In one of the finest passages that ever flowed from his pen, Sterne alludes to the comparatively trifling effect produced on the mind, when it endeavours to form a collective idea of the misery which is felt by a throng of sufferers. “Leaning my head upon my hand,” says he, “I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

“I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, but that the multitude of groups in it did but distract me, I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

“I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood; he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice.”

It is even as Sterne asserts. The contemplation of the woes which are undergone by a large aggregate of persons, seems indeed to act on the mind somewhat in the manner of a heavy misfortune; it bewilders and benumbs the feelings. When we read of a single individual falling beneath the knife of a murderer, we are more violently startled and thrilled, and the impression made is more permanent, than when we read of the thousands who groan out their lives on the field of battle; though, in the latter case, the largest part of the victims, mutilated, torn, trampled on, and slowly dying without succour, and distant from all that is dear to them, endure agonies far beyond those which are inflicted by the stab of an assassin.

Let us, therefore, now follow the example of Sterne. Hitherto the reader has seen only a rapid succession of captives passing before him, like the shadows of a magic lantern; he has had but glimpses of the wretchedness that falls to the lot of a prisoner; for, with respect to nearly the whole of the individuals chronicled in this volume, we know, as to their situation while in durance, little beyond the circumstance of their having been incarcerated; their persecutors ensured their silence by retaining them till they sunk into the grave, or by the terror of becoming once more inmates of a dungeon. While the Bastile was standing, few would venture even to whisper what they had experienced within its walls. Fortunately, however, there does exist one faithful record of the severest woes, protracted by untirable tormentors, through a series of years, extending to half the natural life of man. Let us then avail ourselves of it, fix our attention steadily on a single individual, watch his anguish, bodily and mental, his privations, his struggles, and his despair, and mark how deeply the iron can be made to enter into his soul by vindictive and ruthless tyrants.

Henry Masers de Latude, the person alluded to, spent thirty-five years in the Bastile and other places of confinement. If we did not know that power, when it is held by the base-minded, is exercised by them without mercy, to punish whoever offends them, we might suppose that Latude brought his long agonies upon himself by the commission of some enormous crime. That he committed a fault is undeniable, and it was a fault of that sort which most disgusts high-spirited men, because it bears the stamp of meanness and fraud. It deserved a sharp reprimand, perhaps even a moderate chastisement; but no heart that was not as hard as the nether millstone, could have made it a pretext for the infliction of such lengthened misery as he was doomed to undergo.

Latude, who was in his twenty-fifth year when his misfortunes began, was the son of the Marquis de Latude, a military officer, and was born in Languedoc. He was intended for the engineer service, but the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle prevented him from being enrolled. The notorious Marchioness de Pompadour, who united in herself the double demerit of being the royal harlot and procuress, was then in the zenith of her power, and was as much detested by the people as she was favoured by the sovereign. As Latude was one day sitting in the garden of the Tuileries, he heard two men vehemently inveighing against her; and a thought struck him, that, by turning this circumstance to account, he might obtain her patronage. His plan was a clumsy one, and it was clumsily executed. He began by putting into the post-office a packet of harmless powder, directed to the marchioness; he then waited on her, related the conversation which he had overheard, said that he had seen them put a packet into the post-office, and expressed his fears that it contained some extremely subtle poison. She offered him a purse of gold, but he refused it, and declared that he was only desirous of being rewarded by her protection. Suspicious of his purpose, she wished to see his handwriting; and therefore, under pretence of intending to communicate with him, she asked for his address. He wrote it, and, unfortunately for him, he wrote it in the same hand in which he had directed the pretended poison. He was then graciously dismissed. The sameness of the writing, and the result of the experiments which she ordered to be made on the contents of the packet, convinced her that the whole was a fraud. It is scarcely possible not to smile at the blundering folly of the youthful impostor; had he sent real poison, and disguised his handwriting, he would perhaps have succeeded.

But this proved to be no laughing matter to the luckless Latude. The marchioness looked upon the trick as an unpardonable insult, and she was not slow in revenging it. In the course of a few days, while he was indulging in golden dreams, he was painfully awoke from them by the appearance of the officers of justice. They carried him to the Bastile, and there he was stripped, deprived of his money, jewels, and papers, clothed in wretched rags, and shut up in the Tower du Coin. On the following day, the 2nd of May, 1749, he was interrogated by M. Berryer, the lieutenant of police. Unlike many of his class, Berryer was a man of feeling; he promised to intercede for him with the marchioness, and, in the meanwhile, he endeavoured to make him as comfortable as a man could be who was robbed of his liberty. To make the time pass less heavily, he gave him a comrade, a Jew, a man of abilities, Abuzaglo by name, who was accused of being a secret British agent. The two captives soon became friends; Abuzaglo had hopes of speedy liberation through the influence of the Prince of Conti, and he promised to obtain the exercise of that influence in behalf of his companion. Latude, on his part, in case of his being first released, bound himself to strain every nerve to rescue Abuzaglo.

Ever on the listen to catch the conversation of the prisoners, the jailors appear to have obtained a knowledge of the hopes and reciprocal engagements of the friends. When Latude had been four months at the Bastile, three turnkeys entered, and said that an order was come to set him free. Abuzaglo embraced him, and conjured him to remember his promise. But no sooner had the joyful Latude crossed the threshold of his prison, than he was told that he was only going to be removed to Vincennes. Abuzaglo was liberated shortly after; but believing that Latude was free, and had broken his word to him, he ceased to take an interest in his fate.

It is not wonderful that the health of Latude gave way under the pressure of grief and disappointment. M. Berryer came to console him, removed him to the most comfortable apartment in the castle, and allowed him to walk daily for two hours in the garden. But he did not conceal that the marchioness was inflexible, and in consequence of this, the captive, who felt a prophetic fear that he was destined to perpetual imprisonment, resolved to make an attempt to escape. Nearly nine months elapsed before he could find an opportunity to carry his plan into effect. The moment at length arrived. One of his fellow-prisoners, an ecclesiastic, was frequently visited by an abbé; and this circumstance he made the basis of his project. To succeed, it was necessary for him to elude the vigilance of two turnkeys, who guarded him when he walked, and of four sentinels, who watched the outer doors, and this was no easy matter. Of the turnkeys, one often waited in the garden, while the other went to fetch the prisoner. Latude began by accustoming the second turnkey to see him hurry down stairs, and join the first in the garden. When the day came on which he was determined to take flight, he, as usual, passed rapidly down the stairs without exciting any suspicion, his keeper having no doubt that he should find him in the garden. At the bottom was a door, which he hastily bolted to prevent the second turnkey from giving the alarm to his companion. Successful thus far, he knocked at the gate which led out of the castle. It was opened, and, with an appearance of much eagerness, he asked for the abbé, and was answered that the sentinel had not seen him. “Our priest has been waiting for him in the garden more than two hours,” exclaimed Latude; “I have been running after him in all directions to no purpose; but, egad, he shall pay me for my running!” He was allowed to pass; he repeated the same inquiry to the three other sentinels, received similar answers, and at last found himself beyond his prison walls. Avoiding as much as possible the high road, he traversed the fields and vineyards, and finally reached Paris, where he shut himself up in a retired lodging.

In the first moments of recovered liberty, the feelings of Latude were those of unmixed pleasure. They were, however, soon alloyed by doubt, apprehension, and anxiety. What was he to do? whither was he to fly? To remain concealed was impossible, and, even had it been possible, would have been only another kind of captivity; to fly from the kingdom was nearly, if not quite as difficult; and, besides, he was reluctant to give up the gaieties of the capital and his prospects of advancement. In this dilemma he romantically determined to throw himself upon the generosity of his persecutor. “I drew up,” says he, “a memorial, which I addressed to the king. I spoke in it of Madame de Pompadour with respect, and on my fault towards her with repentance. I entreated she would be satisfied with the punishment I had undergone; or, if fourteen months’ imprisonment had not expiated my offence, I ventured to implore the clemency of her I had offended, and threw myself on the mercy of my sovereign. I concluded my memorial by naming the asylum I had chosen.” To use such language was, indeed, sounding “the very base-string of humility.”

This appeal of the sheep to the wolf was answered in a wolf-like manner. Latude was arrested without delay, and immured in the Bastile. It was a part of the tactics of the prison to inspire hopes, for the purpose of adding the pain of disappointment to the other sufferings of a prisoner. He was accordingly told that he was taken into custody merely to ascertain by what means he had escaped. He gave a candid account of the stratagem to which he had resorted; but, instead of being set free, as he had foolishly expected, he was thrown into a dungeon, and subjected to the harshest treatment.

Again his compassionate friend, the lieutenant of police, came to his relief. He could not release him from his dungeon, but did all that lay in his power to render it less wearisome. He condoled with him; tried, but in vain, to soften his tormentor; and, as a loop-hole in the vault admitted light enough to allow of reading, he ordered him to be supplied with books, pens, ink, and paper. For six months these resources enabled Latude to bear his fate with some degree of fortitude. His patience was then exhausted, and he gave way to rage and despair, in the paroxysms of which he vented his angry feelings in epigrams and satirical verses. One of these compositions, which is certainly not deficient in bitterness, he was imprudent enough to write on the margin of a book which had been lent to him—

Latude had taken the precaution to write this in a feigned hand; but he was not aware, that, whenever a prisoner returned a book, every page of it was carefully examined. The jailers discovered the epigram, and took the volume to John Lebel, the governor, who dutifully hastened to lay it before the mistress of the king. The fury of the marchioness was extreme. Sending for M. Berryer, she exclaimed to him, in a voice half smothered with passion, “See here! learn to know the man for whom you are so much interested, and dare again to solicit my clemency!”

Eighteen dreary months passed away, during which Latude was strictly confined to his dungeon, scarcely hearing the sound of a human voice. At last M. Berryer took upon himself the responsibility of removing him to a better apartment, and even allowing him to have the attendance of a servant. A young man, named Cochar, was found willing to undertake the monotonous and soul-depressing task of being domestic to a prisoner. He was gentle and sympathising, and in so far was qualified for his office; but he had miscalculated his own strength, and the weight of the burden which he was to bear. He drooped, and in a short time he was stretched on the bed of mortal sickness. Fresh air and liberty might have saved him. Those, however, he could not obtain; for it was a rule that the fate of any one who entered into the service of a prisoner became linked with that of his master, and that he must not expect to quit the Bastile till his employer was set at large. It was not till Cochar was expiring, that the jailers would so much as consent to remove him from the chamber of Latude. Within three months from his entrance into the Bastile, he ceased to exist.

Latude was inconsolable for the loss of the poor youth, who had always endeavoured to comfort him, as long as he had spirits to do so. To mitigate his grief, M. Berryer obtained for him the society of a fellow-captive, who could scarcely fail to have a perfect communion of feeling with him. This new associate, D’Alegre by name, was about his own age, full of activity, spirit, and talent, and had committed the irremissible crime of offending the Marchioness de Pompadour. Taking it for granted that she was reclaimable, though on what ground he did so it would be difficult to discover, he had written to her a letter, in which he apprised her of the public hatred, and pointed out the means by which he thought she might remove it, and become an object of affection. For giving this advice, he had already spent three years within the walls of the Bastile. Yet his woes were now only beginning. The unfortunate D’Alegre had ample cause to lament his having forgotten the scriptural injunction, not to cast pearls before swine.

M. Berryer took the same warm interest in D’Alegre as in Latude. He was indefatigable in his exertions to obtain their pardon, and for a while he flattered himself that he should succeed. At last, wearied by his importunity, the marchioness vowed that her vengeance should be eternal, and she commanded him never again to mention their names. He was, therefore, obliged to communicate to them the melancholy tidings, that their chains could be broken only by her disgrace or death.

D’Alegre was almost overwhelmed by the first shock of this intelligence; it inspired Latude, on the contrary, with a sort of insane energy, and his mind immediately began to revolve projects of escape. The very idea of escaping would seem to be indicative of madness; egress through the gates, tenfold guarded as they were, was utterly impossible, and to ascend to the summit of the lofty tower, which must be done through the grated chimney, then to descend from the dizzy height into the ditch, and, lastly, to break through or climb the outward wall, appeared to be equally impracticable. Yet, with no apparent means of accomplishing his purpose, Latude firmly made up his mind to try the latter plan. He had two things in his favour, time and perseverance, and their sovereign efficacy has often been proved.

When Latude mentioned to him his scheme, D’Alegre considered it as little better than the ravings of delirium. Latude, however, continued to meditate deeply upon it, though in silence. The first step towards the execution of it, without the success of which no other could be taken, was to find a hiding-place for the tools and materials which must be employed. From his being unable to hear any of the movements of the prisoner in the chamber below, Latude concluded that there was a space between the floor of his own room and the ceiling of his neighbour’s, and he immediately set himself to ascertain whether this was the fact. As he was returning with D’Alegre from mass, he contrived that his fellow-prisoner should drop his toothpick to the bottom of the stairs, and request the turnkey to pick it up. While the turnkey was descending, Latude looked into the under chamber, and estimated its height at about ten feet and a half. He then counted the number of stairs between the two rooms, measured one of them, and found, to his infinite delight, that there must be a vacancy of five feet and a half between the bottom of the one room and the top of the other.

As soon as they were locked in, Latude embraced D’Alegre, and exclaimed that, with patience and courage, they might be saved, now that they had a spot where they could conceal their ropes and materials. At the mention of ropes, D’Alegre thought that his companion’s wits were wandering, and, when he heard him assert, that he had more than a thousand feet of rope in his trunk, he felt sure that the assertion was prompted by madness. “What!” said Latude, “have I not a vast quantity of linen⁠[9]—thirteen dozen and a half of shirts—many napkins, stockings, nightcaps, and other articles? Will not these supply us? We will unravel them, and we shall have abundance of rope.”

D’Alegre began to have a gleam of hope, but he still started numerous difficulties, among which were the want of wood for ladders, and of tools to make them, and to wrench the iron gratings from the chimney. Latude silenced him by replying, “My friend, it is genius which creates, and we have that which despair supplies. It will direct our hands; and once more I tell you, we shall be saved.”

Their first essay in tool-making was to grind down to an edge, on the tiled floor, two iron hooks, taken from a folding table; with these they meant to remove the chimney gratings. The next was to convert a part of the steel of their tinder-box into a knife, with which they made handles for the hooks. The hooks were immediately applied to raise the tiles, in order to find whether there was really a cavity beneath. After six hours’ toil, the prisoners found that there was an empty space of about four feet, and, having gained this satisfactory knowledge, they carefully replaced the floor of their cell. The threads of two shirts were then drawn out, one by one, tied together, wound into small balls, and, subsequently, formed into two larger balls, each composed of fifty threads, sixty feet in length. These were ultimately twisted into a rope, from which was made a ladder of twenty feet, intended to support the captives, while they extracted the bars by which the chimney was closed.

The removal of the bars was a work of horrible labour. Cramped into the most painful postures, it was impossible for them to work more than an hour at a stretch, and their hands were always covered with blood. The mortar was nearly as hard as iron, they had no means of softening it but by blowing water on it from their mouths, and they thought themselves lucky when they could clear away as much as an eighth of an inch in the course of a night. As fast as the bars were extracted they replaced them, that their operations might not be betrayed. Six months’ unremitting toil was bestowed upon this single object.

Having opened the passage up the chimney, they proceeded to construct their ladders. Their fuel, which was in logs of about eighteen or twenty inches long, supplied the rounds for the rope ladder, by which they were to descend from the tower; and the whole of that by which they were to scale the outward wall. More tools being required to cut the wood, Latude converted an iron candlestick into a saw, by notching it with the remaining half of the steel which belonged to the tinder-box. To this implement he afterwards added others. They then set to work on their wooden ladder, which it was necessary to make of the length of twenty or five-and-twenty feet. It had only one upright, three inches in diameter, through which the rounds passed, each round projecting six inches on either side; the pieces of which it consisted were joined by mortises and tenons, and each joint was fastened by two pegs, to keep them perpendicular. As fast as the pieces were finished, the rounds were tied to them with a string, that no mistake might occur when they were put together in the dark. They were then carefully hidden under the floor.

As in case of the prison spies chancing to overhear them talking about their employment, it was of consequence to prevent their enemies from understanding what was said, they invented a vocabulary of names for all the tools and the portions of the apparatus. For instance, the saw was the monkey, the reel Anubis, the hooks Tubal Cain, the wooden ladder Jacob, the rounds sheep, the ropes doves, a ball of thread the little brother, and the knife the puppy dog; the hole in which they concealed them was christened Polyphemus.

It now remained for them to make their principal rope ladder. This was an arduous and almost endless task, as it was more than a hundred and eighty feet long, and, consequently, double that length of rope was wanted. “We began,” says Latude, “by unravelling all our linen, shirts, towels, nightcaps, stockings, drawers, pocket-handkerchiefs,—every thing which could supply thread or silk. When we had made a ball, we hid it in Polyphemus; and when we had a sufficient quantity, we employed a whole night in twisting it into a rope, and I defy the most skilful rope maker to have done it better.”

There was still a pressing necessity for another enormous quantity of rope. Along the upper part of the outside of the Bastile ran a kind of cornice, which stood out three or four feet beyond the wall. The effect of this would be, to make the ladder hang loosely in the air, and vibrate in such a terrific manner, that there would be great danger of the captive who led the way being precipitated headlong to the ground. To avert this peril, they made a second rope, three hundred and sixty feet long, to be tied round the person first descending, and passed gradually through a sort of block fixed above, in order to steady him. Shorter ropes were also provided, to fasten the ladder to a cannon, and for any other occasion that might occur. On measuring the whole of their manufacture, they found that it extended to more than fourteen hundred feet. Two hundred and eight rounds were required for the ladders, and, lest their knocking against the wall should give the alarm, they covered them with the linings of their morning gowns, waistcoats, and under waistcoats. These last preparations for flight occupied eighteen months.

It had originally been their intention, after having reached the ditch, to climb the parapet, and get into the governor’s garden, and from thence descend into the moat of the gate of St. Antoine. On consideration, however, this plan was abandoned, because in this part they would be more exposed than elsewhere to be detected by the sentinels. It was therefore deemed advisable, though the labour would be greatly increased, to break a way through the wall which divided the ditch of the Bastile from that of the St. Antoine gate. Latude was of opinion that the mortar of the wall on this side, having been weakened by frequent floods, might be removed with comparative ease. Two bars from the chimney were to be used as levers to raise the stones, and an auger, to make holes for the insertion of the bars, was fabricated out of a screw from one of the bedsteads, to which a wooden cross handle was added.

All was now prepared for their flight, and they had only to decide upon the day for attempting their hazardous enterprise. The 25th of February, 1756, was the day which they chose. A portmanteau was filled with a change of clothes, the rounds were fastened into the rope ladder, the wooden ladder was got ready, the two crowbars were put into cases to prevent them from clanging, and a bottle of brandy was prudently added to their baggage, to hearten them while they worked in the water—for the Seine had overflowed, and at that moment there was from four to five feet water in the moat of the Bastile, and ice was floating upon it.

Supper being over, and the turnkey having locked them in for the night, the captives, doubtless with throbbing hearts, began their operations. Latude was the first to ascend the chimney. “I had the rheumatism in my left arm,” says he, “but I thought little of the pain, for I soon experienced one more severe.” Before he reached the top, his knees and elbows were so excoriated, that the blood ran down from them. When he arrived at the summit, he let down a rope, by means of which he successively drew up the portmanteau, the ladders, and the other articles. The end of the rope ladder he allowed to hang down, and the upper part he fastened across the funnel with a large wooden peg. D’Alegre was thus enabled to mount with less difficulty than his predecessor had experienced.

At last they breathed the free air of heaven on the platform of the Bastile. As the du Trésor tower appeared to be the most favourable for their descent, they carried their apparatus thither. One end of the rope ladder was made fast to a cannon, and it was gently let down. The safety rope was next passed through a firmly fixed block, and it was tied securely round the body of Latude. The daring adventurer now commenced his fearful descent of more than fifty yards; D’Alegre meanwhile slowly letting out the rope. It was well that they had taken this precaution; for, at every step that he took, Latude swung so violently in the air that it is probable he would have lost his hold, had not the safety rope given him confidence. In a few moments, which however must have seemed hours, he reached the ditch unhurt. The portmanteau and the other effects were then lowered to him, and he placed them on a spot to which the water had not risen. D’Alegre himself followed; and, as Latude applied all his strength to steady the ladder, the descent of his companion was effected with less annoyance and hazard than his own had been. That regret, at being unable to carry away their ladder and implements, should have found a place among the feelings by which they were agitated, may at the first glance seem strange, but was certainly not unnatural; articles on which they had bestowed such persevering toil, which had proved the instruments of their deliverance, and were also the trophies of their triumph, they must have regarded with something like affection.

As they heard a sentinel pacing along at the distance of ten yards, they were obliged finally to relinquish the scheme of climbing the parapet, which they had still cherished a hope of carrying into execution. There was, therefore, no resource but to break a hole through the wall. Accordingly they crossed the ditch of the Bastile, to the spot where the wall separated it from that of the St. Antoine gate. Unluckily, the ditch had been deepened here, and the water, on which ice was floating, was up to their arm-pits. They, nevertheless, set to work with a vigour which can be inspired only by circumstances like those under which they were placed. Scarcely had they begun, when, about twelve feet above their heads, they saw light cast upon them from the lantern which was carried by a patrol major; they were compelled instantly to put their heads under water, and this they had to do several times in the course of the night. The wall at which they were working had a thickness of a yard and a half; so that, although they plied their crowbars without intermission, they were nine mortal hours in making a hole of sufficient size for them to creep through. Their task was ultimately achieved, they passed through the aperture, and were now beyond the walls of their prison. But even at this moment of exultation, they had a narrow escape from perishing. In their way to the road by which they were to go, there was an aqueduct; it was not more than six feet wide, but it had ten feet of water and two feet of mud. Into this they stumbled. Fortunately, Latude did not lose his upright position; having shaken off his companion, who had mechanically grasped him, he scrambled up the bank, and then drew out D’Alegre by the hair of his head.

The clock struck five as they entered the high road. After having joyously clasped each other in a long and close embrace, they dropped on their knees, and poured forth fervent thanks to the Divine Being, who had so miraculously aided them in their dangerous undertaking. In consequence of the evaporation which was taking place, they now began to feel more acutely than when they were in the water the effects of their immersion; their whole frame was rapidly becoming rigid. They, therefore, drew a change of clothes from the portmanteau; but they were so much benumbed and exhausted, that neither of them could dress without being assisted by his friend. When they were somewhat recovered, they took a hackney-coach, and eventually found shelter in the house of a kind-hearted tailor, a native of Languedoc, who was known to Latude.

To gain strength after their toils, as well as to let the hue and cry die away, the friends remained nearly a month in concealment. It having been settled between them that, in order to avoid being both caught at once, they should quit the country separately, D’Alegre, in the disguise of a peasant, set out on his journey to Brussels. He reached that city in safety, and informed Latude of his success. Furnished with a parish register of his host, who was nearly of his own age, and with some old papers relative to a lawsuit, and dressed as a servant, Latude departed. He went on foot a few leagues from Paris, and then took the diligence for Valenciennes. He was several times stopped, searched, and questioned, and, on one occasion, was in imminent danger of being detected. By dint, however, of sticking to his story, that he was carrying law papers to his master’s brother at Amsterdam, he got safely to Valenciennes, at which town he removed into the stage for Brussels. He was walking when they reached the boundary post which marks the frontier line of France and the Netherlands. “My feelings,” says he, “got the better of my prudence; I threw myself on the ground, and kissed it with transport. At length, thought I, I can breathe without fear! My companions, with astonishment, demanded the cause of this extravagance. I pretended that, just at the very moment, in a preceding year, I had escaped a great danger, and that I always expressed my gratitude to Providence by a similar prostration when the day came round.”

Latude had appointed D’Alegre to meet him at the Hôtel de Coffi, in Brussels. Thither he went immediately on his arrival; but there disappointment and sorrow awaited him. The landlord at first denied any knowledge of D’Alegre, and, when further pressed, he hesitated, and became extremely embarrassed. This was enough to convince the inquirer that his friend had been seized; and the conviction was strengthened, by his having heard nothing from him, though D’Alegre knew the moment when his companion would reach Brussels. As his friend could be arrested on the Austrian territory, it was obvious that Latude could not remain in it without danger; and, with a heavy heart, he resolved to fly instantly from this inhospitable soil. He secured a place in the canal boat, which was that night to proceed to Antwerp. In the course of the voyage, he learned the fatal truth from a fellow-passenger. He was told, that one of the two prisoners, escaped from the Bastile, had arrived at the Hôtel de Coffi, had been apprehended by a police officer, and had been ultimately sent under a strong escort to Lille, and there delivered into the custody of a French exempt; and, moreover, that all this was kept as secret as possible, in order not to alarm the other fugitive, the search after whom was carried on with such activity that he must inevitably fall into the hands of his pursuers.

Believing that, if he went on immediately to Amsterdam he would find there an officer of the police waiting to seize him, he directed his steps to Bergen-op-Zoom. But now another trouble fell upon him. He had nearly exhausted his scanty stock of money, and had not found at Brussels a remittance which he expected from his father; he afterwards learned that it had been intercepted by the French exempt, who was employed to trace him. While he remained at Bergen-op-Zoom, which was till he supposed that his enemies would have lost the hope of his coming to Amsterdam, he wrote to his father for a supply. But a considerable time must elapse before he could receive it, and, in the meanwhile, he would run the risk of starving. When he had paid the rent of his wretched garret at Bergen-op-Zoom, and the fare of the boat which was to convey him to Amsterdam, a few shillings was all that was left. In this state of penury, unwilling to beg, he tried whether life could be supported by grass and wild herbs alone. The experiment failed, for his stomach rejected the loathsome food. To render his herbs less disgusting, he bought four pounds of a black and clay-like rye bread, to eat with them.

Hoping that by this time the bloodhounds of the marchioness had desisted from seeking him in the Dutch capital, Latude ventured to embark. To hide his poverty, he kept aloof as much as possible from his fellow-voyagers. He was, however, not unobserved. There was in the boat one John Teerhorst, who kept a sort of humble public-house, in a cellar at Amsterdam. Under his unprepossessing exterior, he had a heart as kind as ever beat in a human breast. Chancing to catch a sight of Latude’s sorry fare, he could not help exclaiming, “Good God! what an extraordinary dinner you are making! You seem to have more appetite than money!” Latude frankly owned that it was so. The good-natured Dutchman immediately led him to his own table. “No compliments, Mr. Frenchman,” said he, “seat yourself there, and eat and drink with me.” On further acquaintance with him, Latude discovered that his host was not only a truly benevolent man, but that he had also the rare talent of conferring favours with such delicacy as not to wound the feelings of the person whom he obliged.

When they reached Amsterdam, Teerhorst offered to introduce him to a Frenchman named Martin, who, judging from himself, he doubted not would be delighted to serve him. Latude, however, found that his fellow-countryman was one of the most soulless animals whom he had ever seen; a being who cared only for self. He was better fitted to be a turnkey of the Bastile than the consoler of one of its victims. The tears and low spirits of his guest disclosed to the Dutchman the reception which Latude had met with, and the forebodings that oppressed him. Taking his hand, he said, “Do not weep—I will never abandon you: I am not rich, it is true, but my heart is good; we will do the best we can for you, and you will be satisfied.”

Teerhorst’s underground habitation was divided by a partition into two rooms; one of which served as kitchen, while the other was at once shop, sitting-room, and bed-room. Though the narrow tenement was already crowded, Teerhorst contrived to make a sleeping place for Latude in a large closet, and he and his wife cheerfully gave him a mattress from their own bed. Not content with feeding and lodging the fugitive, Teerhorst strove to divert him from melancholy thoughts, by taking him wherever there was anything that could amuse him. His charitable efforts were but partially successful; for the mind of Latude was deeply begloomed by his own precarious situation, and still more by his incessantly brooding over and regretting the fate of D’Alegre.

Though Latude had found no sympathy in Martin, he was more fortunate in another of his countrymen, Louis Clergue, who was a native of Martagnac, where the fugitive was born. Rich and compassionate, Clergue gave him a room in his house, made him a constant partaker of his table, and furnished him with clothes and linen. The linen was not the least acceptable of these gifts; for Latude had been forty days without a change of it. Clergue also assembled his friends, to hear the story of his guest, and to consult what could be done for him. They were all of opinion that Latude had nothing to fear, as neither the States General nor the people of Amsterdam would ever consent to deliver up a persecuted stranger, who had confidingly thrown himself on their protection. Even Latude himself began to believe that at last he was safe.

The unfortunate man was soon woefully undeceived. Not for a moment had his pursuers slackened in the chase, not a single precaution had they neglected that could lead to success. In aid of the subaltern agents, the French ambassador had also exerted himself. By representing the fugitive as a desperate malefactor, he had obtained the consent of the States to arrest him. Calumny was one of the weapons uniformly employed against prisoners, in order to insulate them from their fellow-creatures, by extinguishing pity. But, in this instance, there seems reason for believing that bribery was an auxiliary to calumny; the expense of following up the fugitives was no less than 9000l. sterling—a sum for which it is impossible to account, without supposing that much of it was expended in bribes.

Though Latude had changed his name, and the address to which his friends were to direct their communications, the active agents of the marchioness had succeeded in intercepting all his letters. One was at last allowed to reach him, as the means of effecting his ruin. It does not appear whether his residing in the house of M. Clergue was known to them; probably it was; but, if it were, they perhaps thought that it would be imprudent to seize him there, as his protector might proclaim to the populace the innocence of his guest, and thus excite a tumult. A letter from Latude’s father, containing a draft on a banker, was therefore forwarded to him. Into this snare he fell. As he was proceeding to the banker’s, the Dutch police officers pounced upon him, and he was immediately fettered and dragged along. The crowd which had by this time gathered, were told that he was a dangerous criminal; but, as the numbers nevertheless continued to increase, the brutal officers, who were armed with heavy bludgeons, dealt their blows liberally on all sides, to clear the way to the Town Hall. One of these blows struck the prisoner with such violence, on the nape of his neck, that he dropped senseless to the ground.

When consciousness returned, he was lying on a truss of straw, in a dungeon; there was not a ray of light visible, not a sound to be heard. He seemed to be cut off from the human race, and he resigned himself wholly to despair. His tumultuous reflections were interrupted, in the morning, by a visit from St. Marc, the French exempt, who had pursued him from Paris. This brutal caitiff had the baseness to aggravate his sufferings by an awkward attempt at irony. “He told me,” says Latude, “that I ought to pronounce the name of the Marchioness de Pompadour with the most profound respect; she was anxious only to load me with favours; far from complaining, I ought to kiss the generous hand that struck me, every blow from which was a compliment and an obligation.” In a second visit, some time after, the exempt brought him an ounce of snuff, which he strongly recommended, but which Latude did not use, because he imagined, and not unreasonably, that it was poisoned.

Latude remained nine days in this dungeon, while his captors were waiting for permission to carry him through the territory of the Empress Maria Theresa. They were anxious to receive it without delay, for M. Clergue and the other friends of the prisoner were loudly asserting his innocence, and the citizens began to murmur at the disgrace which was cast upon their country by his seizure being permitted. The permission soon came, and the myrmidons of the Marchioness hastened to bear off their prey.

In this instance, the Dutch and Austrian governments must bear the shame of having been ready instruments of the persecutors. It is, however, doubtful whether, had those governments acted otherwise, the fugitives would have escaped. To effect their purpose, the emissaries of the Bastile did not scruple to violate the territory of foreign powers. In 1752, a M. Bertin de Fretaux was carried off from England. He was secretly seized at Marylebone, put on board ship at Gravesend, and conveyed to the Bastile, where he died after having been confined for twenty-seven years. Even foreign subjects were not safe. The publisher of a Leyden Gazette having printed a satire on Louis XIV., he was kidnapped in Holland, and conveyed to the rock of St. Michael, on the Norman coast, and shut up in a cage till he died.

At two in the morning, on the 9th of June, 1756, the jailers of Latude came to remove him. Round his body they fastened a strong leathern belt, on which were two large rings, fastened by padlocks. Through these rings his hands were passed; so that his arms were pinioned down to his sides, without the power of motion. He was then conveyed to a boat, into the foulest corner of which he was thrown. As he could not feed himself, the office of feeding him was committed to two men; they were so horribly filthy that he refused, for four-and-twenty hours, to take nourishment from them. Force was then employed to make him eat. “They brought me,” says Latude, “a piece of beef swimming in gravy; they took the meat in their hands, and thrust it into my mouth; they then took some bread, which they steeped in the grease, and made me swallow it in a similar manner. During this disgusting operation, one of these ruffians blew his nose with his fingers, and, without wiping them, soaked some bread, and approached it to my mouth. I turned my head aside, but it was too late. I had seen these preliminaries, and my stomach revolted. The consequence was, a long and severe fit of vomiting, which left me almost without strength or motion.”

The mode of confinement by the belt was absolute torture to the prisoner. At length, thanks to the compassionate interference of a servant on board, who declared that, if no one else would, he himself would cut it, the belt was removed, and Latude was indulged, by being only handcuffed on the right arm, and chained to one of his guards. When they arrived at Lille, St. Marc halted for the night, and sent the prisoner to the town jail, where he was bolted to the chain of a deserter, scarcely nineteen, who had been told that he was to be hanged on the morrow. The despairing youth spent the night in trying to convince him that he, too, would be hanged, and in proposing that they should elude a public execution by strangling themselves with their shirts. For the remainder of the journey, Latude, with his legs ironed, travelled in a carriage with St. Marc, who took the precaution of carrying pistols, and had likewise an armed servant by the side of the vehicle, whose orders were to shoot the captive if he made the slightest motion.

By his associates at the Bastile, St. Marc was received like some victor returning from the scene of his triumph. They swarmed round him, listened with greedy ears to the tale of his exertions and stratagems, and lavished praises and attentions upon him. The group must have borne no very distant resemblance to fiends exulting over a lost soul.

Stripped, and reclothed in rags which were dropping to pieces, his hands and feet heavily ironed, the prisoner was thrown into one of the most noisome dungeons of the fortress. A sprinkling of straw formed his bed; covering it had none. The only light and air which penetrated into this den of torment came through a loop-hole, which narrowing gradually from the inside to the outside, had a diameter of not more than five inches at the furthest extremity. This loop-hole was secured and darkened by a fourfold iron grating, so ingeniously contrived that the bars of one net-work covered the interstices of another; but there was neither glass nor shutters, to ward off the inclemency of the weather. The interior extremity of this aperture reached within about two feet and a half of the ground, and served the captive for a chair and a table, and sometimes he rested his arms and elbows on it to lighten the weight of his fetters.

Shut out from all communication with his fellow-beings, Latude found some amusement in the society of the rats which infested his dungeon. His first attempt to make them companionable was tried upon a single rat, which, in three days, by gently throwing bits of bread to it, he rendered so tame that it would take food from his hands. The animal even changed its abode, and established itself in another hole in order to be nearer to him. In a few days a female joined the first comer. At the outset she was timid; but it was not long before she acquired boldness, and would quarrel and fight for the morsels which were given by the prisoner.

“When my dinner was brought in (says Latude) I called my companions: the male ran to me directly; the female, according to custom, came slowly and timidly, but at length approached close to me, and ventured to take what I offered her from my hand. Some time after, a third appeared, who was much less ceremonious than my first acquaintances. After his second visit, he constituted himself one of the family, and made himself so perfectly at home, that he resolved to introduce his comrades. The next day, he came, accompanied by two others, who in the course of the week brought five more; and, thus, in less than a fortnight, our family circle consisted of ten large rats and myself. I gave each of them names, which they learned to distinguish. When I called them they came to eat with me, from the dish, or off the same plate; but I found this unpleasant, and was soon forced to find them a dish for themselves, on account of their slovenly habits. They became so tame that they allowed me to scratch their necks, and appeared pleased when I did; but they would never permit me to touch them on the back. Sometimes I amused myself with making them play, and joining in their gambols. Occasionally I threw them a piece of meat, scalding hot: the most eager ran to seize it, burned themselves, cried out, and left it; while the less greedy, who had waited patiently, took it when it was cold, and escaped into a corner, where they divided their prize: sometimes I made them jump up, by holding a piece of bread or meat suspended in the air.” In the course of a year, his four-footed companions increased to twenty-six. Whenever an intruder appeared he met with a hostile reception from the old standers, and had to fight his way before he could obtain a footing. Latude endeavoured to familiarize a spider, but in this he was unsuccessful.

Another source of comfort was unexpectedly opened to the solitary captive. Among the straw which was brought for his bed, he found a piece of elder, and he conceived the idea of converting it into a sort of flageolet. This, however, was a task of no easy accomplishment, for his hands were fettered, and he had no tools. But necessity is proverbially inventive. He succeeded in getting off the buckle which fastened the waistband of his breeches, and bending it into a kind of chisel by means of his leg irons; and, with this clumsy instrument, after the labour of many months, he contrived to form a rude kind of musical pipe. It was probably much inferior to a child’s whistle, but his delight when he had completed it was extreme; the feeling was natural, and the sounds must have been absolute harmony to his ear.

Though his flageolet and his animal companions made his lonely hours somewhat less burthensome, and at moments drew his attention wholly from maddening thoughts, the longing for liberty would perpetually recur, and he racked his mind for plans to shake off his chains. The thought occurred to him, that if he could be fortunate enough to suggest some plan which would benefit the state, it might be repaid by the gift of freedom. At that time the non-commissioned military officers were armed only with halberts, which could be of no use but in close engagement; Latude proposed to substitute muskets for the halberts, and thus make effective at least 20,000 men. But how was he to communicate his idea to the king and the ministers? he had neither pen, ink, nor paper, and strict orders had been given that he should be debarred from the use of them. This obstacle, however, he got over. For paper, he moulded thin tablets of bread, six inches square; for pens he used the triangular bones out of a carp’s belly; for ink his blood was substituted—to obtain it he tied round a finger some threads from his shirt, and punctured the end. As only a few drops could be procured in this way, and as they dried up rapidly, he was compelled to repeat the operation so often, that his fingers were covered with wounds, and enormously swelled. The necessity of frequent punctures he ultimately obviated, by diluting the blood with water.

When the memorial was finished, there was yet another difficulty to be surmounted; it must be copied. In this emergency, Latude clamorously demanded to see the Major of the Bastile. To that officer he declared that, being convinced he had not long to live, he wished to prepare for his end, by receiving religious assistance. The confessor of the prison was in consequence sent to him, was astonished and delighted by the memorial, became interested in his favour, and obtained an order that he should be supplied with materials for writing. The memorial was accordingly transcribed, and presented to the king.

The suggestion was adopted by the government; the unfortunate prisoner was, however, left to languish unnoticed in his dungeon. Again he tasked his faculties for a project which might benefit at once his country and himself. At this period no provision was made in France for the widows of those who fell in battle. The king of Prussia had recently set the example of granting pensions; and Latude deemed it worthy of being imitated. But, knowing that an empty treasury would be pleaded in bar, he proposed a trifling addition to the postage of letters, which he calculated would raise an ample fund. His memorial and the data on which it was founded, were forwarded to the monarch and the ministers. The tax was soon after imposed, and nominally for the purpose pointed out by Latude; but the widows, nevertheless, continued to be destitute, and the projector unpitied.

Foiled in all his efforts, the firmness of Latude gave way. He had been pent for three years and five months in a loathsome dungeon, suffering more than pen can describe. Exposed in his horrible fireless and windowless abode to all the blasts of heaven, three winters, one of which was peculiarly severe, had sorely tortured his frame. The cold, the keen winds, and a continual defluxion from his nostrils, had split his upper lip, and destroyed his front teeth; his eyes were endangered from the same causes, and from frequent weeping; his head was often suddenly affected by a sort of apoplectic stroke; and his limbs were racked by cramp and rheumatism. Hope was extinct; intense agony of mind and body rendered existence insufferable; and the unhappy victim resolved to throw off a burthen which he could no longer bear. No instrument of destruction being within reach, he tried to effect his purpose by starving himself; and for a hundred and thirty-three hours he obstinately persisted in refusing all food. At last, his jailers wrenched open his mouth, and frustrated his design. Still bent on dying, he contrived to obtain and secrete a fragment of broken glass, with which he opened four of the large veins. During the night he bled till life was all but extinct. Once more, however, he was snatched from the grave, and he now sullenly resigned himself to await his appointed time.

After he had been confined a considerable time longer, a fortunate overflowing of the Seine occasioned his removal. The turnkey complained heavily that he was obliged to walk through the water to the prisoner, and Latude was in consequence removed to an apartment in the tower of La Comté. It had no chimney, and was one of the worst rooms in the tower, but it was a paradise when compared with the pestiferous hole from which he had emerged. Yet, so strong is the yearning for society, that, gladdened as he was by his removal, he could not help bitterly regretting the loss of his sociable rats. As a substitute for them, he tried to catch some of the pigeons which perched on the window; and, by means of a noose, formed from threads drawn out of his linen, he finally succeeded in snaring a male and a female. “I tried,” says he, “every means to console them for the loss of liberty. I assisted them to make their nest and to feed their young; my cares and attention equalled their own. They seemed sensible of this, and repaid me by every possible mark of affection. As soon as we had established this reciprocal understanding, I occupied myself entirely with them. How I watched their actions, and enjoyed their expressions of tenderness! I lost myself entirely while with them, and in my dreams continued the enjoyment.”

This pleasure was too great to be lasting. He had been placed in his present apartment because it was under the care of a brutal turnkey named Daragon, who had been punished for Latude’s former escape, and cherished a rankling feeling of revenge. It was Daragon who purchased the grain for the pigeons, and for this service the prisoner, besides the large profit which the turnkey made, gave him one out of the seven bottles of wine which was his weekly allowance. Daragon now insisted on having four bottles, without which he would purchase no more grain. It was to no purpose that Latude pleaded that the wine was indispensably necessary to restore his health; the turnkey was deaf to reason. Latude was provoked into asperity; Daragon rushed out in a rage; and in a short time he returned, pretending that he had an order from the governor to kill the pigeons. “My despair at this,” says Latude, “exceeded all bounds, and absolutely unsettled my reason; I could willingly have sacrificed my life to satisfy my just vengeance on this monster. I saw him make a motion towards the innocent victims of my misfortunes; I sprang forward to prevent him. I seized them, and, in my agony, I crushed them myself. This was perhaps the most miserable moment of my whole existence. I never recall the memory of it without the bitterest pangs. I remained several days without taking any nourishment; grief and indignation divided my soul; my sighs were imprecations, and I held all mankind in mortal horror.”

Fortunately, a humane and generous man, the Count de Jumilhac, was, soon after, appointed governor of the Bastile. He compassionated the sufferings of Latude, and exerted himself to relieve them. He obtained for him an interview with M. de Sartine, the minister of police, who gave him leave to walk for two hours daily on the platform of the Bastile, and promised to befriend him. That promise he soon broke. Hope revived in the breast of Latude, and he again set to work to form plans for the good of the country. Schemes for issuing a new species of currency, and for establishing public granaries in all the principal towns, were among the first fruits of his meditations. With respect to the latter project, he says, “nothing could be more simple than the mode I suggested of constructing and provisioning these magazines. It consisted in a slight duty upon marriage, which all rich people, or those who wished to appear so, would have paid with eagerness, as I had the address to found it upon their vanity.” This project pleased M. de Sartine so much, that he wished to have the merit of it to himself, and, by means of a third person, he sounded Latude, to know whether he would relinquish his claim to it, on having a small pension secured to him. Latude gave a brief but peremptory refusal, and M. de Sartine was thenceforth his enemy. All letters and messages to him remained unnoticed.

While he was one day walking on the platform, he learned the death of his father. The sentinel who guarded him had served under his father, but did not know that the prisoner was the son of his old officer. Latude was overwhelmed by this fatal intelligence, and he fainted on the spot. His mother still lived; but she, too, was sinking into the grave from grief. It was in vain that, in the most pathetic language, she repeatedly implored the harlot marchioness to have mercy on the captive. Her prayers might have moved a heart of flint, but they had no effect on Madame de Pompadour. But the horrors of imprisonment were not enough to be inflicted on him; he was made the victim of calumny, and a stain was fixed upon his character. To get rid of importunity in his behalf, the men in office replied to his advocates, “Beware how you solicit the pardon of that miscreant. You would shudder if you knew the crimes he has committed.”

Thus goaded almost to madness, it is not to be wondered at that he was eager to take vengeance on his persecutors. Since the heart of Madame de Pompadour was inaccessible to pity, he determined that it should at least feel the stings of mortification and rage. His plan was, to draw up a memorial, exposing her character, and to address it to La Beaumelle, who had himself tasted the rigours of the Bastile. “I had only,” says he, “to place in trusty hands the true history of her birth and infamous life, with all the particulars of which I was well acquainted; in depriving me of existence, she would dread my dying words, and even from the tomb I should still be an object of terror to her. There was nothing then to restrain the blow with which I had the power of crushing her. The faithful friends who were to become the depositaries of my vengeance, in apprising her of the danger, would merely give her a single moment to escape it by doing me justice.”

It was while he was walking on the platform of the Bastile that he formed this chimerical project, for chimerical it was, there being scarcely a probability that any one would have courage enough to second his attack on the potent and vindictive marchioness. Having calculated the distance between the top of the tower and the street of St. Anthony, on which he looked down, he perceived that it was possible to fling a packet into the street. Nothing of this kind could, however, be done while he was closely watched by Falconet the aid-major, and a serjeant, both of whom always attended him in his walk. Falconet was insufferably garrulous, particularly on his own exploits, and Latude hoped to disgust him by perpetual sarcasm and contradiction. He succeeded in silencing him, but Falconet still clung to him like his shadow. To tire him out, Latude adopted the plan of almost running during the whole of the time that he was on the platform. The aid-major remonstrated, but the prisoner answered, that rapid motion was indispensably necessary to him, in order to excite perspiration. At last, Falconet suffered him to move about as he pleased, and fell into gossiping with the serjeant, in which they both engaged so deeply that Latude was left unnoticed.

The next step of Latude was to gaze into the windows of the opposite houses, and scrutinise the faces of the persons whom he saw, till he could see some one whose countenance seemed indicative of humane feelings. It was on the female sex, as having more sensibility than the male, that he mainly relied for pity and succour; and his attention was finally fixed on two young women, who were sitting by themselves at work in a chamber, and whose looks appeared to betoken that they were of kind dispositions. Having caught the eye of one of them, he respectfully saluted her by a motion of his hand; the sign was answered by both of them in a similar manner. After this dumb intercourse had continued for some days, he showed them a packet, and they motioned to him to fling it; but he gave them to understand that it was not yet ready.

The means of conveyance for his intended work were now secured, but, as he no longer had materials for writing, he had still much to contrive. But he was not of a nature to be discouraged even by serious obstacles. He had fortunately been allowed to purchase some books, and he resolved to write between the lines and on the margins of the pages. As a pen made of a carp bone would not write a sufficiently small hand for interlineations, he beat a halfpenny as thin as paper, and succeeded in shaping it into a tolerable pen. Ink was yet to be provided, and this was the worst task of all to accomplish. Having on the former occasion narrowly escaped gangrene in his fingers, he was afraid to use blood, and was therefore compelled to find a substitute. To make his ink of lampblack was the mode which occurred to him; but as he was allowed neither fire nor candle, how was the black to be obtained? By a series of stratagems he managed to surmount the difficulty. Under pretence of severe tooth-ache, he borrowed from the serjeant, who attended him on the platform, a pipe and the articles for lighting it, and he secreted a piece of the tinder. By a simulated fit of colic, he got some oil from the doctor. This he put into a pomatum pot, and made a wick from threads drawn out of the sheets. He then made a bow and peg, like a drill, and with this and the piece of tinder, by dint of rapid friction, he ignited two small bits of dry wood, and lighted his lamp. The first view of the light threw him, he says, into a delirium of joy. The condensed smoke he collected on the bottom of a plate, and in six hours he had sufficient for his purpose. But here he was stopped short, and all his trouble seemed likely to be thrown away; for the light and oily black floated on the water instead of mixing with it. He got over this by affecting to have a violent cold. The prison apothecary sent him some syrup, and Latude employed it to render the lamp black miscible with water.

Thus provided with materials for writing, Latude sat down to compose his work. “My whole heart and soul were in it,” says he, “and I steeped my pen in the gall with which they were overflowing.” Having completed the history of his persecutor, he wrote a letter of instructions to La Beaumelle, another to a friend, the Chevalier de Mehegan, in case of La Beaumelle being absent, and a third to his two female friends, in which he directed them how to proceed, and entreated them to exert themselves in his behalf. The whole of the papers he packed up in a leathern bag, which he formed out of the lining of a pair of breeches. As the packet was rather bulky, and the carrying of it about his person was dangerous, he was anxious to get rid of it as soon as possible. Some time, however, elapsed before he could catch sight of his friendly neighbours. At length one of them saw his signal, descended into the street, and caught the packet. Three months and a half passed away, during which he frequently saw them, and they seemed to be pleased with something that related to him, but he was unable to comprehend their signs. At last, on the 18th of April, 1764, they approached the window, and displayed a roll of paper, on which was written in large characters, “The Marchioness of Pompadour died yesterday.”

“I thought I saw the heavens open before me!” exclaimed Latude. His oppressor was gone, and he felt an undoubting confidence that his liberation would immediately follow as a necessary consequence. He was soon cruelly undeceived. After some days had passed over, he wrote to the lieutenant of police, and claimed his freedom. Sartine had given strict orders to all the officers of the Bastile to conceal the death of the marchioness, and he instantly hurried to the prison, to discover how the news had reached Latude. He summoned the prisoner into his presence, and harshly questioned him on the subject. Latude perceived that a disclosure might be prejudicial to the kind females, and, with equal firmness and honour, he refused to make it. “The avowal,” said Sartine, “is the price of your liberty.” The captive, however, again declared that he would rather perish than purchase the blessing at such a cost. Finding him inflexible, the baffled lieutenant of police retired in anger. Irritated by repeated letters, petitions, and remonstrances being neglected, and having been led to fear that he was to be perpetually imprisoned, to prevent him from suing Pompadour’s heirs, Latude in an evil hour lost all command over himself, and wrote a violent epistle to Sartine, avowedly for the purpose of enraging him. This act of insane passion was punished by instant removal to one of the worst dungeons, where his fare was bread and water.

After Latude had been for eighteen days in the dungeon, M. de Sartine obtained an order to transfer him to Vincennes, and immure him in an oubliette. Before he removed the prisoner, he circulated a report “that he meant to deliver him, but that, to accustom him by degrees to a change of air, he was going to place him for a few months in a convent of monks.” On the night of the 14th of August, 1764, an officer of police, with two assistants, came to convey him to his new prison. “My keepers,” says he, “fastened an iron chain round my neck, the end of which they placed under the bend of my knees; one of them placed one hand upon my mouth, and the other behind my head, whilst his companion pulled the chain with all his might, and completely bent me double. The pain I suffered was so intense, that I thought my loins and spine were crushed; I have no doubt it equalled that endured by the wretch who is broken on the wheel. In this state I was conveyed from the Bastile to Vincennes.”

At Vincennes he was placed in a cell. His mind and body were now both overpowered by the severity of his fate, dangerous illness came on, and he every day grew weaker. Fortunately for Latude, M. Guyonnet, the governor of the fortress, had nothing of “the steeled jailer” about him; he was a generous, humane man, of amiable manners. He listened to the mournful tale of the captive, wept for his misfortunes, took on himself the responsibility of giving him a good apartment, and obtained for him the privilege of walking daily for two hours in the garden.

Despairing, as well he might, of being ever released by his inflexible enemies, Latude meditated incessantly on the means of escaping. Fifteen months elapsed before an opportunity occurred, and then it was brought about by chance. He was walking in the garden, on a November afternoon, when a thick fog suddenly came on. The idea of turning it to account rushed into his mind. He was guarded by two sentries and a serjeant, who never quitted his side for an instant; but he determined to make a bold attempt. By a violent push of his elbows he threw off the sentries, then pushed down the serjeant, and darted past a third sentry, who did not perceive him till he was gone by. All four set up the cry of “Seize him!” and Latude joined in it still more loudly, pointing with his finger, to mislead the pursuers. There remained only one sentry to elude, but he was on the alert, and unfortunately knew him. Presenting his bayonet, he threatened to kill the prisoner if he did not stop. “My dear Chenu,” said I to him, “you are incapable of such an action; your orders are to arrest, and not to kill me. I had slackened my pace, and came up to him slowly; as soon as I was close to him, I sprang upon his musket, I wrenched it from him with such violence, that he was thrown down in the struggle; I jumped over his body, flinging the musket to a distance of ten paces, lest he should fire it after me, and once more I achieved my liberty.”

Favoured by the fog, Latude contrived to hide himself in the park till night, when he scaled the wall, and proceeded, by by-ways, to Paris. He sought a refuge with the two kind females to whom he had entrusted his packet. They were the daughters of a hair-dresser, named Lebrun. The asylum for which he asked was granted in the kindest manner. They procured for him some linen, and an apartment in the house, gave him fifteen livres which they had saved, and supplied him with food from all their own meals. The papers confided to them they had endeavoured, but in vain, to deliver to the persons for whom they were intended: two of those persons were absent from France; the third was recently married, and his wife, on hearing that the packet was from the Bastile, would not suffer her husband to receive it.

Latude was out of prison, but he was not out of danger. He was convinced that, to whatever quarter he might bend his steps, it would be next to impossible to elude M. de Sartine, who, by means of his spies, was omnipresent. In this emergency, he deemed it prudent to conciliate his persecutor; and he accordingly wrote a letter to him, entreating forgiveness for insults offered in a moment of madness, promising future silence and submission, and pathetically imploring him to become his protector. This overture had no result. He tried the influence of various persons, among whom was the prince of Conti, but everywhere he was met by the prejudice which Sartine had raised against him; and, to add to his alarm and vexation, he learned that a strict search was making for him, and that a reward of a thousand crowns was offered for his apprehension.

As a last resource, he determined to make a personal appeal to the duke of Choiseul, the first minister, who was then with the court at Fontainebleau. It was mid-December when he set out, the ground was covered with ice and snow, and the cold was intense. A morsel of bread was his whole stock of provisions, he had no money, and he dared not approach a house, proceed on the high road, or travel by day, lest he should be intercepted. In his nightly circuitous journey, of more than forty miles, he often fell into ditches, or tore himself in scrambling through the hedges. “I hid myself in a field,” says he, “during the whole of the 16th; and, after walking for two successive nights, I arrived on the morning of the 17th at Fontainebleau, worn out by fatigue, hunger, grief, and despair.”

Latude was too soon convinced that there was no chance of escaping from the vengeance of M. de Sartine. As soon as he had announced his arrival to the duke, two officers of the police came to convey him, as they said, to the minister; but their mask was speedily thrown off, and he found that they were to escort him back to Vincennes. They told him that every road had been beset, and every vehicle watched, to discover him, and they expressed their wonder at his having been able to reach Fontainebleau undetected. “I now learned,” says he, “for the first time, that there was no crime so great, or so severely punished, as a complaint against a minister. These exempts quoted to me the case of some deputies from the provinces, who, having been sent a short time before to denounce to the king the exactions of certain intendants, had been arrested, and punished as dangerous incendiaries!”

On his reaching Vincennes, he was thrown into a horrible dungeon, barely six feet by six and a half in diameter, which was secured by four iron-plated, treble-bolted doors, distant a foot from each other. To aggravate his misery, he was told that he deserved a thousand times worse treatment; for that he had been the cause of the serjeant who guarded him being hanged. This appalling news entirely overwhelmed him; he gave himself up to frantic despair, and incessantly accused himself as the murderer of the unfortunate man. In the course of a few days, however, a compassionate sentinel, who was moved by his cries and groans, relieved his heart, by informing him that the serjeant was well, and had only been imprisoned.

The kind-hearted governor sometimes visited Latude, but the information which he brought was not consolatory. He had tried to move M. de Sartine, and had found him inflexible. Sartine, however, sent to offer the prisoner his liberty, on condition that he would name the person who held his papers, and he pledged his honour that no harm should come to that person. Latude knew him too well to trust him. He resolutely answered, “I entered my dungeon an honest man, and I will die rather than leave it a dastard and a knave.”

Into the den, where he was as it were walled up, no ray of light entered; the air was never changed but at the moment when the turnkey opened the wicket; the straw on which he lay was always rotten with damp, and the narrowness of the space scarcely allowed him room to move. His health of course rapidly declined, and his body swelled enormously, retaining in every part of it, when touched, the impression of the finger. Such were his agonies that he implored his keepers, as an act of mercy, to terminate his existence. At last, after having endured months of intense suffering, he was removed to a habitable apartment, where his strength gradually returned.