by Eugène Sue
The stones and pavement of the enclosures are kept excessively clean. On the ground floor, the large apartments, warmed during the winter, are kept well ventilated during the summer, and are used during the day as places of conversation, work, or for the meals of the prisoners. The upper stories are used as immense dormitories, ten or twelve feet high, with dry and shining floors; two rows of iron beds are there arranged, and excellent bedding it is, consisting of a palliasse, a soft and thick mattress, a bolster, white linen sheets, and a warm woollen blanket. At the sight of these establishments, comprising all the requisites for comfort and health, we are much surprised, in spite of ourselves, being accustomed to suppose that prisons are miserable, dirty, unwholesome, and dark. This is a mistake.
It is such dogholes as that occupied by Morel the lapidary, and in which so many poor and honest workmen languish in exhaustion, compelled to give up their truckle-bed to a sick wife, and to leave, with hopeless despair, their wretched, famishing children, shuddering with cold in their infected straw — that is miserable, dark, dirty, and pestilent! The same contrast holds with respect to the physiognomy of the inhabitants of these two abodes. Incessantly occupied with the wants of their family, which they can scarcely supply from day to day, seeing a destructive competition lessen their wages, the laborious artisans become dejected, dispirited; the hour of rest does not sound for them, and a kind of somnolent lassitude alone breaks in upon their overtasked labour. Then, on awakening from this painful lethargy, they find themselves face to face with the same overwhelming thoughts of the present, and the same uneasiness for the future.
But the prisoner, indifferent to the past, happy with the life he leads, certain of the future (for he can assure it by an offence or a crime), regretting his liberty, doubtless, but finding much compensation in the actual enjoyment, certain of taking with him when he quits prison a considerable sum of money, gained by easy and moderate labour, esteemed, or rather dreaded, by his companions, in proportion to his depravity and perversity, the prisoner, on the contrary, will always be gay and careless.
Again, we ask, what does he want? Does he not find in prison good shelter, good bed, good food, high wages, easy work, and, especially, society at his choice, — a society, we repeat, which measures his consideration by the magnitude of his crimes? A hardened convict knows neither misery, hunger, nor cold. What is to him the horror he inspires honest persons withal? He does not see, does not know them. His crimes made his glory, his influence, his strength, with the ruffians in the midst of whom he will henceforward pass his life. Why should he fear shame? Instead of the serious and charitable remonstrances which might compel him to blush for and repent the past, he hears the ferocious applauses which encourage him to theft and murder. Scarcely imprisoned, he plans fresh crimes. What can be more logical? If discovered, and at once apprehended, he will find the repose, the bodily supplies of a prison, and his joyous and daring associates of crime and debauchery. If his experience in crimes be less than that of others, does he for that evince the less remorse? It follows that he is exposed to brutal scoffing, infernal taunts, and horrible threats. And — a thing so rare that it has become the exception to the rule — if the prisoner leaves this fearful pandemonium with the firm resolution to return to the paths of honesty by excessive labour, courage, patience, and honesty, and has been able to conceal the infamy of his past career, the meeting with one of his old comrades in gaol is sufficient to overturn this good intention for the restoration of his character, so painfully struggled for.
High wages, if we reflect that, with all expenses paid, a prisoner may gain from five to ten sous a day. How many workmen are there who can save such a sum?
And in this way: A hardened, discharged convict proposes a job to a repentant comrade; the latter, in spite of bitter menaces, refuses this criminal association; forthwith an anonymous information reveals the life of the unfortunate fellow who was desirous, at every sacrifice, of concealing and expiating a first fault by honourable behaviour. Then, exposed to the contempt, or, at least, the distrust, of those whose good-will he had acquired by dint of industry and probity, this man, reduced to distress, and urged by want, yielding at length to incessant temptations, although nearly restored to society, will again fall, and for ever, into the depths of that abyss whence he had escaped with such difficulty.
In the following scenes we shall endeavour to demonstrate the monstrous and inevitable consequences of confinement in masses. After ages of barbarous experiments and pernicious hesitations, it seemed suddenly understood how irrational it is to plunge into an atmosphere of deepest vice persons whom a pure and salubrious air could alone save. How many centuries to discover that, in placing in dense contact diseased beings, we redouble the intensity of their malignity, which is thus rendered incurable! How many centuries to discover that there is, in a word, but one remedy for this overwhelming leprosy which threatens society, — isolation!
We should esteem ourselves happy if our feeble voice could be, if not relied upon, at least spread amongst all those which, more imposing, more eloquent than our own, demand with such just and impatient urgency the entire and unqualified application of the cell system.
One day, perchance, society will know that wickedness is an accidental, not an organic malady; that crimes are almost always the results of perverted instincts, impulses, still good in their essence, but falsified, rendered evil, by ignorance, egotism, or the carelessness of governments; and that the health of the soul, like that of the body, is unquestionably kept subordinate to the laws of a healthy and preserving system of control.
God bestows on all passions that strive for predominance, strong appetites, the desire to be at ease, and it is for society to balance and satisfy these wants. The man who only participates in strength, good-will, and health has a right — a sovereign right — to have his labour justly remunerated, in a way that shall assure to him not the superfluities, but the necessaries of life, — the means of continuing healthy and strong, active and industrious, and, consequently, honest and good, because his condition is rendered happy. The gloomy regions of misery and ignorance are peopled with morbid beings with withered hearts. Purify these moral sewers, spread instruction, the inducement to labour, fair wages, just rewards, and then these unhealthy faces, these perishing frames, will be restored to virtue, which is the health, the life of the soul.
Let us now introduce the reader into the room in the prison of La Force in which the prisoners are allowed to see persons who visit them. It is a dark place, partitioned in its length into two equal parts, by a narrow grated division. One of these divisions communicates with the interior of the prison, and is the place for the prisoners. The other communicates with the turnkey’s lobby, and is devoted to the persons admitted to visit the prisoners. These interviews and conversations take place through the double iron grating of the reception room, in presence of the turnkey, who remains in the interior, at the extremity of the passage.
The appearance of the prisoners, who were in this room on the day in question, offered great contrasts. Some were clad in wretched attire, others seemed to belong to the working class, and some to the wealthy citizen body. The same contrasts were remarkable amongst the visitors to the prisoners, who were nearly all women. The prisoners generally appear less downcast than the visitors, for, strange and sad to say, yet proved by experience, there is but little sorrow or shame left after the experience of three or four days spent in prison in society. Those who most dreaded this hideous community habituate themselves to it quickly; the contagion gains upon them. Surrounded by degraded beings, hearing only the language of infamy, a kind of ferocious rivalry excites them; and, either to emulate their companions in the struggle for brutalism, or to make themselves giddy by the usual drunkenness, the newcomers almost invariably display as much depravity and recklessness as the habitués of the prison.
Let us return to the reception-room. Notwithstanding the noisy hum of a great many conversations carried on in undertones on
each side of the divisions, prisoners and visitors, after some experience, are able to converse with each other without being for a moment disturbed by, or attentive to, the conversation of their neighbours, which creates a kind of secrecy in the midst of this noisy interchange of words, each being compelled to hear the individual who addressed him, but not to hear a word of what was said around him.
Amongst the prisoners called into the reception-room by visitors, the one the farthest off from the turnkey was Nicholas Martial. To the extreme depression with which he was seized on his apprehension, had succeeded the most brazen assurance. Already the detestable and contagious influence of a prison in common bore its fruits. No doubt, had he been at once conveyed to a solitary cell, this wretch, still under the influence of his first terror, and alone with the thought of his crimes, fearful of impending punishment, might have experienced, if not repentance, at least that wholesome dread from which nothing would have distracted him.
And who knows what incessant, compulsory meditation may produce on a guilty mind, reflecting on the crimes committed and the punishment that is to follow? Far from this, thrown into the midst of a horde of bandits, in whose eyes the least sign of repentance is cowardice, — or, rather, treason, — which they make him dearly expiate; for, in their savage obduracy, their senseless bravado, they consider every man as a spy on them, who, sad and disconsolate, regretting his fault, does not join in their audacious recklessness, and trembles at their contact. Thrown into the midst of these miscreants, Nicholas Martial, who had for a long time, by report, known the prison manners, overcame his weakness, and wished to appear worthy of a name already celebrated in the annals of robbery and murder.
Several old offenders had known his father, who had been executed, and others his brother, who was at the galleys; he was received and instantly patronised by these veterans in crime with savage interest. This fraternal reception between murderer and murderer elevated the widow’s son; the praises bestowed on the hereditary infamy of his family intoxicated him. Soon forgetting, in this horrible mood, the future that threatened him, he only remembered his past crimes to glory in them, and elevate himself still higher in the eyes of his companions. The expression of Nicholas’s physiognomy was then as insolent as that of his visitor was disturbed and alarmed.
This visitor was Daddy Micou, the receiver and lodging-house keeper in the Passage de la Brasserie, into whose abode Madame de Fermont and her daughter, victims of Jacques Ferrand’s cupidity, had been compelled to retreat. Father Micou knew the penalties to which he was amenable for having many a time and oft obtained at low prices the fruits of the robberies of Nicholas and many others of his stamp. The widow’s son being apprehended, the receiver felt he was almost at the mercy of the ruffian, who might impeach him as a regular buyer. Although this accusation could not be supported by flagrant proofs, still it was not the less dangerous, the less dreaded by Daddy Micou, and he had thus instantly obeyed the orders which Nicholas had transmitted to him by a discharged prisoner.
“Ah, ah! how goes it, Daddy Micou?” said the brigand.
“At your service, my good fellow,” replied the receiver, eagerly. “As soon as I saw the person you sent to me, I directly—”
“Oh, you are becoming ceremonious, daddy!” said Nicholas, with impatience. “Why is this, because I’m in trouble?”
“No, no, my lad, — no, no!” replied the receiver, who was not anxious to seem on terms of familiarity with this ruffian.
“Come, come, be as familiar as usual, or I shall think you have forgotten our intimacy, and that would break my heart.”
“Well, well,” said Micou, with a groan, “I directly went about your little commissions.”
“That’s all right, daddy. I knew well enough that you would not forget your friends. And my tobacco?”
“I have left two pounds at the lodge, my boy.”
“Is it good?”
“Cannot be better.”
“And the knuckle of ham?”
“Left at the lodge, also, with a four-pound white loaf; and I have added something that will surprise you, in the shape of a dozen hard eggs and a Dutch cheese.”
“This is what I call doing the thing like a friend! And the wine?”
“Six bottles of capital. But, you know, you will only have one bottle a day.”
“Well, that can’t be helped, and so one must make up one’s mind to it.”
“I hope you are satisfied with me, my boy?”
“Certain, and I shall be so again, and for ever, Father Micou; for the ham, the cheese, the eggs, and the wine will only last just so long as it takes to swallow them; but, as a friend of mine remarked, when they are gone there’ll be more where they came from, thanks to you, who will always do the handsome thing so long as I do the same.”
“What! You expect—”
“That in two or three days you will renew my little stock, daddy dear.”
“Devil burn me if I do! It’s all very good for once—”
“For once! What d’ye mean, man? Why, ham and wine are always good, you know that very well.”
“Certainly, but I have not undertaken to feed you in delicacies.”
“Oh, Daddy Micou, that’s shabby — indecent. What, refuse me ham! One who has so often brought you ‘double tresse’ (stolen lead)!”
“Hush, hush! You mischievous fellow,” cried the alarmed receiver.
“No, I’ll put the question to the big-wig (the judge). I’ll say to him, only imagine now, sir, that Daddy Micou—”
“Hush, hush!” exclaimed the receiver, seeing with equal alarm and anger that Nicholas was much disposed to abuse the influence which their guilty companionship gave him. “I’ll agree — I will renew your provision when it is consumed.”
“That’s all right, and what’s fair. And you mustn’t forget, too, to send some coffee to mother and Calabash, who are at St. Lazare; they like a cup in a morning, and they’ll miss it.”
“What more? Would you ruin me, you extortionate fellow?”
“Oh, just as you like, Daddy Micou, — don’t say another word, but I shall ask the big-wig—”
“Well, then, they shall have the coffee,” said the receiver, interrupting him. “But devil take you! Accursed be the day when I first knew you!”
“Old boy, I say quite the contrary. I am delighted to have your valuable acquaintance at this particular moment. I revere you as a nursing father.”
“I hope you have nothing more to ask of me?” said Micou, with bitterness.
“Yes; say to my mother and sister that, if I was frightened when they apprehended me, I am no longer so, but as determined as they two are.”
“I’ll say so. Anything more?”
“Stay another moment or two. I forgot to ask you for a couple of pairs of warm woollen stockings, — you’d be sorry if I caught cold, shouldn’t you?”
“I should be glad if you were dead.”
“Thank ye, daddy, thank ye! But that pleasure is yet to come, and to-day I’m alive and kicking, and inclined to take things easy. If they serve me as they did my father, at least I shall have enjoyed my life while it lasted.”
“It’s a nice life, yours is!”
“Superb! Since I have been here I’ve enjoyed myself like a king. If we had lamps and fireworks, they would have lighted them up, and fired them off in my honour, when they knew I was the son of the famous Martial who was guillotined.”
“How affecting! What a glorious parentage!”
“Why, d’ye see, there are many dukes and marquises. Why, then, shouldn’t we have our nobility, too? — such as us!” said the ruffian, with bitter irony.
“To be sure, and Charlot (the headsman) will give you your letters of nobility on the Place du Palais.”
“You may be sure it won’t be the gaol chaplain. But in prison we should have the nobility of top-sawyers (noted robbers) to be thought much of; if not, you are looked upon as nobody at all. You should only see how they behave to those who a
re not tip-tops and give themselves airs. Now there’s in here a chap called Germain, a young fellow, who appears disgusted with us, and seems to despise us all. Let him take care of his hide! He’s a sulky hound, and they say he is a ‘nose’ (a spy); if he is, they’ll screw his nose around, just by way of warning.”
“Germain? A young man called Germain?”
“Yes; d’ye know him? Is he one of us? If so, in spite of his looks, we—”
“I don’t know him; but if he is the Germain I have heard speak of, his affair is settled.”
“How?”
“Why, he has only just escaped from a plot which Velu and the Stout-Cripple laid for him lately.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but they said that in the country somewhere he had tricked one of their pals.”
“I was sure of it, Germain is a spy. Well, we’ll spy him! I’ll go and tell our friends; that’ll set them sharper against him. By the way, how does Gros-Boiteux get on with your lodgers?”
“Thank heaven, I have got rid of him, — a blackguard! You’ll see him here to-day or to-morrow.”
“All right; how we shall laugh! He’s a boy who is never taken aback!”
“It’s because I knew that he would find this Germain here that I said his affair was settled, — if it’s the same chap.”
“Why have they got hold of the Gros-Boiteux?”
“For a robbery committed with a discharged convict, who wanted to turn honest and work. Well, you see, the Gros-Boiteux soon got him in a string; he is such a vicious devil, the Boiteux! I am certain it was he who broke open the trunk of the two women who live in the little room on my fourth floor.”
“What women? — ah, yes, two women! You was smitten by the young ‘un, I remember, you old vagabond, because you thought her so nice.”