Kitabı oku: «Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 1», sayfa 36
“Ah, madame,” he cried, “you have deceived me. I am lost!”
One of the strangest things in connection with this escape was that M. de Lavalette, having been driven off by the friendly Baudus, found shelter with Bresson, who concealed him at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs until the 10th of January, 1816. That day three Englishmen – Mr. Bruce, Captain Hutchinson, and General Sir Robert Wilson – took Lavalette away in the uniform of an English colonel, and conducted him as far as Mons, whence he made for Bavaria, there to find hospitality in the house of his brother-in-law, Eugène de Beauharnais.
On hearing of M. de Lavalette’s escape, Louis XVIII. could not help exclaiming: “Well, of all of us, Mme. de Lavalette is the only one who has done her duty.” After being arrested in the Conciergerie, where she was found wearing the clothes of her husband, the young and heroic woman was in a day or two set free. But the three Englishmen who had conducted Lavalette to Belgium were sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, and the janitor to two years’. Soon afterwards the reason of Mme. de Lavalette, who in all her troubles had shown the greatest presence of mind, gave way; and when in 1822 her husband received his pardon and came back to France, she could no longer recognise him. She continued in her sad condition until 1855, when she died.
The interesting “Memoirs” published by Lavalette were chiefly based on documents collected and notes made by his unhappy wife.
The office of postmaster-general does not as a rule expose its holder to any of the dangers incurred by M. de Lavalette. It demands from him nothing more than a certain talent for organisation and administration. The postal services of all the countries in Europe are now for the most part conducted on the same plan, and offer to the public the same advantages. The English penny postage system, whose principle consisted less in the lowness than in the uniformity of the new charge for letter-carrying, has been adopted throughout the civilised world; and since the days of Sir Rowland Hill many innovations and improvements have been introduced in France and in Germany which afterwards found imitation in England. It is undeniable, however, that the most important reformations in connection with postal communications were first made in this country. It was not until nearly a year after the introduction of post-cards in England that, on the proposition of Count Bismarck, only a few weeks before the war of 1870, they were adopted in Germany, which may claim to be the first country that used post-cards, or, indeed, a regular postal service of any kind, in an enemy’s country while hostilities were actually going on. The post-card was adopted by the French Chamber in 1872 on the recommendation of M. Wolowski, who had previously published an interesting pamphlet on the subject. After speaking of the great variety of purposes for which the post-card is employed in England, the celebrated economist went on to consider whether the use of post-cards could have an injurious effect on epistolary style. He decided that by imposing brevity it lent itself to conciseness, and that, forced to express himself in narrow limits, the writer on a post-card was bound to be terse, if not epigrammatic. The style, however, of correspondents making use of post-cards is probably not more lapidary than that of ordinary letter-writers. According to M. Wolowski, the circulation of post-cards in England amounted, in 1871, only a year or two after their first introduction, to 75 millions – nearly a million and a half per week. At the post-offices of France, as of England, money may be deposited at interest, lives insured, and annuities purchased; but in France, as in England, the Government hesitates to adopt the German device, by which tradesmen can send goods through the post with an obligation imposed on the postman to collect at the destination of the goods the money due upon them.
The Place des Victoires, which we have previously passed, is close to the General Post Office; close also to two other edifices of commercial and financial importance, the Bourse and the Bank of France. Formerly the Place des Victoires was remarkable for its historic houses, many of which no longer exist. Here stood the mansion where, in 1653, Marshal de l’Hôpital married Françoise Marie Mignot, a simple grisette, or shop girl, who, after the Marshal’s death, became the wife of Sobieski, King of Poland and Abbé of Saint-Germain des Prés. Up to the time of the Revolution the Place des Victoires was inhabited only by important noblemen or rich financiers. It is now given up entirely to commerce, wholesale and retail; silks, shawls, drapery, and haberdashery of all kinds being largely traded in.
The mansion of Marshal de l’Hôpital became the first abode, in 1803, of the Bank of France, where, in virtue of an Imperial decree, it was permanently established five years afterwards. Founded in 1800 by a society of capitalists, who had collected 30 millions of francs, the Bank of France obtained in 1803 the privilege of issuing notes. The notes of the Bank of France now in circulation are of the value of more than three milliards (i. e., 3,000 millions) of francs; to meet which an equal amount of gold and silver are kept in the cellars.
The name of the Secretary of State, de la Vrillière, for whom the mansion, afterwards occupied by Marshal de l’Hôpital, was originally built, is still preserved in the title of the remarkable and picturesque Rue de la Vrillière. Little more need be said about that portion of Paris which separates the quarter of the markets from the Seine; though here and there many a house might be pointed out which suggests interesting associations. Thus, in the Rue Saint-Honoré, at the corner of the Rue Sauval, is a butcher’s shop surmounted by an inscription to the effect that in this house Molière was born “in 1620.” To be quite accurate, he was born in 1622, not in the house which bears the announcement of his birth, but in one on the same site, which long ago fell into ruin.
Close by is the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, where at one time lived the famous Mme. de Saint-Huberty, for whom in opera, as for Mdlle. Sallé in ballet, Mdlle. Clairon in tragedy, and Mme. Favart in comedy and comic opera, is claimed the honour of having played parts for the first time in the costumes historically appropriate to them. The costumes worn at that time on the French stage (nor were they much better on our own) were simply ludicrous. But the public was accustomed to them, and the managers found it more economical to keep to costumes already in the wardrobe than to order new ones for every fresh piece. Actresses representing queens were entitled to two trains and two pages, who followed them everywhere. “Nothing is more amusing,” writes a critic of the time, “nothing more comic, than the perpetual movement of these little rascals, who have to run after the actress when she is tearing about the stage in moments of distress. Their activity keeps them in a constant state of perspiration. Their embarrassment, their blunders, excite general laughter. Thus, a farce is always going on, which diverts the spectator in an agreeable manner if the situation is too touching or too sad.” When she appeared as Dido, Mme. de Saint-Huberty would have no little boy running after her – ready to pursue her even to the funeral pyre. She at the same time threw off the conventional train and all the trappings which had habitually accompanied it, to appear only in the tunic designed for her by an artist of the period who had studied archæology. The operatic directors strongly objected to the introduction of archæologists and other costly pretenders into their domain. “If,” one director is accused of saying, “this fury for truthfulness of costume only enabled us to save a little money! But, on the contrary, models must be brought in, men of learning consulted, artists paid; and all this costs money, much more money than the dresses to which we are accustomed. Besides, when the piece is laid aside, all the costumes appropriate to it must be laid aside too.” M. de la Ferté, the Intendant of the Opera, says in one of his letters on this subject: – “I have just ordered Saint-Huberty’s dress. This is terrible. The consulting committee of the Opera held one day a special general meeting to consider whether Mme. de Saint-Huberty could really be allowed to have the costume she desired for the part of Armida.” “Madame de Saint-Huberty,” said the report on the subject addressed to the Minister, “has sent us the design of a dress she requires for the character of Armida. The committee, considering that this character in which Mme. de Saint-Huberty has not yet been seen, might give to the work the charm of novelty, and procure for the Opera advantageous receipts during a series of representations, has thought it right to agree to Mme. de Saint-Huberty’s expressed wish; the more so as she has no objection to share the part with Mdlle. Levasseur, it being arranged that in case of illness the costume made for this opera shall be worn by the substitutes, as well as by Mme. de Saint-Huberty herself.”
In the margin of the report the following observation of the Minister appears: – “Good for this time only, and without the establishment of a precedent. All the members of the company must, without distinction, wear the dresses furnished to them by the administration of the Opera, so long as they are considered in a fit state to be worn.”
“You must be convinced,” wrote M. de la Ferté to Mme. de Saint-Huberty on another occasion, “of our desire to satisfy you in all reasonable things and to be generally agreeable to you. But, at the same time, you ought to understand that you are obliged to conform to established rules like all the other members of the company, and like those who played the first parts before you; for if, instead of accepting the appointed costume, each one wished to dress according to individual taste, the result would be hopeless confusion, together with an expenditure both useless and ruinous for the King and for the Opera.”
The end of this celebrated representative of tragic personages was tragic indeed. After marrying Count d’Antraigues, engaged in secret diplomacy on behalf of the exiled royal family, she went with her husband to England, where they lived together for many years, the Count being during this time in constant relations with the Foreign Office, until in July, 1812, they both fell victims to a murderous attack on the part of one of their servants.
A faithful account of the horrible affair appeared in the Times of July 23rd, 1812, from which the following may be extracted: —
“The Count and Countess d’Antraigues, members of the French noblesse, and distantly related to the unfortunate family of the Bourbons, resided,” says the English newspaper, “on Barnes Terrace, on the banks of the Thames. They lived in a style which, though far from what they had formerly moved in, yet was rather bordering on high life than the contrary. They kept a carriage, footman, coachman, and a servant out of livery. The latter was an Italian or Piedmontese, named Lawrence; and it is of this wretch that we have to relate the following particulars. The Count and Countess, intending to visit London yesterday, ordered the carriage to be at the door by eight in the morning, which it accordingly was; and soon after that hour they were in the act of leaving the house to get into it, the Countess being at the door, the Count coming downstairs, when the report of a pistol was heard in the passage, which, it has since appeared, took no effect; nor was it then ascertained by whom it was fired. Lawrence was at this time in the passage, and, on the smoke subsiding, was seen to rush past the Count and proceed with great speed upstairs. He almost instantly returned with a dirk in his hand, and plunged it up to the hilt into the Count’s left shoulder; he continued his course and made for the street door, where stood the Countess, whom he instantly despatched by plunging the same dirk into her left breast. This last act had scarcely been completed when the Count appeared also at the door, bleeding, and following the assassin, who made for the house and ran upstairs. The Count, though extremely weak and faint, continued to follow him; but so great was the terror occasioned that no one else had the same resolution. The assassin and the Count had not been upstairs more than a minute when the report of another pistol was heard, which satisfied those below that Lawrence had finally put an end to the existence of his master. The alarm was now given, and the cry of ‘Murder, murder!’ resounded from every mouth. The Countess was still lying at the front door, by which the turnpike road runs, and at length men of sufficient resolution were found to venture upstairs, and, horrible to relate, they found the Count lying across his own bed, groaning heavily, and nearly dead, and the bloodthirsty villain lying by his side a corpse. He had put a period to his own existence by placing a pistol that he found in the room in his mouth, and discharging its contents through his head. The Count only survived about twenty-five minutes after the fatal blow, and died without being able to utter a single word.
“The Countess had by this time been brought into the house; the wound was directly on her left breast, extremely large, and she died without uttering a single word. The servants of the house were all collected last night, but no cause for so horrid an act was at that time known – all was but conjecture.
“The following circumstances in so extraordinary a case may be, however, worth while relating. The Count, it appears, always kept a brace of pistols loaded in his bedroom and a small dirk. About a month ago the Countess and the servants heard the report of a pistol upstairs, and were in consequence greatly alarmed. When one of the latter, a female, went upstairs and looked into her mistress’s room, it was full of smoke, and she screamed out. On its clearing away she saw Lawrence standing, who told her nothing was the matter – he had only fired one of his master’s pistols. It afterwards appeared that he had fired into the wainscot; it was loaded with ball, and the ball from the pistol is yet to be seen.
“The Count and Countess were about sixty years of age. The latter was highly accomplished, a great proficient in music, and greatly admired for her singing in fashionable parties. There is no reason whatever to believe that Lawrence was insane. Only about ten minutes previous to his committing this deed of blood, he went over to an adjoining public-house and took a glass of gin. He had lived only three months in the family, and, report says, was to be discharged in a few days.
“The Count and Countess had resided in Barnes for four or five years, and have left an only son, who, we understand, is at present in this country, studying the law.
“Besides his house on Barnes Terrace, Count d’Antraigues had a town establishment, No. 7, Queen Anne Street, W. He was fifty-six and the Countess fifty-three years of age. The Count had eminently distinguished himself in the troubles which have convulsed Europe for the last twenty-two years. In 1789 he was actively engaged in favour of the Revolution, but during the tyranny of Robespierre he emigrated to Germany, and was employed in the service of Russia. At Venice in 1797 he was arrested by Bernadotte, at the order of Bonaparte, who pretended to have discovered in his portfolio all the particulars of the plot upon which the 18th Fructidor was founded. The Count made his escape from Milan, where he was confined, and was afterwards employed in the diplomatic mission of Russia at the Court of Dresden. In 1806 he was sent to England with credentials from the Emperor of Russia, who had granted him a pension, and placed great dependence upon his services. He received here letters of denization, and was often employed by the Government. The Countess was the once celebrated Mme. de Saint-Huberty, an actress of the Théâtre Français. She had amassed a very large fortune by her professional talents.”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE “NATIONAL RAZOR.”
The Rue de l’Arbre Sec– Dr. Guillotin – Dr. Louis – The Guillotine – The First Political Execution.
THE street in which Mme. de Saint-Huberty lived, besides suggesting her fatal end, is connected with a whole series of tragedies. The Street of the Dry Tree – Rue de l’Arbre Sec – recalls, by its picturesque name, the fact that here at one time stood the tree from which hung, as fruit, the bodies of capital offenders. In ancient days, and until the great epoch of the Revolution, hanging was the ordinary punishment in France for felony, though an exception was made in favour of high-born criminals, whose aristocratic origin entitled them to be decapitated. The modern method, indeed, of execution in France is primarily due to a Republican determination not to recognise inequalities, even in the manner of the death-punishment. It is certain that Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, in introducing the too-celebrated invention which is named after him, was actuated by a spirit of impartiality in the first instance, and by humanity in the second.
With the legend, perhaps, of Phalaris and his bull running in their heads, many Frenchmen persist, even to this day, in believing that the inventor of the guillotine was the first victim to fall beneath its blade. As a matter of fact, he survived for upwards of twenty years the introduction of that machine which earned for him so odious a reputation that in the autobiography he left behind not a word, significantly enough, is said about the guillotine.
We have seen that under the ancient régime one of the privileges of the nobleman was, in case of execution, to have his head chopped off – a method of punishment held to be more honourable than hanging, which, reserved for plebeian offenders, lent to the execution a character of infamy. To die at the end of a rope was not only a blot on the memory of the offender, but involved his whole family in lasting disgrace.
The principle of equality in the eye of the law, which came beneath the consideration of the Assembly in 1789, naturally included the equality of criminal punishment; which ought to vary according to the offence, but not according to the social rank of the offender. On the 10th of October in the year mentioned Dr. Guillotin moved in the Assembly, where he sat as one of the representatives for Paris, that the executioner should be rendered an impartial functionary, putting all his victims to death in the same fashion and by means of some mechanical apparatus. When he had put this motion he went on to propose the idea of a machine, rapid in action, which would diminish the sufferings of capital offenders. His motion was carried unanimously; but the suggestion as to the machine was reserved for future discussion. It was during this debate that Dr. Guillotin, vehemently advocating the instrument of death which hitherto existed only in his own mind, exclaimed, in an unguarded moment: “With my machine I will cut your head off in a twinkling, and without your suffering a twinge.” There was a general roar of laughter. But the hilarity of the Assembly seems tragic enough when we remember how many of those who laughed were destined to perish by that insatiable weapon which as yet had neither name nor form.
As a matter of fact, the worthy doctor, a man already at this time famed for his philanthropy, did not invent, but only suggested, the guillotine. By the expression, “my machine,” he simply meant such a machine as the authorities, if they profited by his vague idea, would cause to be constructed. He had proposed nothing more than the principle of decapitation, whilst indicating in general terms the various instruments anciently employed for the purpose in different countries. Nevertheless, the whole nation was soon laughing at him, his exclamation being made the text of endless pleasantries. People were intensely amused at this notion of cutting off one’s head in a twinkling from philanthropy. The instrument was christened long before it had been invented, and with the name of the unhappy doctor. A clever song was dashed off at the time, telling how a certain M. Guillotin, doctor and politician, woke up one fine morning and discovered that the custom of hanging was unpatriotic; how he immediately hit upon a method of punishment which, without rope or stake, would be so effective as to throw the executioner out of employment; and how the machine which the doctor indicated could bear no fitter name than the guillotine.
It was this song, perhaps, which really fixed the name of the deadly weapon. So far, however, the Assembly, as we have seen, had come to no decision on the subject, having simply decreed the principle of equality in criminal punishments. The question of the mode of execution was entrusted for discussion to a special committee. On the 21st of September, 1791, after lengthy debate, the Assembly adopted the new penal code, of which one clause provided that every criminal sentenced to death should have his head cut off. The method of decapitation now remained to be decided. Hitherto the instrument employed had been the sword or the axe. This ghastly operation had been performed on a block, and clumsiness or emotion on the part of the executioner had sometimes caused the victim indescribably horrible tortures. Instances had occurred in which the criminal’s head had not been severed from his body till the sixth or seventh stroke.
This question greatly preoccupied the Assembly. Ministers openly expressed the horror with which decapitation by the sword inspired them; and the executioner himself published, in reference to the disadvantages of this method, a number of observations tinged with similar abhorrence. At length the Committee of Legislation called upon the celebrated surgeon Louis to draw up a report on the subject, indicating the fittest methods for cutting off a person’s head rapidly and according to the principles of science.
The witty Sophie Arnould, meeting once, as she walked through a wood, some physician of her acquaintance, with a gun under his arm, inquired of him: “Do you not find your prescriptions sufficient?” and it seems droll enough that, whilst the mission of doctors is, theoretically at least, to preserve life, a surgeon should have been selected by the Assembly to prescribe the fastest method of taking it. Yet, after all, the selection was prompted by humanity; for the infliction of death is a sufficiently sad necessity of State without the addition of needless torture. Dr. Louis in any case drew up his report, and presented it to the Assembly on the 20th of March, 1792. He set forth, in the first place, that cutting instruments are in reality nothing but saws of a more or less fine description, having very little effect when they strike perpendicularly, and that it was consequently necessary in executions to apply them in an oblique and gliding fashion. Adopting, therefore, the idea propounded by Guillotin – whom he did not even name in the report – he maintained that decapitation, in order to be surely effected, must be the direct act, not of a man, but of a machine, the adoption of which he now recommended. He mentioned a machine then employed in England which was, in fact, a rude sort of guillotine, and suggested several improvements in connection with it. Nor, indeed, was the notion of such an instrument by any means new. Some very old German prints exist representing executions performed in a similar fashion. The Italians employed in the sixteenth century, for the beheading of noble criminals, a machine called the mannaja, consisting of two upright posts, between which was fixed a sliding knife or cleaver, of great weight, designed to descend with enormous force and velocity on the neck of the prisoner leaning over a block below.
Dr. Louis did not content himself with preparing this report. He hired a German mechanician, named Schmidt, to construct at his directions a machine which, after a succession of improvements, was definitely adopted. The first experiments were made at Bicêtre, on animals – which reminds one inevitably of Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s executioner, who resolved first to practise on inferior beasts, and then to work his way up through the whole of animate creation until he was artist enough to behead a king. Schmidt, by the way, charged the State 824 livres (francs) for constructing those earliest machines, undertaking, moreover, to superintend their installation in the various departments.
Originally the new instrument was sometimes called the Louisette, after the name of its actual creator. But guillotine was already the common title, and it soon became universal, as well as technical and official. Dr. Guillotin seems never to have protested against this appellation, though it is probable that during the troubles which were so close at hand he would fain have divested himself of the infamy which enshrouded him. As to Dr. Louis, he was fortunate enough not to witness a single political execution, for he died on the 20th of May, 1792.
The guillotine took its first human life on the 25th of April, 1792. The subject was a highwayman named Nicolas-Jacques-Pelletier. The Chronique de Paris said next day of this execution: – “The novelty of the execution had considerably enlarged that crowd of people whom a barbarous pity is wont to draw to these sad spectacles. The new machine has been justly preferred to the old methods of execution. It does not stain any man’s hand with the murder of his fellow, and the promptitude with which it strikes the criminal is in the spirit of law, which may often be severe, but ought never to be cruel.”
The first political execution took place on the night of 21st August, 1792, at ten o’clock, to the flare of torches. The victim was Louis David Collenot d’Agremont, put to death for having been seen amongst the enemies of the people on the eventful day of the 10th August. This execution marked the commencement of an era of relentless and bloody feuds; but it was not until the establishment of the revolutionary tribunal, on 7th April, 1793, that the guillotine began to ply its deadly blade in such fearful earnest. From that moment to the 28th July the total number of persons executed was 2,625.
The earliest political executions had for their scene the Place du Carrousel, whilst ordinary criminals continued to be decapitated on the Place de Grève. On the 10th May, 1793, the Convention, sitting then at the Tuileries, just opposite the ugly guillotine, called upon the Executive Council to choose another site. The Commune selected the Place de la Révolution (Concorde), where the guillotine was in operation until the 12th June, 1794. It was then erected in the Place du Trône. Some persons had suggested the Bastille; but in the eyes of the people this was a place which had acquired an almost sacred character. Under the Empire and the Restoration the guillotine stood on the Place de Grève, and under Louis Philippe at the Barrière St. Jacques, whilst to-day it is transferred to the Place de la Roquette.
During the Reign of Terror the French nation was so familiarised with the idea of violent death that executions did not produce the same feeling of horror as at ordinary times. And now the real character of the Frenchman began to assert itself. In the gaols it became a favourite diversion with the prisoners to “play at the guillotine.” People gave burlesque names to the horrible machine, such as “national razor,” etc. It is even said that ear-rings in the shape of miniature guillotines were now largely worn by fashionable ladies. Within their Paris mansions aristocrats were accustomed to kill the time by means of a toy guillotine, which was placed on the table during dessert. Beneath this instrument were passed in succession several puppets, whose heads, representing those of leading Paris magistrates, liberated from the hollow trunk, as they rolled off the block, a red liquid like blood. All present, and especially the ladies, thereupon saturated their handkerchiefs with the fluid, which contained a highly agreeable scent.
Under the Government of the Commune of Paris, the mob seized the guillotine and burnt it in the open street. Of late years the Paris executioner has distinctly improved the instrument. The scaffold, which was once an adjunct to it, has quite disappeared, and the criminal has no longer to climb a rude staircase before placing himself beneath the knife.
