Chapter XV: Appendix: Detailed Description of the Diamond Necklace 387 (12)

On receiving the above instructions, the Baron de Breteuil who was suffering from gout in the stomach, rose, it is said, from his bed completely resuscitated at the prospect of being the bearer to the cardinal of such agreeable news.[359] He presented himself to the Prince de Rohan, on the morning after the release of the latter from the Bastille, and just as he had ordered his carriage intending to go round and thank his judges. The prince without appearing the least disquieted informed the minister that he would observe two of the orders of the king with the fidelity, the exactitude, and the submission which the Rohans had always shown for the sovereign’s commands; but, with regard to his resignation of the office of grand almoner, he could not confide this to M. de Breteuil, as he had had the honour of sending it to the king an hour ago through the Count de Vergennes.[360] The minister pressed the prince to sign some further paper in reference to this resignation, observing that he did so with regret, but was obliged to obey the orders of the king his master. “Monsieur,” replied the cardinal, in a nettled tone, “the king himself has already done justice on me. I have no need of an executioner.” This _mot_ speedily circulated all over Paris, and the minister was henceforth styled “Bourreau (executioner) Breteuil.”[361] Louis XVI.’s minister of justice experienced a more severe rebuff when charged, a few years later, with carrying out the terms of a _lettre-de-cachet_ banishing the Duke d’Orléans to his château of Villers-Cotterets for his famous protest at the “royal session,” when, as Carlyle remarks, he “cut his court moorings.” The baron wished to accompany the duke in his carriage, in order that, in accordance with the king’s commands, he might not lose sight of him, whereupon the duke observed, with disdainful pride, “Ah, well! jump up behind.”

On June 2, the day after Cagliostro’s release from the Bastille, police-inspector Brugnières entered his apartment and addressed him “in the king’s name,” at which ominous words his heart, he says, sank within him. The order of which Brugnières was the bearer was dated on the day preceding, and enjoined the count to leave Paris in three days, and the kingdom within three weeks. Next day Cagliostro removed to Passy, and some few days after to St.-Denis, whence he started with his wife to Boulogne-sur-Mer. On the 16th they embarked for England under circumstances the most sentimental, if we can credit the count’s narrative of the affair. “The shores that I quitted,” observes he, “were lined by a crowd of citizens of all classes, who blessed and thanked me for the good I had done their brethren, addressing to me the most touching farewells. The winds carried me far away from them, and I heard them no more, but I saw them again on their knees, with their hands raised towards heaven, and it was my turn to bless them, and to cry out and repeat, as though they could hear me: ‘Adieu, Frenchmen! adieu, my children! adieu, my country!’”[362]

The Countess de la Motte remained for three weeks in the Conciergerie ignorant of the true nature of her sentence, and hoping, whatever it might be, that it would not be carried out. “At length,” she tells us, “the twenty-first of June arrived, that eventful day which will live in my remembrance as long as memory itself shall live—that day the most accursed in the calendar of my misfortunes.

“One of the gaolers came to my chamber, and told me that he had come from my counsel M. Doillot, ‘who,’ said the deceiver, ‘is now in the _greffe_, (the record office,) and desires to see you as he is going immediately into the country, which is the reason why he comes so early in the morning. It is to read you a letter which he has received from Versailles. It will be unnecessary for you to regard your dress, because he is in so great a hurry.’ I threw on hastily a morning gown, and followed this impostor, who made me descend a small staircase which I used to pass every morning to go to the lodge of the _concierge_. He went before me and entered first. I pushed the door from me to get through, which I had scarce half effected when I found the door forcibly pushed to by a person on the other side with as much violence as if he wished to secure an ox, whom he was fearful would escape. Some one immediately seized me by the right arm, and dragged me into the _greffe_, where another laid hold of my other arm, and bound me fast. The first thing I observed was the _huissier_ Breton holding some papers in his hand, which I conceived, as the _concierge_ had told me, would be read, announcing my pretended banishment. ‘No, certainly,’ said I to Breton, ‘I will not endure to hear so unjust a sentence, nor fall upon my knees to receive the condemnation of an iniquitous cabal, predetermined to sacrifice me!’ A great number of strange persons were present, many of whom seized me rudely round the waist, and others by the legs to oblige me to kneel down, but not being able to succeed they held me suspended at a distance from the ground. While I was in this posture the _huissier_ read my sentence, but the cries I uttered almost drowned his voice.

“Overpowered by superior strength my resistance became more feeble, and in this condition I was dragged to the place where the sacrifice was to be completed. Weary and faint, exhausted by my cries and the ineffectual struggles I had already made, entreating those around me to avenge the innocent and _the blood of their good King Henry II.!_ I at length lost all sense of reason. I could see nothing, could feel nothing which could serve to show me what they intended to do.”[363]

We will supplement Madame de la Motte’s own account of the infliction of the sentence passed upon her, by some extracts from contemporary memoirs which furnish several curious additional particulars.

“Madame de la Motte,” writes the Hon. Mr. Eden to Mr. Pitt, “was called up at five, and informed that the Court wished to see her. She had no suspicion of the judgment, which is not communicated here to the accused, except in the case of a capital sentence. She went in an undress, without stays, which proved convenient. Upon the registrar reading the sentence, her surprise, rage, and shrieks were beyond description. The _bourreau_ (executioner) and his assistants instantly seized her, and carried her into an outer court, where she was fastened to a cart with a halter round her neck. The _bourreau_ talked to her like a tooth-drawer, and assured her most politely that it would soon be over. The whipping was slight and _pro formâ_, but the branding was done with some severity. It is a good idea that the ‘V’ (_voleuse_—thief) on her shoulders stands also for Valois.”[364]

The Countess de Sabran, writing on the day of the occurrence to the Chevalier de Boufflers, says—“Madame de la Motte was punished to-day, at 6 o’clock in the morning, in order to avoid too great a concourse of curious people. The unfortunate woman was sleeping profoundly when they came to tell her, that her lawyer was waiting to talk with her about her affairs; they had adopted this course the more easily to effect their object. She got up, not fearing anything, put on a small petticoat and a cloak, and descended quickly to the room where she beheld eight men and M. Le Breton, the registrar, who held her sentence in his hand. At this sight she was much agitated, and tried to fly; whereupon they threw themselves upon her, and tied her little delicate hands, which people called charming and which are certainly very dexterous. ‘Why such precautions?’ she boldly asked. ‘I shall not escape you; if you were executioners, you could not treat me worse.’ She believed that it was only a question of removing her to a convent, there to pass a few years. They told her to go down on her knees, and as she was not inclined to do so, one of the executioners gave her a blow on the ham-strings which brought her to the ground. M. Le Breton then read her sentence. At the moment she heard she was going to be whipped and branded, she went into convulsions and into a fearful fit of passion, biting everything that was near her, tearing her clothes, pulling out her hair, &c. In spite of this the executioners seized her and carried her to the place of punishment. There, they put the rope round her neck, and tried in vain to undress her; she defended herself like a lion, with feet, hands, and teeth, and so obstinately that they were obliged to cut her clothes and even her chemise in order to make an end of the affair; which was very indecent, as in spite of the unreasonable hour which had been chosen with the object of keeping people away, spectators were present in very great numbers.

“She uttered loud cries, always saying: ‘Spare the blood of the Valois.’ She hurled forth curses against the Parliament, the cardinal, and even some one more sacred, and struggled so that the executioner could not perform the operation of branding her as perfectly as he wished, and scored her all down the back. After the infliction of this sanguinary punishment, they conveyed her in a hackney coach to the Salpêtrière.”[365]

Nougaret, author of the “Anecdotes of the reign of Louis XVI.,” says, that “on the countess being conducted before her judges, the registrar proceeded to read her sentence; on hearing which, astonishment, fury, rage, and despair seemed all of a sudden to take possession of her. Determined not to hear her sentence to the end, she flung herself on the ground and rolled about like a person convulsed, giving vent to the most horrible yells. The executioner and his assistants had the greatest difficulty in removing her to the court of the palace, where her sentence was to be inflicted. Immediately she perceived the instruments of punishment, she seized one of the executioners by the collar, and in a moment of frenzy bit a piece out of his hand, then sunk on the ground in convulsions far more violent than those she had recently recovered from. It was found necessary to tear her clothes off from her to mark her with the red-hot iron on her shoulders. During this operation, her cries and imprecations were redoubled. A few hours afterwards there circulated all over Paris the following epigram on the countess’s pretensions to the honours of the house of Valois”—the _fleur-de-lis_, (the arms of the Valois,) it should be remembered, invariably formed part of any mark with which culprits were branded:

“À la moderne Valois
Qui contestera ses droits?
La cour des pairs elle-même,
Quoi qu’en termes peu polis,
Lui fait par arrêt suprême,
Endosser les fleurs-de-lis.”[366]

Louis Blanc, in his “History of the French Revolution,” quoting mainly the Baron de Besenval and the Abbé Georgel, says: “Tied with cords, and dragged into the court of the Palais, she commenced to utter cries, not of terror, but of fury. Addressing herself to the people, she exclaimed, ‘If they treat thus the blood of the Valois, what is the lot reserved for that of the Bourbons?’ And in the midst of the groans which indignation drew from the crowd, these characteristic words were heard:—‘It is my own fault that I suffer this ignominy; I had only to say one word, and I should have been hung.’ [She not only said this word, but launched forth a succession of impure and calumnious charges against the queen, couched, too, in the foulest language.] Then like as was done to Lally Tollendal, they placed a gag in her mouth, and as she was struggling with despair in the hands of the executioner, the red-hot iron, which ought to have marked her on the shoulder, glanced off and marked her on the breast.”

Rétaux de Villette asserts that “people were posted in the court of the palace to make a great noise, so that none of the public who chanced to be present might hear what Madame de la Motte said. The sentence executed, she was thrown half dead into a coach, and driven at full gallop to the Salpêtrière,”[367] the prison where abandoned women were confined. One of the doors of the vehicle having flown open on the road, the officers in charge of the countess were only just in time to save her from springing out and throwing herself under the wheels. When she arrived at the Salpêtrière, she made a further attempt to destroy herself by forcing the coverlid of her miserable truckle bed into her mouth.[368]

On the day the Countess de Valois de la Motte underwent the infliction of the first portion of her sentence, Louis XVI. set out on a royal progress to Cherbourg, to be present at the submerging of the first cone for the foundation of the gigantic breakwater there. As this was being slowly lowered into the sea amidst shouts of _Vive le Roi!_ from thousands of lusty Norman throats, we may be quite certain that, what might chance to be “in reserve for the blood of the Bourbons” was one of the very last things the king was likely to trouble himself about.

XXXV.

AUG. 1785–JUNE 1786.

COUNT DE LA MOTTE’S FLIGHT—COLD STEEL AND POISON.

We must now go back a little in our narrative and see what has become of Count de la Motte since his flight from Bar-sur-Aube. Beugnot mentions that he took his place in the diligence, but he seems to have gone in one of his own carriages, and posted as fast as he could, day and night, to Boulogne, where he arrived on the night of August 20, having accomplished the journey of three hundred miles, all stoppages included, in little more than forty-eight hours, and whence at noon on the 22nd he crossed over to England.[369] The authorities, who had shown such remissness in not having him arrested earlier, now that he was beyond their reach began to bestir themselves, and sent orders to the officers of the marshalsea, at Boulogne and other ports, to overhaul all vessels leaving the harbour, and capture the count if they only got the chance. The officer of the marshalsea at Boulogne was lucky enough to capture the count’s carriage, which had been left behind at the “Hôtel du Lion d’Argent,” and in his simplicity set a man to watch it, for we know not how many days and nights, in the vain hope that the count would return and claim it.[370] This we need hardly say he had not the remotest intention of doing.

Of the various dangers and mishaps which befel the count on this, his second visit to England, full particulars are to be found in the narrative which he himself has written of his adventures.[371] He started, he tells us, with merely a hundred louis in his purse, and made with all speed for England, where, on the occasion of his former trip, he had left some diamonds, “which it was natural,” he observes, “he should procure.” His first call, therefore, was on Gray the jeweller, from whom he obtained the diamonds in question, and ere long was living on the proceeds arising from their sale. While waiting for intelligence as to the turn affairs were taking in Paris, he tells us that he visited the Haymarket Theatre one evening, and that while returning home in a hackney coach a daring attempt was made to assassinate him. His hat fortunately saved his skull. A sword was then thrust through the little window behind, and nearly spitted him to his seat. However, he seems to have escaped without bodily injury.

Under the pretence that his life was not safe in London, the count takes a journey to the north. Whether his life were really in danger it is impossible to say, but it is quite certain that his liberty was; for there were serious thoughts at this time of kidnapping him and carrying him over to France. The proposal emanated from a spy in the pay of the French government named Le Mercier. “If,” reports he, “in order to carry the individual off, cunning should not suffice, we will employ force to conduct him to some isolated spot on the banks of the Thames, where we will take care to have stationed for a fortnight previously, if necessary, one of those vessels which bring coal to London from the north. Their hulls are so thick, that it would be impossible for any one confined in the hold to make himself heard, let him cry out as loud as he will.”[372]

Before this amiable suggestion of the spy Le Mercier could be acted upon, Count de la Motte had taken up his quarters in Lancaster, whence he went to Dublin, next to Glasgow, and finally to Edinburgh. Here, he says, he made the discovery that an attempt had been made to poison him, as he believed, at some Dublin dinner party. At any rate, he was so ill that he was obliged to keep his bed for three months. On his recovery he found that he was watched whenever he went abroad, which was likely enough to have been the case, as at this time Count d’Adhémar, ambassador of France in England, wrote, it is said, to a great personage at the French court, stating that Count de la Motte had withdrawn among the mountains of Scotland, where the so-called privileges of the Scotch prevented any legal seizure of his person being made; nevertheless he, the ambassador, had found ten well-disposed hardy mountaineers who would undertake to capture the count and carry him over to France, for which service, as they would probably have to employ as much force as seduction in the accomplishment of it, and incur the risk of being hanged, they demanded a thousand louis each. The queen, having heard of this letter, at once said that even if it were necessary to give double this amount, there ought not to be a moment’s hesitation, since the presence of the Count de la Motte was the one thing wanting to thoroughly unveil a most abominable conspiracy and to punish the authors of it. Orders were thereupon given to place the requisite sum at the ambassador’s disposal.[373] By this time, however, the count had left Edinburgh, and gone south to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, he pretends, the capuchin, McDermott, whose acquaintance he made when last in England, bribed by the handsome offer of ten thousand pounds, attempted to poison him on several occasions.[374] We do not believe a word of this; the French government were no doubt anxious to secure the count’s presence at the approaching trial, and would have been only too glad of a chance of kidnapping him; but that they, or indeed any one else, wished to put him out of the way, is extremely improbable, for it was his evidence, and not his silence, that they desired to ensure.

About this time, namely, early in April, 1786, a woman named Costa, wife of one of the ambassador’s spies, who had succeeded in scraping acquaintance with Count de la Motte, crossed over to Paris with a letter from the count to M. Doillot, Madame de la Motte’s counsel, in which he stated that he could make the innocence of his wife clear as day if he only dared come forward. The count insinuated that he had a letter of the cardinal’s, inquiring of him whether he had succeeded in disposing of the diamonds.[375] On the woman Costa’s return to England she went, according to her own account, by direction of the Paris police to Count d’Adhémar, who bade her tell her husband to take a house at Newcastle-on-Tyne, so as to facilitate the drugging of the count and conveying him on board a French ship which was lying ready in the harbour under the command of one Surbois, an _exempt_ of the French police. Madame Costa asserted that her husband had already received a bribe of a thousand guineas for this purpose (less a commission of sixty guineas which the ambassador’s secretary deducted for his little pickings out of the affair), and had been promised nine thousand guineas more when the count was safe on board.[376] Costa, however, seems to have let the count into the secret, and they came up to London together to work upon the ambassadorial exchequer as best as they could.

Arrived there on the 18th of May, Count de la Motte tells us that shortly afterwards he meets the French ambassador at Lady Spencer’s and proceeds to draw him out. From what the ambassador lets fall, the count comes to the conclusion that the government now wish to get him out of the way simply to ensure his silence. “Your presence and deposition,” remarks the ambassador, “would entirely overthrow all that has hitherto been done, and the business would take quite a different turn.” He tells the count that, according to the advice of the Duke of Rutland, they could have seized him when he was at Dublin. They thought, however, they had sufficient evidence to convict the cardinal without his testimony. Next day the ambassador observes to him: “It was feared that you would have espoused the cardinal’s cause in preference to that of the queen. You know your position: the De Rohans accuse you of having run away with the remainder of the Necklace.” He then suggests that the count, by surrendering himself can do himself no harm, and might do the queen some service, and undertakes to procure him a passport in eight or ten days at the farthest. De la Motte of course wants money, or, at any rate, hints that he does, and D’Adhémar promises him five or six thousand livres. It is then arranged between them what the count is to say in his defence. He is on no account to state that the countess had access to the queen; neither is he to mention anything about the letters said to have been sent by the queen to the cardinal. De la Motte, playing with the ambassador like a cat does with a mouse, does not see how he can acquit the queen; whereupon the ambassador glides off to the cardinal, tells the count to repeat all the indecent speeches he has heard him make respecting her majesty, who will not be displeased at his so doing. He next advises him to say nothing about De Polignac, Coigny, Vandreuil, Dillon, or Fersen—all belonging to the queen’s society. “As to the Necklace,” continues D’Adhémar, “I would advise you to say that you are persuaded the cardinal gave it, partly or wholly, to your wife. The countess will never allow that to be the case, but I am certain it really was so. Finally, you must not say a single word respecting the Baron de Breteuil.” The count suggests giving up the countess’s necklace which Gray had set, and which by this time must certainly have been in pawn, if not sold outright. This, D’Adhémar says, would certainly please the king. Then advising the count to change his name, and to avoid the tattling of the _Courrier de l’Europe_, the ambassador brings the interview to a close.

Other interviews follow; the count no doubt bleeding the ambassador from time to time pretty freely. Although he talked enough about surrendering himself, it is tolerably certain he had no intention of running that risk. Vergennes, moreover, believing that the count’s presence might damage the cardinal’s cause, received the proposition with coldness, and did not send the required passport. D’Adhémar on one occasion showed Count de la Motte the draft of a letter which he had sent to the king through the Count de Vergennes, wherein he informed his majesty that the count desired to surrender himself and justify the proceedings of his wife. “I have, however, been tricked and betrayed by Vergennes,” he remarked, “who kept back the letter until it was too late, for judgment has now been pronounced.” D’Adhémar tells the count that his presence in Paris is now more necessary than ever. “The procureur-général is going to prefer a fresh complaint against the cardinal for ‘criminal attempts’ upon the queen, for the language he has used, the letters he has exhibited, the pretended meetings by night, &c., and the Parliament will be by statute obliged to try the Necklace affair over again in connection with the new charge.” On leaving the ambassador the count hastened to a neighbouring coffee-house, where he sees a copy of the judgment to which M. d’Adhémar had just referred, in the _Morning Post_ newspaper, and at once writes a savage letter to M. de Vergennes, copies of which he sends to the English and French press.

A few days afterwards, the ambassador’s secretary tells the count that the queen has determined to abandon the new prosecution, on account of the scandal it would create, but will contrive to deprive the cardinal of his blue ribbon and places at court, and banish him to herd with monks in the savage parts of Auvergne. At this news, which indicates a stoppage of further supplies, Count de la Motte is inconsolable, and feels, moreover, that he has been duped. To let him down as gently as possible, the court protection is promised him. For the future, however, the ambassador is “not at home” to the count’s morning calls; neither does he take any notice whatever of the count’s numerous letters.[377]

The count, now grown indignant, threatens all manner of exposures, and with his letters to the newspapers becomes a complete nuisance to the representatives of the French government in England; the ambassador, however, escapes further persecution, for just at this moment he is summoned to Paris by his government, who, after a time, relieve him of his diplomatic functions, and appoint the Marquis de la Luzerne, brother of the old Bishop of Langres, in his stead.

XXXVI.

1786. JUNE–DEC.

THE SALPÊTRIÈRE.—TRUCKLE-BED AND PRISON FARE.—THE COUNT THREATENS THE FRENCH COURT.

“As soon as Madame de la Motte arrived at the Salpêtrière,” remarks Madame Robin, the then superior general of the hospital, “she was taken to the registry where all our prisoners are enrolled before they are sent to their several prisons: she remained near three-quarters of an hour apparently without any knowledge of what passed—totally insensible. A little after she came to herself, I begged her to search her pockets and let me take her earrings. She presented to me her right ear; she could not speak, and she was so disfigured that her shape scarce appeared to be human, yet she seemed patient as a lamb going to the fold. The _huissiers_ then crammed her into the same hackney-coach, and conveyed her to the hall of the Salpêtrière. Before she entered the prison itself, she was taken extremely ill, and we thought she would never recover.

“We seized the first moment when she appeared to be recovering, and caused her to be placed by some of the sisters in a bed one of the prisoners had given her, which was fortunate for Madame de la Motte, otherwise she would have been under the necessity of lying in a bed full of vermin with six of the poor old women.”

“The next day,” says Madame de la Motte, “a number of girls, habited in the dress of daughters of charity, came to visit me in crowds; they appeared and disappeared like lightning. The officiating sister, Geneviève, whom I shall never forget, conducted me to a small court to take the air, and left me to return to her business. I was scarcely seated when I saw a very great number of poor women coming out of a gate into this same court, making a most dreadful clattering with their wooden shoes. As soon as they saw me they exclaimed, ‘Oh! there she is; there is the lady in the court.’ These poor creatures, whose appearance spoke a variety of wretchedness, approached and invited me to see the place destined for my reception. Some of these women took me by the arm and led me to what they called the dormitory, the place where they slept and where they worked. I had no sooner entered the door of this infernal mansion, than I recoiled with terror, but there were many women behind, who prevented me from running back, otherwise I should have fallen, so great was my horror at sight of this hall, containing one hundred and twenty-seven women, whose wretchedness may more easily be imagined than described. I shrunk back at the sight of this hideous spectacle, while big tears rolled down my cheeks, and with a voice stifled by the effect of grief, I said, like a child insensible to what passed around me, ‘Poor Valois! oh, poor Valois!’

“It will be extremely difficult for me to paint the horrors of this dreadful mansion; every effort is inadequate to give with sufficient strength of colouring the interior description of this house of misery and its wretched inhabitants. One would have imagined from their conduct and behaviour that these women had been reared in the forests, for they were almost as wild and savage as tigers, having always in their hands either stones, bottles, or chairs, ready to throw at the head of any one that displeased them. Every day teemed with new squabbles; they frequently fought together, and would sometimes beat one another almost to death. This prison was moreover a seminary of vice and depravity even too shocking to mention, and, instead of a house for the salutary correction of their souls, may more justly be denominated the place of their destruction.

“I will attempt to give a description of this abode of horrors. The entry is by a small court about twenty feet broad and forty-four in length. Opposite the entrance doors are seven dark cabins under a gallery built upon pilasters. These cabins, or rather dungeons, are in general between five and six feet long and four and a half broad; in each there is a straw bed, a mattress, without any furniture, not so much as a chair. Those women who come thither, and have money, may purchase these cabins of the old prisoners. In each of these cabins is a window about a foot and a half square, with no glass, but very thick wooden shutters, fastened with massive iron bolts. Below these shutters is another small opening to let the air into these cabins. At the bottom of this court, to the right, are four stone steps, after which is a little passage which divides the great dormitory from the little court. On the right is a small court leading to the great one, to serve as a walk for one hundred and twenty-seven females, eighty feet long and near sixty wide: the walls about sixty-two feet high. Opposite the entrance gate of the court leading to the dormitory is a chamber for one sister, to which there is an ascent of five steps.

“Facing the little court is the gate of the dormitory, which is very low. This dormitory is sixty feet long and thirteen broad: the ceiling fortified with large strong joists; the wall strengthened in the same manner. In this dormitory are six beds about five feet in length, composed also of a truss of straw, a mattress, and two coarse cloth coverings. Round the beds are benches and some chairs. The right side of the window is filled with women at work, who have purchased these places, as I also paid for mine, for I had been obliged to sit down on the ground in the court, all the places, forty in number, being occupied. The walls are entirely surrounded with thick shelves, on which the women put their victuals. Beneath this dormitory is another, the half of which is below ground, where there are three or four beds in a better air than the others. Upon the right is a corridor, three feet broad and about seventy-five feet long, in which there are thirteen cabins much the same as those of which I have before spoken, with low unglazed windows and iron bars, so that the miserable inhabitants have no defence from the inclemency of the seasons, but the rain, wind, hail, and snow beat in upon the cabins. By mounting upon the window sills, you may see even to the fourth court, which is called the Court Sainte-Claire, where there are always a great number of people. Facing the dormitory is a small staircase conducting to a particular little court which leads into a square opposite to the chapel of this same prison. On the right is the cell of the superior sister, Martha. Going out on the right you come to a court leading to the kitchen, where are three doors to enter the Salpêtrière, on both sides of which there are turnkeys. As you come out from the Salpêtrière there are seven courts, and in every court there are a great number of turnkeys. On the left, opposite the entrance passage by the Court Sainte-Claire, are two porticos, leading to the three gates of the Salpêtrière. There are in all nine courts, which you have to pass before you can leave the hospital.

“The inhabitants of this den have an old petticoat for clothing, and a gown of course grey cloth, stockings of the same kind, a coarse shift, a pair of wooden shoes, and a cap. Every woman is allowed thrice a week three ounces of boiled beef, on the other days about two pennyworth of cheese, with fat broth, and five pounds of bread each day. Such is the regulation allowance for the sustenance of these wretches. Women, who before have scarce ever had a needle in their hands, are here taught to work in a short time. Some are taught to stitch wrist-bands, others to make shirts and all kinds of plain work; their labours are, however, of no advantage to them.”[378]

Whilst the countess is doing dreary penance in the Salpêtrière, and her husband is haunting the London “hells,” waiting the return of the French ambassador from Paris, to know whether it was intended to do _him_ what he styles “justice,” a paragraph, no doubt instigated by the count himself, appears in some of the London newspapers, reproaching him for his timidity in not publishing a certain justificatory memoir which had been talked about for some time past. Indeed, so notorious had the matter become, that the Duke of Dorset writes to Mr. Eden (afterwards Lord Auckland), special envoy at the French court, under date December 7, 1786—a week before the appearance of the paragraph in question—informing him that the Count de la Motte was about to publish a memoir in England respecting the Necklace affair, which, as it would be certain to contain nothing but falsehoods and calumny, he advises the French government to get answered immediately on its appearance by some clever fellow, and suggests the editor of the _Courrier de l’Europe_, who is understood to be in their pay, as a likely sort of person for the task.[379]

The count, who is getting rather fond of using his pen, finding it a convenient weapon wherewith to insinuate his threats, addresses a long letter to the papers in reply to the aforesaid paragraph, and stating in explicit terms what he intends to do if this “justice,” for which he is so anxious, is not speedily done him. It did not, perhaps, occur to the count that the only justice he was entitled to demand was that already meted out to him by the highest legal tribunal in his country, namely, the Court of Parliament, which had sentenced him to the scourge, the branding-iron, and the galleys. This letter of the count’s we subjoin:

“To the Printer of the _Morning Chronicle_.

“Sir,

“In consequence of a letter inserted in your print of the 13th
instant, I think myself called upon to interrupt a silence
which I meant to keep till the return of Comte d’Adhémar; but
such a conduct, in the actual state of affairs, would only
serve to give weight and add importance to the groundless
reproaches of timidity and indifference laid to my charge.
It is incumbent on me, in this answer to your correspondent,
first to account for the motives that have hitherto engaged me
to silence, and then to give a slight idea of the memorial I
propose to lay before the public for my justification.

“I arrived in London on the 18th of last May, and have never
since moved from this capital. At that period—previous, as it
appears from the above date, to the conclusion of the famous
process—I had frequent interviews with the French ambassador.
My memorial will contain a circumstantial detail of what passed
between us at each appointment. From the line of conduct which
his excellency struck out for me, as well with respect to M. de
Vergennes as to my comportment before the Parliament of Paris,
and from the secret motives imparted to me of the various
attempts of taking me forcibly away, it will self-evidently
appear that the ambassador looked upon my departure not only as
certain, but that my presence, earnestly desired, and zealously
solicited by the most illustrious personages (whose names I
shall mention), would undoubtedly delay the sentence, and make
the whole affair wear a different aspect. What was the result?
The very personages alluded to, like Comte d’Adhémar, were
imposed upon by a minister who, in appearance, and for form
sake, feigned to second their endeavours, but who in reality
overturned the structure, and brought it to the ground by his
wily manœuvres and contributed alone to extricate the cardinal
from the disagreeable situation in which he was implicated. May
a complete disgrace reward the former for his officiousness!
This is my ardent wish, and his enemies will not fail to
accelerate it by their reiterated solicitations. But I resume
the thread of my subject.

“Notwithstanding all the instructions he had received, the
ambassador could not, no more than myself, foresee a sentence
such as has been awarded. He was the first to acquaint me with
it, and at the same time hinted at plans which could not but
turn greatly to my advantage, since they tended to give me an
opportunity (which was the first wish of my heart, and for
the obtaining of which I exerted every nerve) of appearing
before the Parliament, and entering upon my justification. His
excellency further assured me, that I should meet with powerful
friends, whose patronage would counterpoise all the credit and
combined efforts of the house of Rohan.

“As those projects were never called into execution, and as the
supreme power, apprehensive of a minute explanation, pronounced
the cardinal’s fate, I thought it expedient, considering the
promises made to me, to wait the ambassador’s arrival, no
ways doubting but that, in consequence of his account of my
conduct throughout the whole business, some regard would be
paid to it, and justice done me. But if the answer I expect
from his excellency be not satisfactory—if my just demand be
not acceded to, then I shall look upon myself as free to act,
and demonstrate by a detail, equally true and well supported,
by letters which I fortunately have in my possession, and
which will corroborate my assertion, why Mademoiselle d’Oliva
was chosen by me to play a part for half an hour, not on the
terrace, as was purposely given out, but in the interior of the
garden of Versailles. The world shall be informed of the grand
object of this rehearsal, as well as the catastrophe projected
for the first night’s representation, which, by-the-by, did not
take place, on account of the principal performer having been
warned, not indeed of all the snares laid to entrap him, but
secretly put on his guard, not to expose himself imprudently
in places where he was liable to be surprised by his enemies,
who would snatch at every opportunity to effect his ruin.
It will appear that, in consequence of this caution, it was
thought desirable to alter the plan, that it gave rise to the
purchasing of the Necklace (for which I shall account in the
clearest manner _by making special mention of its real owner_,
who made my wife a present of some of the most brilliant
diamonds, which I sold in London as my property), and kept by
much the more considerable part, which may be worn in different
manners, without ever being known by the jewellers: and why?
By the concatenation of those circumstances, which happened
pending the process, my wife and I were abandoned and inhumanly
sacrificed. These illustrations will convince the public that
certain caricature print-makers whom I know, and consequently
despise, aimed at deceiving the judgment, and prepossessing
them against me, by putting in my hand a Necklace, of which I
had a very small share.

“That the readers may have nothing to wish for, and in order
to point out to them the causes of so tardy a revenge (which
was hatching without success, ever since the death of Louis
XV.), I begin my account at the era of the cardinal’s embassy
at Vienna, and trace every event that has taken place till the
final decision of the famous affair.

“I am not to be told that my memorial, if published, will, by
the secret and curious anecdotes it contains, raise against me
a host of powerful foes, who will not fail to seek for, and
meet with, sufficient opportunity to wreak their vengeance on
me. But what of that? My intentions shall be fulfilled; and,
whatever be my fate, I shall have the comfort of having left
behind me an authentic justification, and of having unveiled
the whole of the intrigue. And who knows but I may be fortunate
enough to hear one day or other, for the good of my country,
that my memorial has opened the eyes of him who has been kept
so long in the dark! But for that I shall be told the memorial
must not reach him, and all the avenues will be strongly beset.
I am aware of it. But on the other hand, I shall observe that
there exists a powerful party, whose interests it is to forward
it, who have been long employed in working a mine, which only
waits a favourable opportunity for explosion. To hasten this,
if my memorial has, as it were, the effects of a match, I
shall look upon all the misfortunes I have encountered as the
path leading directly to that event, and shall think myself
sufficiently rewarded for the injuries and persecutions I have
experienced.

“After this declaration, sir, I trust I shall be no longer
reproached with a timidity unknown to me; and that, considering
the infamous manner in which I have been treated, no one will
blame my just resentment.

“I am, very sincerely, Sir,

“Your very humble servant,

“COUNT DE LA MOTTE.

“No. 10, Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place.”[380]

That this letter may not fail in its effect, it is again published in the same newspaper, two days afterwards, _in the original French_. One can well conceive that the mail-bags that day carried a goodly number of copies of the journal in question to the French capital, and there can hardly be a doubt but that the count’s letter, coupled with the note which the Duke of Dorset had addressed to the English ambassador at the court of Versailles, and which had been communicated to the French government, created considerable consternation among the party of the queen.

XXXVII.

DEC., 1786–JUNE, 1787.

MYSTERIOUS HINTS GIVEN TO THE COUNTESS TO EFFECT HER ESCAPE.—SHE RESOLVES ON ATTEMPTING IT.

It must have been about this time that hints were given to Madame de la Motte with reference to attempting to escape from her confinement. Her own version of the manner in which these hints were given is like most of her statements about herself, strongly tinged with the romantic; still it is tolerably certain that hints of some kind or another were given to her. She fixes the date when these overtures commenced not later than the beginning of December, 1786; but considering that she deferred her attempt to escape until July of the following year, we should be inclined to fix it at some later period, and certainly subsequent to the time when the French court were made acquainted with the letters just referred to. However, we will let her tell the story in her own words:

“It was about the latter end of November or the commencement of December, 1786, that one of the soldiers, doing duty as sentinel in the court of the Salpêtrière, to see that the women made no holes in the dormitory to escape by the aqueducts, passed the end of his musket through a broken part of the wall and attempted to touch Angelica, who waited upon me as a servant, and who was sentenced to be confined for life in the Salpêtrière. ‘What do you want with me?’ asked Angelica. ‘Is not your name Angelica?’ said he, softly; ‘are you not the person who waits upon Madame de la Motte?’ ‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘Very well,’ said he; ‘I heard many lords and ladies yesterday, in the Palais Royal, mention your name as being the person who is so attentive to her. Tell me if you want anything. I always carry about me an ink-stand, paper, &c., which I will furnish you with, as I know you have not permission to write. Prepare your letters, if you wish to write to anybody, and I will take charge of them.’

“Angelica thanked him for his kindness, but frankly confessed she could neither read nor write.

“‘No matter,’ replied he, ‘there is your mistress, Madame de la Motte; I would advise you to get her to write for you to the different ladies who come here, and beg her to recommend you to their goodness.’

“Two days after this, about three in the morning, the same soldier again touched Angelica with his musket, and gave her a packet of gilt paper, a large bundle of quills, a bottle of ink, and a letter for herself. ‘Madame de la Motte will read it to you,’ said he. Next day Angelica brought me the letter, at every line of which I was struck with such astonishment that I could scarce believe my eyes. This mysterious letter was as follows:

“Assure yourself, Mademoiselle Angelica, that I shall be extremely happy if I can be instrumental in procuring your liberty. Command me, and believe that I shall seize every opportunity of being useful to you [and, immediately preceding the last line,] ‘UNFORTUNATE, put this letter before the light—’TIS UNDERSTOOD—be sure to be discreet.’

“After having read to Angelica so much of this letter as concerned her, I made use of some pretext to send her to the dormitory, and the moment I was alone put the letter to the light, when writing began to appear as if by the power of magic. At length all was visible, and the following words astonished my eyes:

“‘You are earnestly exhorted to keep up your spirits, and to take proper nourishment, that you may have sufficient strength to support the fatigue of your journey. PEOPLE are now intent upon changing your condition. Speak your wishes, and mention the day you are willing to depart, that a post-chaise may be prepared, which you will find at the corner of the king’s garden. Be discreet; ’tis your interest to be so. Confide implicitly in the bearer, without entertaining the smallest suspicion.’

“Judge of my astonishment on perusing this mysterious paper! Surely, said I to myself, I am awake, and in sober certainty of the truth of what I see. But who can be the persons who have thus interested themselves in my misfortunes? This singular expression, ‘It is understood,’ was never used by any person but myself, the cardinal, and the queen. Perhaps they both, repenting of what they have done, ashamed of having the weakness to suffer me to be sacrificed, at this moment wish to give me liberty.”

To this letter Madame de la Motte tells us she wrote an answer to the effect that she was anxious to escape from her confinement, and begged her unknown correspondent to aid her in the attempt. In due course, she received the following reply:

“PEOPLE have reflected; endeavour to procure the model of the key that will open easily that side where you wish to go out. Act for the best, and compose yourself.”

“For two months,” she says, “I laboured at the attempt, and at length succeeded in making two designs—one small and the other large—in which I thought I had fortunately delineated the wards of the key, and which, the moment I perceived to be perfect, I enclosed in a letter, which I gave to Angelica to convey to the soldier, who, about a fortnight afterwards, brought a key made exactly after the paper model. I had the patience to wait two whole days without sufficient resolution to make the experiment; but on Sunday, between six and seven in the morning, when Angelica and myself were together in the gallery, the opportunity seeming favourable, with a trembling hand and palpitating heart I applied the key to the lock, when, gracious heaven! what was my surprise and joy at finding the door open! We both endeavoured as much as possible to conceal our emotions, and proceeded to try whether this same key would open the other three doors. In the afternoon of the same day I pulled off my shoes and crept softly along to the second door, which, to my great joy, was also obsequious to my touch. I shut it again, ascended the steps softly by three at a time, all in a tremble for fear of discovery, found, as I wished, all was fast and everything quiet. I then attempted to open the door on the other side of the gallery near the second dormitory. This I did with wonderful facility, and with as little trouble as I had opened the others.”[381]

Strange to say that although, according to the countess’s own account, she was in possession of the means of escape by the end of February (1787) at the latest, she took no steps to profit by them until three months afterwards, pretending that, in the interim, she had been engaged in using her influence with persons of condition to procure the release of her attendant, Angelica, when all the while she had the means of releasing her in her own possession. However, the girl eventually obtains her pardon, and madame has now leisure to attend to her own affairs.

It was on the 1st of May that Angelica was set at liberty. On the 13th the countess, who has long since found means of carrying on communications with her former friends, sends a letter by the hands of “a young _confidante_,” whom she has managed to gain over, to an old lover of hers, the Baron de Crussol, the same who procured the Count de la Motte his post in the Count d’Artois’ body-guard, and who, with his brother, the Bailli de Crussol, were of the queen’s set at Little Trianon. The baron played _Basile_ in Beaumarchais’ comedy, “The Barber of Seville,” at the private theatre there, when Marie-Antoinette performed the part of _Rosina_. This letter, which is all love and tenderness, contains the customary appeal of the De Valois for pecuniary assistance. In the course of it the countess tells the baron that the Duchess de Duras, “_dame du palais_” to the queen, “a very virtuous and worthy woman,” is going to pay her a visit next week, and then follows this characteristic passage: “I shall see her alone; the public must not know of it, as it might get talked about on account of my being forbidden to see any one _for fear I should speak_.”[382] To return, however, to the countess’s narrative. “I reflected within myself,” says she, “that if I should run the hazard of going out in the dress of the Salpêtrière, I should be easily discovered in the event of being met by any of the sisters. I conceived also that a male habit would be more favourable for my escape, and communicated this to my unknown correspondent, to whom I wrote:

“‘I wish to have a large blue coat, a flannel waistcoat, black breeches, a pair of half-boots, a round high-crowned hat, to make me appear taller, a switch, and a pair of leather gloves.’