XXXII. 1786. May 29, 30. THE CONCIERGERIE.—BEFORE THE COURT OF PARLIAMENT, GRAND CHAMBER, AND “TOURNELLE.”

At eight o’clock on the night of the 29th of May, 1786, while the countess was quietly seated at supper, the gaoler of the Bastille burst into her room with the disagreeable intelligence that her business, “which looked a devilish bad affair indeed, was likely to be terminated à la grève” (that is, by the gallows). “Hold you in readiness at eleven o’clock,” said he, “for they will begin with you.” At eleven, accordingly, she was conducted to the council hall, where, after being searched by the huissiers de la chaîne, she was taken in a coach to the Conciergerie, that grim, grey stone building, at the river’s brink, on the Ile de la Cité, whose time-worn, massive, conical-capped round towers frown disdainfully upon the crowd of handsome modern buildings around,—the one unrestored specimen of mediæval architecture of the least importance in all Paris.⁠[309] To this same dismal prison some six years subsequently, Marie-Antoinette herself was sent, quitting it only when she went forth to die upon the scaffold.

“Released from the Bastille,” says Madame de la Motte, “Paris appeared to me superb, but our journey seemed extremely short. It was near midnight. All the front yard before the court of the Palais de Justice was illuminated, as well as the court itself; it was as light as day. The palace was amazingly crowded; all the guard were under arms. An officer came to give me his arm to alight from the carriage. I was conducted to a large hall, which they call the greffe, whither I was attended by four or five hundred persons. All the passages, the tables, every place was crowded.... I listened with pleasure to a profusion of civil things that were said to me by the surrounding multitude, many of whom expressed very warm and sincere wishes for my success, and seemed much pleased at the manner in which I returned their civilities. About two o’clock, finding myself fatigued, I expressed a desire to take some rest; and after paying my respects to this numerous company, the keeper’s wife conducted me to the apartment prepared for my reception.”⁠[310]⁠

At six o’clock the Parliament, both Grand Chamber and Tournelle,⁠[311] began to assemble. The princes and princesses of the house of Condé, allied to that of the cardinal, and of the houses of Rohan, Soubise and Guéménée, had gone into mourning, and thus significantly attired, placed themselves in a line in the corridor along which the councillors of the Grand Chamber had to pass, so that they might salute them as they entered the hall.⁠[312] When they arrived, Madame de Marsan, pointing to the cardinal’s assembled relatives, said to the councillors—“Gentlemen, you are about to judge the whole of us.”⁠[313] Upwards of sixty judges took their seats. The sittings were long and numerous, as it was necessary to read over the reports of the previous proceedings. A master of requests, a friend of the cardinal’s, took notes of all that the judges said while this was going on, and passed them to the cardinal’s counsel, who found means of communicating with the prisoner, and of advising him as to the course he should pursue when under examination. The counsellor d’Epréménil too, a warm partisan of the grand almoner’s, likewise apprised his friends of many particulars which it was important for them to be acquainted with.⁠[314]⁠

The countess was in readiness, in the event of being summoned, by about half-past six o’clock. “It has been said,” remarks she, “that I was tricked out and dressed; but the truth is, I had plain cambric linen, a cambric cloak, and for a bonnet a half-undress gauze, without ribbons, and was even without powder in my hair. The gauze cap which I wore on my head very little squared with the ridiculous assertion that I was dressed. They began with poor Oliva,⁠[315] who was delayed with her child. [She had given birth to an infant since her arrest.] The keeper’s wife, to whom I expressed a desire to see her, brought her to my chamber, which was very near. I consoled the mother, but I gently reproved her for the wrongs she had done me in following so blindly the advice of her advocates relative to the supposed letter of the queen which she said I had shown her.”⁠[316]⁠

The countess is mistaken in supposing that D’Oliva was the first to be interrogated. It was Villette who had that honour. He entered the hall and took his place on the sellette with “his eyes bathed in tears,” and during his examination showed more good faith and repentance than he had heretofore done, avowing all his crimes without the slightest reserve. It was remarked, however, that for the first time he seemed anxious to accuse the cardinal, whom he had previously sought to shield, by maintaining that he had been the dupe of the falsehoods and intrigues of Madame de la Motte. Villette’s examination was soon over, and between ten and eleven o’clock the keeper of the Conciergerie and his son conducted the countess up “the little staircase,” which all criminals were obliged to ascend. Fremyn, “the dissembler,” then came forward and took her hand, and led her to the hall where the judges were assembled. In this well-known apartment of the ancient Palais de Justice, where in the early days of the French monarchy the kings of the Capetian race were accustomed to keep their court, the Grand Chamber of the Paris Parliament had held its sittings for upwards of a century; and here it was that, under the presidency of the king, the famous lits de justice were likewise held. At the present day the Court of Cassation, the supreme court of appeal in France in matters criminal as well as civil, holds its “solemn audiences” in this celebrated chamber, the interior of which, in this renovating age, has not a single trace of its ancient mediæval character remaining to it.⁠[317]⁠

“The appearance of the hall, crowded as it was in every part, was to me,” remarks Madame de la Motte, “a most tremendous sight; it was an awful, an alarming crisis. It is here that, accused without guilt, I was tried without justice, and condemned without proof, the accusation against me being supported on the narrow foundation of false testimony, apparent even to my very judges as contradictory and replete with absurdity. Too soon I understood the ambiguous meaning of my counsel, who, in attempting to prepare me for the occasion, had spoken to me of the ‘sellette.’ I heard a number of voices tending to encourage me, and striving to inspire me with confidence. ‘Must I then occupy this seat?’ exclaimed I; ‘must I be forced into this sellette, formed only for the reception of the guilty?’ Agitated by the most heartrending sensations, I remained a long time in a most dreadful situation, my knees knocking together, and my whole frame trembling with agitation, and feeling myself unable to articulate a single syllable. At length, but I scarce know how, I found myself seated, overwhelmed with shame at finding myself surrounded by such a number of judges, by such a crowd of spectators.”⁠[318]⁠

Such is the account which the countess herself gives of this incident. A contemporary record of the proceedings states, however, that she seated herself in the sellette with an impudent air, which she maintained throughout the two hours she was under examination, and indeed until she quitted this seat of shame.⁠[319] After she was seated she heard, she says, “a general cry, which was re-echoed throughout the hall: ‘Proceed, proceed, madame; take courage!’ This encouragement, from so many of my judges, supported my sinking spirits; their looks animated me, and by degrees I was in a condition to answer them with that consistency of truth and energetic fortitude which innocence alone inspires.

“So great was the malice of Fremyn against me that he could not help exhibiting, even in the very face of my judges, a degree of rudeness and indelicacy which, upon such an occasion, in such a situation, but ill became him. This man came up to me rudely and desired me to take off my hood. I looked at him very attentively, and said, ‘Even before this august assembly you prove at this very moment how much you are my enemy.’ The assembly applauded what I said, and remonstrated with an air of disapprobation, ‘Oh! why do you so? Let the lady wear her calash.’

“The chief president, M. d’Aligre, now read to me my first interrogatory, which was expressed in so very few words that my judges could not determine from my reply whether I was innocent or not. ‘I should wish,’ I remarked, ‘that my judges would interrogate me upon those points which have relation to the Necklace; to these I am particularly anxious to reply, that I may have an opportunity of demonstrating what I have already advanced, what I have above a hundred times repeated, and what I have never swerved from.’ The judges all exclaimed that I was right, and were unanimously agreed to make some additions to the first interrogatory, which did not mention a syllable of the leading point of accusation—the Diamond Necklace. ‘The cardinal has stated,’ said they, ‘that he brought the Necklace himself to your house at Versailles, and that he waited in an alcove till the arrival of a person who was to fetch it on the part of the queen; that you insinuate it was one of her majesty’s pages; that this man, as described by the cardinal, is very dark, has large black eyebrows, thin and tall, with large black eyes, his figure extremely slender. The cardinal observes also, that the alcove was about half open.’

“‘Absurdities like these, gentlemen,’ rejoined I, ‘raise my indignation, and I am convinced they will have a similar effect upon you.’ I then pointed out the contradictions in the cardinal’s assertions, explaining how, when he saw M. Villette at the confrontation, he immediately said that he recollected his profile, and that he was the very same person to whom I gave the Necklace; M. Villette being, in every respect, diametrically the reverse of the cardinal’s description. I called the particular attention of my judges to this circumstance, as it showed them the kind of reliance they could place on the remainder of the cardinal’s allegations. ‘Even if there did come a man, as the cardinal pretends,’ I went on to say, ‘does it wear a semblance of propriety, that if he brought a letter or note written to me, the cardinal should act upon that, even although the note should say the bearer was to be trusted with the jewels in question? Now the cardinal ought not to have returned me this note, which would then have become a receipt for him; both this note and the other, which mentions the receipt of the jewel, saying, “it is superb,” and which MM. St. James, Bassenge, and Böhmer, all depose to having seen in the cardinal’s hands. I request him to bring these letters before my judges, as well as two hundred others which he has read to me, and told me that they all came from the queen; and ask that he should be called upon to declare whether these letters were written by M. Villette. I hope you will emphatically insist that the cardinal shall produce them to the court, to be compared with that same approuvé of the contract with the jewellers, which Villette himself confesses to have written. If my judges will take the trouble to examine these, I dare affirm that they will find letters in three different hands, but not a single one in the hand of M. Villette.’

“‘Messieurs St. James and Böhmer have deposed that they have read a letter in the hands of the cardinal upon the terrace at Versailles, containing this expression: “I am perfectly contented with the jewel; it is superb,” &c. These persons have further deposed that the cardinal at the same time informed them that this letter came from the queen; and I, for my part, gentlemen, repeat what I have previously deposed,⁠[320] and do now positively affirm and most solemnly declare, that I have also seen—that I have also myself read that letter.’

“The president then asked me if I really believed that letter came from the queen as well as the two hundred other letters which the cardinal showed me. I replied, that ‘the cardinal had given me his confidence and trusted me with his secrets. During the whole time I was so intrusted, he told me that he had seen the queen, and received letters from her;’ which was all I could, consistent with delicacy and propriety, permit myself to say.

“I had scarce uttered these words, when four abbés all rose up at once, though at some distance from each other, and began their speeches together. Nothing was to be heard but the hoarse jargon of contention. At length the discord abated, and the three gave way to the first; but as his question was of no consequence, I did not condescend to make any reply. At this, many persons present significantly shrugged their shoulders. The second and third were of a piece with the first; the fourth, as having more pretension to wit, I thought it necessary to reply to. This was the Abbé Sabattier, whose stentorian voice almost shook the foundations of the hall. ‘The countess,’ said he, ‘pretends that she has not interfered in any way concerning the sale of the Necklace. Why, then, when she was asked, “Who those persons were she had at her table?” did she reply that “They were persons with whom she had business?” I maintain that this answer goes to prove that she has been concerned in the sale of the Necklace; for if it were not to treat with them respecting it, why should she have any business with them?’ I looked at this great and penetrating genius with all that admiration which so shrewd a remark was entitled to. ‘The question,’ said I, ‘that the Abbé Sabattier puts to me is destitute of common sense; it is, therefore, unnecessary to reply to it.’ All the voices then raised themselves with one accord, bawling to the registrar, ‘Write down what madame says, that the Abbé Sabattier’s question is unworthy an answer, and has in it neither reason nor common sense!’

“The abbé, a good deal nettled, exclaimed, loudly, ‘Gentlemen, I have a right to speak without being an object of derision, however much what I may have said may amuse you.’ At this they all burst into a roar of laughter. As soon as they had finished exercising their risibility, ‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘the questions of Messieurs the abbés do not in the least surprise me. I am forewarned that these gentlemen, who are about five in number, have had some hopes of recruiting their party by the addition of a sixth, and that all will give their votes in favour of the cardinal.’ The registrar was now ordered, with a great deal of solemnity, to read to me the question of this aforesaid sagacious abbé, whom I answered in the following manner:—

“‘Gentlemen, the jewellers have indeed charged me in their depositions, but in their confrontations, where they were with me face to face, they have discharged me, since in carrying them the cardinal’s note which requested their address, Bassenge admits that I desired him to use particular caution in dealing with the cardinal. I ask my judges if the jewellers are under no obligation to me, however slight it may be? Am I not the primary cause of the sale of the Necklace [no doubt of it, and the jewellers must indeed have felt greatly obliged to the countess for the share she had altogether in the business], since it was to the cardinal I spoke of it, who purchased it, he says, for the queen? Laporte himself positively deposed that I had told him above a hundred times that I would have nothing to do with the sale of the Necklace, and even that I absolutely rejected the offer of two hundred thousand livres in diamonds. I would further observe to my judges, that if I had wished to have appropriated the Necklace to my own use, I should certainly, in that case, have accepted the jewellers’ offer, so as to conceal my intention of stealing the Necklace.’

“M. de Bretignières, honorary counsellor, who sat near me, now asked me a question. ‘Since then, madame,’ said he, ‘you have read and seen such a great number of letters in the cardinal’s hands, you can tell us what they contained, and if the cardinal answered them?’ I replied, that the question was extremely indiscreet and dangerous, and that it had better be put to the cardinal, who could be commanded to produce these letters, in which case the counsellor could satisfy his curiosity by reading them himself. My judges still insisting on clear categorical answers respecting these letters, I was obliged to reply as to their contents. ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ answered I, ‘one of them makes mention of an appointment broken—of their pleasure at meeting; others “thee’d” and “thou’d” the cardinal.’ ‘Does madame really believe that these letters came from the queen—were written by the queen herself?’ ‘I do not know whether I ought to declare my thoughts concerning the acts of a queen, whom I am bound to honour and respect.’ ‘But did not madame think these expressions very strong—too strong to induce her to believe that they came from the sovereign?’ ‘That was the reason of my first expressing astonishment to the cardinal.’ ‘What answer did he make?’

“I was at length obliged to answer fully the questions which were put, feeling, after being so persecuted, that I could not retreat; but I cannot now remember the immense number of questions I was asked, nor the answers I gave. ‘Bravo! bravo!’ frequently exclaimed many of my judges. ‘Certainly, certainly,’ said they, clapping their hands, ‘’tis well replied.’ ‘Let the lady alone,’ cried out numerous voices.”

The “Compte rendu” of the Necklace case fortunately enables us to supply the deficiency in the countess’s memory with respect to the foregoing incident. It seems that, in referring to a particular letter which she first of all stated commenced with the words “Send to the little countess,” and which letter she asserted had been shown to her by the cardinal as written by the queen, she continually misquoted the opening phrase, converting it into “Send by the little countess.” M. Barillon, after pointing out this variation in her evidence, asked of her the reason of it—a simple enough question, not requiring, one would think, much consideration to answer. The countess, however, after much hesitation, remarked with an air of mystery that she did not wish to reply to it; because, by doing so, she would offend the queen. Whereupon, several of the judges represented to her that the sacred persons of their majesties could not suffer by any statement she might make, and that she owed the whole truth to justice. Then, getting angry, she exclaimed, that the letter really commenced with the words, “Send thou the little countess,” and she added that the cardinal had shown her upwards of two hundred letters in which the queen “thou’d” and “thee’d” the grand almoner, and made assignations with him, several of which had taken place.⁠[321]⁠

The countess tells us that she now made observations on the whole of the accusation against her. “All the questions which had been addressed to me,” she goes on to say, “together with my answers, were written down and read over to me. The president then asked me if I had anything more to add, to which I replied in the negative, only I particularly entreated that my judges would condescend to examine thoroughly into this business with an impartial eye, from whence I could not but entertain the strongest hopes that their definitive judgment would be in my favour.”

“My enemies,” remarks Madame de la Motte, “have laboured to convey the impression that before my judges I was bold and loquacious. They accused me, too, of pride. They were also kind enough to put words into my mouth which I never made use of, making me say, with respect to the cardinal, ‘I am going to confound this great knave.’”⁠[322]⁠

Whether these accusations are true or false, we have no means of judging. It is quite certain, however, that the countess considered she had acquitted herself in rather a smart manner before her judges; and when they laughed at and cheered her sallies against the abbés, she no doubt thought she had succeeded in hoodwinking not a few of them, quite forgetting that though mankind may be ready enough to be amused, it is not invariably at the expense of its reason and its judgment.

“After I had made my obeisances to the assembly,” continues the countess, “I withdrew, and was conducted by the keeper of the Conciergerie and a great many gentlemen whom I did not know, to his wife’s apartment. All paid me their compliments, all expressed their approbation, observing that I defended myself well, and that even an experienced advocate could not have pleaded my cause better.”⁠[323]⁠

As soon as the countess had retired, the first president gave orders for the sellette to be removed, and sent to inform the cardinal that, this having been done, he could present himself before the court.⁠[324] The Prince de Rohan entered, attired in a long purple robe, the mourning colour of cardinals, and with scarlet stockings and cap, and wearing his orders round his neck, saltier-wise. “He had,” says his admiring grand-vicar, in his most grandiloquent style, “the noble presence of a man profoundly affected, but calm, in the midst of his troubles; his countenance expressed alike respect, modesty, and dignity, which disposed his judges favourably towards him. He held himself erect at the bar, his pallid complexion indicating the ravages of a recent illness which had nearly proved fatal to him. The first president, at the request of several of the councillors, invited him to be seated during the long examination which he was about to undergo. The prince marked his sensibility of the proffered favour by a profound bow, and only availed himself of it at the third invitation. Questioned successively by certain of his judges, who hoped to obtain satisfactory information on points not perfectly plain, he astonished them by the clearness, the precision, and the force of his answers. He perceived the great interest which his humiliating situation inspired, and profited by it frankly to develop the various false steps which his good faith and credulity had caused him to take. ‘I was completely blinded,’ exclaimed he, ‘by the intense desire which I felt to regain the good graces of the queen.’ This touching scene excited a profound sensation in the breasts of the members of this august tribunal which was about to decide the fate of one of the highest personages in the kingdom.”⁠[325]⁠

When the examination of the cardinal was concluded, Cagliostro was summoned before the court. He presented himself before his judges dressed in a green velvet coat, embroidered over with gold lace; his hair, plaited from the top of his head, fell in small curls over his shoulders, which gave him a singular appearance, not altogether inconsistent with the character of the charlatan he was commonly believed to be. “Who are you?—whence do you come?” was asked of him. “I am a noble traveller,” he replied. At these words the countenances of the judges brightened up, and observing that they seemed well disposed towards him, Cagliostro entered boldly upon his defence, intermingling his bad French with Greek, Arabic, Latin, and Italian. His expression, his gestures, and his vivacity were as amusing as the subject-matter of his discourse, and he quitted the hall perfectly satisfied with having made his judges smile.⁠[326]⁠

The Demoiselle d’Oliva was examined the last. As she had already confessed all she knew, and had nothing to add to her previous testimony, the interrogatories addressed to her were not many, and she was soon permitted to retire.