'What are you doing here?'
'I have been here for six months with the Citizen Mouchy and his wife.'
'Very well; but what are you doing here?'
'I do whatever I can for them.'
'Where is your entry in the jail-book?'
'I have none; I came here voluntarily.'
'You were not arrested, then?'
'No.'
'Are you their confidential friend?'
'Yes.'
'What is your name?'
I gave my signature. I asked him why he asked me all these questions. 'You are not going to send me away?'
'Oh, no! Benoît's papers are not properly drawn up, and I am taking a census of all who are in the house.'
Madame de Mouchy was very much agitated during this examination. She was reassured when she learned that it was only a census; but I was not. I endeavoured not to show to her the anxiety I felt and which was only too well founded.
One morning, about a month after this, the same jailer came into Madame la Maréchale's room and said to her: 'I have come to inform you that you must send away your confidential attendant within twenty-four hours; I have just received the order.' She replied, 'Citizen, I cannot do without her; I am very infirm, and so is my husband.' I asked him if I could stay if I became a prisoner. 'I do not know.' I begged him to send us the first prison-director who came to the place. He agreed to do so. I sent for Vernet, that he might speak for me. Madame de Mouchy was so good as to implore him so earnestly to do me this service that I could not help shedding tears; she offered to give him all the jewels and assignats she had left. He would not accept anything; but promised to do all we asked, and did nothing. I gave him a petition I had written to the Committee of Police, in which I requested most earnestly to be enrolled as a prisoner. I represented to them the infirm condition of Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, how impossible it was for them to be left alone, how long I had been with them, and added that I thought it a Republican virtue to assist suffering humanity. At the same time I asked the jailer to allow me to wait for an answer; and I begged Vernet to bring the administrator to us, which he did on the following day.
It was Vitrich, who has since died, with his friend Robespierre. He said to me, 'We have read your petition. You are very good to wait upon these old people; but I have nothing to do with that. The order is from the Committee of General Security, and you must go. You have only to make a similar petition to them, and surely you will receive their permission to return.' I begged him with tears, for I was desperate, for permission to remain till the next day; and he granted it.
I cannot express the horrors of our situation after this cruel sentence. Dear, venerable old couple, how much they suffered! This separation seemed only to presage one more terrible still. We wept all night long. I was almost determined to remain, no matter what happened to me. For three whole days my daughter never left the door in her anxiety to hear from the turnkeys what I had concluded to do. She was terribly frightened about me. A prisoner, whom I did not know, influenced me to a decision; he stopped me and said, 'Citizeness, I have learned that you are hesitating about leaving here; I think I ought to tell you that you are doing wrong. This evening you will be entered in the jail-book, and perhaps sent to-morrow to another prison; the greater attachment you manifest for Madame de Mouchy the more you will be suspected. Believe me, you had better submit. A more favourable moment will surely come, and you can then rejoin her; above all conceal your tears, for you are watched.' I thanked him, and informed Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy of his advice. They then urged me to go. We consulted together as to what I was to do in order to be allowed to return. Hoping to certainly do so, I left all my belongings. Messieurs d'Hénin and de Boisgelin assured me that the separation would not be long, and that as soon as I should see the committee I could ask that Madame de Duras might be sent to join her parents; and they would surely grant my request.
When the fatal moment arrived I felt that it would be utterly impossible for me to say to Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, 'I am going to leave you now;' so I said that I was going to see some of the prisoners to ask for messages from them. They all sympathized with my sorrow. Madame la Vicomtesse de Noailles, the younger, threw her arms around me, and burst into tears. I tore myself from her, and hid behind a door, to try and recover myself. As I passed along the galleries all the prisoners congratulated me; for my part I wished they were all in my place. When I reached the door I thought I should faint; I wanted to go in to see the keeper, but the turnkey who had the key prevented me. 'Take care!' said he to me, 'there is a clerk in his office who is vexed with you; go on.' I cannot express all the different feelings which assailed me on getting into the street; my despair at leaving Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, my reunion with my daughter, the open air which I had not breathed for seven months, – all bewildered me. One thing is certain, I could not tell what streets I passed through on my way to the Hôtel Mouchy. Instead of seeming delighted to see my daughter, I replied to all she said only with tears.
The first thing I did was to beg Monsieur Noël to send my petition to the committee as soon as possible, which he did. He received no reply. It was impossible to gain an interview. I did not know to whom to apply. Madame de Poix, was at the Hôtel Mouchy, under guard. She had been imprisoned only twenty-four hours on account of her weakness. She asked me many questions concerning her distinguished parents, wept much with me, and still hoped that I might be able to return to them. I had an opportunity to see the deputies from my district, who had just saved my brother from the guillotine. I thought they would be willing to render me a service also. I implored them in vain, however, and received from them only mockery of my attachment, and the most positive refusal. At last, repulsed in every direction, nothing was left but to have myself arrested. This was my plan; I thought of it unceasingly. The only thing that prevented me was the almost complete certainty of being sent to some other prison than the Luxembourg. The tidings I received from day to day were more and more distressing. Monsieur de Mouchy wrote me: 'Come back to us; Madame de Mouchy, has been so grieved at your absence that her abscess has dried up, – a thing which never happened before.' Another time he said, 'We cannot get accustomed to your absence, nor to doing without you. The two or three persons who wait upon us, no matter how willing they may be, cannot accomplish in the whole day what our dear Latour used to do in two hours, and without difficulty.'
All this went to my heart. I wrote to them every day, and gave them more hope of my returning to them than I entertained myself. I went frequently to carry them provisions, as well as to learn how they were from the turnkeys, who were on good terms with me. I also went into the garden, where I had the sad consolation of seeing them at the window. The prisoners knew me so well that as soon as they saw me they would hasten to tell my friends. Their sad and downcast faces broke my heart. I dared not make the least sign to them as I was constantly watched. The last day that I went there with my daughter a man followed us persistently, and drove us away. My daughter was sure then that we were going to be arrested. It was the last time that I ever saw Madame de Mouchy. Two days after, Monsieur de Mouchy, sent me word that 'she had had a severe attack of indigestion, accompanied by violent vomiting, all through the night; that they needed me more than ever.' He told me to send him a bottle of mineral water for her to take as a purgative. The day she took it, Monsieur le Maréchal wrote me at four o'clock in the afternoon that the purgative had not agreed with her at all, that Madame la Maréchale could not retain any nourishment, and requested me to send her an injection immediately. I was extremely anxious. It was too late for me to be able to speak to any one, as all the doors were closed at five o'clock. I determined to go to see the turnkey early the next morning, and find out whether I might be allowed to wait upon her; but it was then too late. Everything was useless; the end of all their troubles was approaching.
Just as I was getting into my bed there was a loud knocking at my door. I trembled as I opened it. I was surprised to see Monsieur Noël, who looked frightened, and said, 'A messenger was sent to the Luxembourg this evening to inquire whether Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy were there, and I cannot imagine what it means.' I cried, 'It is well known that they are in that house, and such inquiries are superfluous, – unless,' I added, seeing that his agitation was increasing, 'Madame la Maréchale, being ill, has asked for me again, and some prison-director has been to inquire into her condition.' 'I hope it may be so, I will learn to-morrow morning early what it is all about, and will come and tell you.' We spent the night in the greatest excitement, and I rose very early. I went to Monsieur Noël's house at seven o'clock, but he had already gone out. He came to my house crying, or rather screaming, 'It is true,' said he; 'all is over! They are at the Conciergerie.' Nothing else that I have ever suffered in my life can be compared to what I felt at that moment. However, I did not altogether lose my self-control; enough was left me to see that poor Monsieur Noël was entirely beside himself. He beat his head so violently against the wall that I really feared he would crush it. After the first moments of his despair had passed, he said, 'I will go out again; I will go to the Conciergerie; I must see them!' 'And I will go too,' I cried. 'No, no,' he answered. 'Is Madame de Duras there?' 'I have not been able to learn.'
He returned about nine o'clock in the morning. 'Well,' said I, 'have you heard anything? Is there no hope?' 'No, no,' was all his answer. 'And Madame de Duras?' 'She is not there.' He asked me to go and tell the sad news to Madame de Poix. I should have been glad to be spared this, for I scarcely had the strength to do it; but he went out again, and I was obliged to go also. She was in absolute despair. Monsieur Noël advised me to go away from the house, lest I should be sent for as a witness. I would not do so. I did not know where to go; I preferred, I said, to die with them rather than after them. At last I was persuaded to go to the house of one of my friends.
Before going, however, I charged them to take some dinner to the Conciergerie. It was possible that these precious victims might remain there several days. They sent it back with their thanks, but untouched.
At five o'clock in the evening I left my friend's house, being no longer able to resist the desire to hear what was going on; I met my daughter coming to see me. Her agitated countenance confirmed my fears. I met Monsieur Noël; he said not a word to me as he passed me, nor I to him. We did not even dare to look at each other. I went the next day again to see Madame de Poix, whose whole appearance was utterly changed. She had lost not only her distinguished parents but Madame de Biron, her intimate friend from childhood. She asked me kindly what I was going to do. 'Nothing,' I answered, 'but await my fate here.' I thought that, not having been able to share that of Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, I might be allowed to follow that of Madame de Duras, believing that none of us would escape death. Madame de Noailles wrote me three or four days after our loss a note which I am inconsolable at having burned, but I was compelled to do so. It contained such a touching description of how Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy remembered me in their last moments, and expressions of Madame de Mouchy's sympathy in my sorrow in spite of all her own suffering, that it caused me, for the first time, to give way to tears. Until then I had been like a stone.
Within ten days after the death of my honoured master and mistress, I was called upon to mourn for all those of their acquaintance at the Luxembourg who had shown me much kindness, among them Mesdames d'Hautefort, Madame de Noailles, and others. Twenty days later we sent some linen to Madame de Duras, which was not received; this frightened us on her account, for we feared she was no longer there. And finally I became terrified on my own account. I had the greatest possible horror of death. I feared I never should have sufficient resignation to endure the last twenty-four hours; but I hoped that my courage would not fail me in my last moments if I could be with those from whom I could receive consolation. The preparations for execution made me cold with fright. I felt that the courage which would have enabled me to bear anything in company with Monsieur and Madame de Mouchy, had abandoned me. On the other hand it was strange that I should have such a terror of death, being otherwise perfectly indifferent concerning my fate. My relatives and friends pitied me, not only on account of the loss I had just sustained, but on account of my financial position, knowing that I had no means at all. I answered that this did not concern me in the least. My mind continually reverted to what Monsieur de Mouchy had said to me one day: he thanked me for a small service I had rendered him, and added, 'God will reward you, my dear child, for all the trouble you have taken for me. I am sure you will never want for anything.'
I was obliged, in spite of all my indifference to fate, to ask to have back again the furniture of my room, for which I had to pay four hundred francs, with a guarantee from Monsieur Noël. We left that house after having drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs, having seen it all stripped of furniture and thrown into utter disorder. The commissioners received from our hands everything belonging to Monsieur de Mouchy and Madame la Maréchale, treating the things in the most insulting and indecent manner.
Robespierre was beheaded. Madame de Duras was liberated the 16th of October, 1794. But, oh, how changed she was! It was dreadful to see her. She seemed, as she said herself, like one risen from the dead. In spite of her trials it was evident that her courage had not failed. Her first thought, and also that of Madame de Poix, on being once more in the enjoyment of liberty, was to see that I had means of support, and to find out all ways of rendering me assistance.
EVENTS OF THE 21st OF JULY, 1794
Monsieur Grelet's Account
It was the 21st of July, 1794 (2d Thermidor, year II.); I was on my way to the Luxembourg at half past seven o'clock in the evening, to carry to Madame de Noailles a bundle containing some wearing apparel. When I reached the lower end of the Rue de Tournon, I saw in front of the door of that prison a great mob of men and women, which made me feel very anxious. I deposited my bundle in a shop on that street where a young woman stayed who was the friend of Madame la Duchesse d'Ayen's waiting-woman, and went on toward the prison.
When I came among the crowd I had no difficulty in discovering what was going on, particularly when I saw a great open wagon with benches fastened along the sides. I knew at once that it was there to receive the prisoners who were to be transferred to the Conciergerie to be beheaded the next day; this thought made me shiver. I had a presentiment that the ladies in whom I was interested would be among the victims. I was anxious to see the prisoners taken away, and approached the door as nearly as I possibly could. A turnkey came out, and perceiving me said, 'Go away; they are coming.'
I did not go away. I thought it would be the last time I should ever see those ladies, and this sad thought rooted me to the spot. The turnkey went in again. A little while after the door opened and the prisoners appeared, preceded by two gendarmes. Madame la Vicomtesse de Noailles was the first of the ladies to come out. She passed very near me, took my hand and pressed it affectionately. The gendarme who walked beside her assisted her to get into the wagon. Madame d'Ayen and Madame la Maréchale got in immediately after her. One of the gendarmes had seen Madame de Noailles give me her hand. Then five or six other ladies got in and as many men as it would hold. I moved away and tried to conceal myself in the crowd. Madame de Noailles still saw me, however, for the wagon had not yet started. As it would not hold all the prisoners, about fifteen of them followed on foot, escorted by gendarmes. While all the preparations for this transfer were being made, Madame de Noailles, who again recognized me, clasped her hands, made me a sign to pray and that she was praying. A moment afterward she lifted her head, and pointing with one finger to heaven she gave me her blessing. The crowd wondered to whom her gestures were addressed; and I gazed as others did, trying to act just as though they were not addressed to me. Madame de Noailles apprised her mother that I was near the wagon. Madame d'Ayen bowed and kissed her hand to me several times. I could not take any notice of this; such gestures alone would have been more than sufficient to compromise me.
At last, after half an hour spent in preparation, the wagon started and went down the Rue de Condé. I followed it as far as the Conciergerie. About midway this street, in a part of it which is very narrow, I could almost touch at the same time both the houses at the side and the wagon. Madame de Noailles, who never lost sight of me, gave me her blessing three times, – one for each of her children. I continued to follow the wagon as I would have followed the funeral procession of persons whose death was to plunge so many families into such terrible grief.
As I was crossing the Pont Neuf, the wagon being not far off and just turning round the Quai des Lunettes, a gendarme called out behind me, 'I arrest you; I know you.' I did not give him a chance to arrest me but ran along the Quai des Lunettes. The gendarme followed me; I ran down the Rue de Harlay, which crosses the Island of the Palace. The gendarme was far behind me crying, 'Stop him!' It was eight o'clock, – just the hour when the workmen were leaving their shops. They thought I was a prisoner escaping; several tried to stop me, but I kept them off with my cane. On reaching the Quai des Orfèvres I fell, and was seized by two workmen; the gendarme over-took me, and I made no further effort to escape. A man came up who said he was a justice of the peace, and inquired of the gendarme why he had arrested me. The gendarme replied that I was intriguing with the prisoners. I thought it useless to attempt to defend myself. As the gendarme was taking me to the prefecture of police, I saw some distance off Madame de Noailles and the other prisoners going into the prison of the Conciergerie.
I was put into a dungeon where there was a small window, which admitted only a few rays of light. I took advantage of this to destroy some papers which would have been sufficient to compromise me. Fortunately I preserved my carte de sûreté, which I had only had a few days. I had just torn up and destroyed the papers, part of which I swallowed, when the door opened and showed me a jailer, who ordered me in menacing tones to follow him. After having led me through some dark corridors he shut me in a very small dungeon, secured by an iron door, through which no light could penetrate. This dungeon was circular in form and extremely small. There was a stone bench against the wall. As I entered I had seen by the light of the lamp carried by the jailer something on the floor which sparkled. When the dungeon door was closed on me I was in total darkness. I felt around to find out what had occasioned the flashes of light to which I have referred. I found that they proceeded from some bits of glass which were on the edge of a very small opening made in the wall. I seated myself on the stone bench and began to reflect on my situation, on that of Mesdames de Noailles, whom I had just seen for the last time, and on that of their poor children, who were waiting for me before going to their evening meal. Then I realized all the horrors of my situation. And when I thought of all that was to take place the next day, I fell on my knees and prayed to God with all the fervour of which I was capable. I implored him to accept the sacrifice of my life in expiation of my sins; for I expected to perish the next day. But what would become of those three children? What terrible grief it would be to their mother and grandmother to see me condemned with them! 'My God,' I prayed, 'have mercy on the children, have mercy on their mothers, and have mercy on me!'
I was utterly overcome by these sad reflections when the door opened with a loud noise. I rose suddenly, not knowing what might be going to happen. There was the jailer again, with his lantern, and an officer of the gendarmerie was with him. 'Have you your carte?' said the latter to me. I answered that I had. 'Give it to me.' 'Will you allow me,' said I, as I handed it to him, 'to tell you what took place, and why I am here?' 'Yes, you may tell me.' I related in a few words how I had happened by chance to be in front of the prison of the Luxembourg when the prisoners who were to be taken to the Conciergerie came out; that one of them, as she passed very near me, recognized me and pressed my hand, but that she did not speak a single word to me, nor did I to her; and that this was all that passed. After listening to me attentively he went away, and took my carte with him; but he had me put into more comfortable quarters.
My anxiety increased when I saw that he had carried off my carte, for it contained my address; and I was sure that they would go immediately to the Hôtel Noailles-Mouchy, on the Rue de l'Université, where my pupils Alfred and Alexis were. 'They will search all over the Hôtel,' said I to myself. 'They will find the whole of my correspondence with Madame de Noailles during her imprisonment; and as there are many things in those letters which are covertly expressed, they will be sure to find in them all sorts of intrigues relative to the conspiracy of the Luxembourg, about which the Republicans and Revolutionary judges are already making so much noise.' It is true that I had taken great care to conceal this correspondence. I had confided to Alexis the secret of the place where I had locked it up, and had charged him to put it out of sight if he should see the commissioners or any strangers coming to the Hôtel. We occupied the apartment of their father, the Vicomte de Noailles, the windows of which looked out into the street, in front of the main entrance. Though this thought somewhat reassured me, my anxiety continued, and the more so as the officer did not return, and it was now very late. I no longer doubted that he had been to pay a visit to the Hôtel Mouchy. 'But even if he should find nothing,' said I to myself, 'can any one ever escape who has once fallen into their hands?'
Such was the state of my anxiety when the officer returned and said these few words which I shall never forget. 'Here is your carte. Now go; and another time do not come so near.' I did not wait for him to say anything more. I took my carte, my cane, and the other things which had not been left with me were returned, and I was free!
I experienced a feeling of delight at being liberated contrary to my expectation; but this sweet content was only momentary. I thought of Mesdames de Noailles, whom I had left as it were in the ante-chamber of death. I could think of nothing else; at least they would not suffer the pain of seeing me share their fate on the morrow, and of thinking that their children were left without any one to care for them. 'Religion will come to their aid,' I thought; 'but what a struggle they will have to go through.' I gave thanks to God, and implored him to come to their help in this moment so full of horror to human creatures; and still praying as I went, I reached the Hôtel Mouchy. It was eleven o'clock. The children had not gone to bed; they were waiting for me. They asked me a great many questions, and told me that they had been very much frightened when I did not return. I told them that I had had a great many things to attend to which had caused me most unwillingly to delay; that I had been very much occupied; that I could not tell them then all that had happened to me because it was too late, but that I would tell them all about it the next day. We then said our prayers together and went to bed. 'At least,' said I to myself, 'they shall pass this night in peace; the next will be cruel and bitter enough.'
The next day (the 22d of July), while the children were still asleep, I went very early to the Rue des Sts. Pères, to see Père Brun, to tell him that the Mesdames de Noailles were at the Conciergerie to be tried, and would very probably be condemned to death that very day, and to beg him to keep the promise he had made me, which was to try to meet them as they passed from the prison to the extreme end of the Faubourg St. Antoine, as this was the only consolation they could now have in this world. He promised me he would not fail to be there. Whenever he could, this good priest exercised this act of charity toward the victims. He would accompany them, praying as he went, to the foot of the scaffold, and there give them the last absolution. After the deed was done he would return to his house, still praying, but with an aching heart.
Father Brun was a father of the Oratory. We had lived together at Juilly, where we had charge of the Pensioners called Minimes, because they were the youngest and the smallest. He was for a short time the curate of the parish of Juilly. Madame la Vicomtesse de Noailles, whose children, Alexis and Alfred, were in our hall, had corresponded with him for almost a year. She had great confidence in him, and he deserved it on account of his piety and his tender care of her children.
I returned to the Hôtel Mouchy. It was almost six o'clock. I awakened the children, and told them that we were going to see their sister Euphémie at St. Mandé, which pleased them very much. They never suspected the terrible tidings I had to tell them till we came to the end of our walk.13