AMONG ALL THE PRISONS of the Revolution, the Conciergerie, the ‘anteroom of death’, was governed by the strictest rules. A massive stone building which dated from the Middle Ages, its walls were impenetrably thick, its massive doors were studded with iron, its windows were heavily barred, every passage was interrupted by a locked grating and its guardians were almost as numerous as the prisoners. Over its gloomy portal might well have been written the Dantesque motto: “Lasciate ogni speranzi, voi ch’entrate”—Abandon hope entirely, you who enter. For a hundred years before the Revolution, the most rigid precautions had been taken to prevent any communication between prisoners in the Conciergerie and the outer world, and since the beginning of the Reign of Terror these precautions had been intensified. No letter could be smuggled in or out; no visitors were allowed; the warders were not, as at the Temple, recruited from among amateurs, but were professional experts, familiar with the wiles of prisoners. Besides, among the latter there was a considerable proportion of persons known in French argot as ‘moutons’—spurious captives, stool-pigeons, professional spies, who won the confidence of their fellow-inmates in order to make the authorities acquainted with any plots that were being hatched. Where such a system had been in force for years or decades, it would seem, at first sight, futile for any individual to attempt to cope with it.
Yet there is consolation for those who are under the harrow of the collective use of force. An immalleable and resolute individual can invariably, in the long run, show himself stronger than any system. A live human being whose will remains unbroken can ‘drive a coach-and-six through’ written or printed regulations, and this was seen in the case of Marie Antoinette. Within a few days after she had been transferred to the Conciergerie, she had been able—thanks in part to the magic of her name and position and in part to the personal dignity of her behaviour—to transform her guardians into friends, helpers, faithful servants. As far as prison rules were concerned, all that the head-warder’s wife had to do for the ex-Queen was to clean out her room and provide her with rough meals. This good woman, however, cooked the most dainty food she could procure; she offered to dress Marie Antoinette’s hair; every day she procured from another quarter of the town a bottle of drinking water which Marie Antoinette found preferable to that supplied in the prison. And this woman had an assistant maid who seized every opportunity of visiting the prisoner’s cell to ask whether there was any little service she could do. As for the gendarmes, bearded men with clanking swords, loaded muskets, whose business it was to prevent such indulgences—what did they do? We have official records to show that day after day they brought the Queen flowers purchased with their own money, to adorn her comfortless quarters. It was among the common people, better acquainted with misfortune than the bourgeoisie, that there was so keen a sympathy for the sovereign lady who had been so much detested in her happier days. When the market-women near the Conciergerie learnt from Madame Richard that a chicken or some vegetables were to be bought for the Queen, they were careful to pick out the best of their stock, and at the trial Fouquier-Tinville informed the court with anger and astonishment that Marie Antoinette had had a much easier time of it in the Conciergerie than in the Temple. In the very place where a violent death seemed imminent, humane feelings blossomed as an unconscious defence.
The reader will doubtless be astonished, in view of the Queen’s earlier attempts at flight, that so important a state prisoner should have been considerately treated and one might almost say carelessly guarded in the Conciergerie. But light is thrown on the mystery when we recall that the chief inspector of prisons was Michonis, the lemonade-seller, who had been deeply involved in the plot for an escape from the Temple. The jack-o’-lantern of Baron de Batz’s millions shone glitteringly even in the dark cells of the Conciergerie, and Michonis continued to play his bold double role. Every day, as in duty bound, he solemnly entered the Queen’s room, rattled the bars on the windows to make sure they had not been tampered with, tested the door-fastenings, meticulously carrying out the orders of the Commune, which congratulated itself on having so trusty a republican as supervisor, as watch-dog. But as soon as the gendarmes had quitted the apartment, our worthy friend entered into conversation with the prisoner, giving her news of her children in the Temple. Moved by avarice, or perhaps by kindly feeling, he would occasionally, when making an inspection of the prison, smuggle in some inquisitive visitor; perhaps an Englishman or an Englishwoman, for it may have been he who introduced the splenetic Mrs Atkins. It was he who brought the priest who is supposed to have heard Marie Antoinette’s last confession, one of those priests who had refused to take the oath of loyalty to the Republic. He brought the painter who limned the portrait to be seen in the Carnavalet Museum. Finally, and most unfortunately, he introduced the bold fool owing to whose excess of zeal these liberties and favours were suddenly annulled.
This notorious ‘affaire de l’oeillet’—affair of the carnation—which, many years afterwards, Alexandre Dumas made the theme of one of his novels, is an obscure business. It will never be wholly elucidated, for the official reports are inadequate, and the account of it given by the principal performer has a smack of gasconade. If we are to believe the Commune and the story told by Michonis, chief inspector of prisons, the episode was of trifling importance. Michonis’s tale ran to the effect that at supper, one evening, he was talking to some friends about the Queen, whom, as a matter of official routine, he had daily to visit in prison. Then a stranger, whose name he never learnt, thrust into the conversation, showed a lively interest and wanted to know whether it would not be possible, some time, to accompany the inspector on his rounds. Michonis, being in an after-dinner mood, complied without further enquiry, having made the unknown pledge himself not to say a word to the Queen.
Now, are we to suppose that Michonis, the Baron de Batz’s confidant, was really so simple-minded as he gave himself out to be? Did he not trouble to enquire as to the identity of the person whom he was to smuggle into the Queen’s cell? Had he done so, he would have learnt that the man was an old friend of Marie Antoinette, the Chevalier de Rougeville, one of the noblemen who, on 20th June 1792, had defended the Queen at the risk of their own lives. To all seeming, Michonis, who had smoothed the way for the Baron de Batz (being well paid for his trouble), did not pry too closely into the stranger’s intentions. In fact, there can be little doubt that the plot was more widespread and more mature than can be proved by the vestiges of it which have come down to our own day.
At any rate, on 28th August, the bolts on the door of the Queen’s cell were shot back with a jar. Marie Antoinette and the gendarme on duty rose to their feet. The Queen was always startled anew when the prison doors opened, for any unexpected visit of the authorities might be the prelude to evil tidings—and had, for a long time now, generally been such a prelude. However, it was only Michonis, in secret a friend, accompanied this time by a strange gentleman to whom the prisoner paid no attention. Drawing a breath of relief, Marie Antoinette began to chat with the inspector, and asked him how her children were, this being always her first and most pressing enquiry. Michonis answered kindly, and the Queen grew almost cheerful. These few minutes in which the grey silence could be broken while she talked about her little boy and her daughter signified something that almost approached happiness.
Then, all in a moment, she turned deadly pale, her pallor soon giving place to a flush of excitement. She trembled, and found it hard to maintain her composure. She had recognised Rougeville, whom she had seen a hundred times at court, and whom she knew ready to run any risk. What could it signify, the unexpected appearance of this trustworthy ally in her cell? Had he some plan for her escape? Had he brought a message? She did not dare speak to him, nor even (so much afraid was she of arousing the suspicion of the gendarme and the waiting woman) look at him significantly, and yet she could not fail to see that he was making incomprehensible signs to her. It was bewildering as well as thrilling to have in her room a messenger whose message she could not understand. Growing more and more uneasy, she dreaded lest she should betray herself. One may presume that Michonis became aware of her confusion. Anyhow, saying that he had other cells to inspect, he went out, accompanied by the stranger, but added that he would return before quitting the prison.
Left alone, Marie Antoinette sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. She resolved that when Michonis and Rougeville came back she would be more controlled and at the same time more observant. Nor had she long to wait. Again the keys jingled, again the bolts were drawn, again the two men entered. By now Marie Antoinette was in full possession of her faculties. Composedly she watched Rougeville while she was conversing with Michonis, and perceived from a sign made by the former that he had thrown something into the corner behind the stove. It was hard that she still had to wait a little while before reading the message, but as soon as the visitors had departed, she made an excuse for sending the gendarme after them “to ask something she had forgotten”. She availed herself of this moment when she was free from observation to pick up what had been thrown into the corner. What? Nothing but a carnation? Ah, but there was a tiny note crushed among the petals. Opening it, she read: “Patroness, I shall never forget you, and shall continually try to find some means of showing my zeal for your service. If you need three or four hundred louis for your guardians, I will bring them to you next Friday.”
It is not difficult to imagine the unhappy woman’s feelings at this miraculous revival of hope. A royalist nobleman, defying the precautions of the Commune, had made his way into this dread and impenetrable prison, this anteroom of death. Surely rescue must be at hand? Fersen, she thought, must have spun the threads, but there must be other and more powerful helpers at work, determined to save her life when all possibility of anything of the kind had seemed over. The will to live flamed up again, courage was renewed, in this white-haired woman who had resigned herself to the inevitable.
She had courage and confidence. Her misfortune was that she had too much of both. She was quick to understand that the three or four hundred louis were intended as a bribe for the gendarme on duty in her room. All she had to do was to attend to this matter, for her friends outside would make what other arrangements were necessary. With a surge of hopefulness, she set to work. Having torn the dangerous note into tiny fragments, she proceeded to ‘write’ an answer. She had no pen and ink, no pencil, only a scrap of paper. But necessity is the mother of invention, and, having a needle, she pricked her reply with its point, and the document is still preserved as a relic, though subsequent needle-pricks have made it unreadable. Promising a liberal reward, she gave it to Gilbert the gendarme with instructions to hand it to the stranger should he again visit the Conciergerie.
What happened thereafter is obscure. Gilbert seems to have hesitated. Three or four hundred louis were a great temptation to the poor devil, shining in his imagination like so many stars, but the axe of the guillotine had a more sinister sheen. He sympathized with the unhappy woman who had been Queen of France, but he did not want to lose his job. What was he to do? To carry out her commission would be treason to the Republic; to play the informer would be a breach of the trust the prisoner had placed in him. The worthy fellow, therefore, took a middle course, asking the advice of Madame Richard, the governor’s wife. She shared his perplexity. All three possible courses—silence, betrayal of the plot and becoming involved in so dangerous a conspiracy—seemed equally undesirable. Yet it is likely that she was open to the lure of corruption; it seems probable that whispers of Batz’s millions had reached her ears.
At length Madame Richard took the same course as the gendarme. She did not inform the authorities, but at the same time she did not preserve an inviolable silence. Instead of shouldering the responsibility, she tried to pass it on, telling Michonis, her official chief, what was afoot. Michonis took fright. At this stage the affair becomes even more involved. We do not know whether Michonis had previously been aware that Rougeville was a plotter who wished to help the Queen to escape, or whether he only realised this when he heard Madame Richard’s story. Was he a confederate from the outset, or had the Chevalier led him by the nose? Anyhow, the matter seemed to him too perilous now that two intermediaries were apprised in addition to the principals. Assuming the airs of the strict official, he took the paper from Madame Richard, put it in his pocket and told her to say not a word more about it to anyone. He hoped, one may suppose, that in this way he would save Marie Antoinette from the consequences of her heedlessness, and that he would hear no more of the attempted escape. As in the plot to get the Queen away from the Temple (the plot in which Batz had been the ringleader), his policy was to ‘lie low’ when danger loomed in the offing.
Nothing further might have been heard of Rougeville’s scheme had it not been for the misgivings of the gendarme. He was uneasy in his mind. A handful of gold pieces might, perhaps, have induced him to hold his tongue, but the Queen had no money, and by degrees the risk to his own neck became his chief concern. After he had been steadfast for five days (this is the perplexing feature of the case), saying not a word to his comrades or to the authorities, on 3rd September he made a report to his superiors. Two hours later the officials of the Commune raided the Conciergerie and held a strict enquiry.
To begin with, the Queen denied everything. She said she had not recognised any visitor to the prison, and when she was asked whether she had written a letter a few days before, she answered that she had no writing materials. Michonis, too, played the ignoramus, hoping that Madame Richard, who had likewise been bribed, would hold her tongue. The latter, however, avowed having handed him the missive, so he had no choice but to produce it—having prudently made the text illegible by additional needle-pricks. At a second enquiry, held next day, Marie Antoinette ceased to feign ignorance. It was true, she said, that she was acquainted with the person who had visited her cell in Michonis’s company, that he had conveyed to her a letter hidden in a carnation, and that she had replied to it. Determined, however, to sacrifice herself and to protect the man who had wanted to sacrifice himself on her behalf, she did not mention the name of Rougeville, declaring that though she knew him as an officer of the guards she had forgotten what he was called. She also magnanimously sheltered Michonis, thus saving his life. Nevertheless, within four-and-twenty hours the Commune and the Committee of Public Safety had ferreted out the name of Rougeville, with the result that the police were busily—and fruitlessly—searching Paris for the conspirator who had wanted to save the Queen and who, in actual fact, condemned her to destruction.
For there can be no doubt that this clumsy plot was disastrous to Marie Antoinette, quickening the onset of doom. Hitherto, even at the Conciergerie, she had been treated with a certain measure of consideration, but now severity was the order of the day. Such personal possessions as had been left to her were taken away; the last of her rings, the gold watch which her mother had given her before she left Austria, and even a locket in which she kept little tresses of her children’s hair. Of course the needles with one of which she had pricked out the letter to Rougeville were impounded, and she was forbidden the use of candles when night fell. Michonis was cashiered as too easygoing an inspector, and Madame Richard was replaced by a new supervisor, Madame Bault. At the same time, in a decree under date of 11th September, the town council decided that the stubborn criminal must be confined in a safer cell, and since the officials of the Commune could not find one to their taste, the apothecary was turned out of his room and this was provided with double iron doors. Half of the grated window, which gave upon the court where the female prisoners exercised, was bricked up. Additional sentries were posted, and the gendarmes whose duty it now was to keep perpetual watch in an adjoining room were told that they would have to answer for the captive’s escape with their lives.
Marie Antoinette had reached the last extremity of loneliness. The new wardens and gendarmes, though kindly disposed, no longer dared take the risk of saying a word to the poor woman. The watch which had ticked off the interminable hours was not there to solace her; she could do no needlework; nothing had been left her but the little dog. Forsaken, in the valley of the shadow, Marie Antoinette at length began to seek the consolation which her mother had so often commended to her. For the first time in her life she asked to be supplied with books, reading one after another with her tired eyes, and her jailers, though in this matter considerate to their prisoner, could not bring her a sufficiency. She did not want novels or plays, no light literature, no sentimentality, no love stories, which might have reminded her too keenly of past joys, but only true tales of adventure, Captain Cook’s voyages, stories of shipwreck and bold journeyings, ‘moving accidents by flood and field’, books that would snatch her thoughts away from the desolate present. These heroes of real romance were the only companions of her solitude. No one came to visit her. Day after day she heard nothing but the bells of the neighbouring Sainte-Chapelle and the grating of the key in the lock. For the rest, there was silence, perpetual silence in the little room, which was almost as narrow and damp and dark as a coffin. The lack of movement and of fresh air weakened her, and she was worn out by severe haemorrhages. When, at length, she appeared in court, it was an elderly woman with white hair who emerged from the long night of imprisonment into the unfamiliar glare of daylight.