honesty, and has
been able to conceal the infamy of his past career, the meeting with one
of his old comrades in gaol is sufficient to overturn this good
intention for the restoration of his character, so painfully struggled
for.
[1] High wages, if we reflect that, with all expenses paid, a
prisoner may gain from five to ten sous a day. How many workmen
are there who can save such a sum?
And in this way: A hardened, discharged convict proposes a job to a
repentant comrade; the latter, in spite of bitter menaces, refuses this
criminal association; forthwith an anonymous information reveals the
life of the unfortunate fellow who was desirous, at every sacrifice, of
concealing and expiating a first fault by honourable behaviour. Then,
exposed to the contempt, or, at least, the distrust, of those whose
good-will he had acquired by dint of industry and probity, this man,
reduced to distress, and urged by want, yielding at length to incessant
temptations, although nearly restored to society, will again fall, and
for ever, into the depths of that abyss whence he had escaped with such
difficulty.
In the following scenes we shall endeavour to demonstrate the monstrous
and inevitable consequences of confinement in masses. After ages of
barbarous experiments and pernicious hesitations, it seemed suddenly
understood how irrational it is to plunge into an atmosphere of deepest
vice persons whom a pure and salubrious air could alone save. How many
centuries to discover that, in placing in dense contact diseased beings,
we redouble the intensity of their malignity, which is thus rendered
incurable! How many centuries to discover that there is, in a word, but
one remedy for this overwhelming leprosy which threatens
society,--isolation!
We should esteem ourselves happy if our feeble voice could be, if not
relied upon, at least spread amongst all those which, more imposing,
more eloquent than our own, demand with such just and impatient urgency
the entire and unqualified application of the cell system.
One day, perchance, society will know that wickedness is an accidental,
not an organic malady; that crimes are almost always the results of
perverted instincts, impulses, still good in their essence, but
falsified, rendered evil, by ignorance, egotism, or the carelessness of
governments; and that the health of the soul, like that of the body, is
unquestionably kept subordinate to the laws of a healthy and preserving
system of control.
God bestows on all passions that strive for predominance, strong
appetites, the desire to be at ease, and it is for society to balance
and satisfy these wants. The man who only participates in strength,
good-will, and health has a right--a sovereign right--to have his labour
justly remunerated, in a way that shall assure to him not the
superfluities, but the necessaries of life,--the means of continuing
healthy and strong, active and industrious, and, consequently, honest
and good, because his condition is rendered happy. The gloomy regions of
misery and ignorance are peopled with morbid beings with withered
hearts. Purify these moral sewers, spread instruction, the inducement to
labour, fair wages, just rewards, and then these unhealthy faces, these
perishing frames, will be restored to virtue, which is the health, the
life of the soul.
* * * * *
Let us now introduce the reader into the room in the prison of La Force
in which the prisoners are allowed to see persons who visit them. It is
a dark place, partitioned in its length into two equal parts, by a
narrow grated division. One of these divisions communicates with the
interior of the prison, and is the place for the prisoners. The other
communicates with the turnkey's lobby, and is devoted to the persons
admitted to visit the prisoners. These interviews and conversations take
place through the double iron grating of the reception room, in presence
of the turnkey, who remains in the interior, at the extremity of the
passage.
The appearance of the prisoners, who were in this room on the day in
question, offered great contrasts. Some were clad in wretched attire,
others seemed to belong to the working class, and some to the wealthy
citizen body. The same contrasts were remarkable amongst the visitors to
the prisoners, who were nearly all women. The prisoners generally appear
less downcast than the visitors, for, strange and sad to say, yet proved
by experience, there is but little sorrow or shame left after the
experience of three or four days spent in prison in society. Those who
most dreaded this hideous community habituate themselves to it quickly;
the contagion gains upon them. Surrounded by degraded beings, hearing
only the language of infamy, a kind of ferocious rivalry excites them;
and, either to emulate their companions in the struggle for brutalism,
or to make themselves giddy by the usual drunkenness, the newcomers
almost invariably display as much depravity and recklessness as the
_habitues_ of the prison.
Let us return to the reception-room. Notwithstanding the noisy hum of a
great many conversations carried on in undertones on each side of the
divisions, prisoners and visitors, after some experience, are able to
converse with each other without being for a moment disturbed by, or
attentive to, the conversation of their neighbours, which creates a kind
of secrecy in the midst of this noisy interchange of words, each being
compelled to hear the individual who addressed him, but not to hear a
word of what was said around him.
Amongst the prisoners called into the reception-room by visitors, the
one the farthest off from the turnkey was Nicholas Martial. To the
extreme depression with which he was seized on his apprehension, had
succeeded the most brazen assurance. Already the detestable and
contagious influence of a prison in common bore its fruits. No doubt,
had he been at once conveyed to a solitary cell, this wretch, still
under the influence of his first terror, and alone with the thought of
his crimes, fearful of impending punishment, might have experienced, if
not repentance, at least that wholesome dread from which nothing would
have distracted him.
And who knows what incessant, compulsory meditation may produce on a
guilty mind, reflecting on the crimes committed and the punishment that
is to follow? Far from this, thrown into the midst of a horde of
bandits, in whose eyes the least sign of repentance is cowardice,--or,
rather, treason,--which they make him dearly expiate; for, in their
savage obduracy, their senseless bravado, they consider every man as a
spy on them, who, sad and disconsolate, regretting his fault, does not
join in their audacious recklessness, and trembles at their contact.
Thrown into the midst of these miscreants, Nicholas Martial, who had for
a long time, by report, known the prison manners, overcame his weakness,
and wished to appear worthy of a name already celebrated in the annals
of robbery and murder.
Several old offenders had known his father, who had been executed, and
others his brother, who was at the galleys; he was received and
instantly patronised by these veterans in crime with savage interest.
This fraternal reception between murderer and murderer elevated the
widow's son; the praises bestowed on the hereditary infamy of his family
intoxicated him. Soon forgetting, in this horrible mood, the future that
threatened him, he only remembered his past crimes to glory in them, and
elevate himself still higher in the eyes of his companions. The
expression of Nicholas's physiognomy was then as insolent as that of his
visitor was disturbed and alarmed.
This visitor was Daddy Micou, the receiver and lodging-house keeper in
the Passage de la Brasserie, into whose abode Madame de Fermont and her
daughter, victims of Jacques Ferrand's cupidity, had been compelled to
retreat. Father Micou knew the penalties to which he was amenable for
having many a time and oft obtained at low prices the fruits of the
robberies of Nicholas and many others of his stamp. The widow's son
being apprehended, the receiver felt he was almost at the mercy of the
ruffian, who might impeach him as a regular buyer. Although this
accusation could not be supported by flagrant proofs, still it was not
the less dangerous, the less dreaded by Daddy Micou, and he had thus
instantly obeyed the orders which Nicholas had transmitted to him by a
discharged prisoner.
"Ah, ah! how goes it, Daddy Micou?" said the brigand.
"At your service, my good fellow," replied the receiver, eagerly. "As
soon as I saw the person you sent to me, I directly--"
"Oh, you are becoming ceremonious, daddy!" said Nicholas, with
impatience. "Why is this, because I'm in trouble?"
"No, no, my lad,--no, no!" replied the receiver, who was not anxious to
seem on terms of familiarity with this ruffian.
"Come, come, be as familiar as usual, or I shall think you have
forgotten our intimacy, and that would break my heart."
"Well, well," said Micou, with a groan, "I directly went about your
little commissions."
"That's all right, daddy. I knew well enough that you would not forget
your friends. And my tobacco?"
"I have left two pounds at the lodge, my boy."
"Is it good?"
"Cannot be better."
"And the knuckle of ham?"
"Left at the lodge, also, with a four-pound white loaf; and I have added
something that will surprise you, in the shape of a dozen hard eggs and
a Dutch cheese."
"This is what I call doing the thing like a friend! And the wine?"
"Six bottles of capital. But, you know, you will only have one bottle a
day."
"Well, that can't be helped, and so one must make up one's mind to it."
"I hope you are satisfied with me, my boy?"
"Certain, and I shall be so again, and for ever, Father Micou; for the
ham, the cheese, the eggs, and the wine will only last just so long as
it takes to swallow them; but, as a friend of mine remarked, when they
are gone there'll be more where they came from, thanks to you, who will
always do the handsome thing so long as I do the same."
"What! You expect--"
"That in two or three days you will renew my little stock, daddy dear."
"Devil burn me if I do! It's all very good for once--"
"For once! What d'ye mean, man? Why, ham and wine are always good, you
know that very well."
"Certainly, but I have not undertaken to feed you in delicacies."
"Oh, Daddy Micou, that's shabby--indecent. What, refuse me ham! One who
has so often brought you 'double tresse' (stolen lead)!"
"Hush, hush! You mischievous fellow," cried the alarmed receiver.
"No, I'll put the question to the big-wig (the judge). I'll say to him,
only imagine now, sir, that Daddy Micou--"
"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the receiver, seeing with equal alarm and anger
that Nicholas was much disposed to abuse the influence which their
guilty companionship gave him. "I'll agree--I will renew your provision
when it is consumed."
"That's all right, and what's fair. And you mustn't forget, too, to send
some coffee to mother and Calabash, who are at St. Lazare; they like a
cup in a morning, and they'll miss it."
"What more? Would you ruin me, you extortionate fellow?"
"Oh, just as you like, Daddy Micou,--don't say another word, but I shall
ask the big-wig--"
"Well, then, they shall have the coffee," said the receiver,
interrupting him. "But devil take you! Accursed be the day when I first
knew you!"
"Old boy, I say quite the contrary. I am delighted to have your valuable
acquaintance at this particular moment. I revere you as a nursing
father."
"I hope you have nothing more to ask of me?" said Micou, with
bitterness.
"Yes; say to my mother and sister that, if I was frightened when they
apprehended me, I am no longer so, but as determined as they two are."
"I'll say so. Anything more?"
"Stay another moment or two. I forgot to ask you for a couple of pairs
of warm woollen stockings,--you'd be sorry if I caught cold, shouldn't
you?"
"I should be glad if you were dead."
"Thank ye, daddy, thank ye! But that pleasure is yet to come, and to-day
I'm alive and kicking, and inclined to take things easy. If they serve
me as they did my father, at least I shall have enjoyed my life while it
lasted."
"It's a nice life, yours is!"
"Superb! Since I have been here I've enjoyed myself like a king. If we
had lamps and fireworks, they would have lighted them up, and fired them
off in my honour, when they knew I was the son of the famous Martial who
was guillotined."
"How affecting! What a glorious parentage!"
"Why, d'ye see, there are many dukes and marquises. Why, then, shouldn't
we have our nobility, too?--such as us!" said the ruffian, with bitter
irony.
"To be sure, and Charlot (the headsman) will give you your letters of
nobility on the Place du Palais."
"You may be sure it won't be the gaol chaplain. But in prison we should
have the nobility of top-sawyers (noted robbers) to be thought much of;
if not, you are looked upon as nobody at all. You should only see how
they behave to those who are not tip-tops and give themselves airs. Now
there's in here a chap called Germain, a young fellow, who appears
disgusted with us, and seems to despise us all. Let him take care of his
hide! He's a sulky hound, and they say he is a 'nose' (a spy); if he is,
they'll screw his nose around, just by way of warning."
"Germain? A young man called Germain?"
"Yes; d'ye know him? Is he one of us? If so, in spite of his looks,
we--"
"I don't know him; but if he is the Germain I have heard speak of, his
affair is settled."
"How?"
"Why, he has only just escaped from a plot which Velu and the
Stout-Cripple laid for him lately."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but they said that in the country somewhere he had
tricked one of their pals."
"I was sure of it, Germain is a spy. Well, we'll spy him! I'll go and
tell our friends; that'll set them sharper against him. By the way, how
does Gros-Boiteux get on with your lodgers?"
"Thank heaven, I have got rid of him,--a blackguard! You'll see him here
to-day or to-morrow."
"All right; how we shall laugh! He's a boy who is never taken aback!"
"It's because I knew that he would find this Germain here that I said
his affair was settled,--if it's the same chap."
"Why have they got hold of the Gros-Boiteux?"
"For a robbery committed with a discharged convict, who wanted to turn
honest and work. Well, you see, the Gros-Boiteux soon got him in a
string; he is such a vicious devil, the Boiteux! I am certain it was he
who broke open the trunk of the two women who live in the little room
on my fourth floor."
"What women?--ah, yes, two women! You was smitten by the young 'un, I
remember, you old vagabond, because you thought her so nice."
"They'll not smite anybody any more, for by this time the mother must be
dead, and the daughter is scarcely alive. I shall lose a fortnight's
rent, and I sha'n't give a sou to pay for their burial. I've had so many
losses, without talking of the little matters you entreat me to give you
and your family, that my affairs are quite disarranged. I've had the
luck of it this year."
"Pooh, pooh! You are always complaining, old gentleman; you who are as
rich as Croesus. But don't let me detain you."
"You're polite."
"You'll call and tell me how mother and Calabash are when you bring me
my other provisions?"
"Yes, if I must."
"Ah, I'd nearly forgot; whilst you're about it, bring me a new cap, of
plaid velvet, with an acorn at top; mine's regularly done for."
"Come, now, you're laughing at me."
"No, daddy, by no means; I want a plaid velvet cap. That's my wish."
"Then you're resolved to make a beggar of me?"
"Come, I say, Micou, don't get out of temper about it. It's only yes or
no,--I do not force you, but--you understand?"
The receiver, reflecting that he was at the mercy of Nicholas, rose,
fearing that if he prolonged his visit he would be exposed to fresh
demands.
"You shall have your cap," he replied; "but mind, if you ask me for
anything more, I will give you nothing,--let what will occur, you'll
suffer as much as I shall."
"Make your mind easy, I'll not make you sing (force you to give money
under the threat of certain disclosures) more than is sufficient for you
not to lose your voice; for that would be a pity, you sing so well."
The receiver went away, shrugging his shoulders with rage, and the
turnkey conducted Nicholas back to the interior of the prison.
At the moment when Micou quitted the reception-room, Rigolette entered
it. The turnkey, a man about forty years of age, an old soldier, with
stern and marked features, was dressed in a round jacket, with a blue
cap and trousers; two silver stars were embroidered on the collar and
facings of his jacket. At the sight of the grisette the face of this man
brightened up, and assumed an expression of benevolence. He had always
been struck by the grace, gentleness, and touching kindness with which
Rigolette consoled Germain when she came there to see him. Germain was,
besides, not an ordinary prisoner; his reserve, his peaceable demeanour,
and his melancholy inspired the persons about the prison with deep
interest,--an interest which they did not manifest, for fear of exposing
him to the ill-treatment of his brutal companions, who, as we have said,
looked upon him with mistrusting hate. It was raining in torrents, but,
thanks to her goloshes and umbrella, Rigolette had boldly faced the wind
and rain.
"What a shocking day, my poor girl!" said the turnkey, kindly. "It
requires a good deal of courage to leave home such weather as this."
"When we think as we come along of the pleasure we shall give a poor
prisoner, we don't think much about the weather, sir."
"I need not ask you whom you have come to see?"
"Certainly not. And how is poor Germain?"
"Why, my dear, I have seen many prisoners; they have been sad for a
day,--two days, perhaps,--and then gradually got into the same way as
the others; and those who were most out of sorts at first often ended
by becoming the merriest of all. But M. Germain, is not one of these, he
has still that melancholy air."
"How sorry I am to hear it!"
"When I'm on duty in the yards, I look at him from the corner of my eye,
he is always alone. I have already told you that you should advise him
not to do so, but to resolve on conversing with the others, or it will
end with his becoming suspected and ill-used by them. We keep a close
look-out, but a mischievous blow is soon given."
"Oh, sir, is there any danger threatens him?" cried Rigolette.
"Not precisely, but these ruffians see that he is not one of them, and
hate him because he has an honest and proud look."
"Yet I advised him to do what you told me, sir, and make up his mind to
talk to some of the least wicked! But he cannot help it, he cannot get
over his repugnance."
"He is wrong--wrong! A struggle is so soon begun."
"Can't he, then, be separated from the others?"
"For the last two or three days, since I have seen their ill-will
towards him, I advised him to place himself what we call _a la
pistole_,--that is, in a room."
"Well?"
"I had not thought of one thing. A whole row of cells is undergoing
repair, and the others are full."
"But these wretches may kill him!" said Rigolette, her eyes filling with
tears. "And if, by chance, he had any protectors, what could they do for
him, sir?"
"Nothing, but enable him to obtain what these debtors who can pay for it
obtain,--a chamber, _a la pistole_."
"Alas, then, he is lost, if they hate him in prison."
"Oh, don't be downhearted, we will look well to him. But I repeat, my
dear, do advise him to familiarise himself a little,--the first step is
half the battle."
"I will advise him as strongly as I can, sir. But for a good and honest
heart it is very hard, you know, to familiarise itself with such
people."
"Of two evils we must choose the least. Now I will fetch M. Germain. But
now I think of it," said the turnkey, "there are only two visitors; wait
until they are gone, there'll not be any more to-day, for it is two
o'clock. I will then fetch M. Germain, and you can talk at your ease. I
can then, when you are alone, let him come into the passage, so that you
will be separated by one grating instead of two. Won't that be better?"
"Ah, sir, how kind you are, and how much I thank you!"
"Hush! Do not let any one hear you, or they may be jealous. Sit down
there at the end of the bench, and when this man and woman have gone, I
will tell M. Germain."
The turnkey returned to his post inside the grating, and Rigolette sat
down very melancholy at the end of the visitors' bench.
Whilst the grisette is awaiting the coming of Germain, we will allow the
reader to overhear the conversation of the prisoners who remained there
after the departure of Nicholas Martial.