whom was Madame de Pons, to whom I restored the precious charge which I
had been so happy as to keep for her; I was then left in sole
possession of my room, which I enjoyed very much. I was informed that
it was proposed to separate the suspected persons from those indicted
by the Revolutionary tribunal, and to place us in a building facing
that we were now occupying. This change seemed so advantageous to us
that we urged the keeper to carry it out as quickly as possible. To do
him justice, he behaved very well on this occasion, using his influence
with the terrible Fouquier-Tinville to prevent our being mistaken for
the indicted prisoners, and to effect our removal without delay. I
regretted for a moment the loss of the beautiful view from my
apartment; all the fine buildings in Paris were before me,--the
cathedral, St. Sulpice, the Val-de-Grâce, etc. I remembered that on
Easter Day, as I was grieving over the thought that the holy sacrifice
was no longer offered up in those temples made so venerable by their
antiquity, and the prayers of the faithful, I joined in the prayers of
those whose faith was strong, and who were sharing my sad thoughts, and
found that I was really more edified than I had often been on that holy
day when at the foot of the altar.
At last the order came for us to leave our apartments, and carry our
effects with us. One person was sufficient to assist me in my moving; a
wretched pallet, a straw chair, and a few dishes composed my only
furniture. The moment of our departure was very trying to those who
remained still under the power of the public accuser. Several of them
wept when we left them. The separation was final.
When I reached my new prison it seemed to me a mansion, since there
were only two gratings instead of six, as before; and as the men were
entirely separated from the women, we were allowed to go all over the
building, from top to bottom, without a keeper. I was lodged on the
fifth floor, in what was called formerly 'the philosophers'
warming-place'. The names of the scholars were, as is customary,
written in charcoal on the walls; I recognized a few of them. There was
a fireplace in this pretty room, and I think it was the only one in the
corridor. It was immediately made use of to warm all my neighbours'
coffee-pots, which occasioned a continual procession not at all
agreeable.
Before my detention, I had thought that a prison would be at least a
place of repose, where I could give myself up to study; but this was
not the case at all, at least not in those where I stayed. Every moment
the keeper, the jailers, the turnkeys, the purveyors, etc., came in. We
were made to go down to the clerk's office to attend to our
commissions. I could not read one single hour without interruption. One
thing which I have heard spoken of, and which I have certainly
verified, is the habit prisoners have of being destructive. It arises
from their standing in need of a thousand things. I had no shovel, so I
broke a piece of slating and used it for one; I took a floor-tile for a
lid. It was very difficult to procure wood, so I burned up my chairs.
We could not send a keeper down-stairs without paying him a hundred
sous.
In spite of the admiration inspired by my new dwelling-place, I was
forced to sigh for the one I had left. We slept where the plaster was
quite fresh, which gave me such a raw sensation in my throat that I
could swallow nothing but milk. On the stairways there was a very
unwholesome smell of oil; all the windows, above and below, had been
grated, and boards adjusted, so as to make it impossible to throw
letters out. The outer aspect of our building was frightful. We lost by
our transfer the promenade in the garden, and had instead one no better
than in the courtyard at Plessis, so that one could not make up one's
mind to go out except when it was absolutely necessary to go in the
open air. The men and women went there at different hours. They were
shut in on every side; and walls had been erected so that the prisoners
could not be seen by their neighbours, and could make no sign to them.
One little alley-way, however, which it was impossible to shut out from
our view, allowed us to see human beings at liberty, or who at least
believed themselves to be. The windows which procured this little view
for us were very much sought after and always occupied. Persons
interested in the prisoners came to assure themselves of our existence.
Our numbers increased each day, and brought us some detestable
recruits. I had very near me some vulgar creatures,--young women from
the Rue de Chartres, some persons with the itch, the hangman's
mistress, and a drunken creature, who said she was a person of quality
belonging to the family of Désarmoise, to whom in manner at any rate
she bore not the slightest resemblance. She assumed the right to come
into our rooms every day, make a great noise, and deliver herself of
the most abusive language, for which she afterward asked pardon. I was,
of course, very much touched by her repentance, but her visits were
still very disagreeable to me. Another of my neighbours, a lady of the
court, was insane; and unfortunately for me, she took a great fancy to
me. She lay down to sleep one day just in my doorway, and could only be
gotten away by force. The sort of care that I was obliged to take of
her was as disagreeable as it was fatiguing, and it was a real
calamity. One of her fancies was to write to Robespierre. I suppose her
letters suffered the same fate as ours,--never to reach their
destination. Only the two lines added to the requests which we made for
necessary things ever found favour at the clerk's office.
The mess-table, the nature of which we had experienced at Chantilly,
was established. We were placed in the rhetoric class-room, and grouped
at tables of twelve covers each. Each of us had a wooden spoon, but no
fork; and we were given to understand that the latter was a dangerous
thing. We also had a wooden bowl given us from which to eat our soup;
and I have kept it as a curiosity. I never used it. It seemed as though
pains had been taken to do everything which could excite our disgust.
The tables had no cloths, and were never washed; as a great deal of
wine was spilled the smell was insupportable. Hairs were often found in
the food; and the dirtiest of the prisoners were detailed to wait upon
us. Pigs ran about the refectory while we were at dinner. A notice was
posted one day, saying that it was only necessary to give us enough to
keep us alive.
Supper was entirely done away with. Mesdames de Courteilles, de
Rochechouart, and de Richelieu ate with the lowest creatures, and
Madame and Mademoiselle de Pons with Mademoiselle Dervieux, of the
Opera, a negress, and what were called feminine _sans-culottes_.
The men ate in another refectory. My mess-mates were hard to please in
the matter of food, among them the daughter of one of the Duke of
Bourbon's grooms. Such people were never content. The keeper, angry one
day because they tried to throw their plates in his face, pointed me
out to the commissioner who examined us, as well as others of my class,
and said, 'You can ask those ladies; they never complain of anything.'
He greatly preferred to have charge of us than of the common people.
The keepers at Plessis were not at all like those at Chantilly, who
were kind, attentive, obliging and attached to us. Those at Plessis
persecuted us to get money, demanded services of us, and reproached us
when we had two garments for not giving them one of them. They were
very hard to get along with. I often served them as secretary in
writing to their relatives or making applications. Once while doing
something of this sort a very amusing thing happened to Madame de la
Fayette. A woman asked her to compose a petition for her, which she did
immediately, with the readiness and kindness which characterized her.
But as her handwriting was bad, she charged the person to have it
copied; and she had the stupidity to send it to a prisoner, who, good
patriot that he was, was indignant at the want of civism evinced in it,
and sent it back with some words effaced, and the following remarks:
'This petition is aristocratic; one never uses such phraseology. This
is not civic; it has the odour of a château. This person does not know
how to draw up a petition,' etc.
We laughed a great deal at the severe criticism aroused by this kind
action.
A convoy from La Force brought Madame de la Fayette to us at Plessis.
The van-guard was composed of Madame des Réaux, who was eighty-four
years old, Madame de Machaut, and other women who were at least
seventy. These were, as a great favour, put into a carriage; the
others, as was the custom, came in a cart. It was a long time before
they were put into lodgings, and we were allowed to approach them. At
last I was able to see one of my cousins, who found the rules in this
prison less severe than in the one from which she came; and all the
girls of the street from Paris collected there presented a spectacle so
indecent that one so pure as she could scarcely endure it. Besides, she
slept in a room where there were four other persons whom she did not
know; I was able to get another room for her, which she thought quite
palatial. She has often told me of the extreme pleasure she felt on
awaking and finding herself alone. The room was so small that she could
not put a chair between her bed and the wall; there was fortunately a
recess, however, where with some trouble she could sit down. Having
Madame de la Fayette so near me was very pleasant. Her virtues and
kindliness, which had suffered no change from the life she had been
compelled to live during the first years of the Revolution, the
possibility of opening my heart to her with regard to my family,
concerning my anxiety for whom I had never spoken to any one, did me
much good; we wept together over her own fate. She seemed to me to be
much less prepared than I was for the general and particular evils
which threatened us. She thought, for instance, that she could defend
her cause and that of her husband before the Revolutionary tribunal,
and that only those were in danger who had committed some serious or
trifling injury to the Republic. It took me at least a fortnight to set
her right on this subject, and enable her to realize her true
situation; but, indeed, what passed before our eyes was more eloquent
than anything I could say.
The number of victims carried off became larger and larger; they
generally went away during the time we were taking our walk in the
courtyard. It seems to me now, that I can see the unfortunate Monsieur
Titon, a counsellor in the parliament of Paris, as he passed beneath
the windows of the room of his wife and daughter, who were not even
permitted to bid him a last farewell. He went out at five o'clock in
the evening, and the next day at noon he was dead. Carts and
Fouquier-Tinville's carriage arrived at all hours, and were crowded
with the accused. This man's coachman was well worthy of such a master;
while the victims were getting into the wagon he drummed out dancing
tunes, and his costume was that of a Merry Andrew. It is almost
impossible to describe the terror excited by the opening of the great
gate, especially when it was repeated several times a day. I can hear
now the sound of the drum beating. The bailiffs of the Revolutionary
tribunal went before the wagons with their hands full of warrants. Then
there was a moment of deathlike silence. Every one thought the fatal
order had come for him; faces were filled with terror, hearts and minds
overwhelmed with fright. The bailiffs went up into the corridors to
call for those who were to go off, and only allowed them a quarter of
an hour to prepare. Each bade the other an eternal farewell; we were in
a stunned condition, being only sure of living from ten o'clock in the
morning until seven o'clock in the evening. Sleep was light when one
suffered such anxiety, and was frequently interrupted by the arrival of
convoys. That containing the famous prisoners from Nantais created a
great sensation. It was the custom to receive the prisoners with
lighted torches; and the keeper, accompanied by jailers and big dogs,
dragged the poor prisoners from the wagons in the roughest manner. They
were so much afraid of losing some of the prisoners that they called
the roll two or three times in succession, then put them in the
"mouse-trap,"--a new name for a receiving-place. There was no
calculation as to whether there was room enough in the house; room was
made: and there have been as many, so we have been assured, as
seventeen hundred at one time in the colleges of Plessis and
Louis-le-Grand. Twenty-five persons were put in the same room, even in
the _entresols_, with grated windows. The severity of the treatment
increased constantly. One day about three o'clock in the afternoon I
heard my bolts shot to, and could not understand the reason; it was
unusual. It was on account of a servant having thrown water out of a
window into the courtyard, after having been forbidden; and for this
great crime we were punished.
We were not allowed to have any light in our rooms; this was a very
great privation. To room in front of a street lamp was a great piece of
good fortune. In the corridors were placed chaffing-dishes, on which we
warmed our suppers. Those of us who had fireplaces kept the fires
bright, so as to give light. Some one would light a candle for a
moment, then extinguish it the next, for fear of being punished. To eat
with our fingers was intolerable. To go to the jailer every day to ask
him to cut up our chocolate was neither amusing nor satisfactory. I
remember a large penknife which belonged to Madame Vassy which was our
delight. She was a lovely woman, bright and intelligent, and extremely
obliging. She said she liked variety. She married, on leaving the
prison, a Prussian, who took her to Berlin.
On the 18th of June I witnessed a heart-rending scene. I was in Madame
de Pon's apartment, playing a game of chess with her, when some one
came and called me; I went out. A person who felt an interest in Madame
de Pon's daughter told me that her father had been transferred from the
private hospital where he had been, to the Plessis, and that as he was
getting out of the wagon he had received his bill of indictment; that
he implored most earnestly to be allowed to see his daughter, but was
refused, in order to avoid such a harrowing interview. The windows of
the keeper's apartment opened directly upon the courtyard where
Mademoiselle de Pons was then walking; they were ordered to be closed.
Monsieur de Pons gave himself up to the most frenzied despair, saying
that the most precious treasure he had in the world was taken from him.
We did not know how to get his daughter out of the courtyard without
arousing her suspicions. Haly had caused her to suspect that something
was going on, by forbidding her to go under the windows on account of
the arrival of some new prisoners. I made some pretext to persuade her
to go into our building with one of my friends; and the latter led her
to a place quite away from her unfortunate father. Then I returned to
Madame de Pons's room, and from the change in my countenance she
perceived that something had happened. I said nothing, but began
playing chess again, in order to gain time to prepare her for it. The
state of affairs between herself and her husband rendered this less
terrible for her than for her daughter. She urged me to tell her the
cause of my emotion. As Monsieur de Pons had been ill of consumption
for a long time, I told her that he was about to die. She begged me not
to tell her daughter of it, and I promised. This unhappy man was not
sent for to be taken to the Conciergerie until nine o'clock in the
evening, and consequently he was in the same building with his child
for five hours without being able to take her in his arms, comfort her,
or bid her a last farewell. He spent all of the time in seeking by
threats and prayers to excite the compassion and interest of the
keeper, telling him of her youth, of his affection for her, and that
his last prayer was that happier days might be in store for her. He
cast a farewell glance toward the courtyard, and then was led away. I
spent the evening in extreme trouble and agitation; although I knew
Monsieur de Pons only very slightly, the thought that he had not in his
last agonized hours been able to see his daughter and bless her, and
the grief I knew she would feel, all caused me to pass a terrible
night. The young girl has since told me that she suspected that
something sad was being concealed from her, by the embarrassment in our
manner toward her. She came the next day as usual to my apartment to
comb my thin white hair, and I could scarcely restrain my feelings
while I was dressing when I remembered that her father was at that very
moment before the tribunal or mounting the scaffold. She went away
immediately. Madame de Pons had asked me to tell her the whole truth,
and I had done so. She had sent for news of her husband's trial, and
learned that he and also Messieurs de Laval, de Rohan-Soubise, de
Monterrey, and fifty others had been condemned to death as conspirators
against Robespierre, and were to be executed at the Grève, wearing red
shirts, though these by law were required to be worn only by murderers.
It seems that in order to make this so-called conspiracy more noted,
the most celebrated names of the old régime, had been made use of, and
that in fact those who bore them had never thought of conspiring.
All day means were employed to increase Mademoiselle de Pons's anxiety
on account of her father's illness as she knew he was in great danger,
and feared his end was approaching. She says in one of her prison
memoirs, of which a few copies have been printed, that I asked
permission of her mother to tell her of her father's death. She did not
know that, on the contrary, it was Madame de Pons who earnestly
implored me to undertake to break it to her, and that for a long time I
refused. At last she gave me some very good reasons for doing so, and I
consented. Mademoiselle de Pons, in whose presence I no longer
concealed my emotion, suspected her misfortune. She questioned me; I
made no reply, but threw my arms around her and burst into tears.
Another calamity befell us, the small-pox broke out. Madame des Réaux,
eighty-four years old, died of it; and an only son also died, almost in
sight of his father and mother, who were cruelly refused permission to
go into another prison to weep over their unhappy child. They drank
their cup to the dregs. Two very old ladies by the name of Machault
were also attacked by this horrible disease, which naturally was
greatly dreaded by all those who had not had it. Fortunately the
contagion did not spread, which was extraordinary in a place where so
many persons were crowded together. Besides, the manner in which the
sick were treated was horrible. No money could procure medicine for
them, or even a cup of tea. I saw a very strong woman die, who could
have been cured with very little care. It required two days'
negotiation to gain permission to have a warming-pan brought into the
house. The prison surgeon was a Pole, named Markoski, who had come to
Paris to study medicine, of which he was entirely ignorant. I needed to
be bled; he found that it was difficult to do this in my arm. I let him
try my foot, and he was successful. I pardoned his want of skill and
his ignorance on account of his kindness of heart. He was really
obliging; he brought us news of persons of our acquaintance who were
imprisoned in other houses of arrest. And he was particularly kind to
me because I gave him an account of the sick, and because, as I knew
some medical phrases, I spared him the trouble of making out
certificates of infirmity for persons who hoped by that means to escape
close imprisonment; it was only necessary for him to sign what I had
written. One day when I was feeling very badly, I said to myself, 'It
would be so sweet to die in my bed.' What a terrible condition it is
when one rejoices over an illness which may bring death!
I omitted to relate a very ridiculous incident. The day before the
Feast of the Supreme Being[4] all the prisoners were sent down into the
courtyard, which we found filled with an enormous quantity of branches
and leaves. I pretended to work upon them for a few minutes, and then I
withdrew into my own room; several of our wretched companions worked
away zealously, and even offered to plant a liberty-pole in the middle
of the courtyard. The keeper, less absurd than they, forbade it, saying
that such a decoration would not suit a prison. They danced in the
court; the jailers attended this strange festival,--it was the day of
Pentecost, on which Robespierre permitted God to be adored provided He
should not be called by that name. One of them praised me very much (he
was not very bad), and said that he thought I would carry myself very
well going to the guillotine; I answered him coolly that I hoped I
should. Another boasted of the rapidity with which the Revolutionary
tribunal got through with its trials; and he added that in order to set
things right, it would be necessary to cut off seven thousand heads.
One day as I was sitting alone in my room two gendarmes entered; I
thought that my last moment of life had come. They questioned me about
my father and my brothers; and as the conversation progressed, I hoped
that the mere curiosity to see a person of my rank destined for the
scaffold had attracted them. They went away, and I was much relieved by
their departure. A little while after, a female who had the appearance
of a woman of ill-fame came to tell me that she had been ordered by the
keeper to lodge in my room, and that she was going immediately to bring
in her bed. For a moment I felt extremely irritated, but I restrained
myself. I told her that I would leave the room and she could have it
all to herself. The women and young girls who were poor had entered
into a speculation which I now found useful: they took possession of
very small cells, and for money gave them up to other people, finding
some way of crowding in elsewhere. I thought of one occupied by the
daughter of the Prince of Condé's groom, and she let me have it for a
louis in _assignats_; she boasted a great deal of her kindness to me,
and indeed it was very fortunate for me. I regretted my fireplace very
much on account of its convenience for my neighbours; moreover, it was
both inconvenient and dangerous to light fires in open braziers in so
narrow a space, though under the circumstances it was absolutely
necessary. My new lodging possessed one advantage over those of Madame
de la Fayette, in that I could put a chair between my bed and the wall.
I could without rising lift the latch of my door, and even look out
into the court. My prison life taught me that even the smallest power
is precious. The difficulty of procuring light and fire enabled me to
succeed in striking a light with steel. I carefully concealed the
possession of this treasure, fearing that it might be regarded as a
dangerous weapon in a Revolutionary arsenal. The keeper, learning that
his name had been used in order to turn me out of my apartment, came to
tell me that he had had nothing to do with that enterprise, and
requested me to denounce the woman who had contrived it. I replied that
I had such a horror of denunciations that I would not give her name. He
then proposed that I should return to my room, but I refused to do so;
the prison was getting so full that I feared I should be compelled to
receive some one into it. Convoys were constantly arriving from the
different Departments. One came containing eighty peasant women from
the Vivarais, who wore very singular costumes. We questioned them
concerning the cause of their arrest; they explained to us in their
patois that it was because they went to mass. This was considered so
enormous a crime that they were put in the building belonging to the
tribunal which was called by our wags Fouquier's shop. Some ladies from
Normandy came to our prison. They seemed countrified, though they did
not wear their local costumes; they spent their time from morning to
night writing memoirs and petitions,--a very dangerous habit during the
Reign of Terror, and one which was likely to hasten the hour of death.
I received a letter from my father which made my heart ache. I always
awaited and read his letters with deep emotion. He told me that Madame
Latour, who was their only consolation, who lightened the burden of
their old age, had just been taken away from them; that she had been
forced to leave the prison in spite of the efforts she had made to
remain or be allowed to return. She begged for imprisonment as
earnestly as one usually does for liberty.
All this caused me great grief. I felt more keenly than ever how much
my parents needed me, and I again sent in applications to be allowed to
go to them; they were fruitless. Fortunately they had with them my
sister-in-law, the wife of Louis, Vicomte de Noailles, whom they valued
as she deserved; but as she was obliged to take care of Madame d'Ayen,
her mother, and Madame la Maréchale de Noailles, her grandmother, who
were lodging with her, she could not do very much for my parents.
Consequently they were left entirely alone, my father then eighty and
my mother sixty.[5] Their forlorn situation was constantly before my
mind. One day as I was intensely occupied with thoughts of them, I
heard a great noise in the courtyard; I looked out, and saw a convoy
enter containing a hundred and fourteen persons from Neuilly-sur-Seine.
They had been compelled to pass by the camp of Robespierre's disciples,
who had shouted terrible threats at them. As they had received no
orders to kill the prisoners, they contented themselves with
overwhelming them with threats and insults. The convoy was composed of
a great many nobles who had established themselves in the village of
Neuilly on account of the _lettres de passe_. (A decree had compelled
all nobles who were not imprisoned in Paris to go away several leagues
from the city.) A most strange thing to happen at such a time was, that
some persons who were not of noble blood, but who wished to be
considered so, obeyed this decree, which had no reference to them at
all. The servants of the nobles had been arrested with them; and with
them were also people of all conditions, among them six nuns of the
Visitation,--one of whom was Madame de Croï, sister of Madame de
Tourzel. All of these unfortunate creatures were left a whole day in
the 'mouse-trap.' I learned that Madame de Choiseul, the mother, Madame
Hippolyte de Choiseul, and Madame de Sérent were also of the party. The
whole company were searched in the strictest manner. At last, at seven
o'clock in the evening, they were put into lodgings. The nuns, to their
dismay, were put on the sixth floor, with twenty-five persons; and to
make them more wretched, they were put with the lowest creatures. All
belonging to this convoy suffered extremely from hunger. We gave them
what we could. I remember that I made for Mesdames de Choiseul a panado
which they thought delicious. Bread and wine were usually all that was
allowed to be offered to the new-comers. This is a minute detail, and
is intended to show the destitution which existed in our prison. I have
seen poor women, brought from the suburbs of Paris, sleeping on the
tables in the refectory. The greatest attention we could bestow upon
people was to give up our mattresses to them while they were waiting
for theirs.
All those composing the convoy from Neuilly, though scarcely settled in
lodgings, came very near being sent in a body to the Conciergerie to
perish the next day. About midnight I heard the sound of carriages,--a
not uncommon thing, as I slept lightly. A melancholy curiosity,
inspired by fear, induced me to rise and see what was going on.
I saw by the light of a number of torches a great many gendarmes and
bailiffs, and at the same moment a frightful noise was heard in our
corridor. Loud voices cried, 'Let all who belong to the convoy from
Neuilly prepare to depart.' I trembled all over, and went out to go and
see my neighbours, who, little accustomed to the rules of the house,
were quite undisturbed, since they had been told that this was only a
removal. I do not remember whether I told them of the fate which
immediately threatened them, so they might prepare for it, or whether I
left them in ignorance of their death-summons. For some time they
remained in suspense; then the jailers came to say that there was a
mistake. We afterward learned that it was by mistake that they had come
that night to the Plessis. The executioners did not let their wagons
remain empty, but went to another prison to fill them. It was necessary
to have a certain number of victims every day, except from our prison,
where the number varied. I have known as many as sixty-four to be sent
from us in one day.
One thing seems almost incredible unless one witnessed it: it is that
constantly one could hear the prisoners playing on different
instruments, and singing in chorus the Republican airs; and again, that
one could see women caring for their dress, and even coquettish, while,
besides the guillotine, they were threatened with death by fire and
water. We heard that we were to be shot as the Lyonnais were, against a
wall which was newly erected in our courtyard and was destined, it was
said, for that purpose. In addition to these rumours, the fire in the
library of the abbey of St. Germain,--which we saw very plainly,--as
well as the explosion of the magazine at Grenelle, gave us a great deal
of anxiety. As far as I myself was concerned, I am sure these two
events disturbed me but little; but I was terribly anxious on account
of those dear to me. The walk in the open air, which was necessary for
our existence, became almost intolerable. One day when I was out, I saw
several persons dismount who came from Angoumois. It was about six
o'clock in the evening; the name of one of them, an old lady named De
Boursac, reminded me of two of the king's equerries who bore the same
name, and I gave her some information concerning them which seemed to
afford her great pleasure. She told me they were her children, and that
she had two others with her. My first conversation was a last farewell,
for she was executed with them the next day. The pretext of
conspiracies began to be fashionable in order to cause the death of a
great many persons of different classes at the same time. I comforted
myself sometimes with the hope that my parents' advanced age and their
virtues would save them, and that I only would perish; for I saw
clearly from all the refusals I had received that I should be obliged
to renounce entirely the happiness of joining them. This was for me the
greatest possible sorrow, but each day brought others. I could never
have endured my situation with fortitude had I not resigned myself
entirely to the will of God. The charity which we were so frequently
called upon to exercise helped to distract our minds. One day, for
instance, I met a poor woman who arrived overcome with fatigue from her
long, miserable journey, having slept by the way only in infected
prisons. The jailer, in order to force her to go to her apartment,
which was very high up, spoke to her in most abusive language, and even
kicked her, to rouse her from the prostration which overcame her as she
mounted the stairs. I begged this cruel citizen not to treat her as a
beast of burden, but to put her in my charge. I had great trouble to
gain this favour from him, but succeeded with the help of one of my
companions in getting her away from the barbarian. I think she was
Madame de Richelieu.
Madame de Rochechouart, her mother, was a singular example of the well
established fact that prison life cured several very great invalids.
When she was arrested at Courteille she was spitting blood so
constantly that it was thought she would never reach Paris. On reaching
Plessis her health became much better, though she lived in a room where
the plaster was still fresh, without fire, and exposed to every wind. I
believe it was the strict diet forced upon us by the poor food which
produced this happy effect. One ate only what was just necessary to
sustain life. The mind was so agitated that the body felt the effects
of the strain. I remember that one night I was so hungry that I got up
to get some chocolate, wondering that a physical need could distract me
from the sad thoughts which beset me when awake. One day I spoke to
Madame de la Fayette on this subject, saying to her that I could not
conceive how, occupied as we were constantly with thoughts of death,
and having it continually before us, we could provide for the next day
what was needful to preserve our lives. While we were in the refectory
we were informed that a poor woman had thrown herself out of the only
window without a grating in the whole house, and that she was dying in
the courtyard; it was surely despair which had urged her to this act of
folly. I ran to the spot where they had carried her, and found her
crushed, and showing no signs of consciousness. The keeper was beside
himself, fearing lest this accident should compromise him, and never
thought of doing anything for the unfortunate creature. I implored him,
as our surgeon had made his rounds and lived at a great distance, to
send for one of the physicians who were imprisoned in the building used
as a court. He granted my request very unwillingly; and the officers
from the hospital could scarcely be induced to come to see the injured
woman, as they said it was the duty of the surgeon of the house to
attend to her. They found she had no money, and made no attempt to do
anything for her. I was extremely irritated at this. My companions in
misfortune shared my desire to be of some assistance. I enter into
these details only to show that deeds of kindness were the only
distraction from our own sufferings.
I always waited with impatience, mingled with fear, the notes that came
to me from the Luxembourg. I received one on the morning of June 26. My
father wrote me (I transcribe the note): 'Your mother is suffering from
severe indigestion, brought on by eating salad, which is all she has
for supper; at first I treated her myself, and afterward our neighbours
rendered her all sorts of services. We have a good physician here among
the prisoners; he has given her two grains of an emetic which have done
her much good. She will be able to take liquids to-morrow, and is
improving rapidly. You shall hear from her to-morrow. Our tenderest
love and kisses, my dear daughter.'
On reading this my heart ached; I thought of my mother as suffering
from something like apoplexy, of my father as heart-broken, while I was
utterly powerless to help them. I spent the whole day and night in
great agitation, and it seemed so long before the sun rose! I went down
and sent message after message to the clerk. Finally, when the time
when we usually received letters had passed without my getting one, as
a great many of our prisoners had husbands at the Luxembourg I went to
inquire if they had had their letters; some said no, others manifested
a sort of embarrassment which seemed like compassion. I was struck by
it, and a suspicion of the calamity with which I was threatened
immediately flashed across my mind. I talked of it the whole evening to
Madame de la Fayette and other persons. Their terrified expression
confirmed my suspicions. I said to them, with extreme emotion: 'You are
hiding from me to-day what I shall learn to-morrow. I know what you
wish to keep from me. My cousin, you must tell me the dreadful news.'
Accordingly she came into my room early in the morning, and I no longer
doubted what my misfortune was. I read the whole story in her face. She
did not tell me of the death of both at once; she waited awhile before
telling me of the other. I can never express the grief I felt,--the
horror of thinking of such virtue, perfect charity, and honour upon the
scaffold! My parents' goodness to me, their tenderness, the immense
force of their examples, the lessons they taught me,--all came to my
mind. My sobs choked me. It was the day before the fast of Saint Peter.
I observed it strictly, swallowing only my tears; it is impossible to
describe what one feels under such circumstances. I could learn no
details, except that they had been beheaded as conspirators. I did not
go down-stairs for several days, and it was some time before I went to
walk in the courtyard. My neighbours showed me every attention. From
that time the thought of death was always before me,--everything
recalled it to my mind; and this perhaps soothed the violence of my
grief. One of the first visits I made was to a lady who had on the same
day lost her husband and her only son, a youth of sixteen. I was told
that I might perhaps comfort her; and I tried to do so as well as I
could. I continually repeated the prayers for the dying for others and
for myself; I repeated them so frequently that I knew them by heart. I
felt sorry to end my life without spiritual aid. This was all the
sadder since there were two hundred priests in our house; but they were
absolutely forbidden to hold any communication with us. Some persons
were in despair on this account. I told them that when it was
impossible to confess, one should make a sacrifice of one's life and
arouse oneself to perfect contrition, and one would obtain pardon. I
was not greatly disturbed, because I felt entirely resigned to the will
of God.
Three peasant women from Berry, who slept just back of my bed, received
their indictments just as they were going to bed. One of them had spit
upon a patriot's cloak; another had stepped upon the arm of a statue of
Liberty, which had tumbled down; I do not know the crime of the third.
They were in a terrible state all night. Their sobbing prevented my
sleeping at all. I got up and endeavoured to encourage them, and exhort
them to submit to the decree of Providence. After a while they grew
more calm, appeared before the tribunal, and were acquitted. This was
for the purpose of making it appear that the decisions were rendered
with some sort of equity.
These pretended conspiracies multiplied in a frightful manner. After
that of the Luxembourg, one was invented at St. Lazare, and another at
Bicêtre. The victims collected at the last mentioned prison, as a
_dépôt_, were brought to ours, and kept there twenty-four hours. The
convoy was escorted by forty gendarmes, armed with guns. There were a
good many priests. These unfortunate beings were chained together by
twos and threes, like wild beasts; most of them held their breviaries
in their hands. All of them were put in the dungeon to sleep, and they
were taken away in a body the next day to the Conciergerie. It is even
doubted whether they were ever condemned before being beheaded. I
cannot explain the barbarous curiosity which incited us to go to the
windows to see these itinerant hearses come and go. I remarked one day
to some of my companions that under the old régime, we should have gone
a long way to avoid meeting a criminal who was going to be hanged, and
now we gazed upon every innocent victim. I think we grew somewhat
hardened from constant contact with those who were so. The famous
Osselin, author of all the decrees against the _émigrés_, was in the
party from Bicêtre; he had concealed a dagger under his coat with which
he wounded himself several times during the night he passed at the
Plessis. These wounds were dressed as well as was possible, and he was
carried to the tribunal on a litter. He was guillotined the next day.
The sight of this man's suffering, criminal though he was, inspired me
with horror beyond description. He was literally cut to pieces.
On the 22d of July it was rumoured in the prison that some of the
ladies of the house of Noailles had been condemned. I did not speak of
it to Madame de la Fayette, but tried in vain to learn the truth of the
report. A little while after, however, I read in a newspaper that
Madame la Maréchale de Noailles and Madame la Duchesse d'Ayen had been
guillotined. Nothing was said about my dear little sister-in-law.[6]
The difficulty of procuring news from outside was extremely great. The
servants of the Reign of Terror even trembled for themselves. When I
questioned them, they answered vaguely. I no longer doubted the truth
of this new calamity; but I wanted to be sure of it before announcing
it to Madame de la Fayette, whose fears I sought in vain to arouse, and
who was always hoping for the best. At last I paid a jailer to gain for
me the confirmation of what I feared.
It was a sorrow to me the whole time I was hiding it from my cousin,
and my spirit was crushed. I loved the Vicomtesse de Noailles as a
daughter and friend. She possessed every possible virtue and charm, and
was the member of my family whom I most loved and confided in.
To find myself bereaved of five members of my family within so short a
space of time seemed almost incredible. And how could I tell Madame de
la Fayette that she no longer had mother or grandmother or sister! At
last she became conscious of the embarrassed manner of those whom she
questioned. She asked me the reason; and I answered her by a flood of
tears. It was a sad service which I rendered in return for what she had
done for me, under the same circumstances. She comprehended the death
of her parent and grandparent, but she could not be persuaded of the
death of the angel sister whom she adored. I shared all her sorrow, and
our hearts bled for each other. Her situation was terrible, and
awakened anew my still fresh grief. We frequently talked together of
our revered parents; and we were only roused from our stunned condition
by misfortunes more recent than our own, which urged us to comfort
those who were suffering from them. The indispensable duty of preparing
food is a real, though wretched, distraction when the heart is aching.
We were now threatened with a domiciliary visitation; the keeper, who
was quite kind to me, advised me to put my devotional books where they
would not be seen. I concealed them carefully, as well as my
_assignats_, a few of which still remained, between the beams of our
cells. This visitation did not take place. One night (I do not exactly
remember the date) I heard a great noise of horses' feet; the great
gate opened and shut every moment, and horsemen came in and out. At
daybreak I found the courtyard filled with gendarmes. They went away
without doing anything, and I have never learned why they came.
I had some business to transact with Haly, and we talked afterward of
what was going on; and he informed me that soon all persons of my rank
were to be beheaded. I realized that I had but little time to live, and
profited by the conversation. I set a strict watch over myself, and
prayed God to sustain my courage,--a prayer which was fully granted me.
I did not think it necessary to overwhelm my companions with the weight
of my griefs and fears. Some of them deluded themselves as certain sick
persons do during epidemics, though already attacked by the disease,
saying, 'He who just died had a hemorrhage; I have not. The other
complained of a pain in his back; I have not felt anything of the
sort.' Just so with the prisoners; they said to each other, 'Those who
were beheaded were in correspondence with the _émigrés_, they were
aristocrats, money was found on their persons,' etc. They tried to
persuade themselves that they were not in the category of those who
were every day being condemned. I looked at the situation in a
different light; it appeared to me impossible, if the Reign of Terror
continued, that any one of our class should escape. I felt sure I
should suffer the same fate as my parents; I sought to imitate their
resignation, and to honour their memory by dying in a manner worthy of
them. I thought that terrible armchair[7] had been honoured by the many
virtuous persons who had occupied it. Every evening when I went to bed
I repeated my _In manus_. I arranged for the distribution of all my
small supply of furniture among my companions. I constantly strove to
forgive injuries. My parents, who had been very admirable in this
respect, were my models. How beautiful, how Christian, how truly worthy
of emulation it is to feel no resentment against those who, after
having overwhelmed us with insult, conduct us to the tomb in a manner
so atrocious! It is only by following the teaching of the Gospel in
every respect that one can be enabled to practise a charity so perfect.
One more sacrifice remained for me to make,--the saddest of all: it
was, never to see my son again. I can never express what I felt then,
or what an effort it cost me to be resigned to it. I believed that God
would pardon me; and I was in as peaceful a state of mind as could be
expected under such cruel circumstances. I resolved that when I should
be called before the tribunal I would make no answer to the questions
of the iniquitous judges, but after hearing my sentence read, I would
say, 'You are condemning an innocent person; as a Christian I forgive
you, but the God of vengeance will judge you.'
I grieved to think that I was not to die for the faith. Ah! how
delightful, when one finds one's last hour approaching, to be able to
be sure of possessing a crown of glory and dwelling in that country of
which Saint Augustine says that 'Truth is the King, Charity the Law,
and the Duration, Eternity.' The idea that I was to die only because of
the ineradicable stain of aristocracy displeased me inexpressibly.
On the 8th Thermidor, July 27th, 1794, we perceived toward evening an
extreme degree of the usual terrible watchfulness. The prisoners were
not allowed to go into the courtyard; the gratings were closed. One
would have been anxious under any circumstances; but when one is daily
expecting one's fate, one has no other fear. I had still, however, a
great dread of being killed by piecemeal, as was done on the 2d of
September, with pikes, bayonets, and such infernal weapons. I slept as
usual; and the next day, the 9th Thermidor, the sound of cannon was
heard. The keeper and jailer were in a state of great excitement; their
eyes looked haggard and their faces downcast. We knew nothing of what
was passing, but we presumed it must be something frightful. That
evening their countenances seemed more human, and there was a rumour of
the death of Robespierre.
The next day, the 10th, the inhabitants of houses adjoining the Plessis
made from their windows signs of satisfaction. Our keepers appeared
more serene. We heard cries of joy and clapping of hands in the
courtyard; a man named Lafond, who had been in close confinement for
five months, and of whose very existence we had been ignorant, had been
set at liberty. This was the dawn of less terrible days for us. We
believed for the first time that we might possibly be released from our
tomb. On the 11th, Madame Rovère's waiting-woman was set at liberty.
The moment a prisoner approached the grating, cries of 'Liberty'
resounded through the prison; and this word sounded very sweet to our
ears. I could not imagine what was going on outside. We learned that
the famous Terrorists continued to take the lead in the Convention,
that the terrible Collot d'Herbois, who had had us imprisoned, was one
of the number, which made me think that people of our class in society
would still be imprisoned. The thought of death never left me nor my
companions. Madame de Pons was very anxious to leave the Plessis; she
obtained permission to go to a private hospital. (The private hospitals
were the prisons where prisoners were best lodged and fed.) It was
proposed that I should send in the same petition; but I refused to do
so for two reasons: first, because I did not wish to act contrary to
the will of Providence, which had placed me in the Plessis; and second,
because it was very expensive living in the private hospitals.
The men were now allowed to walk in the courtyard with the women; I was
disgusted at this. One can easily imagine the unpleasantness of such a
mingling of hussars, spies, women and girls of the street. I advised
the good nuns not to appear. It was a horrid sight for any decent
person, still more for a holy Carmelite. I lent my chamber to these
good women that they might say their prayers in peace. One of them told
me she could not endure the language of the vulgar creatures who were
lodged with her; I told her her only resource was to stop her ears,
since she could not alter their conversation. Another went quite out of
her mind because she was not set free. One of her companions came for
me to quiet her. I went to her and undertook to treat her as though she
were ill, persuaded her to take something to drink, and comforted her
with the hope of liberty, and after a while she became calm. It was
terrible to see her.
As the number of persons who were set at liberty increased every day,
we began to hope for escape from our bars, which up to this time we had
expected to see open only for us to pass to the scaffold. The women of
the lower classes were favoured first; and six months elapsed before
any one dared say a word for one of the nobility. I felt real
gratification when I saw Monsieur Legendre, the registrar of Mouchy, go
out. Every time I had seen him, I had said to myself, 'He is one of the
victims of our family; 'and I had felt quite heart-sick on account of
it.
Our seclusion was so strict that when I met two men (the men were never
allowed to enter the building appropriated to the women) on my corridor
it astonished me greatly. They seemed curious, and asked questions. I
inquired about these new people, and was told that they were attached
to the Committee of General Security, and had considerable influence
there. One of them asked me if I belonged to the nobility; I replied
that I did. One of my companions reproved me for this, considering it
an imprudence. I told her that I never kept back the truth, and besides
it would be perfectly useless to do so. These men returned for several
days following; they showed a desire to gain the confidence of the
prisoners in order to interfere in their affairs. Those who were set at
liberty were now frequently of a higher class. Among them were priests,
soldiers, and land owners. We had very miserable recruits in their
places,--some Terrorists, and a legion of spies. The judges of the
Revolutionary tribunal came again to the clerk of our prison to inquire
for accused prisoners, who were given permission to go and confer with
their defending counsel. As for us, being only suspected, we had no
right to do so; but we pretended to have, so as to hear something from
those who were dear to us. The first person who came to see me was
Madame de la Motte; and the first who succeeded in sending me a letter
at this still most dangerous period was the Vicomtesse de Durfort. She
offered me her aid and money. I shall never forget this great kindness.
Madame de Grimaldi, her mother's sister, who was with us the day she
set out for the tribunal, saw Mademoiselle de Pons as she was getting
into Fouquier's wagon; she pressed her hand as she bade her good-by,
and said, 'I am content; my troubles will soon be over.'
Monsieur Noël inquired for me at the clerk's office; and I was very
glad to be able to show my gratitude to him for the proofs of affection
he had shown my parents. He proposed to make application for me to be
set at liberty. I refused to allow him to do so, urging as my objection
that I had read in one of the newspapers a denunciation against
Lecointre, of Versailles, issued by the Convention on account of his
having secured the release of Madame d'Adhémar from La Bourbe (the
convent of Port-Royal, on the Rue de la Bourbe, had been converted into
a prison under the appropriate name of Port-Libre), which made me fear
to compromise those who took an interest in me and our class generally;
and I determined to wait patiently a while longer. Next, the entire
convoy from Neuilly was set at liberty amid the cheers of the
prisoners. The nobles were not excluded from this measure,--a fact
which made me really believe, for the first time, that I should not
remain forever in the Plessis; and I wrote to Monsieur Noël that he
might bear me in mind. He had sent me tidings of all the members of my
family except my son, of whom I could learn nothing; the children of my
unfortunate sister-in-law came to see me.[8] Others were present; and I
could not utter a single word, so great was my emotion. I embraced them
and then retired to my chamber, completely overwhelmed by the
heart-rending memories awakened by their presence.
There was now great excitement among the prisoners. When one has no
hope, there is nothing to do but to be resigned; but we had laid aside
the thought of approaching death and had conceived the idea of being
released from captivity.
One day as I was sitting in my old room with the fireplace, which had
been vacated, and the possession of which once more was a real pleasure
to me, I saw a man come in from outside who was named Fortin; he told
me he was a lawyer frequently employed by Monsieur Legendre, a deputy
from Paris, and member of the Committee of General Security, and that
he could be of service to me. He asked me a great many questions, and
inspired me with confidence; he came to see me for several successive
days, and asked me for my papers. I showed him proofs that I had never
emigrated; that I had not gone outside of the Departments of Paris and
the Oise, from which I had certificates of civism and residence; that I
was imprisoned only as a noble, and that there was not the slightest
accusation against me. I afterward entered into correspondence with him.
Letters circulated more freely; and we could send them out by the
prisoners, who were leaving every day. I commissioned the governess of
Madame de Chauvelin's children to carry tidings of me to my
mother-in-law. We had learned that deputies had been sent into all the
prisons to release the prisoners, and that Bourdon, of the Oise, and
Legendre had charge of ours.
On the 16th of October, 1794, the great gate opened, and we saw the
carriage of these deputies enter,--which seemed a strange and pleasant
sight, since hitherto whenever a vehicle entered the courtyard it
departed loaded with victims. The deputies ascended to the clerk's
office, where the prisoners of the lower class were called up. Eighty
of them were at once set at liberty. The nobles were still ignorant
whether or not they would soon be numbered among the elect. The
deputies adjourned their second sitting to October 18. I felt that this
would probably be the day on which we would be subjected to our
examinations, and I dreaded it on account of my love of the truth. I
feared that I might be unfaithful to it, or that if I spoke the truth
plainly I might remain several years more in captivity. As I was
turning these thoughts over in my mind, which was very much troubled
(it was the famous 18th of October), I received orders to present
myself at the clerk's office. As we entered the room where the deputies
were, they said to us in a severe tone: 'Let the _ci-devants_ leave the
room; it is not proper to examine the good _sans-culottes_ in their
presence.' We retired and waited almost three hours, most of the time
standing. I conversed all this time with Madame de la Fayette. At last
my turn came. Bourdon asked me my names; I told them to him. He jumped
up out of his chair and exclaimed, 'These are terrible names! We cannot
set this woman at liberty; her case must be carried before the
Committee of General Security.'
I silently implored the aid of Heaven to enable me to watch over myself
at this moment and not to violate the truth.
Bourdon asked me several insignificant questions with regard to my
abode, the time of my imprisonment, etc. Legendre, whom Fortin and
Monsieur Noël had interested in my behalf, assumed a kindly manner, and
pointed out to his colleague that 'my papers were good, that I had been
spoken well of to him, that he knew that I had been a member of the
charitable board of St. Sulpice.' I felt a real satisfaction in being
under obligations to the poor. Fortin asked me what I had done to aid
the Revolution. I replied, 'All my life I have done any kind act that I
could; and I gave money to poor volunteers on my father's estate when
they set out for the army.' A prisoner who was present at my
examination had the kindness to bestow a panegyric upon me which the
keeper approved and added to, praising my submission to the rules of
the house.
I leaned quietly upon a table on which were all the judges' papers. I
learned afterward that my manner was considered haughty. No sentence
was pronounced upon me, and at last I told them that the unparalleled
miseries I had endured gave me a right to justice from them. Legendre
seemed somewhat moved, but I went out of his presence a moment after
feeling that my cause was lost. He treated Madame de la Fayette in a
most insulting manner. He told her 'that he had great fault to find
with her, that he detested her husband, herself, and her name.' She
replied with equal courage and nobleness 'that she would always defend
her husband and that a name was not a crime.'
Bourdon asked her several questions, to which she replied with
firmness. Legendre finally ended this pleasant dialogue by telling her
that she was an insolent creature. They decided to liberate the greater
part of our companions. I retired fully persuaded that I should be
again entered in the jail-book. But one of my neighbours assured me
that I was on the list of those who were to be set at liberty. I
received on this occasion strong proofs of the interest my companions
took in my doubtful fate; I returned to my own room sure that I was to
resume my fetters; I was resigned to this, as was also Madame de la
Fayette. It is not nearly so hard to feel so when one has experienced
many misfortunes, and when one has no hope of being restored to those
one loves.
I have noticed that it is better, when one is about to give up life,
not to be surrounded by those who make it so dear. What one suffers for
others and on one's own account is, taken together, too much to be
endured.
On the 19th of October, 1794, at ten o'clock in the morning, while I
was busy with my morning duties, I heard my door open suddenly. A
little while before I should have been sure that it was the
announcement of my death, and I did not even now think this sudden
interruption brought me good news; but some one, whose name I do not
remember, said to me delightedly, 'You are free!' My heart, so unused
to pleasurable emotions, was slow to entertain the idea. The keeper
entered, confirmed the news, and brought me my _acte de liberté_. I
then thought sadly of how little use it would be to me. Deprived of
every comfort, separated from my son and my parents, from Madame de
Chimay,--the only friend that Heaven had left to me,--without a home,
and in want of the very necessaries of life, I felt irritated by the
congratulations of the jailers and the gendarmes who had formerly
threatened me with the guillotine, and was very much afraid that they
would, according to their usual custom, manifest their feelings by
embracing me; but I fortunately escaped. In this confused condition of
thought and feeling, the memory of my dear son and the thought of what
I could be to him aroused my courage, which had succumbed at this
terrible crisis. It was necessary to pack up my small wardrobe, which
took only a short time. All my effects were put in two bundles. I bade
farewell to Madame de la Fayette, who, with several other persons, was
destined to remain in prison. I felt very grateful for the pleasure
which, despite her unfortunate situation, she showed at seeing me
released from bondage. I engaged a commissioner at the grating, who
helped me with my baggage. We arrived safely at the house of my
mother-in-law, who then lived on the Rue de Bellechasse. She received
me most kindly and tenderly. I found her with my niece; they did not
expect me, and neither did Monsieur Noël, who had on account of his
interest and attachment for me laboured to have me liberated. He came
to see me, and assured me that Madame Drulh (a former governess of
Madame de Mailly) was very anxious to have me stay at her house. I
accepted the kind offer for a few days, though I feared to compromise
her, since there was still great ill-feeling entertained against our
class. I went to see my nurse, Royale, who was much moved at sight of
me; she had saved all she could for me. I asked her for some mourning
dresses, as I had not worn any since the death of my parents. Madame
Latour came to see me. Our interview was interrupted by bitter weeping.
It is impossible to imagine what I felt at seeing the person who had
last seen my parents, and who had shown them such true affection; it
carried me back to the first hours of my bereavement. She thought me
frightfully changed; I looked ten years older, and like one risen from
the dead. A few of the servants of our house also came to see me. The
number of those who were faithful was very small, the Revolution having
made a portion of them 'patriots,' and some of them even Terrorists.
It was a great pleasure to me to see my old friends once more,--among
others, Madame de Tourzel, who had gone through more terrible scenes
than any of them; she had made the fearful journey from Varennes, had
been sentenced by the 'bloody tribunal' of the 2d of September, and had
been six times imprisoned. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I
embraced her. She showed under all the trying circumstances in which
she was placed a courage beyond all praise. It was really pitiful,
after the solemn scenes in which we had been actors and witnesses, to
see the value we attached to the small necessities of life after having
been so long deprived of them. It was an intense pleasure to me to be
able to use a knife, a clean plate, scissors, to look in a mirror,
etc.; but the greatest delight of all was to be no longer subjected to
the low and wicked. I feel some gratitude, however, to Haly, the
keeper, and Tavernier, the clerk, for having preserved and restored to
me the clock I mentioned before, which I valued very much.
The deliverance from all my past ills was very pleasant to me, but a
pall seemed over everything; I felt a distaste for everything, as one
does for medicines. Accustomed as I had been to be surrounded by
sympathizing love, the thought of my isolation overwhelmed me. It
seemed that though the period of my misfortune was becoming more
remote, liberty increased the intensity of my feelings; and my thoughts
grew sadder every day. The thought of death necessarily most
effectually blunts the edge of grief, since it brings us near to the
moment when we find what we have lost, and we cease to regret. My mind
returned to its former grief with renewed constancy, and I could no
longer open my heart to my friends. I was not sure that my son was
alive until I had been a long time out of prison. I had planned to
retire to a village, with one servant, and there mourn for my loved
ones. The consolation of rendering to the precious remains of my
parents the duties observed in all ages, and by all religions, was
refused me. Their ashes are mingled with those of criminals in the
cemetery of Picpus, the ground of which has been bought by Madame la
Princesse de Hohenzollern, sister of the Prince of Salm-Kirbourg. But
at the last great day when all hearts shall be opened, God will know
how to recognize his elect, and show them, resplendent in glory, to the
assembled nations.
I was one of the first, after the re-establishment of the church, to
have prayers said for my parents. A Mass was said for them at the
Foreign Missions. We have need of their protection. I trust that their
heavenly blessing may rest upon their children and grandchildren to the
latest generation.
The forlorn situation of my mother-in-law, who, though she had not been
in prison, had been under arrest in her own house with a dozen jailers,
who never left her until their pay failed, determined me to devote
myself to taking care of her; but I could not do this as the law
exiling nobles was not abrogated. We were allowed only two _décadis_[9]
to make our preparations, and immediately after were to retire some
leagues from Paris. It was necessary for me to seek some shelter;
Madame de la Rochefoucauld-Doudeauville, a relative of mine, proposed
to me to come to her house in the country, and assured me that I was
welcome to anything she had. Her kind feeling for me caused her to
offer what she really had not; for the little house which she occupied
in the village of Wisson, near Longjumeau, was scarcely large enough
for her own family. I went to see it, and concluded to rent some
lodgings near her and Mesdames de la Suze and de la Roche-Aymon. I did
not, however, have the opportunity to occupy them, as I obtained a
prolongation of my sojourn in Paris, and during that time the law was
repealed.
After remaining six months at the house of good Madame Drulh, I found a
vacant room in the house where my mother-in-law was staying, which I
took immediately. It was extremely cold, and the winters of 1794 and
1795 were very trying. I had no one to wait upon me. I would come in to
go to bed, and find the fire had gone out, and this frequently after
having walked a long distance. I missed much of the sunlight in the
streets as I had to prepare both my breakfast and my supper. In order
to attend Mass I had to go out before day and resort to the secret
places of worship, where pious mechanics gladly received me. There was
nothing more edifying during the whole Reign of Terror than the courage
they showed in procuring for the faithful the opportunities of engaging
in the exercise of their religion. I dressed myself as a servant, and
consequently could not wear any of the warm _crépes_ which luxury
supplies for us; this masquerade was necessary in order not to make
known the places where the holy mysteries were celebrated.
On Christmas day, 1794, when the Réaumur thermometer fell to eighteen
degrees, I sat in the Rue Montorgueil, near Montmartre, through the
whole of the office, the sermon, vespers, and the benediction. I found
myself on the Pont Neuf at six o'clock in the evening, and the north
wind cut my face like a knife. I had formed the habit, after leaving
prison, of going out into the streets alone; I continued to do so, and
found it very convenient. I never took cold once during that severe
winter. I met my old acquaintances from time to time, and always felt
deeply moved. We invariably talked about the treatment in the different
prisons, and the sufferings we had endured. Almost all the prominent
persons had been imprisoned, or at least under arrest in their own
houses, which was substituted only as a great favour in the case of the
infirm or aged. We found a certain variety in the horrors; but on
comparison the Conciergerie and the Plessis proved to have been the
most terrible of all the prisons, on account of the treatment and the
great number of victims who were constantly taken from them to the
scaffold.
Madame Doudeauville very kindly persuaded me to spend a few days with
her at her country-house. Her loveliness, the attractions of her home,
the sincere sorrow she had felt at the death of my parents, and her
goodness to me, cheered me somewhat, though I was so overcome with
grief. I had almost forgotten how to write an ordinary letter, and had
long been entirely out of the habit of doing so. The carelessness of
the style of this memoir and its dullness are proof of what I have
stated.
At last I received news from my son, and this restored me to life.
The latter part of the winter was terribly hard, on account of both the
scarcity of food and the cold. It was almost impossible to procure
wood, candles, or bread. We sent thirty and forty leagues, for them. I
carried something in my pocket when I went out to dine, even at the
house of Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans, who lodged in the Rue de
Charonne, near the barrier at the Faubourg St. Antoine. She boasted of
having a farmer who sent her a loaf of bread weighing four pounds,
every week. She had wretched fare; her dishes were what are commonly
called _culs-noirs_. A dwarf served her as butler and valet. She
endured her poverty nobly, and joked about it. I remember hearing a
lady say to the queen, the wife of Louis XVI., while she was at the
Tuileries, that she knew one woman more unfortunate than she, and that
was the Duchess of Orleans. She had inherited a hundred and twenty
millions from Monsieur le Duc de Penthièvre, of which the nation took
possession, and did not even give her enough out of it to support life.
The Revolution has taught us how to understand poverty, by causing us
to experience it ourselves. Two farmers on the estate of Mouchy, whose
names I record with gratitude,--Duraincy and Isoré,--sent me some
flour. I am sure a casket full of gold could never have given me so
much pleasure. People conversed in the evening only of what they had
eaten during the day. Servants stood in line from three o'clock in the
morning trying to procure provisions. Women and young girls often
waited twenty-four hours. Sometimes a whole day was spent in obtaining
a loaf of bread or two ounces of something made of hempseed, green
pears, and all sorts of horrid stuff. Whenever I had any of this
unwholesome food I divided it with those about me. It was the
_maximum_[10] that reduced Paris to this state of distress.
Soon I found myself in a fresh dilemma, being sent away from my
lodgings, which had been rented to some one else. Madame de Tourzel
offered me a residence in the name of Madame de Charost, and I accepted
it; it was very high up. I dined with my mother-in-law, and
consequently, in the evening, was exceedingly weary from the number of
steps I had climbed; for I was very much broken down from all I had
endured. The charming society of that house amply repaid me for all the
fatigue I suffered. My mother-in-law was obliged to leave the house
where she was staying, and Madame de Beuvron lent her hers. We had very
fine lodgings, but our food was miserable. My mother-in-law and I lived
for three francs a day (in _assignats_) at an eating-house,--the
uncertainty of the future compelling me to economize the small means
still left me. Both the quantity and quality of the food was
insufficient; nothing could be more disgusting than the meats which
were served us. I had long been accustomed to such fare; but I grieved
on my mother-in-law's account, though she never complained of it. She
endured the horrors of her situation with admirable resignation and
patience. Heaven doubtless sustained her to the end of her sad life. A
most fortunate thing for me now happened: Madame de Beuvron went to
occupy her own house, and several apartments became vacant in that of
Madame de la Rochefoucauld; we took possession of them on the 1st of
October, 1795. This arrangement was very much more agreeable for me; I
have continued to live there ever since, and I desire nothing better.
Being near my son and daughter-in-law adds another attraction to it;
and as my life now passes in the most commonplace fashion I end this
tiresome story, asking the reader to excuse its faults.
PARIS, February 11, 1804.
(Signed)